Writing about video games has a defensive streak. For a good decade now, we’ve been told by the games industry that video games are on the verge of being understood as works of art in the same way as books or films: media products of cultural worth and critical depth. And yet, still, we’re not quite there. There are hundreds of collections of essays where writers expound on their love for books, films, and even television. But not games.
I’ve always been a keen gamer. Some of my most precious childhood memories are populated by figures such as Spyro the dragon and the jankily pixelated face of Pierce Brosnan in James Bond: Nightfire. As an adult, I still play a lot, and now write games myself. I’ve long thought of playing narratively sophisticated video games, such as the open-world, role-playing game Disco Elysium, as a core part of my emotional and intellectual life, rather than a distraction from it. But tell someone you’re interested in video games and, more often than not, you’ll see them re-evaluate you a little, like you’ve said you have a keen academic passion for tic-tac-toe.
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