Who Gave YOU Power?The Disconnect Between Joy, Video Game Culture, and the Discourse of the “Real Gamer”

THE INVITATION — When Playing Was Enough

Forgive the Goodfellas sample here, but as far back as I can remember, I've always been a gamer.

In fact, I remember the first game I ever played.

One year, my parents got me this little Donkey Kong cabinet. I played that thing for hours. I think I ran through about 20 AA batteries before my parents smartened up and bought rechargeable ones. I played it and played it until, eventually, it just wouldn't work anymore.

And I didn't need much of a reason to keep coming back to it.

It was fun.

My dad eventually started taking me to arcades, or just spots around town that happened to have a few cabinets sitting in the store. Of course, I had to spend some quarters on my old friend Donkey Kong, but my gaming horizons started to grow. There was Galaga. Ms. Pac-Man. Q*bert. And Pole Position.

I probably wouldn't have touched Pole Position if the kid waiting ahead of me at the arcade hadn't put me on.

“Dude, you haven't played this? Race me!”

So I did.

And man, it was fun!

Later, my older cousin put me on to Atari. I had never seen video games played on a television set before. This was interesting. I immediately got hooked on Pitfall!, Asteroids, and, once again, my old friend Donkey Kong.

But playing at my cousin's house wasn't enough anymore.

I had to have a console, too.

Then came the winter of 1986.

The world changed.

My world changed.

The Nintendo Entertainment System opened doors that we, as gamers, didn't even know were there. Games became bigger. Experiences became richer. And with co-op games, playing together created bonds...

...and broke a few.

With every button mash, whether we realized it or not, we were learning. Problem-solving. Persistence. Teamwork. Emotional regulation. How to lose. How to try again. How to work together—and occasionally how to resist throwing a controller at somebody when they screwed everything up.

The joy was beneficial.

But more than anything, the joy was contagious.

We showed each other games—the ones we owned or had the privilege of renting from the local video store. We traded tips and secrets. I vividly remember passing a folded sheet of notebook paper around class once to copy cheat codes and fatalities of Mortal Kombat on SNES.

We “passed the sticks.” We crowded around cabinets and television screens. Mall arcades became battlegrounds for supremacy over Killer Instinct and Marvel vs. Capcom, while The Simpsons and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles turned complete strangers into brothers. Someone would discover something incredible and couldn't wait to show somebody else.

And maybe that's why it only made sense—cents, too, apparently—for gaming to eventually grow into the global phenomenon it is today.

What began with cabinets, cartridges, controllers, cards, and quarters now stretches into online worlds, streaming, esports, virtual reality, competitive gaming, and communities connecting millions of people around the world.

Gaming got bigger.

The technology got better.

The audience grew.

But the thing that brought so many of us here was remarkably simple.

“Hey! Look at this game. Does it look cool?”

“You wanna play?”

And for a long time, that was enough.

The Tribes: You Play the Wrong Things

Along the way, that single tribe began branching off into subcultures. The decline of the arcade and the neighborhood video store probably didn't help.

Those places forced different kinds of gamers into the same spaces. The fighting-game kid stood five feet away from the racing-game kid. Madden sat on the same rental shelf as Final Fantasy. We didn't necessarily like the same things, but we occupied the same culture.

As gaming grew, so did our ability to retreat into the corners built specifically for us.

There's nothing wrong with preference. The problem starts when preference becomes superiority.

And some of these smaller sects have developed a level of toxicity capable of infecting the larger gaming community.

Console Wars

In a capitalist marketplace, options are everywhere. For every Dunkin', there's a Starbucks. Every Walmart customer knows a Target customer. Gaming is no different.

I can recall being sucked into the arguments of Nintendo vs. Sega very early on. In the early 2000s, the four villages—GameCube, PlayStation 2, Xbox, and Dreamcast—often put gamers at odds. Whether the topic was controllers, exclusives, graphics, or pricing, gamers were damn near forced to pick a side.

And once you picked one, you had to stay there.

Throw PC into the mix, and somehow we even ended up casually throwing around the phrase “PC Master Race.”

Yeah.

That's a real term people decided was perfectly normal to use about playing video games.

Wild, right?

Those arguments still linger today, even as the differences between current-generation consoles have narrowed in many respects. Certain decisions made by the people in charge of these companies have put a battery in the backs of gamers who can't wait to litter comment sections with declarations of boycotts, blackouts, and putting the sticks down altogether.

And criticism of these companies is fair. Hell, some of it is necessary. Consumers should speak up when billion-dollar corporations make decisions that hurt the people buying their products.

But somehow, criticism of a company can turn into criticism of the person who bought its plastic box.

At some point, owning the console you enjoyed wasn't enough.

Somebody else's console had to lose for yours to win.

Genre Elitism

I love single-player, story-based games. Nothing excites me more than a multi-hour campaign where my efforts and grind are rewarded with upgrades, new moves, and skins.

But I'm not a monolith.

I also enjoy taking a fleet of cars and supercharging them with better engines, NOS, and tires to prove I have the “need for speed.” I'm also ready to put on the gloves or gi to punch, kick, and throw a Hadouken, Spirit Bomb, or whatever mythical move of might the game allows directly into the chest of my opponent.

And before somebody types it: Yes, I know a Spirit Bomb isn't technically a fighting-game move.

You are becoming part of the problem.

But I digress.

None of that means I shit on the guy who loves turn-based RPGs or the girl who can lose an entire weekend to a simulation title.

Basically, what you like doesn't make you better than the next person because they like something else.

Preference isn't hierarchy.

Someone loving a genre you can't stand doesn't diminish your enjoyment of the genres you love.

Their joy doesn't invalidate yours.

Sports-Game Disrespect

And while we're on the subject, leave the cats who only play sports titles alone.

Does the same game come out every year?

Yes!

Are they often a wash, rinse, and repeat of last year's installment?

For sure!

Are the differences between this year's game and last year's sometimes so minimal that it's hard to tell the difference?

Absolutely!

But the wise would say:

“What you eat don't make me shit.”

In other words, what's it going to matter to you if that gamer only wants to score touchdowns, hit home runs, sink three-pointers, score goals, or chase championships?

Do you know how much mental prowess can go into playing a single game of Madden? How far ahead you sometimes have to think to win in EA's FC series?

And you MIGHT be able to get away with button-mashing in Street Fighter or Tekken, but try that shit in UFC or WWE 2K and you'll end up, digitally, looking at the lights.

These titles demand skill, but graciously deliver fun.

And if somebody wants to spend their entire gaming life throwing touchdowns, hitting homers, sinking threes, scoring goals, and winning championships...

Who gave us the power to tell them they're gaming wrong?

Single-Player vs. Multiplayer

As an outlet, video games have given people an immersive escape from reality that not a lot of mediums can provide.

And one of the biggest pieces of reality that a gamer might want to escape from is other people.

I know somebody's gonna feel me.

Ain't nothing like coming home, grabbing a beverage, maybe a snack, putting that phone on DND, and just zoning out with an open-world game, a franchise season, or you versus an infinite number of zombies.

No headset.

No lobby.

No random twelve-year-old questioning your mother's virtue.

Just you and the game.

This person has found joy.

But gaming also has a way of connecting people who otherwise would have never known each other existed.

Reality can be miserable, especially when you're going through it alone.

And if only for a few hours, through a steady Internet connection and a sturdy headset, someone can find a fellow gamer to talk to about their day, their life, their grief, their struggles—all while ranking up in Marvel Rivals or Battlefield—then let the joy flow and leave them be.

One gamer found joy by finally getting away from everybody.

Another found joy by finally finding somebody.

Both found exactly what they needed.

Why the hell would we argue about which one did it correctly?

The Exam: Prove You're a “Real Gamer”

Which brings us to, easily, some of the dumbest shit I've ever heard come out of this community.

“REAL GAMER.”

I hate this term.

Because somewhere along the way, apparently, enjoying video games stopped being enough. Now there are prerequisites. Credentials. Entrance exams.

And depending on which self-appointed member of the Gaming Admissions Board you happen to encounter, the requirements change.

“Oh! You only play AAA titles? You're hurting independent developers by not supporting them. YOU'RE NOT A REAL GAMER!”

“All you play is Angry Birds? YOU'RE NOT A REAL GAMER!”

“You ain't never played Twilight Princess, but you're playing Echoes of Wisdom? YOU'RE NOT A REAL GAMER!”

“Your first console had a wireless controller and HDMI. Mine was corded with coax. YOU'RE NOT A REAL GAMER!”

Respectfully...

WHO GAVE YOU POWER???

Seriously.

Who appointed you?

Where is this governing body of gaming located?

Where can I download the application?

Is there a written exam?

Do I need three references?

How many generations of consoles must I have owned before my application can be considered?

Is there a minimum number of games I have to complete?

Do handhelds count toward my credits?

What if I play on Easy?

Do I lose points for using walkthroughs?

Is The Sims an elective?

Does Madden count toward my major?

Do I have to defeat a Dark Souls boss in front of a proctor?

Who determines the passing score?

Because “real gamer” is an interesting phrase when you actually stop and think about what it implies.

It means somewhere out there must also be a fake gamer.

And apparently, we've given ourselves the authority to determine who that is.

Your Résumé Doesn't Make Mine Invalid

I've been playing video games for decades. I remember arcades. I remember Atari. I remember blowing into NES cartridges—even though we eventually learned we probably shouldn't have been doing that shit. I remember wired controllers, RF switches, coaxial connections, memory cards, cheat-code notebooks, video-store rentals, “blue backs” and scratched discs, couch co-op, and a time when losing your save meant accepting that God simply had other plans for you.

That's MY gaming history. And I cherish it. But my history isn't an entrance requirement for somebody else's.

A kid born years after the Nintendo 64 disappeared from store shelves can't be expected to have experienced gaming the way I did.

And why should they?

If a teenager picks up Super Smash Bros. Ultimate and falls in love with that world, my first instinct shouldn't be:

“But have you played Melee?”

It should be:

“Oh, you like Smash Bros.? Who’s your favorite character?”

There's a tremendous difference between those two responses.

One uses history as a weapon.

The other uses history as an invitation.

Experience should make us historians, not gatekeepers. I've been here longer than some gamers. That doesn't mean I belong here more than they do. The responsibility of the old head isn't to stand at the gate checking credentials. It's to hold the damn door open.

Mobile Games Are Games

And yes, we're going there.

If the only thing somebody plays is Candy Crush, Angry Birds, Pokémon GO, or whatever game happens to be occupying their phone at the moment...

They're playing a video game. Full stop.

The screen is smaller.

The controls are different.

The sessions might last five minutes instead of five hours.

They may never own a PlayStation, Xbox, Nintendo, or gaming PC.

So what?

Somebody playing a mobile game during their lunch break may never know—or care—what frame rate they're getting. They may never watch a gaming showcase. They may never preorder a collector's edition. They may never know what the hell a teraflop is.

But they're having fun.

Remember that?

The thing we were doing before we started handing out credentials?

Easy Does It

Then there's difficulty.

Some people want a game to beat their ass.

They want the boss that takes forty attempts. The controller sweating in their hands. That moment when, after hours of getting absolutely demolished, they finally win. They want the stress. They want the aneurysm.

And when that victory comes?

Glory.

Someone else gets home after working ten hours, puts the kids to bed, has maybe ninety minutes before they need to go to sleep, and selects Story Mode.

Also beautiful.

Maybe they're there for the narrative.

Maybe they're dealing with tendonitis, carpal tunnel, or another condition that makes certain mechanics difficult.

Maybe they're inexperienced.

Maybe they simply don't enjoy repeating the same boss fight thirty-seven times.

Or maybe—and stay with me here—they don't owe us a fucking explanation.

Easy Mode exists.

They selected it.

They're playing.

That's the entire transaction.

Difficulty can measure someone's mastery of a particular game's mechanics.

It cannot measure the legitimacy of their joy.

“Casual” Isn't an Insult

Somewhere along the way, “casual gamer” became something you're supposed to say with a little stank on it.

Why?

A casual movie fan is still allowed to enjoy movies.

Someone who reads three books a year is still a reader.

Someone who cooks twice a week is still cooking.

But play a handful of games whenever you have time, and suddenly somebody needs to inspect your credentials?

Not everyone needs gaming to be their primary hobby. Your understanding of the industry, release dates, and such shouldn’t have to carry weight in a conversation about your favorite game.

Some people just want to play.

And Yes, Women Play Video Games

Then we get to one of the ugliest versions of the “real gamer” exam.

Women have been playing video games for generations, yet somehow some of them are still expected to prove it.

She likes The Sims?

Of course she does.

She wears a gaming shirt?

Name three characters.

She streams?

She must be doing it for attention.

She says she loves a franchise?

Time for the pop quiz.

Meanwhile, some dude can say, “Yeah, I play Call of Duty,” and nobody asks him to provide his lifetime K/D ratio before accepting his membership into the tribe.

It's stupid, and nobody should have to produce a résumé before they're allowed to enjoy the hobby.

And maybe that's ultimately what's so frustrating about the phrase “real gamer.”

Because it takes something that was once an invitation and turns it into an evaluation.

Remember the kid standing in front of Pole Position?

He could have looked at me and said:

“You've never played this?”

And stopped there.

He could've laughed.

He could've decided I didn't belong at that cabinet.

Instead, he said:

“Race me!”

I didn't have to qualify.

I didn't have to know the history of racing games.

I didn't have to know the year, make, model, and top speed of the real car I was simulating.

I just had to want to play.

Your gaming résumé doesn't make you more of a gamer.

It just tells me what kind of gamer you are.

The Scorecard: Can You Prove You Had Fun?

So, we've established that apparently there are rules about what you're allowed to play and qualifications determining who gets to call themselves a gamer.

But we're not done. Because now, apparently, we need proof that you played the game correctly.

Did you beat it?

Did you do New Game+?

Did you get the Platinum?

Did you finish all the side quests?

Wait...you used a walkthrough?

Oh, you CHEATED cheated.

Come on, bruh!

Somewhere along the way, gaming became incredibly measurable. Completion percentages. Trophies and achievements. Hours played. Kill/death ratios. Rankings. Leaderboards. Concurrent player counts. Sales numbers. Review aggregates. Frame rates.

Numbers. Numbers. And more numbers.

And to be clear, none of those things are inherently bad. I love getting a trophy. Finally seeing that achievement pop after doing something difficult can feel like the game itself just reached through the screen and gave you a dap.

Technical performance matters, too. Nobody wants to spend $70 on a game today that runs like it’s still using A/V cables.

Reviews have value. They can help us decide where to spend our money and, more importantly, our time.

And if somebody wants to 100% every game they own?

Godspeed, soldier.

But information shouldn't become authorization.

A review score can tell me what a critic thought. Not what I’ll think.

A frame-rate counter can tell me how smoothly the game is running. But will it matter if the story is trash?

A completion percentage can tell me how much of the game I've seen. Not how much it was enjoyed.

A trophy list can tell me what I've accomplished, but not how the game made me feel.

Hell, I can buy a game, play it for two hours, decide it ain't for me, and move the hell on. My PlayStation isn't going to send somebody to repossess my controller.

At least I hope not.

The numbers can describe, enhance, and challenge us to get more out of the experience. But they shouldn't be allowed to validate the experience.

Because if I turned the console off smiling, laughing, satisfied, emotionally wrecked (looking at you, The Last of Us), hyped, relaxed, or already thinking about the next time I get to pick up the controller...what other score do I need?

The Reclamation: Let's Play

After all of this, maybe we've made gaming more complicated than it ever needed to be.

I'm not talking about the games themselves. Let those get bigger. Let developers build worlds we couldn't have imagined when I was holding that little Donkey Kong cabinet. Give me photorealistic graphics. Massive open worlds. Motion capture. Virtual reality. Ray tracing. Stories capable of making grown-ass adults stare silently at the credits because they need a minute to process what the hell just happened. Keep pushing the medium forward.

I'm talking about us.

Maybe we don't need so many rules for each other.

You don't need permission to play The Sims for six hours, nor do you need to explain why you picked Easy Mode or apologize because Madden is the only game you buy every year. You don't need to own every console, play the classics, earn a Platinum trophy, or defend loving a game that got a 6 out of 10. You don't need to understand frame rates, teraflops, ray tracing, development budgets, sales projections, or why somebody on Reddit is furious this week. You don't even have to love gaming the way I love gaming—because that's the point.

It's your joy.

And none of this means we should stop having conversations about video games. An argument here and a debate there are necessary. Criticism helps push the needle to make the industry better. Talk your shit during the console wars if that's your thing. Tell me why your favorite RPG changed your life. Explain why that boss fight is actually perfectly balanced, and I just need to “git gud.” Tell me why the game I love is overrated. Send me that thirty-minute YouTube video explaining why a mechanic I've never thought about is secretly brilliant.

That's part of the fun, too.

This isn't an argument against discourse. It's one against allowing discourse to become more important than joy. Because disagreement can create conversation. Preference can create identity. Competition can create community.

But none of those things should create a gate. And if there is one, maybe those of us who've been here a while have a responsibility. Not to stand in front of it. But to hold it open.

Because somebody did it for us.

That's it.

That's the whole thing.

There is no entrance exam.

There is no governing body.

There is no minimum score.

And there damn sure isn't some mystical council sitting around deciding who gets to carry the title of “REAL GAMER.”

So maybe the next time somebody discovers something we love, we don't ask them to prove they deserve to be here. Maybe we remember what somebody once did for us.

“Hey! Look at this game.”

“Does it look cool?”

“You wanna play?”

Then let's play.