Lately, I’ve found myself struggling to connect with video games—once a reliable outlet and source of joy. It’s not a case of anhedonia in the traditional mental health sense, but more a growing apathy toward design choices that feel misaligned with how I experience the world.
For example, third-person cameras often leave me feeling disembodied, and overly grandiose architecture can be visually overwhelming. These elements, while perhaps intended to impress, end up making me tune out. I’ve noticed that many games seem more focused on how designers want players to experience the world, rather than offering flexible ways for us to engage with it.
As someone who is neurodivergent, I often want to role-play as a pacifist or a cautious character. But many games don’t support that kind of playstyle. It’s not about needing a fully open world—just having meaningful choices matter. When those options are missing, it can feel alienating.
One specific challenge I’ve faced is around how games handle death and resurrection. When the lore doesn’t explain what’s happening, it breaks immersion. It feels like my character is revived through unexplained magic, which can be jarring. Some games have handled this well—like World of Warcraft with its spirit healers, or BioShock with the Vita-Chambers—providing a narrative framework that makes the experience feel coherent.
I’m sharing this in hopes of opening up a conversation about how game design can better accommodate neurodivergent players. Games have the potential to be inclusive, immersive, and healing—but only if they’re built with diverse experiences in mind.
