Video version if preferred
I’m standing in line at Gamers, my local game store, in 2002. The fluorescent lights are humming overhead. There’s that distinct smell of new plastic cases and carpet that every game store seemed to have back then. I’ve got Morrowind in my hands and I’m ready to return it.
One year left of high school, working my first real job, and I’d just wasted money on a game I couldn’t understand. The combat felt completely broken. I’d swing my iron shortsword at mudcrabs on that beach outside Seyda Neen and somehow miss. Repeatedly. How do you miss a mudcrab? They’re the size of a small dog and moving at the speed of molasses. I felt stupid, like maybe I just wasn’t getting something everyone else understood.
There are two people ahead of me. One associate is checking customers out, going through the usual return process. Another is off to my left near the used games section, talking enthusiastically to someone about a game. I’m not really paying attention until I hear the word “Morrowind.”
My head actually turns toward them.
The associate is going on about how groundbreaking it is. The graphics, the world, the freedom. He’s talking about going underwater and looking up to see sunlight filtering down from the surface, how it blew his mind the first time he saw it. His passion is palpable. He’s not trying to sell anything. He’s just a gamer talking about a game he loves.
I’ve completely stopped paying attention to the line. There’s now a sizable gap between me and the customer in front of me because I’m entirely focused on this conversation happening ten feet away.
Then he says it. “Yeah, the combat is rough at first. You miss a lot because you haven’t built up that skill yet. You’re literally not good enough to reliably hit them. It’s all dice rolls under the hood, you know? Like a tabletop RPG.”
Wait. What?
It’s a dice roll system. Of course. That makes perfect sense. I’m not missing because the game is broken. I’m missing because my character, a fresh off the boat prisoner with no combat training whatsoever, can’t fight yet. The game is simulating an inexperienced fighter. One piece of information. That’s all it took to completely reframe my entire understanding of the game.
By the time the associate at the counter calls out “I can help you now,” I’ve already made my decision. The person behind me starts moving forward, assuming I’m not in line. I mumble something like “nevermind, I’m good” and just walk out, game still clutched in my hand.
I drive home in my 94 Nissan Sentra, probably faster than I should. I load up Morrowind, create a new character, and this time I know what I’m getting into. I pick a weapon skill as a major skill. I start training with that weapon type. And suddenly everything clicks.
The world opens up in a way I hadn’t allowed it to before. I’m stealing Ordinator armor even though it’s way too heavy for my strength stat. I’m attacking random NPCs just to see what happens. Creating increasingly ridiculous spells. The game lets me kill characters important to the main quest and just tells me “you’ve doomed this world” but keeps going anyway.
I’d never experienced anything like it. Morrowind nearly cost me my high school graduation. The competition between studying and exploring Dwemer ruins was very real. I barely made it. Worth it.
You’d Think I’d Learn
That moment in the store taught me something I’d forget and relearn over and over throughout my gaming life. Sometimes it’s not the game. It’s us. The timing. The context. The headspace we bring to an experience. The single piece of missing information that reframes everything.
You’d think after Morrowind I would have learned this lesson permanently. But years later, I did the exact same thing with Outer Wilds.
Everyone praised it. Critics loved it. Friends recommended it. Universal acclaim from every corner of the gaming world. I finally tried it and bounced off hard. I was frustrated, unimpressed, and didn’t understand why I kept dying every twenty minutes. The loop felt punishing. The exploration felt aimless. So I put it down and didn’t think about it for almost a year.
Looking back, the timing was all wrong. This was during a rough patch at work. We’d just gone through significant layoffs. People I’d worked with for years were suddenly gone. I was stressed, anxious, constantly looking over my shoulder. I needed something to turn my brain off. Something comfortable and familiar.
Outer Wilds, with its quiet contemplation, patient exploration, and embrace of failure as part of the experience, was the exact opposite of what I needed in that moment. I couldn’t meet it where it was.
A year later, things had stabilized. New role. Better headspace. I saw Outer Wilds sitting in my library and decided to give it another shot.
This time I was patient. I sat with the game instead of fighting against it. I went through the opening area of Timber Hearth slowly, actually reading the museum plaques, talking to every Hearthian, learning the controls without rushing. I let the game teach me its language.
Without spoiling anything, Outer Wilds is a knowledge-based game that doesn’t punish you the way you think it does. Your progress isn’t measured in items or upgrades. It’s measured in understanding. Once I stopped fighting the loop and started embracing it, everything clicked.
It became one of the most memorable journeys of my life. A beautiful, profound game I almost missed out on entirely. The game hadn’t changed. The reviews were always glowing. The only variable was me. Time and mindset made all the difference.
The Games That Wait
Our backlogs aren’t piles of shame. They’re time capsules. Games waiting patiently for the right version of us to show up and finally understand them.
Maybe you need to overhear a random conversation that reframes your entire understanding. Maybe you need a year to pass, for circumstances to shift, for you to be in a better place mentally and emotionally. Maybe you just need that one piece of context that makes everything click.
There’s probably a game in your library right now that’s waiting. Something you tried once, didn’t get, and shelved with the assumption that it just wasn’t for you. And maybe it isn’t. But maybe it’s just not for you yet.
The beautiful thing about backlogs is that the games don’t go anywhere. They wait. Morrowind waited for me to overhear the right explanation. Outer Wilds waited for me to be in the right mental space. Your game is waiting too.
Give it another shot. Not because you feel guilty about not finishing it, but because you might be ready now in ways you weren’t before. You might have changed. Your circumstances might have shifted. You might finally understand what the game is asking of you.
Sometimes the best new experience is the old one you weren’t ready for yet.
