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Listening to music almost always transports us to a world of memories. Watching a TV series can make us, for a few minutes, adopt the mannerisms of characters we like. But playing is different.
Playing demands presence and commitment. While the game is happening, it is not enough to observe — one must live. To wear that body on the screen, explore the world around it, perceive what moves in silence, talk to those encountered along the way, and act when the situation demands it. Advancing through unknown paths is not merely part of progression — it is part of the experience itself.
This presence can be so intense that, at times, the game does not end when the console is turned off. It lingers in the subconscious, resurfacing even during sleep. Not as a confusion between reality and fantasy, but as the result of genuine involvement — that of someone who committed to other lives, even if virtual, and chose to take them seriously.
Choosing is the foundation of life. From the moment one wakes up, decisions are made organically: opening one’s eyes, getting out of bed, placing one foot before the other. There are no constant alerts, no flashing indicators reminding us what must be done. And yet, choices are made, because responsibility is involved. People rely on one another, and action becomes a natural consequence of that commitment.
In games, this logic is not as different as it might seem. In many moments, there is no artificial urgency and no immediate instruction. One walks along silent roads, accompanied only by one’s own thoughts, observing the landscape and reflecting on the next step. Where will the next stop be? Which task deserves attention now? What kind of person does one choose to be within that world?
These decisions are not always followed by clear rewards or immediate punishment. They exist because the player accepts responsibility for them. Choosing how to act, whom to help or ignore, and which lives will take priority is, ultimately, an ethical decision.
A decision shaped not by system prompts, but by the conscience of the one playing.
Exploring a world without constant action is, in itself, a way of contemplating life. Walking long distances, climbing to a high point, and looking back at the path already traveled is not so different from sitting in a public square and watching cars pass by. Constant action is not required for meaning to exist. Being present is enough.
Walking, observing, and contemplating may sound simple or even monotonous, but perhaps these moments are precisely what bring games closest to the human experience. While the player observes, the world continues to exist. People follow their routines, time passes, day gives way to night. As in real life, it is impossible to be everywhere or solve every problem.
There is value in accepting this limitation. At times, doing nothing more than wandering without direction, without immediate goals or planning, allows something rare to emerge: experiencing the world as it is, rather than as a checklist of tasks to be completed. Silence, in these moments, is not empty — it is space for attention, reflection, and presence.
When thinking about this kind of experience, The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion comes to mind almost immediately. Not because it is perfect, but because its world resembles life as it is: unpredictable, mostly quiet, and indifferent to the constant need for protagonism. While walking through Cyrodiil, the player may be approached in a friendly or hostile manner. One might receive a request for help, be targeted by a thief, or be confronted by a guard for a crime barely remembered.
The world of Oblivion does not organize itself exclusively around the player. People follow their routines, sleep at night, lock their doors, disappear and reappear the next day. Regardless of whom one helps or ignores, there is always someone else living their own life in parallel. The player is not the absolute center of the universe — merely another presence acting within it.
Rewards reflect this logic as well. Not every action results in great achievements or satisfying endings. Sometimes, all that is received is a simple but sincere thank you. In other cases, choices lead to uncomfortable, morally ambiguous, or even absurd outcomes. Still, every decision carries weight — not because of promised rewards, but because the player accepted responsibility for it.
Many contemporary games invest in worlds that are increasingly larger, denser, and more guided. Everything reacts constantly, everything rewards, everything demands attention. At first glance, this may seem like vitality, but over time the feeling changes. The world becomes so serious about itself that this seriousness begins to feel comical — almost like a permanent performance.
At some point, it no longer feels as though the world exists on its own. Instead, everything seems to be waiting specifically for the player: characters positioned to deliver tasks, clearly marked paths, objectives highlighted insistently. Exploration ceases to be discovery and becomes instruction.
When every step is indicated and every action produces exaggerated rewards, commitment fades. There is no real risk in choosing, because the game guarantees that any path will lead to some form of gain. The player no longer acts out of responsibility or curiosity, but because they were directed to do so. The result is a world that is large and visually impressive, yet strangely artificial — a stage that only functions as long as the player follows the expected script.
Games do not need to simulate life in every detail to feel alive. Sometimes, all they need is to trust the player. To trust that they can walk without being guided, observe without being rewarded, and choose even when the game does not immediately validate those choices.
The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion is not a perfect world, nor does it try to be. But by allowing silence, ambiguity, and consequence, it creates a space where attention matters. Where small actions carry weight not because the system announces them, but because the player chose to commit to that world.
Perhaps the most enduring value of games lies precisely there: not in how many events occur per minute, but in their ability to offer worlds that exist even when we are not acting. Worlds that continue to breathe while we walk, observe, and choose who we are within them. In a medium increasingly obsessed with constant stimulation, remembering that silence can also be a mechanic may be the most meaningful gesture a game can offer.
Playing demands presence and commitment. While the game is happening, it is not enough to observe — one must live. To wear that body on the screen, explore the world around it, perceive what moves in silence, talk to those encountered along the way, and act when the situation demands it. Advancing through unknown paths is not merely part of progression — it is part of the experience itself.
This presence can be so intense that, at times, the game does not end when the console is turned off. It lingers in the subconscious, resurfacing even during sleep. Not as a confusion between reality and fantasy, but as the result of genuine involvement — that of someone who committed to other lives, even if virtual, and chose to take them seriously.
Choosing is the foundation of life. From the moment one wakes up, decisions are made organically: opening one’s eyes, getting out of bed, placing one foot before the other. There are no constant alerts, no flashing indicators reminding us what must be done. And yet, choices are made, because responsibility is involved. People rely on one another, and action becomes a natural consequence of that commitment.
In games, this logic is not as different as it might seem. In many moments, there is no artificial urgency and no immediate instruction. One walks along silent roads, accompanied only by one’s own thoughts, observing the landscape and reflecting on the next step. Where will the next stop be? Which task deserves attention now? What kind of person does one choose to be within that world?
These decisions are not always followed by clear rewards or immediate punishment. They exist because the player accepts responsibility for them. Choosing how to act, whom to help or ignore, and which lives will take priority is, ultimately, an ethical decision.
A decision shaped not by system prompts, but by the conscience of the one playing.
Exploring a world without constant action is, in itself, a way of contemplating life. Walking long distances, climbing to a high point, and looking back at the path already traveled is not so different from sitting in a public square and watching cars pass by. Constant action is not required for meaning to exist. Being present is enough.
Walking, observing, and contemplating may sound simple or even monotonous, but perhaps these moments are precisely what bring games closest to the human experience. While the player observes, the world continues to exist. People follow their routines, time passes, day gives way to night. As in real life, it is impossible to be everywhere or solve every problem.
There is value in accepting this limitation. At times, doing nothing more than wandering without direction, without immediate goals or planning, allows something rare to emerge: experiencing the world as it is, rather than as a checklist of tasks to be completed. Silence, in these moments, is not empty — it is space for attention, reflection, and presence.
When thinking about this kind of experience, The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion comes to mind almost immediately. Not because it is perfect, but because its world resembles life as it is: unpredictable, mostly quiet, and indifferent to the constant need for protagonism. While walking through Cyrodiil, the player may be approached in a friendly or hostile manner. One might receive a request for help, be targeted by a thief, or be confronted by a guard for a crime barely remembered.
The world of Oblivion does not organize itself exclusively around the player. People follow their routines, sleep at night, lock their doors, disappear and reappear the next day. Regardless of whom one helps or ignores, there is always someone else living their own life in parallel. The player is not the absolute center of the universe — merely another presence acting within it.
Rewards reflect this logic as well. Not every action results in great achievements or satisfying endings. Sometimes, all that is received is a simple but sincere thank you. In other cases, choices lead to uncomfortable, morally ambiguous, or even absurd outcomes. Still, every decision carries weight — not because of promised rewards, but because the player accepted responsibility for it.
Many contemporary games invest in worlds that are increasingly larger, denser, and more guided. Everything reacts constantly, everything rewards, everything demands attention. At first glance, this may seem like vitality, but over time the feeling changes. The world becomes so serious about itself that this seriousness begins to feel comical — almost like a permanent performance.
At some point, it no longer feels as though the world exists on its own. Instead, everything seems to be waiting specifically for the player: characters positioned to deliver tasks, clearly marked paths, objectives highlighted insistently. Exploration ceases to be discovery and becomes instruction.
When every step is indicated and every action produces exaggerated rewards, commitment fades. There is no real risk in choosing, because the game guarantees that any path will lead to some form of gain. The player no longer acts out of responsibility or curiosity, but because they were directed to do so. The result is a world that is large and visually impressive, yet strangely artificial — a stage that only functions as long as the player follows the expected script.
Games do not need to simulate life in every detail to feel alive. Sometimes, all they need is to trust the player. To trust that they can walk without being guided, observe without being rewarded, and choose even when the game does not immediately validate those choices.
The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion is not a perfect world, nor does it try to be. But by allowing silence, ambiguity, and consequence, it creates a space where attention matters. Where small actions carry weight not because the system announces them, but because the player chose to commit to that world.
Perhaps the most enduring value of games lies precisely there: not in how many events occur per minute, but in their ability to offer worlds that exist even when we are not acting. Worlds that continue to breathe while we walk, observe, and choose who we are within them. In a medium increasingly obsessed with constant stimulation, remembering that silence can also be a mechanic may be the most meaningful gesture a game can offer.
