Git good or go home: video games are the only medium with bouncers

Rainer Etzweiler

8/5/2026

Translation: Megan Cornish

You finish books even if you don’t understand anything. Films keep playing even if you doze off. But games? Sometimes they just flatly refuse you entry.

I’m not too good at video games. You’d think after roughly 35 years with a gamepad in my hand (20 of them as a games editor), a bit of talent would’ve stuck – but no. I’m still no good, and that’s only a problem in the gaming world.

I was most recently struck by this when I tested Screamer. The racer from Milestone delights with beautiful anime visuals, but it’s disconcertingly difficult. It’s not the first time a lack of talent’s spoiled the fun for me.

This experience and Domi’s recently published article – including a look at some of my rage quits – led to a realisation:

Video games do something that no other medium can.

They lock you out if your skills don’t meet the requirements. As gamers, we’re familiar with this, but it’s actually crazy. A product you’ve paid for refuses to deliver on its entertainment promise.

And we dummies even think that’s a good thing.

Veto!

Finnegans Wake’s a novel by James Joyce (who, incidentally, took his last breath in Zurich), and the ultimate challenge for all literature students. It mixes over 60 different languages, combines too many, too long cobbled-together idioms and is set in the delirium of an Irish innkeeper’s family, ending mid-sentence – the second half of which appears on the first page. Confused? You’re not the only one. Finnegans Wake stands alone at the trickiest end of world literature’s difficulty scale.

And yet, if I wanted to, I could read the 600-odd pages of this alcohol-induced mindbender. None of it would stick, and my brain would probably be running out of my ears before long, but I COULD read Finnegans Wake.

It’s similar with music. Queen will still finish Bohemian Rhapsody, even if your singing talent gives up during the Galileo part. Films, plays and concerts all share a basic principle: you pay, you consume and that’s it. What you make of it is up to you.

Video games reserve the right to veto. They only show you their content if you prove you’ve earned it. In Cuphead, that means highly focused dodging; in Sekiro, it’s perfect timing; in Screamer, it’s the hundredth restart before crawling across the finish line in second-to-last place yet again. Entire storylines, boss fights, end sequences, post-game content – all potentially hidden behind a wall of skill. You may have bought the game, but it’s not yours.

Did games used to be harder?

Boomers often boast about how difficult retro games are and how there weren’t any tutorials back in the day to patiently explain all the mechanics. And they’re right. At least partially.

There are plenty of exceptions to this rule, but generally speaking, video games used to be more challenging. This has historical reasons: gaming originated in arcades, where there was a fundamentally different approach to design. Every mistake meant you had to pay for another attempt. This evolved into difficulty as a revenue model, because the harder the game, the more money ends up in the coin slot. This approach was long ingrained in the workflow of video game studios.

Older games aren’t just more difficult, they’re often also more unfair.

This is particularly clear in releases from the late 80s and early 90s that appeared in arcades and were available for home consoles. The AI in the very first Mortal Kombat is almost unparalleled in its awfulness. Sub-Zero spams his freeze attack with the obtrusive persistence of a beach towel seller in Rimini.

What constitutes «too difficult» is, of course, subjective. One thing’s certain: difficulty comes in many forms, and which a game displays makes the difference between an adrenaline rush and controller thrown against the wall.

However, it’ll probably take some time before the industry works that out.

A counter-trend’s on the rise

With the commercialisation of the medium came a growing hunger for reach. Mario, Sonic and Lara Croft elevated our favourite hobby to peak pop culture, and suddenly its potential seemed limitless. Publishers wanted to offer their products as easily as possible. The logic behind this is that the lower the barrier to entry, the less it would prove a stumbling block.

Variable difficulty levels then became the standard. First came the classic trio of easy, medium and hard, then they were supplemented by story modes for those who’d actually prefer to watch a film, and legendary levels for masochists with too much free time. Eventually, mainstream gaming became completely geared towards convenience: health that regenerates automatically, checkpoints every minute and saving as often as you like.

Is everyone happy? Not quite. Optimising a game for everyone ultimately erodes its character. A slider here, an overly intrusive navigation aid there, and what began as a coherent design vision ends up on the market as a polished compromise. A game that doesn’t aim to overexert anyone ultimately challenges no one.

Then came Dark Souls

You knew it was coming. I knew it had to come, and so here we are. Since 2011, any discussion about the difficulty level of video games has inevitably involved FromSoftware’s action RPG. But why?

Challenging games existed during the feel-good phase I mentioned earlier. Ninja Gaiden on the original Xbox was incredibly difficult. The same applies to Capcom’s Maximo titles, and FromSoftware itself released two titles with the Otogi duology, which could be considered precursors to Dark Souls.

Then why don’t we talk about Otogilikes now?

Because Dark Souls is so much more than just a difficult game that kicks your arse with the regularity of a Skyrim re-release. The genre pioneer combines atmosphere, narrative and gameplay with a precision that’s been virtually unmatched until now. The challenge is tough, yet almost always fair. You die because you weren’t paying attention or because you misinterpreted the enemy’s moveset. Not because you’re bombarded with unavoidable attacks or the boss has an excessive health bar. That’s the crucial factor that distinguishes motivation from frustration.

The timing couldn’t be better. After a decade of holding your hand and overly ambitious tutorials, a game arrives that gives you nothing and kicks you when you’re down. Dark Souls was the perfect game at the perfect time, and that’s what makes it a cultural landmark to this day.

What’s more, writers appreciate when a complex construct can be reduced to a single concept. Why painstakingly describe something when you could just use one word? In Kevin Malone’s immortal words from The Office: «Why waste time say lot word when few word do trick?»

And what’s supposed to be so great about that?

Remember how EA tried to justify its greedy microtransactions in Star Wars Battlefront 2 back in 2017?

If not, the short version’s that the game launched with an aggressive loot box system: anyone wanting to progress faster could buy advantages. EA tried to explain this on Reddit, releasing the brain-dead statement that unlocking heroes such as Darth Vader conveyed a feeling of pride and accomplishment.

We all had a good laugh, and the comment became the most hated reply in the platform’s history with over 663,000 downvotes.

Pride and accomplishment aren’t bought; they’re earned. Anyone who’s faced and overcome a challenging time in their life knows this. Whether virtual or real, the successes we’ve worked hard for just feel better. Games including Dark Souls, Elden Ring and most recently Saros have turned this motivation into a design philosophy.

They also make us the heroes of our own comeback. I fail and try again, over and over, even though the opponent seems insurmountable. It’s a classic underdog story, and I’m the protagonist.

Furthermore, the brain has stronger memories of hard-won successes than those that are handed to you. Dopamine’s released more readily when the reward was uncertain. That’s why you remember your first Souls boss, but not the five-hundredth Ubisoft radio tower.

Git gud? More like let it be

Despite my limited skills, I’ve reached the credits of several games that are generally considered difficult. Mostly because I was playing with a friend or because my stubbornness wouldn’t allow another game to end up on my pile of shame.

I’m still not a fan of the «git gud» approach, because most proponents of this argument mistake their own frustration tolerance for strength of character. I find it much more constructive to occasionally remind myself that not every product’s meant for everyone, and that’s a good thing.

It’s perfectly fine to play games on the easiest difficulty setting. Games are meant to be fun, and you define what fun is, whether it’s playing on easy mode, playing with cheats or playing with a friend who takes over the boss fights while you sit next to them drinking beer and laughing at them because they got smashed by Ornstein and Smough again (sorry, Andy).

And if a game becomes too challenging, stop playing. There are plenty of other games that’ll make your life easier. It’s never a good idea to mess with the bouncer anyway.

Rainer Etzweiler

Freelance Editor

rainer@rockstar.ch

In the early 90s, my older brother gave me his NES with The Legend of Zelda on it. It was the start of an obsession that continues to this day.

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