About Us

Disco: Source

Disco Elysium is one of those games where I finished it and just kind of sat there. Like I needed a minute before I could move on to anything else.

The thing about it is the dialogue forces you to actually reckon with what you think. Not your character. You. You’re picking responses and realizing oh, I actually believe that. Or wait, do I? And the game doesn’t judge you for it. It just keeps going, keeps pushing you deeper into this conversation with yourself that you didn’t really sign up for. Every character you talk to feels like they’re pulling something out of you. Your politics, how you feel about the world, whether you think things can get better or if you’ve kind of given up on that. And it does it without ever feeling like a lecture. It’s not telling you what to think. It’s asking you what you already think and then making you sit with that.

I don’t really roleplay and thus I can’t do the whole “I’m someone else now” thing. So Disco was a bit different for me because there was no mask to put on. It was just me, picking the things that felt true, and then watching the game reflect all of that back in ways that were sometimes uncomfortable and sometimes weirdly affirming.

And the ending. I won’t spoil it. But it’s one of those rare moments where a game wraps up and you’re not disappointed. It’s beautiful and if you haven’t played it, shame on you. There’s a reason it’s the highest rated PC game on Metacritic.

Counter-Strike: Source

Ok so Source is/was kind of a joke to a lot of people (which you’re wrong but sure.) But when I was a kid I was running servers, there was something special about jailbreak, minigames, messing around with SourceMod, keeping things alive for way longer than I probably should have.

And the thing is none of that had anything to do with Counter-Strike as a game. It was about building these little worlds where people would just show up and hang out and play stuff that someone made on top of someone else’s game. It was a community in this really specific way that I don’t think I fully appreciated at the time.

Looking back, that was basically UGC before anyone called it UGC. Before there was a business model or a conference talk about it. It was just kids making stuff for other kids and figuring out how to keep a server running and how to moderate a community and all of that. And those experiences, those weird little pockets of play that had nothing to do with the actual game, are some of the most important gaming memories I have.

Jak and Daxter is the first game that really got me. It wasn’t just a hobby killing time with it. I actually cared about lore and the world in a way that I hadn’t experienced before. It was the first world I remember fully stepping into.

Wildly, I didn’t own a copy when I first fell in love with it. I had to rent it from Blockbuster, so my time with it always felt borrowed. I’d bring it back, then grab it again whenever I could. Sometimes like everyone in the 90’s, I worried someone else would have it and of course sometimes it was checked out.

For a while, I didn’t have a PS2 memory card either. My parents thought it was optional, so they didn’t buy one with the initial console picture. Turn the console off, and of course everything reset. That one stupid limitation probably motivated my love.

I played in long sessions because I had to, but also I wanted to. I’d try to get farther each time, set little goals for myself in each section. Reach the next area before I had to return the game. I just wanted to keep going. Over time, I could feel myself getting better and that feedback loop was addictive. You could not have told me at that time the game was a platformer and not an immersive sim experience, to me it was absolutely a portal to a new world.

The setting was the other half of the magic. Jak and Daxter had this look that felt playful but still mature hidden under the layer of saturday morning cartoon. The environments had a unique personality with the precursor tech. The tech looked strange and kind of magical, but you could tell someone actually built it. That balance hit me at exactly the right age. I didn’t just want to beat the game. I wanted to understand how the world and its history worked.

I spent way too much time with the little booklet that came in the case. Reading it, staring at screenshots, studying the character art. I’d look at the shapes of things, notice weird details on some machine or doorway, and wonder what it was supposed to do. That was the first time an illustrated world building made me curious like that.

And I drew it constantly. Jak, Daxter, the machines, random props. Mostly I was trying to capture the feeling of the lost history of the precursors in Jak’s world, more than any specific scene. I wanted to hold onto the portal to the world after I had to return the disc. Looking back, that was one of my first real creative obsessions. It wasn’t about finishing the game. I was keeping the lore and world alive in my head.

Daxter’s humor stuck with me too. It was dry, and a little inappropriate, always cutting through tension right when your child mind needed a lil break. I absorbed that voice way earlier than I probably should have, and I still catch myself doing the same thing. A quick remark when I should’ve stayed quiet. Deflecting with a joke. When I replay the game now, I cringe because I hear exactly where it came from.

That’s why I bring Jak and Daxter up whenever people ask what game meant the most to me. It’s just a bit of nostalgia. But the game laid the foundation for what I value now in games. Movement that feels good, worlds and lore with endless depth. Experiences that let the world building communicate through artistic design instead of explaining everything precisely. Even the annoying parts ended up mattering even renting it over and over made it feel precious and drove my curiosity more. Not being able to save forced me to memorize details that probably weren’t that important . But, those limits made the game feel bigger than it was and my imagination made it mine.

Years later, it still sits at the start of everything in gaming for me. The first game I truly fell completely into. The first one that made me want to live in the world I saw and the first one that shaped my sense of humor and the first full dive into a fully immersive world.

Over the past few years, I’ve found myself branching out into all kinds of genres I never would’ve touched growing up. As a creature of habit, I was always perfectly content replaying the same few games over and over. Grinding the same campaigns, hunting every collectible, running co-op with friends until we could practically recite the dialogue. Even now, after incredible experiences like Expedition 33 or Outer Wilds that completely blew me away with their storytelling and sense of discovery, nothing has ever quite matched the impact Halo had on me. Master Chief isn’t just a character to me, he’s basically part of my childhood.

Christmas morning, 2007. My brother and I stumble into the living room half-awake and there it is: a brand-new Xbox 360 under the tree with Halo 3 sitting right on top. We lost our minds. I had grown up on the earlier games, so getting the newest one felt unreal, like being handed the keys to something legendary. I’m pretty sure the rest of that day disappeared as we booted it up, watched that iconic opening, and dropped straight into Sierra 117. The campaign alone was incredible, especially with full co-op (I still think it holds up to this day). My brother was just happy to be spending time with me, though I don’t think he understood some of the nuances of the game, just liked to laser grunts and blow stuff up. We beat it on Legendary more times than I can count, arguing over skulls, checkpoints, and who got to drive. Those memories I will cherish forever. Multiplayer on the other hand, swallowed even more hours of my life. But the feature that truly changed everything for me was Forge.

Forge felt like someone had secretly slipped a game engine into a shooter. Suddenly you weren’t just playing Halo, you were building it. You could grab objects, place them anywhere, rotate them, stack them, glitch them into impossible positions, and create entirely new experiences out of familiar maps. Teenage me was completely blown away that I could make my own levels and then invite friends into them inside a Halo game of all things. Some of my best memories come from the ridiculous custom modes people created. Jenga Tower was a classic in our group. Everyone spawned on top of this massive, wobbling stack of objects while one unlucky (or lucky) player stayed below armed with the Gravity Hammer. Their job was to launch giant physics objects into the tower and send everyone flying. Things like barricades, signs, vehicles, and even grenades! It was chaotic, unfair, hilarious, and absolutely perfect. Then there was Duck Hunt, which somehow turned Halo into a tense hide-and-seek survival game. That was the moment I realized Forge wasn’t just a toy, it was a canvas. People were inventing entirely new genres inside Halo, and I wanted to be one of them. So I dove in.

Late nights watching YouTube tutorials, fiddling with object snapping, learning the weird quirks and janky physics Bungie never intended to be tools. It was messy, frustrating, and incredibly fun. There was something magical about building a map, loading it up with friends, and hearing them react in real time. Anyone could create something and share it, and thousands of people were doing exactly that. Honestly, it felt like I was modding Halo at the time and I was on top of the world. It felt like being part of this massive, collaborative playground where creativity mattered just as much as skill, and with a click of a button someone could be playing my game mode. I ended up creating about 7 or 8 games over my time with Halo 3, but surprisingly, one ended up getting some big attention and even a couple of YouTube videos back in the day. It was called Mongoose Season, and although it didn’t blow up and make me Halo’s next top Forge model, it was well worth it for the friends, fun, and maybe even the start of a game dev journey.

Looking back, those countless hours in Forge weren’t just messing around in a game. They were the first time I experienced the joy of building something interactive for other people. The social chaos, the trial and error, the pride when something actually worked. All of it lit a spark that never really went out. In a lot of ways, those nights fueled by Halo branded Mountain Dew, sleep deprivation, and the desperate need to impress my friends quietly set me on the path toward making games myself. Today, Forge lives on in Halo Infinite, and it’s honestly incredible what it’s become. I jumped back in with some friends last year, and while it wasn’t quite the same magic as those late nights growing up, the feeling was still there. Flying around, placing objects, and laughing when something always broke. And I couldn’t help but think that ten-year-old me would have been absolutely blown away, not just by how amazing it is now, but by the fact that the thing that sparked my love for games never really left and is hopefully inspiring others.

There are great games, there are important games, and then there are games that permanently rewire how you experience storytelling. Ocarina of Time sits at the center of that Venn diagram for me.

It’s not just my favorite game because of nostalgic 90s memories spent on the couch after school trying to conquer the Water Temple (though that’s definitely seared in there). It’s because this was the moment I realized interactive worlds could deliver the same emotional, cinematic, and mythic power as the films and stories I loved.

What makes it timeless is how effortlessly it builds a sense of place. Hyrule doesn’t feel like a collection of levels. It feels like a living geography. Stepping out onto Hyrule Field for the first time, with the music swelling and the horizon stretching in every direction, was the first time a game made me feel true scale and possibility. The promise that adventure exists just beyond the frame. Every region, from the stillness of the Forest Temple to the heat and industrial rhythm of the Fire Temple, is painted with its own distinct mood, visual language, and sonic identity. It’s world building through gameplay.

The game also understands pacing in a way that rivals the greatest storytelling in other mediums. It starts intimate and childlike in Kokiri Forest, expands into a heroic quest, and then makes this bold structural move of jumping forward. The famous time shift isn’t just a mechanic. It’s a thematic gut punch. You don’t just hear that the world has fallen into darkness. You feel the loss because you remember what it used to be. Locations you once explored with innocence return as corrupt, haunted versions of themselves.

Even as a young kid playing this game, I got my first taste of what it might feel like when I’m older, looking back fondly on the days of my youth, knowing it could never quite be recaptured. That’s environmental storytelling at its most powerful, and it’s something I’m constantly chasing in any narrative medium.

Mechanically, it’s elegant in a way that never calls attention to itself. Z targeting didn’t just solve 3D combat. It made you feel like a hero in a choreographed duel. The dungeons are masterclasses in spatial storytelling, where solving a puzzle feels like understanding the logic of a place. And the ocarina itself is more than a tool. It’s a narrative device. You’re not pressing buttons. You’re performing time travel, summoning storms, forging emotional connections through music. Few games before or since have fused mechanics and theme so seamlessly.

But what truly made it stick with me is the tone. That specific blend of melancholy and hope. Ocarina of Time is ultimately about growing up. About the cost of becoming the person the world needs you to be. Link loses his childhood, his home changes beyond recognition, and even victory carries a sense of distance and sacrifice. It’s a heroic story that understands time moves forward whether you’re ready or not. That emotional complexity is what elevates it from a great adventure to something mythic.

Every medium has its landmark works. The films, books, or albums that don’t just succeed, but redefine what’s possible. For me, Ocarina is that landmark for games. It’s the moment where gameplay, music, camera, performance, and design fused into a cohesive storytelling language. It’s not just my favorite because it was formative. It’s my favorite because, even now, it represents the purest expression of why I fell in love with interactive storytelling in the first place.