I went into 2025 thinking I already knew what kind of games were “for me.”
That confidence was misplaced.
Not in a dramatic way.
In a quiet, annoying way, where you realize mid-week, mid-session that you’re still playing something you fully expected to uninstall.
That happened to me three times this year.
And every time, it started with me being sure I wouldn’t care.
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I’m Bad at Predicting My Own Taste
I’m very decisive about what I don’t like.
Too weird.
Too scary.
Too cartoonish.
Too online.
These are the famous last words I say right before getting hooked.
I don’t think this is a me problem. I think it’s a 2025 problem. We’re trained to judge fast because everything is competing for attention, including our own free time.
If something doesn’t click immediately, we move on.
No guilt. No curiosity. Just gone.
The problem is… some things don’t want to impress you in the first five minutes.
High on Life Should’ve Annoyed Me. It Didn’t.
High on Life looked like a game I’d tolerate at best.
The trailers made it seem loud.
Self-aware.
A little desperate to be funny.
I assumed I’d play it, roll my eyes, and move on.
Instead, it became weirdly… comfortable.
Not because every joke landed. A lot didn’t. But the game never shut up in a way that felt oddly social, like hanging out with someone who talks too much but keeps the room alive.
It didn’t feel like a comedy game trying to prove something.
It felt like a game that knew exactly what it was and didn’t apologize for it.
Somehow, that worked.
Alan Wake 2 Made Me Sit With Discomfort (Rude)
I avoided Alan Wake 2 because I don’t love being stressed on purpose.
I already live in the world.
I don’t need my entertainment yelling at me too.
But once I was in, the thing that surprised me wasn’t the horror; it was the confidence. The game moves slowly. It lets scenes breathe. It’s okay with you feeling unsettled instead of entertained.
It doesn’t care if you’re comfortable.
It cares if you’re paying attention.
That’s rare now.
ARC Raiders Is the One I Didn’t See Coming
Then there’s ARC Raiders.
I thought it would be a phase game.
Something I’d poke at, learn, and move on from.
That didn’t happen.
What kept me wasn’t the loot or the loop; it was the people. The same names in the chat. The same behaviors that certain types of raiders have. The quiet rules everyone learns without being told.
Who fights.
Who runs.
Who helps.
Who doesn’t.
It’s not a loud community. It’s not branded as anything. It just… forms. Naturally. Repeated interactions doing the heavy lifting instead of features.
I didn’t plan to still be here.
But here I am.
The Pattern I Didn’t Notice Until It Was Obvious
All three of these games share something that’s easy to miss:
They don’t rush to be liked.
They let boredom exist.
They let confusion exist.
They trust you to sit with something instead of constantly rewarding you.
That feels almost rebellious right now.
Most entertainment wants instant approval. These didn’t. They waited. And somehow, that made them stick harder than the games that begged for attention.
This Isn’t About Games, Really
The uncomfortable part is realizing how often I skip things because I think I know how I’ll feel.
That applies way beyond games.
New formats.
New communities.
New ideas.
It’s easier to decide fast than to be wrong slowly.
But the best stuff I played this year came from letting myself be wrong.
Not in a self-improvement way.
Just in a “huh, okay” way.
Where That Leaves Me
I don’t suddenly like everything.
I didn’t become more open-minded overnight.
I just stopped trusting my first reaction as much as I used to.
And honestly? That’s been more rewarding than chasing whatever everyone says I should care about.
Anyway.
That’s what 2025 looked like from my controller.
If you told me a year ago I’d still be playing these games, or even thinking about them, I would’ve laughed.
Which probably means I should stop laughing so quickly next time.