The Point of Playing Video Games

A personal journey about the time I forgot how to have fun.

My time with Destiny 2 has been inconsistent to say the least. I hated it at the time of its launch due to an empty end game, repetitive activities, disastrous PvP, and I just didn’t see the point in going on. But then Forsaken came out and everything changed. I didn’t obsess over the game until the summer of 2020 during the Pandemic, and during that period of time Destiny 2 began consuming my life. I would log on every day to make sure I got my weekly Pinnacle rewards (which is the highest type of reward in the game, limited in quantity every week) so I could stay relevant and capable as new content was dropping. I was busy collecting every gun, which I came close to actually doing at one point, so I always had options available to me. I was min-maxing my stats for raid purposes so I could be competitive and competent in that space, allowing me to feel more comfortable joining random groups online. I even started to do high level, difficult side content that rewarded me with a ship I didn’t even like, just so I could say I did it. I was the absolute definition of an obsessed person.

Until I wasn’t.

“Wait a second,” I thought to myself while looking over my options on what to do in the game, “...if I do that activity, it doesn’t even reward me with a Pinnacle?” and the moment of truth hit me like a brick falling on Daniel Stern’s face as I said, “What’s the point?” Which ultimately led to me feeling like I wasn’t having fun. It felt like I was doing work.

And that got me thinking about my time as a kid.

Enough to make a 90's kid cry from pure, unrivaled euphoria.

Video game boxes used to feel like real world treasure chests. You opened them up and it felt like an entire universe of reading material was bursting at the seams

Some time in the early nineties, my dad took me to the mall so I could buy a new game with my birthday money. When I arrived at KB Toys we spoke with the employee about all of my options. We had agreed that I could get whatever game I wanted with my money, so long as dad found it to be appropriate for a child my age (I was probably 8 or 9). I had remembered watching my brothers play the classic Castlevania on the NES and thought it looked amazing, so when Super Castlevania IV caught my eye I just knew I had to buy it. The clerk at the counter handed me the box and looked at my dad as he gave us the total cost. What that clerk didn’t expect was that I had cash in hand, not my dad, and was prepared to complete the exchange without anyone’s help. Triumph. My first ever video game purchase! I remember staring at the box as we walked back to the car, practically drooling at the prospect of what was inside.

Video game boxes used to feel like real world treasure chests. You opened them up and it felt like an entire universe of reading material was bursting at the seams, waiting for you to discover what was printed on the pages. Colorful manuals with detailed descriptions of enemies, areas, abilities and items felt other-worldly to me as a kid. I loved the sense of discovery and creativity; I never really stopped to think that people were making these experiences, and for me it felt like they represented the impossible becoming real. They were special; they were magical.

When I got home and popped the cartridge into my SNES, I was greeted with an atmospheric menu screen complete with crawling bugs and scary music. I can still hear the church organ playing as I entered my character name. And when the game started, it all came together in a thrilling moment of excitement and joy; I was this tall, strong looking guy flailing a whip around at moving skeletons. Firelit candles dotted the various walls of an old castle, complete with a massive drawbridge that slowly raised up and wouldn’t lower back down once I stepped inside. The sounds of my feet moving across the rough cobblestone floors made me feel like I was actually there, exploring something grand. The sound of rocks breaking from the force of my swing, or the crumbling bones shattering into the wind as I struck a walking skeleton, made me feel like a badass. Then I struck one of the candles with my whip, and a small cross fell to the ground. I picked it up and realized it was a demon-slaying boomerang, giving me even more ways to destroy those in my path. Which was a good thing, because I would soon be met with floating medusa heads traveling in an obnoxious pattern toward me, while little ghosts that tried to...uh...I actually don’t know what those enemies did at all, but they were definitely ghosts. Then, out of nowhere, a massive skeleton wielding a jousting lance was riding atop a skeletal horse and he was angry. A thrilling battle (at the time) ended with me destroying it, which caused an orb to form in the air above me. It fell to the ground, waiting for me to pick it up like a good adventurer should, and at that moment I just remember thinking, “What else does this game have in it? This is incredible”. To this day I still go back and play it from time to time, and I always love it. It’s one of those nostalgic, milestone moments of my childhood. The first game I ever bought with my own money kicked ass. Hell yeah!

I want to be like that kid who opened those game boxes all those years ago, when magic took up residence inside my eyes.

Fast forward to me asking what the point of Destiny was, and it just makes me sad. It makes me sad because when I tell that story about Castlevania I never one time mention loot, progression, the term “end game”, or any other modern trope we see in nearly every online title we play. But why should I, when I could tell you about a mansion with ghostly dancers and chandeliers that act as your platform forward? I love to talk about that same mansion’s treasury, filled with piles of gold, and how those gold piles eventually turn into a massive, living bat that attacks you; about the clock tower, with spinning cogs that constantly impact your movement, and the mummy that has a severe shedding problem. I want to tell you that it took me too many times to count before I actually beat the game many years after I initially purchased it, and how I leapt in the air triumphantly at my accomplishment. I want to talk about the journey.

So much to look at. Not a whole lot to say about it. Oh except the numbers. Who could forget the fucking numbers.

Which sucks when it comes to my time with Destiny, because I think about my journey along the way in that game and it just isn’t the same. Yes, there are moments I could share that are cool, but they don’t immediately spring to mind. I have to dig around my memory to find them, root out the mechanical bits that ultimately don’t matter, and then try my best to remember the details. I can clearly hear the music for every level in Castlevania IV, but struggle to tell you what really happened on Mars in Destiny 2. Or why Zavala says...well...literally anything.

But the real bummer is that the mechanical nature of Destiny doesn’t really stick, either; I can’t even tell you what Power Level I was when I last played, and that is the cornerstone of the entire experience. All of it just falls away, disappearing into the ether of countless experiences I have had over the years. It’s just another cog in the unending online RPG machine, with levels to grind and loot to find, and no end in sight. I think it’s why I replaced it with FFXIV, because that game has a true storyline that pervades everything you do. It always provides context with activity, and most of the time that context is compelling and meaningful. Most games of this ilk simply don’t provide that; most games are just there to soak up your time, hope you get out your wallet for some sweet, sweet microtransactions, and then call it a day.

Yes, there are moments I could share that are cool, but they don’t immediately spring to mind. I have to dig around my memory to find them...

I don’t want to rag on Destiny 2 for not being fun, because it absolutely is. It’s one of the greatest video games ever made. My 1,000+ clocked hour count is testament to my love for the game. But when I go to write a paragraph describing my time with it, I can’t help but notice the lack of actual substance involved. I talk about the shiny things, which makes me wonder just how much the journey meant to me. I could talk for hours about some of my favorite games growing up, from Final Fantasy to Halo, and never one time wonder about the value proposition they provided. They had no end game. They just had gameplay that was meaningful. The point in playing them was to experience what was on offer, not to squeeze the life out of everything in sight without ever paying attention to what you are squeezing.

I want to be like that kid who opened those game boxes all those years ago, when magic took up residence inside my eyes. When someone could just look at me and know that I was mesmerized, in awe of something because of how amazing it was.

So if you ever see me out there bitching about some gear score modifier, or wondering why the end game in Outriders was so disappointing, stop me; ask me if I enjoyed the journey along the way. It will serve as a reminder to me that the point of playing games is to have fun.

At the end of the day, if you’re not having fun then why are you doing this at all?