Video Game Writing Is Dying — And It’s Not Just a Nerd Problem
In the last ten years, video games have never looked this good, been this technically impressive, or cost this much to make. Yet they’ve never felt so mute.
Too many characters speak like instruction manuals. Too many choices feel like they were spat out by a tired algorithm. Too many conversations evaporate from memory five minutes after the credits roll. I’m not asking for forty‑minute monologues or Pulitzer‑level plots. I just want dialogue that sounds human, motivations that hold up, and choices that actually carry weight.
It’s Not About Quantity
We’ve had games with millions of words of dialogue and productions that bet everything on narrative. But quantity is not quality. Cyberpunk 2077 (before patch 2.0) drowned under a chaotic mountain of text. God of War and The Last of Us tell strong stories, but they do so by cleanly separating narrative from gameplay.
The rare exception remains Red Dead Redemption 2: there, the writing seeps into every system, every interaction, every silence.
Living It or Watching It? The Difference Between a Pre‑Packaged Story and One With Real Repercussions
This is the heart of the issue. Some games let you live a story. Others let you watch a pre‑packaged story with a bit of interactivity sprinkled on top.
The Witcher 3 is the gold standard: it doesn’t just have three endings. Almost every action — even seemingly minor ones — creates benevolent or malevolent repercussions that reshape the world, the characters, and the tone of your entire playthrough. A decision made in the first hours can lead to a destroyed village, a dead ally, or an enemy who becomes a friend. That’s living a story.
By contrast, many modern titles mock you with choices that aren’t really choices.
In Assassin’s Creed, the Horizon series, or Dragon Age: The Veilguard, you’re offered different dialogue options… that all lead to the exact same outcome. It’s an illusion of agency.
When choices change nothing, even the best writing loses its power. Players realize their actions don’t matter and stop investing emotionally.
When Gameplay Loses Gravity
A fight is just a fight. A fight for someone becomes something else entirely.
I dropped Crimson Desert after forty hours — not because the mechanics were bad (they’re solid and spectacular) — but because every character spoke like a walking tutorial. Without an authentic voice and without real emotional consequences, even the most beautiful world full of content feels mute.
I fully understand why the game appeals to many: tons of content, a massive open world, visually striking combat. But for me, it lacked the soul that holds everything together.
Systemic Writing, Not Decorative Writing
Video games are not interactive movies. The best examples — Disco Elysium, Outer Wilds, Baldur’s Gate 3, Hades — show that strong narrative doesn’t sit on top of the systems. It speaks to them, sometimes even subverts them. It becomes part of the gameplay itself.
The AAA Meat Grinder and the AI Alibi
Massive productions, endless development cycles, leadership churn, and obsessive metrics: narrative is always the first thing sacrificed. Studios invest in what makes good trailers, not what makes games memorable.
And then comes generative AI. It can speed up prototypes and variations, but when it’s used to “fill” dialogue, it produces exactly the flat, generic language we see in so many recent titles. AI is not the enemy — but it’s not the solution either. The real danger is that it becomes the perfect excuse to stop investing in quality human writing.
The 60 FPS Paradox
The biggest problem, however, is cultural. We demand mature stories, complex characters, and adult themes. Then we crucify a game if it doesn’t run at a locked 60 fps, if an animation stutters, or if a conversation forces us to slow down.
We want video games to “grow up,” yet we consume them like disposable content. We crave depth, yet we skip anything that isn’t action.
It’s an ecosystem that rewards what is immediate, fast, and shareable — and sacrifices what requires time, attention, and emotional presence.
Until this paradox is acknowledged, writing will remain the first thing thrown under the bus.
The Performative Empathy Paradox
There’s an even subtler issue. Many modern games aim for tear‑jerking scenes calibrated for players with little real‑life experience of pain. These moments work extremely well on those who react performatively, but often leave colder those who have actually lived through grief, betrayal, or loss.
The latter often understand the scene better precisely because they recognize it — but they don’t react with the same easy emotion. And so developers, chasing likes, reaction videos, and “you made me cry” comments, end up writing for the most emotionally fragile audience, impoverishing the medium for everyone.
So What Should We Do?
Studios need to give real power to lead writers from pre‑production, dedicate proper budget to narrative quality control, create narrative milestones alongside gameplay ones, and treat writing as design, not decoration.
Writers need to learn how to write for systems, not just screenplays, and defend their vision with playable prototypes and strong arguments.
Conclusion
Writing is what turns “pressing buttons” into “living an experience.” It’s what makes a game stay in your memory instead of just in your Steam library.
The next time you finish a game and instinctively think “great game, but the characters sucked” — or “nice choices… but nothing actually changed” — say it out loud.
It matters more than you think.
#GameWriting #NarrativeDesign #VideoGameWriting #WritingMatters #AIinGaming #StorytellingInGames #GameNarrative #StoryDrivenGames