Mistakes I Made In My Current Campaign


My Fantasy Flight Star Wars campaign is coming to a close soon, after what will end up being over two and a half years of play. This will have been my longest campaign, with the largest group, that I’ve ever run. The game encompassed half of my college career, and has ultimately served as a way to stay connected to a group of old friends.

But, as in all things, I totally made mistakes over the course of the campaign, mistakes that haunt me and now are sort of a detriment to trying to wrap the whole thing up. But, instead of beating myself up over them, I think now’s a good time to reflect on those mistakes, especially as I start the early work of planning the next campaign we undertake as a group.

I want to make clear that I don’t think this campaign was bad by any means; indeed I actually thought it was a raving success. However, as I look back upon it now, trying to find loose ends to tie up and callbacks to make, I find myself wanting in my own storytelling.

I Didn’t Establish Good Villains (Mostly)

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The crux of a good story, especially the kind of melodrama that Star Wars peddles in, is a good villain. There have been thinkpieces upon thinkpieces about what makes a good villain, so I’m not going to waste my time detailing my opinion on the matter here, but what I can say with authority is that my villains were severely lacking.

The party, a gang of freedom fighters working to help unseat Imperial rule shortly after the events of Episode III, encountered a cavalcade of villains, from a shapeshifting Clawdite assassin with a grudge, to a Zabrak driven mad by his own Force powers, to an old prototype Trade Federation battle droid designed to kill Jedi.

Generally, I think these villains suited their purpose well as the enemies for a single adventure or arc, and managed to be memorable. In fact, I feel like my players probably have fond memories of some of them. However, where I failed, in my eyes, is in setup and in really taking advantage of those villains over time.

You see, part of what makes great villains great is that you should be able to see the villain in action before the hero takes them on in the ultimate confrontation, to build suspense and get the audience thinking about the villain, even if the thought is just “Damn, he’s cool”. Darth Vader slaughters a hallway of Rebel troops as his first appearance. Hans Gruber has multiple appearance leading his thugs and terrorizing the employees of Nakatomi Plaza before McClane ever encountered him. My villains, conversely, had a tendency to just sort of … appear.

Similarly, when my villains stepped out of the limelight, there wasn’t a sense they were waiting in the wings just biding their time for the right moment, or a sense of dealing with the aftershocks of their actions even after their stories, they just sort of vanished. Again, some of the best villains remain a thought in the back of the hero’s head even after they’re considered beaten. Dio remains the central villain of Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure long after he’s killed, twice. Killmonger, sterling villain of Black Panther, causes a permanent change in the titular hero’s world view after his defeat. My villains, conversely, just sort of vanished. Although, this is also related to …

The “Plot” Was Just A Series Of Events

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I realize “a series of events” can, at its basest level, describe any narrative, but the thing I failed to do was meaningfully tie individual, smaller events to the larger narrative of striking out against the Empire. A larger-than-I-care-to-admit portion of the campaign simply … happened, without even a simple callout in the rest of the campaign. These events seemed simply to happen in their own little microcosm of the universe, untouched by other events. The player’s actions prior to these little adventures didn’t impact how they played out, and the player’s resolution of these events didn’t have impact on further matters.

The problem with this manner of story construction is that it creates an implied reduction in the weight of events during these side stories. Whether or not my players thought this actively I don’t know, but the way I structured these stories created a clear distinction: “story stuff that matters” and “side quests that don’t”.

Not to say that a tabletop campaign can’t have one-off episodes that don’t particularly matter in the grand scheme of things, but the consistency with which side stories didn’t matter in the overarching plot bothers me.

As an aside, the actual mechanical system of Star Wars would have been ideal for incorporating this sort of thing. With a dice system built on introducing unexpected complications on the spot, Star Wars would be an ideal game in which to constantly  throw in callbacks, for when you flub a Diplomacy roll and a dock worker says “Hey, wait, didn’t you get my brother arrested when you did that ship heist?”

I Didn’t Enforce Party Unity

Credit goes to the absolutely phenomenal Will Nunes for the party portrait

The final party of PCs in my group ended up at a total of 6, being initially five with a late addition. The characters were these:

  • Two brothers, one a musclebound idiot and Jedi dropout, entangled together in a life of bounty hunting
  • Two alien renegades from far-flung worlds, one Clawdite and one Chiss, who broke themselves out of slavery
  • A Twi’lek ex-Senator, driven out of politics into a life of academia and, now, a life of merry adventure
  • A human private-eye, scraping out a living with his protocol droid in a backwater space station

These four categories are more significant than as just organization tools, they also represent the primary connections linking the characters together. The party was unified initially after the bounty hunters ended up allied with the alien renegades after attempting to sell them, after they were sprung by the senator. This reason for sticking together as a party is tenuous, for obvious and italicized reasons, but ultimately the lack of unifying character traits left the party a little non-harmonious.

The private eye ended up melding with the party moderately well, with his character and the burly bounty hunter getting along great on account of both of them being idiots, but ultimately I felt like this group never quite built an in-character rapport, partially because there was simply nothing for them to discuss other than the mission at hand.

This issue is particularly embarrassing because it is the subject of so much advice online about RPGs. There are so many ways to solve it, from implementing Apocalypse World‘s Bond mechanics, to filling out a group template. I violated the key rules of party creation here: everyone in the party should want to do the quest, and the first session should not be when the party meets.

I Didn’t Set Up Situations For Characters To Shine


In most tabletop role-playing games, characters end up inevitably finding a niche, or a set of niches. You have your burly fightin’ man, your smooth-talking party face, your industrious inventor, so on and so forth. Generally, when it came to my Star Wars party, however, the idea sort of fell apart.

The reason why is ultimately a sort of chicken and egg argument. What I mean by this is, there were ultimately two factors which fed into each other as a positive feedback loop, exacerbating the problem:

  1. The player characters focused on only a few key skills, most notably skills related to combat and conversation.
  2. I created scenarios which, by and large, were most simply solved via the use of combat and conversation.

To understand this issue, allow me to describe the party dynamic a bit better. In the party, there are three player characters who I would term “Extremely Focused”. These three are characters laser-focused upon a subset of mechanics, to the point of neglecting almost all others. These three are the two bounty hunter brothers, who are the party’s combat experts, and the Twi’lek senator, who is the party’s conversational expert.

The remaining characters are what I would call “Jack Of All Trades” builds, who diluted their skill pool between a multitude of skill sets. These characters fan fight a bit, sneak a bit, science a bit, fly a bit, and so forth.

Unfortunately for us, the main “modes” in which tabletop role-playing games are played is combat and conversation. So, as the game commenced, we got to, well, talking and fighting, and we discovered that the three Extremely Focused characters were far more effective in those fields as expected. In these scenes, the other characters either hung back or made the odd effort of their own, considering success as sort of a rare surprise instead of “the point of the build”. The spotlight was thoroughly on the specialists.

The problem compounded with my adventure design. I leaned towards including combat and narrative components to encounters because A) they’re just sort of the default when designing RPG adventures, and B) they were the skills everyone dabbled in at least a little, so I could guarantee that everyone could do something. The converse wasn’t true: if we took some time to perform some engineering, the Extremely Focused characters would be forced to shrug, as their hyper-specialized builds gave them nothing to do. So, everyone is stuck playing second fiddle to the specialists.

As time went on, the problem of efficacy also emerged. The Extremely Focused characters had dumped experience points galore into their focuses, turning them into silver-tongued devils and whirling dervishes of death. The Jack of All Trades characters, meanwhile, had a few ranks in a multitude of skills. This ended up creating a weird sense of disparity when I did attempt to create spotlight moments for multiple characters, where we’d cut from the bounty hunters blazing a trail through dozens of Stormtroopers, to the party mechanic, trying and failing to construct a detonator over an excruciating number of attempts. It dissuaded me from attempting such shifts of spotlight in the future.

Moving forward, I don’t necessarily think the specialist and multipurpose characters should be kept mutually exclusive, nor should I move the characters from one camp into another in search of some vague sense of “unity”. Instead, I think the right answer is to design scenarios carefully.

The real answer, I suspect, is to build scenarios that don’t highlight a single character, but instead encourage meaningful couplings of characters. Perhaps the engineer is optimizing and building equipment for the soldier, or the hacker is disabling defenses so that the rogue can safely sneak through. Scenarios could be introduced which encourage such pairings, where just one party member alone, no matter how optimized, can handle it.


Again, I still think this campaign was a great success, and had a lot of fun running it. However, we’re all the most critical of ourselves, and I can’t help but cringe thinking of my past mistakes. But, if for no other reason than I love it too much, I certainly am not going to stop GMing any time soon, so the best thing to do at the end of this campaign is look back, acknowledge the mistakes I’ve made, devise solutions, and move forward.


How Yakuza 0 Creates Combat Depth


Yakuza 0 pulled me in almost immediately, and never let me go until the climax of the game forty hours later. I’m positively in love with this game for a wide variety of reasons. The world of Yakuza‘s Japan, centered around Kamurocho and Sotenbori, is both lovingly realized and a tribute to two of my favorite real-life Japanese neighborhoods, Kabukicho and Dotonbori. The humor is wonderful, and the characters are exquisitely written. However, I’m not a writer, I’m a game designer, so I want to talk about the way Yakuza 0 handles its combat.

Consider that a lot of games noted for having good third-person melee combat. Platinum’s long line of games come to mind, but in this case I’ll name-drop Bayonetta. One could also make the argument for the Soulslike genre, originating at Dark Souls, and the Batman: Arkham games canonzied an entire brand of melee combat all its own, so I’d me remiss not to bring it up.

When you look at all of these games, consider where the focus lies in that combat. In Bayonetta, the focus is generally all about mastery through an increase in player skill. Bayonetta‘s field of enemies aren’t terribly hard to figure out, and Bayonetta as a character is fairly durable, so the focus of the game is learning to master the moves available to Bayonetta. In Dark Souls, the goal is mastery through learning the environment and enemies. Everything about that game, most notably the way death and enemy respawns work, is focused on having a player face the same challenges multiple times, until they learn enough about the challenge to be able to defeat it. The Arkham games are generally about mastery through the collection of moves, as Batman collects a variety of tools over the course of the game, which the player weaves in to their combat along with unlocked moves.

Yakuza 0, despite having a great amount of focus on combat, doesn’t really focus on any of these three approaches. Enemies don’t really have learnable attack patterns, none of Kiryu nor Majima’s moves are terribly hard to learn, and while the moves learned throughout the game are useful, both protagonists begin the game extremely capable of wiping out large crews of mooks single-handedly. Instead, Yakuza 0 focuses on rewarding combat experimentation and discovery.


You see, the combat of Yakuza hinges on the collection of Heat, a resource obtained by landing hits on enemies (as well as other things, depending on the moveset currently equipped), and lost over time and when hit by enemies. Heat can be spent on Heat Actions, punishing attacks that launch full cutscenes of Kiryu or Majima just hilariously beating the shit outta dudes, usually one-hit KOing weaker enemies and dealing massive damage to stronger ones.

There are a lot of Heat Actions, ranging from hurling foes off of bridges, to smashing their teeth in with the handle of a baseball bat, to stepping in between two attacking foes and causing them to accidentally knock each other out. What Heat Actions are available depends on the character and enemy’s state and orientation, what item the character is currently holding, both in their hands and in their inventory, as well as what environmental objects are within reach.

Yakuza‘s combat is, by and large, not hard. In order to challenge you, the game either throws out a boss battle featuring three or more health bars, or a pack of enemies in a quantity usually reserved for Dynasty Warriors games. Generally speaking, the entire game can be beaten fairly easily with just the base set of moves, in conjunction with just chugging a functionally endless supply of energy drinks to restore Health and Heat.

Since difficulty is not the crux of Yakuza‘s combat, the primary challenge of the game is instead to try and be as badass as humanly possible. I don’t think anything is more indicative of this as the way the game handles weapons. Kiryu and Majima can both use a style slot to equip a permanent weapon, up to and including a gun. Guns do tons of damage from range, are repaired relatively easily, and cannot be blocked. However, they’re the least visually interesting attack in the protagonists’ arsenals. As a result, I basically never used them.

Instead, over the course of the game, the player’s mastery of the combat system is based on learned and utilizing the assorted triggers for Heat Actions, in order to wipe out groups of enemies in as cool a manner as possible. While early fights in the game are somewhat clumsy, later game fights against similar enemies in similar locations are much more cinematic, as Kiryu and Majima obliterate their opponents with a variety of stylish moves. The game reinforces this: using these Heat Actions usually correlates in a much higher reward payout for the fight.


The result of focusing on a combat system which rewards exploration and experimentation, rather than more traditional means of mastery, is that the skill ceiling for the game is lower than other third-person action games. This isn’t inherently a bad thing, it means that Yakuza 0 allows players to perform extremely gratifying combat maneuvers with relatively little mechanical expertise, which is nice for players that want to experience a combat system at its top levels without the time and effort required to master a game like, say, Bayonetta.

The other thing to keep in mind is that, unlike a game like Bayonetta or Dark Souls, the combat of Yakuza 0 has to share a lot of design focus with other things, namely large amounts of story and sidequesting, meaning the designers have to account for players who might not be playing Yakuza for the combat. However, on the opposite end, Yakuza 0′s grounded setting means that the potential enemy variety is pretty low, considering you’re only fighting … regular dudes. So, the designers knew that if they didn’t give the combat system of Yakuza 0 some amount of depth, it would have become a slog extremely quickly.

With Yakuza 0‘s combat, the designers managed to create a system that is fun and dynamic while still being easy to pick up, and one which conveys the strength and aptitude of the two protagonists, the greatest badasses of the long-standing series, while still allowing players to feel a sense of progression over the course of the game. I really appreciate a game like this that manages the tricky balance of making combat incredibly engaging and exciting, while keeping the mechanical barrier to entry low.

The Five Games I Want To Run in 2018


I count myself lucky in a lot of ways. Two of those ways is that I have a tabletop RPG group that meets in person on a regular basis, and another is that said group has been open-minded to me running one-shots of systems other than our main fare, and sometimes of my own creation. Because of this, I’ve been able to run a number of different systems, which both has been a chance to learn about and play games that I really like, and to gain experience that makes my games better.

However, like a lot of people in this hobby, I have accrued a fairly shameful pile of game systems that I haven’t actually brought to the table yet. So, I think the new year is a great chance to commit myself to playing some of the systems that haven’t made it to my table yet, and actually sling some dice. It’s like a New Year’s Resolution, except with vaguely defined goals, and no consequences for not doing it. So it’s exactly like a New Year’s Resolution.

Burning Wheel

Burning Wheel Gold

You might have gathered by now that I’m quite a big fan of character creation, specifically systems that allow you to generate really interesting, narratively and mechanically unique characters. Enter Burning Wheel, probably one of the most contentious games on the internet, but one that I like quite a lot.

Burning Wheel is a master class in character mechanics. For starters, there’s the game’s fantastic Lifepath system, in which you build characters by selecting these sort of life units, called “Lifepaths”, which as a sequence describe what you have been doing your entire life. Each Lifepath offers certain skills you can (and some you must) put points in, the sort of places you might have come from, where you can go to from there, and other attributes of your character. For example, a character whose Lifepaths are Noble Born -> Squire -> Knight would have very different knowledge, skills, and experience than a character whose Lifepath runs something like Born into Poverty -> Farmer -> Hunter.

On top of that, Burning Wheel characters are defined by their Beliefs, or the convictions that they hold close to their heart, their Instincts, which are a sort of “if-then” logic that lets you program your character’s behavior automatically, and Traits, which are the defining, obvious, demonstrable characteristics of the character (any character can be handsome, but it’s only with the Trait “Handsome” that you’ll walk into a room and people go “Fuck.“) When you play to these things, and specifically when they get your character into interesting situations, is how you get XP in this system.

Burning Wheel is not the easiest game in the world to get in to, and understanding how and when to assemble some of the more complicated subsystems into the rules is kind of a challenge, but I think the way this game handles characters, and builds them into well rounded, interesting, unique individuals makes it well worth some plays in 2018.

Blades In The Dark


Looking at this list of RPGs now, something I’m realizing is that all of them have one particular thing that they do really well. Burning Wheel handles characters really well, and this game, John Harper’s Blades In The Dark, is a master class in handling time.

The first way Blades In The Dark, a game about rogues and scoundrels making a name for themselves in a dark, steampunk pseudo-London, handles time is through the brilliant use of flashbacks as a codified game mechanic. Flashbacks are so important the game actually explicitly skips past any preparatory measures for a job, jumping right into the action. Whenever the players encounter an obstacle on the job, they may spend some resources to trigger a flashback, allowing them to describe a scene that happened during that skipped preparatory phase that solves this present day problem. They may attempt to inject an easy, but minimally helpful flashback (“I walked through the museum and memorized the layout”) or go for a difficult, but massively useful one instead (“I spend the last three months digging an underground tunnel right into the vault”).

The other brilliant mechanism Blades has to manipulate time is, well, Clocks. As described in the rules, Clocks are just little circles the GM draws, with some number of ticks around the rim. Depending on the exact circumstances of the Clock, some actions will cause the Clock to tick forward, some to tick back, and when the Clock is completely ticked, something happens. This is an extremely versatile tool, capable of representing everything from “The poor of the city are stirred into revolt” to “An explosive is about to go off” to “The guards are mustering to handle your intrusion”.

Frankly, handling the passage of time isn’t exactly the strong suit of RPGs. The weird “a turn is six seconds and everyone takes turns but really it’s all happening at the same time” thing is really hard to imagine, and handling the passage of time in non-combat scenarios is equally cumbersome. By attuning event countdowns to the drama, instead of the passage of time, such that the outcomes of actions taken push Clocks forward, ensues that tensions remain high and the ticking of the Clock remains dramatic, without the introduction of pedantic bookkeeping. I absolutely cannot wait to see the panic on my players’ faces as the Clocks tick down in my first Blades game.

Rogue Trader


So if Burning Wheel handles characters and Blades In The Dark handles time, what does Rogue Trader, second in Fantasy Flight’s line of five Warhammer 40,000 tabletop RPGs, bring to the table? Scale.

Rogue Trader isn’t interested in the actions of the little guy, or the small, interpersonal goals that litter the galaxy by the trillions. Rogue Trader wants to tell stories that are big, and it fits the setting. Warhammer is generally disinterested in small events, instead opting for stories of massive wars where planets are destroyed and death tolls start out in the six or seven figures. So, when Rogue Trader welcomes its new players to the world, it gives them a spaceship that would make a Star Destroyer blush, and a Warrant of Trade, a document granting the party legal extraterritoriality, and the rights to negotiate with new aliens, to consort with the enemy, and to buy and sell commodities up to planets themselves.

Rogue Trader stories traded around the internet have inspired me to pick up this game, if only because the sense of scale brings with it a subset of player problems, and problem solving, simply not possible in other games. Stuck in a battle in deep space with an enemy ship? Get in touch with the first mate, wire them enough money to buy a small island, and watch the captain’s brains splatter across the inside of their windshield. Are your negotiations with an alien? Remind them that you can always call up your old buddy the Imperial Inquisition and tell them to turn this whole planet into a boiling hell. While some RPG campaigns are lucky to get a spaceship or a castle to call home, your team can buy a planet, or hell, a star system, and terraform it how they choose.

Plenty of RPGs let you play heroes, but Rogue Trader lets you play, to paraphrase the words of redditor ryanznock, billionaire bank CEOs in space, and there’s no sum of money nor rule of law that can fully contain your influence.

Dungeon Crawl Classics

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I’m in a Dungeon Crawl Classics campaign right now, and actually ran a funnel for my regular group relatively recently (they mostly all died). My infatuation with this system has grown into affection as I’ve grown comfortable in it, and I hope to be able to run some more of this game in the new year (assuming I didn’t grind my players’ hope into dust too badly last time).

The specialty of Dungeon Crawl Classics is definitely in its pure, concentrated weird. An extremely minimal rulesset, combined with the OSR mentality of “rulings over rules”, mean that most of the problems the game presents are to be solved with clever thinking and player ingenuity, rather than just rolling a skill check. Since stat blocks can be written out in a couple of lines, GMs are free to whip up whatever insane enemies they want, and since fights can be won with clever thinking and MacGuyver-esqe schemes as much as they can by rolling the “hit shit” dice and making numbers go down, you’re free to present your players with enemies of any scale, from rats to gods, knowing that any challenge is one of logical thinking, rather than numbers.

Furthermore, the rules of Dungeon Crawl Classics are such that they naturally attempt to inject some weirdness into the game over time, especially with the magic rules. Roll particularly bad on a spellcasting roll, and your wizard might end up with some new features, from a delightful patch of purple skin to some extra eyes to who knows what else. Every spell you learn has its own special flavor specific to the way you cast it, from changing the weather to causing thousands of rats to pour out of your sleeves. There’s no “I just cast a fireball” in Dungeon Crawl Classics, and every spell turns your game for the weirder.




This one’s sort of a cheat. I have been running Genesys for a while now, since the core system is just the main rules of Fantasy Flight’s Star Wars line, divorced from the setting and turned into a generic system (Get it? Generic system? Gene-sys?). But I love this system, especially after some fuddling with the other big boy generic systems like CypherFATE, and GURPS. Nothing handles meaningful dice results quite like Genesys.

For those not in the know, Genesys uses some initially wonky custom dice, which are easy to write off as a cash-grab by Fantasy Flight, but are honestly really cool. These dice roll up symbols instead of numbers, with those systems belonging to three pairs:

  1. Successes and Failures cancel each other out. You need at least one uncancelled Success to succeed at a roll
  2. Advantage and Disadvantage cancel each other out, and whatever remains uncancelled generally determine whether or not things get better or worse for the actor as a result of their roll
  3. Triumph and Despair do not cancel each other out, and represent extremely lucky (or unlucky) consequences of their actions. These essentially are crits.

By using these wonky dice, Genesys‘s dice rolls not only describe success or failure, but lay the groundwork for the progress of the story after the roll. Players can succeed, but create bigger problems for themselves (“You blow up the enemy, but doing so blows a hole in the ship’s hull, creating a force attempting to suck you all out into deep space”), just as players can fail in a fortunate manner (“Your laser blast misses the enemy, but it does blast off the shackles of the prisoner they’re keeping behind them”). Every dice roll is customized for the situation, and it prevents the boredom that comes with both constant success and constant failure.


Obviously I want to run as many games next year as humanly possible, it’s just my nature. However, these five games have been burning a hole on my shelf, and I absolutely want to bust them out and throw some dice playing them. Be it Burning Wheel‘s unique characters, Blades In the Dark‘s sense of time, Rogue Trader‘s vast scale, Dungeon Crawl Classics‘s propensity for the weird, or the great dice rolls of Genesys, these games will hopefully fuel the flame for interesting, fun sessions not just next year, but for years to come.

One Goal, Two Executions: Mario Odyssey and Breath of the Wild


I liked Breath of the Wild quite a bit. I had somewhere in the realm of 45 hours played when I finally reached the peak of Hyrule Castle and destroyed Ganon, and I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t have some moments where I had a lot of fun. But, that whole time, I couldn’t help shake the feeling like, in this beautiful, wonderful game, there were some things that just weren’t working.

Then, the day after I beat Zelda, I strolled over to my mailbox and grabbed my copy of Super Mario Odyssey, and I was blown away, for a variety of reasons. But, maybe one of the most surprising things for me was how similar the core design ethos of The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild and the ethos of Super Mario Odyssey are, and how, in my opinion, Odyssey got it so much more right in a way Breath of the Wild did not.

For starters, let’s talk about that shared design philosophy, because I do not think that I’m stretching by saying that both of these games attempt to achieve the same design goals. Those goals, in my opinion, are as follows:

  • Grant the player a constant stream of rewards as they explore
  • Create interesting puzzles by configuring known mechanics in interesting ways
  • Encourage players to pay attention to the world around them

Let’s talk about that first goal: granting players a constant stream of rewards. Both Breath of the Wild and Odyssey are jam packed with rewards, from Odyssey‘s 880+ Moons, to Breath of the Wild‘s litany of Shrines, Korok Seeds, and weapons. For both games, if you notice something that looks like it should lead to something, 99.99% of the time it does.

The difference is that Zelda has these rewards scattered across one massive world, while Mario opts to instead cluster them into small, but dense levels. Ultimately, neither of these approaches is right or wrong, but in the end I dislike Zelda‘s approach because it fails to capture that travel time well, in my opinion. This time spent moving between shiny things is ripe for exploitation and enjoyment, either by using enjoyable movement mechanics (a la Just Cause, or the Batman: Arkham games), excellent radiant story morsels to find (as Bethesda’s games like to use), or just by having the journey punctuated by the engaging, challenging combat (like a Souls game).

Zelda does none of these things, unfortunately. The movement in Zelda doesn’t feel terribly great, unfortunately. The limited stamina means you can only run paltry distances, especially in the early game, and horseback riding and climbing are both not terribly interesting. If you find any story tidbits on your journey, they won’t amount to much more than a meaningless side quest or the same Yiga Clan ambush that happens a hundred times. The combat, unfortunately, is also fairly cut and dry, and the game’s limited pool of enemies ensures that these fights get stale fast. Combine all of this, and getting from reward to reward is ultimately a chore. Your “steady stream of rewards” is cut up with these long sequences of boredom.


Some might accuse me of simply being of short attention span, preferring the immediate, constant stream of rewards that Odyssey presents, which is true to an extent, but I also don’t think that I’m out of line by saying that if a game wants me to enjoy the journey, there should be something about the journey to enjoy.

Moving on to that second philosophical point, the idea that puzzles are to be created by configuring known elements in new ways. So, you’ve traveled that long distance and gotten to the shrine or the Korok seed or the Divine Beast, so what do you do to solve it? Well, while I haven’t completed every shrine in the game (I’m sitting at about 40 out of 120 right now), that sample size is big enough that I feel fairly confident in saying that most every puzzle utilizes a subset of the following components:

  • fighting
  • traversal mechanics (running, gliding, or climbing)
  • Stasis
  • Magnesis
  • Cryonis
  • bombs
  • electricity
  • fire
  • water
  • wind

There’s certainly plenty of clever puzzles one can construct out of these building blocks (especially the Shiekah Slate powers), but there’s a fairly simple problem: with few exceptions, each of these mechanics are introduced to you in the tutorial, with no expansion of their ability throughout the game. I understand why this is the case: since the game is open-ended and players can encounter any shrine at any time, they wanted the player to be able to tackle any of the puzzles contained therein.

Now, this is again a result of Zelda‘s open world design. Since Odyssey has a constrained set of levels, to be taken in a largely premeditated path, it can introduce puzzle mechanics (largely in the form of capture targets) right before you’re going to need that knowledge. Zelda does not have a predetermined player path, and thus does not have this luxury.

However, the trade-off is this: the puzzle variety gets extremely stale over time. Once you become fluent in the language of Breath of the Wild‘s puzzles, they become extremely rote and repetetive. There’s a metal thing, use Magnesis on it. There’s some water, use Cryonis on it. Since you’re introduced to all of the puzzle mechanics immediately, that gives you maximal time to get bored of each of them, instead of drip-feeding you new mechanics over time.

Contrast this with what we might call “traditional” Zelda design. While not open-world, it seemed like older Zelda games, especially A Link Between Worlds, had tried an alternate solution with great success. The world was littered with puzzles that, while featuring a common language, had solutions requiring components that the player might not have had at that time. As the player accrued items over the game, they eventually collected the abilities they needed to solve the puzzles they found. It certainly seems like having puzzles scattered about Breath of the Wild‘s world with solutions you didn’t have yet would both increase the sense of mystery and wonder the game tries so hard to cultivate, and offered another set of rewards to add to the other types: puzzle-solving abilities.


Let’s move on to that third point: paying attention to the world in order to find puzzles and rewards. Before I get accused of jumping onto the bandwagon of just bashing the year’s popular games, I want to close with how Breath of the Wild does this particular component better than Odyssey.

Super Mario Odyssey is interested in having its players pay attention to the world, but not in a sense of mastering it, like something like a Prey, but instead with an analytical mind. I see these two walls are close together, so I can wall-jump up them. There’s a lady Goomba, so I’m going to go find a male Goomba to woo her. There’s no need to really master your environment, nor cleverness that can be performed with that knowledge.

Breath of the Wild, meanwhile, is a game all about learning about your environment and using that knowledge. Learning environments allows you to know what natural resources grow where, allowing you to craft the dishes you need. Learning your environments gives you new vectors to attack enemies from, as you glide down from cliffs or launch enemies into the briny depths. It gives you vantage points from which to shoot arrows from afar, or alternate routes to avoid enemies that are too tough. This is all compared to Mario, where mastery of a level just tells you where the stuff is.

Mario Odyssey and Breath of the Wild both are interested in very similar player experiences, but thanks to fundamental differences in style of game, diverge upon their execution. With this in mind, I hope not to bash one game or another, but to emphasize a point that I emphasize frequently on this blog: game design is not mathematics. A problem does not possess only a single solution (I know this metaphor doesn’t map one-to-one for math, but go with me). You can pursue a single goal, and depending on the environment constructed by the other basic elements of your design, you can come up with answers to that same question as different as, well, Super Mario Odyssey and The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild.


Super Mario Odyssey And Clever Puzzle Design


I only realized that I had accidentally played Super Mario Odyssey for five straight hours yesterday when I collected a moon and realized that the date stamp which appears when you do so had incremented by one. The game is truly charming and fun, but one thing it does amazingly is the way it handles puzzles.

You see, the thing Odyssey does that I love is that it takes time very early on to set up a consistent language of puzzles, one which the player quickly learns fluency in. For all of its amazingly unique enemies, levels, and mechanics, the game uses surprisingly few actual puzzle mechanics. Generally speaking, most of them can be batched into the following types of puzzles:

  • some sort of acrobatic or platforming challenge
  • getting to a specific place within a predetermined amount of time
  • collecting a set of things
  • bring a thing to a person who wants it

These are hardly revolutionary puzzle designs, but the variety comes from these base modes being mixed and matched. Some puzzles are just one of these elements, such as those where you have to collect 5 Moon badges in order to unlock the real Moon, which is thoroughly a puzzle of the third kind. Others are a blend, like the musical notes where you have to collect every note in a certain amount of time, which is a blend of the second and third puzzle types.

Then in comes the captures. In case you missed the memo, Mario Odyssey‘s hallmark mechanic is ability of Mario to throw his hat onto enemies (so long as they don’t have a hat on their own) in order to possess them, like some sort of couture ghost. When you capture a character in this sense, you gain access to a new set of moves. Bullet Bills can fly through the air. Chargin’ Chucks can charge forward, smashing obstacles. Hammer Bros can toss hammers.

The thing that makes these captures really jive well with the puzzle structure is that, while captures are definitely necessary to solve certain puzzles, the extent of the puzzle is very rarely “just be thing X and you win”. Instead, when you perform a capture, you’ll still be performing those same core puzzle types, just with a different bend.

Take the Gushens, for example. These fish-like enemies are surrounded by a ball of water, and can use jets of water to hurl themselves forward or upwards, but only have a limited supply of water to do this with. They need to touch a body of water to replenish themselves, or they’ll run out. The obvious puzzle to build with these guys is “hit this thing with water to unlock it”, but that’s not the norm. Instead, Gushens are usually at the center of challenges that are extremely reminiscent of regular platforming challenges. The difference is, instead of the challenge coming from the timing of moves, it instead moves to conserving water and ensuring you can make it from one body of water to the next. Same puzzle type, different focus.

Another great thing Odyssey will do is give you the same or similar puzzles with different captures as the focus, changing the way you have to approach it. For instance, one level early in the game has you racing down a roadway on a scooter, requiring you to get to the end before the timer expires and the roadway disappears. In the postgame, you’re presented with the same challenge, but with a twist: there’s no scooter, you gotta hoof it. What was once a challenge of controlling the slightly unwieldy scooter is now one of trying to maximize your on-foot movement to reach the speed you need.

The benefit of this common language of puzzles relates to the open-world design of Super Mario Odyssey. Some of these levels are big, or at least they feel really big for a Mario game. On top of that, many of the levels change over time, either with the addition of new characters, structural changes, or sometimes massive state changes (the Sand Kingdom early in the game transitions from frozen-over to a hot desert over the course of the time you spend there). These levels are all full of assorted puzzles and challenges, too, some have as many as 80 Moons to collect.


There are two ways this could have gone hilariously wrong. Were these puzzles all just “lock and key” puzzles, where it was just a matter of bringing the right thing to a puzzle spot in order to solve it, repeating that task 999 times would have been really boring really fast. On the flip side, if each of these puzzles were hypercustomized with their own special solutions, having up to 80 of them side by side, with the components required for their selection all intermingled, would have been mentally overwhelming. Imagine 80 Myst puzzles, all within the same city block, with their solution components all spread about. Blech.

Instead, Odyssey finds this great middle ground. By teaching players the lingua franca of the game’s puzzles, the game is free to scatter all of these puzzle components around the game’s levels with reckless abandon, knowing that when a player comes across a solution component, like an enemy to capture, they’ll know the sorts of puzzles they’ll be able to solve with it, and when the player encounters a puzzle, they’ll know what they need to do or get to solve it.

Take the humble Goomba for example, throwaway enemy since Super Mario Bros. When the player encounters a Goomba, they know exactly the kinds of puzzles Goombas are good at solving. Goombas don’t slide on ice, making them ideal for getting across frozen platformers. Goombas can stack on top of each other, allowing them to either reach really high platforms or activate switches requiring a certain amount of Goombas to activate. Goombas can also be used to woo Lady Goombas, which always yields a Moon.

Thus, whenever a player encounters Goombas, they know to be on the lookout for puzzles of these nature in the vicinity. The reverse also holds true: when the player finds a high platform with nothing around it, a Goomba switch, or a Lady Goomba, they know they need to hunt down some Goombas.

As the player runs around a level of Super Mario Odyssey, they’ll be seeing and trying to remember a lot of significant details around the world. Instead of having a pile of disparate elements bouncing around in their head which the player is constantly trying to fit together in a logical way, like an old school adventure game, Odyssey makes it so the player always has some prototype in their head of how to solve a puzzle, instead of randomly trying to fit puzzle pieces together, which is a much more satisfying way to fill a world with puzzles, and to make the player feel smart for putting them together.

Dark Souls Is Not A Role-Playing Game (And Some Stuff That Isn’t Pointless Too)


//The following article contains some general spoilers for Doki Doki Literature Club, for some reason

I know, I knowDark Souls? Arbitrary definitions of genre? Axiomatic declarations of truth? Man, I’m about to call out Pretentious Game Design Blog Bingo here. The reason I think this blog is worth writing is not that whether or not the Soulsborne games’ genre really matters, but rather, the thought put into to deciding it does. That is to say, the conclusion of the argument matters much less than understanding the argument to get there.

Allow me to make my case. Say I walk into a physical game store, and I go up to the dude behind the counter. I say “Hey man, do you have any recommendations? I’m looking for something new to play, something super different.”

After some deliberation, the guy snaps his fingers. “Oh man, I know the perfect game for you. It’s a game with a super heavy focus on its combat mechanics, to the point where you’ll feel like you’re absolutely getting your ass kicked early on, but as you progress you’ll feel amazing as you start to get used to it. You really have to learn about your enemy’s attack patterns and respond to them, instead of just mashing buttons.”

“There’s not really a heavy focus on dialogue or traditional narrative,” he continues. “And all the characters that are there are kind of bizarre. You have inventory management, both in the form of items and consumables, and have some stats that you can upgrade over time. Ultimately, though, none of that matters, because of you’re good enough you can go through the whole game with trash weapons and no stat increases. There’s a bunch of secrets to find, and also, it has a bunch of crazy boss battles and this insane Gothic aesthetic that’s just dripping from every room.”

“Dope!” I respond. “I’ll take that.”

With that, the clerk goes over to the shelf and grabs me a copy of Bayonetta.


I know, I can hear your arguments screaming through the computer. Bayonetta doesn’t really have that many skills to upgrade, just Health and Witch Time. Dark Souls has a veritable Excel spreadsheet of stats to manage, and tons of items to collect and equip and use. Bayonetta just has melee weapons, that’s all. And Dark Souls has this rich, immersive lore-filled world full of deep characters and interesting motives, and you get to make choices! Bayonetta just has a linear story about punching God into the sun or something.

Herein lies my critical point: while Dark Souls has a bunch of gameplay features that we traditionally associate with role-playing games, what it actually does with them puts it much closer to the character action games that Platinum puts out, like Bayonetta, than an actual role-playing game.

I think the biggest point at which to start here is the stats, that omnipresent table of numbers that define who you are in a role-playing game. Dark Souls‘s stat screen is certainly intimidating.


Here’s the thing, though. Literally none of the numbers on this screen affect who your character is, and they provide no wider a suite of options to the player as a selection of gun in a first-person shooter. To compare, let’s look at the “stats screen” of a true-blue role-playing game, Dungeons and Dragons.


There are numbers on this sheet that describe how well a D&D character hits things, of course, but these numbers have a much greater sweeping effect on your character than that. The column of attributes down the left side inform the specifics of how your character behaves, what kind of person they are. Are they funny? Are they smart? How’s their critical thinking ability? Are they kinda shifty? Or big and brutish?

Go back and look at the Dark Souls stat screen. How faithful is a Dark Souls character? How much does that change when you increase your Faith stat? Turns out, you have no idea, and not much at all, respectively. Similarly, it’s not like your character has such better ideas when you increase Intelligence, merely the weapons that arbitrarily do more damage based on Intelligence will…do even more damage.

This is because of one simple truth: a mechanic does not make a game what it is, it’s what you do with that mechanic that matters. Dungeons and Dragons (and Planescape Torment and Pillars of Eternity and what have you) have numerical stats and use them as a way to precisely describe the distinct characteristics of a character in quantifiable terms. Mechanics are a way to represent what makes characters unique, what makes them, y’know, people. They are there to reinforce the idea that you are now this character, by giving you a better idea of who that character is.

Mechanics in Dark Souls do absolutely none of that. The numbers on a stat screen do not exist to help you get a better idea of who your character is, but rather they are variables to fit into the game’s mechanical calculus, elements to introduce to your strategies and tactics. They’re used as a way to fine-tune your combat strategy, to shore up parts of the combat where you’re weak, and make your preferred tactics more viable. In this way, they actual bear more resemblance to a scope in Call of Duty than they do D&D’s Intelligence stat. While a role-playing game’s stats push you closer to the character you’re inhabiting, stats in Dark Souls are merely modifiers to your combat aptitude.

I could go on with other aspects of the game, but I feel as though my argument is the same. The use of equipment and items in Dark Souls is merely used to modify and enhance combat strategies, and in no way is a reflection of the character’s identity (weapons as a reflection of identity in D&D can be seen in class restrictions in usable weapons. Since only certain classes can use certain weapons, using a weapon is an expression of that class).

The amount of story and narrative in Dark Souls also doesn’t make it a role-playing game, obviously. Plenty of games that aren’t role-playing games have deep stories. Metal Gear has a deep story. Touhou games have a deep story.

Now, some of you might be asking, what is my definition of a role-playing game? And my answer is that it doesn’t really matter. I’m just using this genre discussion as a vehicle, a sort of Trojan Horse of clickbait through which I want to make my real point: when it comes to identifying the soul of a game, intent shines through much greater than the actual mechanical building blocks themselves. It’s how Dark Souls takes all of the mechanics of role-playing games to build a solid action game, how Thomas Was Alone uses the mechanics of a platformer to build a character drama, how Doki Doki Literature Club builds a horror game out of a visual novel.

This can also be seen in less homogeneous mixtures. Borderlands points role-playing game mechanics in the same direction as FPS mechanics, creating a single harmonious thing. The same thing happens when Brutal Legend points open-world action-adventure mechanics to run parallel with a strategy game.

Of course, saying that mechanics “belong” to a genre at all is stupid. Mechanics are just mechanics, and a good designer can make any mechanic feed into the central philosophy of any game, with proper tweaking. A stat block can be used to enhance combat, a gun can be used to solve puzzles (Portal), a player’s movement can be used to cast judgement upon them (The Stanley Parable), and so much more. So unshackle mechanics from their context and really run wild with them, and see what you can make.


Every Game I Beat This Summer, Reviewed As Beverages


Summertime has come and gone, and fall is upon us. For me, this summer was a big one. I graduated from The University of Texas at Dallas with two degrees, went to Chicago, went to Austin, quit my college bartending job, went to Japan, and finally started my first real programming job. In the time in the cracks between those events, however, I played a lot of video games. Like, a lot a lot. I’m kinda proud of myself, I ended up beating quite a decent number, clearing out a little bit of my backlog.

So, with all of these games behind me, I figured I’d do a quick write-up on my impressions of all of them. A lot of them I actually posted about as I was playing them, but a collection of general impressions of them, as well as overall thoughts of my “summer of gaming”, might be interesting.

I also want to rate these games, but I generally find review scores arbitrary. Numerical scores end up feeling either so small in range as to be extremely unenlightening, or so granular that the differences between scores feel slight. The same goes for star or letter grade systems, so instead, I’m going to rate each game by comparing it to a beverage. No real reason, I just thought it would be fertile ground for clever metaphor.

Prey (2017)


Hey, surprise of the century, the guy with a Dishonored tattoo really likes Prey. At the risk of immediately undercutting the tension of this list, I think Prey might be my favorite thing I played this summer as a complete experience. The art direction is excellent, and the story, while perhaps polarizing near the end, I found a fascinating way of handling some classic genre tropes. If I had to sum up Prey in one word, it would be “clever”.

Prey really shines in its mechanics and level design, however. So many interesting moments in the game happen due to the interactions between separate mechanical systems. Generally speaking, when you think something should happen a certain way, it does, from being able to reduce physical barricades to elementary ingredients using a Recycler Grenade, to having automated turrets begin to target you after you’ve spliced too much alien DNA.

All of this works because the level designs are so open and thoughtfully created. There are a dozen ways to tackle any problem, and never once do you feel really bottlenecked. Moreover, the space feels real, with such a laborious attention to detail (most notably the fact that every NPC has a name and physical location within the game) that it adds to that sort of experimental feeling. When the game world feels like a real space, you feel a freedom to try and apply real-world reasoning to the problems in the game, and real-world assumptions, and have them work, or at least yield an interesting result. I felt extremely clever when I realized that the security monitors tracking everyone on board the ship also monitor your brother, Alex Yu, who you spend most of the game trying to find. While using that monitor isn’t a silver bullet for the entire storyline, it is acknowledged in a satisfying way, and having that work, at least to an extent, is extremely satisfying.

My rating: A Bloody Mary. Formed from a menagerie of different ingredients working together to create a complete whole. Some people might really not like the aftertaste it leaves in your mouth, but I ultimately love the space for creativity, and the freedom to mix new ingredients together and see what happens.

The Last of Us


Man, this one was a real mark of shame for me for a while. Despite having owned a copy for, god, four years, I hadn’t even removed the shrink from my copy of The Last of Us until this summer, at which point I binged the entire game in a couple of days.

While I was unbelievably stoked about this game after finishing it, I have to say that my love of it has ever-so-slightly waned over time. I feel like the game could have benefited from a smidge more openness, or at least freedom to explore and scavenge the post-apocalyptic environment. I feel like the game’s best emotional climaxes aren’t struck at the end, but instead just before it (I’d definitely call Winter the best chapter), and the ending left me pretty frustrated. The puzzles are pretty brain-dead, and ultimately less intellectually interesting than some of the combat encounters, which themselves become “puzzles” in their own right.

Despite all of this, I still really like The Last of Us. Its highs are really high, its characters are strong and vivid with personality, its combat gritty, violent, and evocative. This is a game that knows how to use its quieter moments, and the experience is all the better for it.

My rating: Fireball. Basically everyone likes this right now, although I kind of wish it was a little bit more complex. But, hey, sometimes the tried-and-trues are great when they’re done this well. Hits you strong, but the further you get from the experience, the more you start to question if it’s really worth the hype.

Deadly Premonition


I have convinced four people to buy this game since beating it, but I’m still not 100% sure how I actually feel about this game. This game honestly goes for so much despite its limitations as far as design scope, and everything it does it either knocks completely out of the park or falls flat on its face.

The characters are a massive strong point, with everyone being just weird enough to be wonderfully quirky and memorable without reaching a point of being completely unrelateable. It reminds me a lot of going through small towns on road trips and being, without any sense of malice or fear, just slightly put off by the slight differences. The story is fantastic and takes some wonderful twists. The soundtrack is weirdly charming, despite consisting of what feels like four songs. York’s dialogue especially is wonderful, and does a great job of making you relate with someone who is initially extremely weird.

But man does this game play like ass. The gunplay is awful, the enemy variety nonexistent, the cars move like tanks, and the level design is full of bland, uninteresting spaces. I feel weird recommending this game, knowing that at times playing it is a miserable experience, but I sat on my couch pushing through the mediocre dungeons because I was dying for more character interactions. I don’t know that Deadly Premonition can reasonably be called a good game, considering that basically all of the mechanics are trash, but the story and characters are so great that it’s definitely a good something.

My rating: A cup of black coffee. When you first try it, it’s basically immediately offensive to the senses. You might pine for a different drink, one that has a bit more sugar and sweetness to it, but as you get used to it, you realize that the foul taste is simply the vehicle for what really matters: an energizing payload that gets the mind spinning.

Kirby: Planet Robobot


I bought Kirby: Planet Robobot to help alleviate my twenty-six hours of plane flights between Dallas and Japan, and it ended up being a wonderful choice. Kirby games aren’t exactly known for being challenging, and this one isn’t an exception, but charming art design, combined with a pretty well-paced drip feed of level mechanics and power ups, keep the game interesting.

Kirby’s suite of powers in this game are a delight to use, with each of them being just different enough to make the distinction between them meaningful. Do you want the direct confrontations offered by Fighter, or the trickery of Mirror, or the mobility of Jet? The game won’t be difficult no matter what you pick, but playing the way you like, and finding the kinda-hidden Code Cubes, is enough stimulus to remain interesting, especially when in concert with new and interesting level designs, and the mix-ups provided by quick jaunts into shoot-’em-up gameplay.

My review: Milk in a carton. It’s definitely for kids, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have this sort of treat every once in a while. Sometimes you just want to enjoy something simple and good, and it’s ultimately a nice little treat to enjoy.

Deus Ex: Human Revolution – Director’s Cut


The first, let’s say 75% of Deus Ex: Human Revolution is probably a solid competitor for my favorite game of this summer, which made me all the more disappointed when the game completely flubbed its final acts. Everything up to Adam Jensen loading himself into a stasis pod to finally hunt down his missing girlfriend is essentially fantastic. The level design is on-par with Prey for being open to creativity and versatility. The plot was interesting and moving in exciting directions, while also full of interesting themes.

Sure, I had some complaints. The “retooled” boss battles in the Director’s Cut amounted to “find and hack some turrets to blow the boss up”, and sometimes I felt like I didn’t quite understand the dialogue system, but the overall quality of the experience was well worth it.

And then, The Missing LinkHuman Revolution‘s main piece of DLC which is integrated into the Director’s Cut release, begins, and the whole thing goes downhill. The Missing Link is full of backtracking, excruciating load times, some miserably boring characters (although one character is a fantastic addition, bratan). Worst of all, it commits the most heinous sin of all: it takes away all of the player’s upgrades, forcing them to play the whole DLC with a limited subset. I get that, at this point in the game, the player is so maxed out that most encounters are trivial, but the solution to that is to make more taxing or interesting encounters, not to take player abilities away.

The game has a small uptick in the penultimate scene before finally taking one last nosedive during the final mission. Stealth options become basically meaningless as there are no consequences for being noticed in this final mission, and it feels like it’s rushing towards one final grand choice at the end that ends up feeling like it comes straight out of left field. Combine this with a completely underwhelming final boss, and the whole thing ends on a completely sour note, and that’s even if you take the option that lets you kill the final boss in seven seconds.

My rating: A glass of orange juice, but you brush your teeth before the last sip. A pretty nice experience for the most part, with wonderful sweetness and flavor. Then, at the last second, the whole thing turns rancid, and you end up wondering how something that was so good could possibly become so insufferable.



I know you can’t “beat” Overwatch, but I’ve been playing a lot of it, so it’s probably worth talking about. I feel like the pacing for updates of this game has gotten a lot better than it was before (cue PTSD flashbacks to the buildup to Sombra), and man, I just can’t stop playing this game. It’s just so good. It’s also a good thing that the events have started to serve as a fantastic way to cycle in some new and cool gametypes, from Uprising earlier this year to the return of Lucioball.

I do have to step back and wonder if my connection to this game is a smidge unhealthy, though. When I play, my focus is definitely square on the flow of loot boxes into the game. No matter how play goes, I find myself getting frustrated with bad pulls and elated with good ones. The worst part is the way the game convinces me to come back on the promise of more boxes, and if the pulls are bad, well then, I just play to get more. I haven’t spent much money on loot boxes (ten bucks total, which considering I’ve played about 150 hours of the game, feels fair), but it still sometimes feels like I’m trapped in a Skinner Box, especially considering the arbitrary decision to not have loot transfer between platforms, despite the ability to link accounts across platforms.

My rating: Coca-Cola. Literally everyone’s drinking it, and it’s hard to argue that it doesn’t deserve that. When you’re tired of the default, you can jump to one of the less popular flavors for a bit of variety (RIP Coke Zero). Yet, it’s hard to shake the feeling that it’s definitely bad for your health.

Concluding Thoughts

According to HowLongToBeat, not counting time spent in Overwatch, I cleared 80 hours’ worth of games from my backlog this summer, and the momentum keeps going. I’m turning now to some smaller games in my Steam Library (right now I’m going through Scanner Sombre) before I pop into a couple of slightly larger games, with L.A Noire and The Legend of Zelda: A Link Between Worlds topping that secondary list.

Another note is the most recent addition to my console collection. An adult’s paycheck means new toys, and in my case, that means that I went to my local game store on payday and picked myself up a Nintendo Switch. My initial thoughts are that the game ecosystem right now is a smidge dry, but has promising releases coming up, although I definitely have enough to play right now. With just my first purchase, which was obviously Breath of the Wild, I have enough to entertain me for a good while, or at least until the end of October when Super Mario Odyssey comes out. Combined with the chance to hop onto some of the indie games I’ve been meaning to play but never got around to (Shovel KnightStardew Valley, and Darkest Dungeon), as well as some interesting new “Nindies” (namely Wargroove and The Longest Five Minutes) combined with some heavy hitters (Project Octopath Traveler and Shin Megami Tensei: New Project), I think this thing will be getting some use.

The satisfaction of clearing out one’s backlog really is wonderful. Not only do you loosen the guilt you feel from having never beaten or even played something that’s been on your shelf for potentially years, but it also is just nice to broaden your experience of games as a whole, and to play all this new stuff.

So, yeah, playing video games is good. Go figure.