You know that feeling when you finish reading a great book, and your mind kind of blinks back into existence? The real world arrives in waves, perhaps first with the sound of a car driving by or the smell of the tea you brewed ages ago and forgot to drink. The light of the sun or a lamp may feel supernaturally bright compared to the world in your mind. This sensation is somewhat romantic, leaving you floating as you remember your life separate from the one of the pages of the book.
That feeling is much more romantic to me than what happens when I finish a big video game. I experience a brief elation, a happy sigh. Then, I watch the fade-to-black, and the credits roll. I see myself reflected in the blank screen. I think, Now what? Followed shortly by, Ew, is that how my hair looks right now?
That brief moment can often stretch into a gaming hangover. In content, as well as in my life, I can get tired of quests (chores), talking to NPCs (small talk with strangers), and big maps (big maps).
Gaming has been my main hobby for the past decade (or more? What is time? How old am I? Don’t answer those questions). Over the years, I have found one habit that has been particularly salient in preserving the aftertaste of that great big game while still being able to move on: After a big game, play a little game.
Burnout in Big Video Games
Finishing a “big” game always makes me feel some kind of way, because it’s been an investment of time and energy. For me, and probably a lot of other working adults, playing through a large AAA game usually takes at least a month if not an entire quarter of free time. For weeks, I can trust that I will return to a giant but familiar world. I know I will move forward in a plot. I will cross checklist items off on quests, making myself feel productive and like I’m making progress, even if I don’t feel like that in my “real” life. Playing a big game can be comforting and fun.
It’s not all roses, of course. Around 40 hours with a big game, I feel lucky. Wow, I think, I’ve got so much content left. By 60 hours, I’m a confident expert. After putting in 80 hours with a game, though, I hit a wall. I feel like Andy in Woody’s nightmare in Toy Story 2, where Andy abruptly holds the beloved cowboy doll out over a trash can and says in a spooky robot voice, “I don’t want to play with you any more.”
With big games, inevitably, there always comes a time where I’m sick of the seemingly endless list of side quests. I truly don’t care about exploring a random new land. I might begin to realize I hate the main character. I sometimes find my mind drifting while I’m playing, fantasizing about things in my real life or trying to make a mental grocery list, and I slip during combat with a giant spider lizard or something. Even though these big games are great, I always get to a point when I just want to finish the damn thing and move on with my life.
Occasionally, I have forced breaks that help me not give up on these adventures. I travel a lot for work and family reasons, and so I’ll be forced to leave my current PlayStation or Xbox console (where most of my “big” games are) at home. A week or two later, I come back. I’m relieved to see my big game waiting for me, and I enjoy it once more. This, along with a general stubbornness, stops me from just dropping most big games that I play.
But, like all things, even the big game must end, one way or another.
You Win!… Now What?
When I first roll credits on a big game, I feel relief. I feel joy! I won! I beat the game! I can move on with my life!
That same day/night, I usually celebrate by being a big nerd and reading a bunch of Fandom articles about the games’ characters, Googling “things you might have missed…”, and reading well-written reviews of the game I literally just played. Sometimes I may even feel the need to contribute to the internet, like this piece I wrote about “questions you may have after finishing God of War Ragnarök.” I leave feeling pretty okay about the whole thing.
But then, in the following days, whether it’s for the first time or a repeat playthrough, I find myself mourning the big game that became a part of my life.
I miss the familiar, gently pulsing electronic music that plays when I’m on the Normandy, the spaceship from Mass Effect. Upon finishing after more than a hundred hours Baldur’s Gate 3, I genuinely missed my companions’ snarky jokes (thank goodness for that epilogue so I could say goodbye!). And now, after completing Final Fantasy VII Rebirth, I am awash with questions about the game’s mysterious ending and aware of how slowly I move compared to Cloud’s Triple Slash.
I sometimes make the critical mistake of going back and trying to play the game even more. Often after the end screen, a game will offer a New Game Plus or to return to a point just before the finale to do more side quests or even continued “endgame” content (which I feel like it should be called after-end but whatever). These bubbles to me are the most dangerous: a set of side quests, perhaps in a new contained land or sprinkled throughout the map.
You’d think it’d be “more good” because it’s more of the same, but I never have a particularly good time. I’ve learned my personal limit of this kind of thing is up to one hour. I find myself sighing. I want to feel good about having finished an epic game. Why am I getting a bunch of random and crappy new errands? Why can’t this game just be over? It feels like an awkward goodbye brunch after a wedding (not to say that they’re all awkward, but some of them definitely are). It’s like, I already did the big fun thing, and now, I’m hungover and tired and everyone looks haggard and these scrambled eggs definitely came out of a packet.
Am I alone in not really enjoying the after-endgame stuff? Or maybe the trick to fully appreciating everything those big games have to offer is to 100% them as you go, which I think I have only done for three or four games in my life (I am not a completionist by nature). But, I don’t know. I felt like I fully appreciated the game as I went along, and when I finish playing, I do, truly, want to feel like I experienced it, and tainting it with extra, usually mediocre gameplay, would ruin that mouthfeel (figuratively) for me.
But then, what’s next? Am I supposed to just go start Cyberpunk 2077 after a lifetime in The Witcher 3? What the hell was I thinking, trying Elden Ring after Horizon Forbidden West? I couldn’t touch an RPG for months after Dragon Age: Inquisition, and no wonder I was dead inside after dozens of hours of heartbreak in Red Dead Redemption 2.
So what’s a gamer to do? As the title (and the intro) hinted: after a big game, play a little game.
The Magic of Big Game, Little Game
In an episode of The Punished Podcast, we discussed tactics to make our way through our backlog—i.e., games we already own but haven’t played. David and I both shared our love for playing a big game followed by a little game (and maybe another one), then going back to a big game.
When I started Strange Horticulture a few days after Final Fantasy VII Rebirth, I could feel my shoulders relax. The art, the music, the story… it was just so lovingly focused and achievable.
At first, I couldn’t quite wrap my head around the shifted range. Early on, I tried to treat the little game like it was a big game by exploring the game’s map. While this little game did have a map, it didn’t have the bandwidth for an open world. The map was there to match up with specific puzzles and clues. When I went off the planned course of action, the protagonist murmured, There’s nothing for me here, gently pushing me back on course. This focused scope was so freaking refreshing, like lemonade on a hot summer day.
I define a “little game” here as in a 10-15 hour experience, usually by an indie developer. I feel good knowing that I have a targeted moment to spend my money on a project by a small, hardworking team. Mentally, I’m hungry for something digestible, something I know I can achieve in a long weekend. Binging a clever visual novel like Death and Taxes is an objectively great experience, but it’s made all the better when I have just spent a hundred hours over months trying to find Sephiroth. For me, the perfect time to play a brilliant little indie game is right after playing a giant epic.
In those moments, I am awash with appreciation and admiration of both big and little games, and all the ones in between. The intentional focus of a small, tight experience makes me feel cared for and held. I’m reminded of the wonder I felt when I first started that big game, rather than the exhaustion I felt later. I delight at passing moments with characters in my little game, and when I wish I could get to know them better, I’m grateful for the time I get with famously beloved companions like Tifa and Aerith.
Smaller games inspire me as much as the grand ones. Sometimes I write nerdy ending analyses and super emotional essays about little games. I may replay runs of old favorites, like Battle Chef Brigade or The Flame in the Flood, marveling at details I didn’t notice before. There are so many fantastic indie games that can scratch the exact itch you need in ways that big games, that are meant to appeal to thousands of players, just can’t.
I admire the spaces in between, too. I’m reminded of games that I feel are “just right” at 40ish hours, like The Outer Worlds or Spritfarer, that give so much while also being judicious with content. When I replayed Dishonored last year, I appreciated all over again just how well the levels are designed. Each space feels impressively large, and as a player, you feel free and clever as you figure things out. In order to achieve this sensation, each level is actually quite tight and focused—something that just isn’t possible in open worlds.
Just like with big games, now that I intentionally vary up my order of games, small- and medium-sized games sit with me. As I walked around my neighborhood after Dishonored, I noticed building ledges that would be perfect to “blink” to using the protagonists’ teleport power. When I cooked a meal after Venba, I heard the sounds of sautéing onions anew. I frequently recommend a tiny mindfulness mobile game, A Kinder World, to people in my life! I feel lucky to be a player in a time where games of all sizes have the opportunity to shine.
I’m impressed at how small games invite me to be a part of something very specific, with the opportunity to know that it will end in a timely manner. Medium games balance the feeling of being enveloped in a game without being lost in it. Big games satisfy that desire to be lost in content that is lusciously all-consuming (which is perfect for when real life is hard, which, let’s face it, it often is).
So, when I play a little game after a big game, I can savor the aftertaste of both all the better.
Right Where I’m Supposed To Be
And, this, of course, brings me back to that moment where I exit the mesmerizing content and click back into real life. But with it, I have the chance to learn a lesson that I have been trying to practice my whole life.
I don’t have to explore the entire world, and I don’t have to save everyone. Not only do I not have to, I can’t. All I can do is affect change, little by little, on the world around me.
Perhaps I can go somewhere I’ve never been before in my town. Maybe I can make someone’s day with a compliment or thoughtful action. I will have big adventures in my life, but I will also have small ones. Not every bit of art I make needs to be giant or perfect. A lot of my projects will take time, day in and day out, for months, years. But, no matter what kind of day or life I have, I can find something beautiful to appreciate, and that is pretty cool.
