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Video games came into my life like a punch in the face from Rocky Joe on a bad day—and from that moment on, I can honestly say my life changed, one way or another.
Years have passed, and I’ve witnessed massive, even epochal shifts: in how games are perceived, how they’re played, how they’re lived—both alone and socially.
Back then, video games were a constant discovery. You didn’t know when something would arrive, what it would be, or who was making it. We went through the era of imported games and consoles—arriving a year before their official release in Europe or the US—through nights with friends, eating and drinking while waiting for a game to load… to a world where everything is online, and you know almost everything before a game even comes out.
For many, this isn’t a big deal. But for me, having lived through that transition, it absolutely is. I’ve adapted to it all, even if I often look back at those times with nostalgia. Today we have everything—and all at once. The same game on every platform. Platforms with different names but essentially doing the same thing. The same services, the same ways of buying games, the same deals, the same controllers—or almost.
Where once we had controllers with three prongs and a central analog stick, or others that snapped together in chains so more people could play, today controllers have all two analog sticks and a D-pad in the exact same position. The buttons are the same, just with different symbols. The triggers are identical, just with different names. But hey, we get to chose the color.
It’s all incredibly convenient… and boring. So boring that I often find myself missing loading times, missing the anticipation of a game we knew little or nothing about—just a blurry photo in a magazine with some Japanese text underneath, and a thousand theories built around it. There was magic in that. And it’s gone. But hey, that’s normal. Everything changes. Everything evolves.
And yet I look around my office. Shelves and shelves of physical games—things you can touch, open, read, load into consoles that are 40 years old and still work perfectly. Damn… we’ve left that behind too. Games are becoming more and more digital, more and more intangible. Maybe I’m old, but I still love seeing my books on a shelf—and my games in a collection.
So why do I feel the need to talk about this today?
Because one of the things I love most in life is the teams behind video games—their craft, almost artisanal, in building something deeply human.
Have you ever just stopped, mouth open, staring at a landscape in a video game? A breathtaking view… a haunting glimpse… an enemy or a boss so incredible it almost didn’t feel real? A horizon so beautiful and overwhelming it seemed to push the console itself beyond its limits? And isn’t it the same with character design? Don’t you ever find yourself being a die-hard fan of one dev team over another because of their incredible ability to imagine and bring unforgettable characters to life? Like—damn, did you see what they pulled off this time? That’s insane.
Watching art collide with limitations—and overcome them through skill and technique. That’s the mastery that has always fascinated me about video games. And today, it feels like that’s fading, buried under ugly layers of filters that artists will never fully control.
And if this piece of what makes games beautiful disappears too, then I truly hope we see a reaction—like the Ents marching on Isengard. A wave of indie games. Labels that say “human crafted.” A return to visuals that are the result of individual ingenuity—not some standardized, procedurally driven output.
Because honestly… I’m pretty damn tired of standards.
PS: I don’t know who did the meme image I’m using as a cover, but it made me laugh. Thanks.
