It’s strange - gaming used to feel like this shared language.
You’d meet someone who liked the same series, or discovered the same weird mechanic, or stayed up until 3 AM chasing a boss… and instantly, there was a spark. A connection. A feeling of belonging.
Lately, that feels rare.
Trying to talk about games now so often turns into negativity, complaining, performative outrage, or surface-level “takes.” It’s like joy is embarrassing, curiosity is uncool, and genuine excitement makes you naive.
Worse - half the conversations come from people who haven’t even bothered to understand the game. No research, no context, no effort. Just conclusions.
And somehow, everyone acts like they’re a professional critic or a cultural authority because they hit “Go Live.”
Streaming doesn’t automatically make you insightful.
Posting a YouTube clip doesn’t make you a reviewer.
You earn those roles with care, humility, curiosity, and pride in what you create.
What hurts isn’t that people stream - it’s that so many don’t actually love the games they’re streaming.
They love attention. They love numbers. They love the idea of being a personality.
“I got 10 views last night!”
“One random sub!”
“Chat said something funny!”
And hey - that’s fine. Celebrate your milestones. But don’t pretend that’s the same as engaging with a game, learning its world, respecting its craft.
Because somewhere along the way, the conversations stopped being about games and started being about validation.
And that’s when everything feels shallow.
It breaks my heart a little, honestly. Because gaming is magical.
It’s art, storytelling, music, design, emotion, humanity - all disguised as entertainment.
It deserves people who care enough to look deeper.
I miss discussions where someone’s eyes light up, where they can’t wait to tell you what they discovered, or why a moment hit them so hard.
I miss sharing theories, strategies, memories - without someone rolling their eyes because it’s not “content-worthy.”
I miss enthusiasm that isn’t ironic or monetized.
I miss feeling like we’re exploring worlds together - not performing for each other.
Gaming shouldn’t feel like a competition for authority or attention.
It should feel like community.
Like friendship.
Like wonder.
So here’s the truth:
You don’t need a platform, a brand, a following, or a “take.” You just need love for the craft - and the willingness to learn, feel, and share.
If you show up with curiosity, excitement, openness - you’re already more valuable to this hobby than any clout chaser ever will be.
Because games deserve players who are alive to them. And people deserve conversations that remind them why they fell in love with gaming in the first place.