The Illusion of Victory

The plastic of the controller feels slick and wrong under my thumb. My jaw is set. Not in a fun, determined way, but in the way you brace for impact, or the way you do when you’ve entered your password incorrectly for the fifth time and the system is about to lock you out. On the screen, a chaotic explosion of neon green confirms that my little spaceship, piloted with what I thought was strategic genius, has been obliterated by my partner’s well-timed missile barrage. She offers a sympathetic, “Ooh, sorry,” but the glint in her eye says ‘victory.’ The words ‘Game Night’ hang in the air between us, feeling less like an invitation and more like an indictment.

The Zero-Sum Trap

We see a game that allows two people to play at once and we automatically assume the point is to determine a winner and a loser. It’s the digital equivalent of being handed two tennis rackets and being told the only thing you can do is play a match. What if you just want to hit the ball against the wall, side-by-side? What if you want to invent a new game with new rules? Game design, for decades, has been overwhelmingly focused on the zero-sum outcome. For me to win, you must lose. My success is defined by your failure. It’s a clean, simple loop that generates adrenaline and marketable esports tournaments, but it’s a terrible foundation for connection.

The Emptiness of Solitary Triumph

I say all this, and yet just last week I fell down a three-hour rabbit hole in a brutally competitive online shooter. I will criticize the entire architecture of competitive play and then, in a moment of weakness, get completely sucked into the climb, the ranking, the hollow glory of a ‘Victory Royale’ screen. My heart pounded. I was laser-focused. And when it was over, and I was sitting in the sudden silence of the main menu, the overwhelming feeling wasn’t triumph. It was emptiness. I hadn’t built anything or connected with anyone. I had just… defeated 99 anonymous opponents who I would never meet. The thrill was real, but it was fleeting, like the sugar rush from a cheap candy bar.

Thoroughfares vs. Digital Parks

This whole dynamic reminds me of how architects talk about public spaces. Some city squares are designed as thoroughfares-pathways optimized for getting the maximum number of people from Point A to Point B as efficiently as possible. People become obstacles to one another, competing for space on the pavement. Then there are squares designed for lingering. They have benches, fountains, interesting things to look at. They invite you to exist in a space with other people, not in spite of them.

For too long, the game industry has been building thoroughfares. We need more digital parks.

Shared Presence, Not Challenge

I was talking about this with a woman named Rio L.A., an elder care advocate who has an incredibly insightful perspective on play. She works with clients, many of whom are dealing with memory loss or social isolation. Her goal isn’t to challenge them, but to create moments of shared presence. She told me about using simple, open-ended games.

She shared a story about a client who barely spoke, but who would meticulously arrange the furniture in a digital house for 43 minutes straight, with Rio sitting beside him, quietly managing their shared garden. There was no score. No boss battle. The ‘win’ was the shared, peaceful activity itself.

The Untapped Magic of Parallel Play

It’s a different mode of being. A mode of parallel play. It’s a term from developmental psychology used to describe toddlers who play alongside each other, aware and appreciative of the other’s presence, but not directly engaged in the same activity. One might be stacking blocks while the other drives a toy car. They aren’t collaborating on a single tower, nor are they competing to see who can stack higher. They are simply sharing a space, their individual play enriched by the comfortable presence of another.

Two Pillars, One Roof

My partner doesn’t want to be my adversary. She doesn’t want to spend her limited free time mastering complex button combos just to have a fighting chance against me, who has been playing these kinds of games for decades. She wants to share an experience with me. We’ve found the most success in games where we have separate, but related, goals. In one game, I’ll go mining for resources deep underground while she tends the farm on the surface. Her work feeds me, and my work provides materials for her to build with.

We are two pillars supporting the same roof. This philosophy is particularly well-supported on certain platforms that prioritize local co-op and accessible design. The hardware itself almost encourages it, and the library is full of these experiences. You can find dozens of great Cozy Games on Nintendo Switch that nail this exact feeling of shared space without shared stress.

The Shared Frustration

I learned this the hard way. I once spent $43 on a game that was marketed as “the ultimate co-op adventure.” I was so excited. I presented it to my partner like a gift. Thirty minutes in, we realized that while we were on the same team against the game’s AI, we were in constant, direct competition for every single coin, power-up, and health pack. The game was literally designed to create friction between us. It was a race to grab the loot after every encounter.

My attempt to create a shared victory resulted in a shared frustration. I had misunderstood the assignment completely.

From Arenas to Gardens

This isn’t just about video games. There’s a reason for this rising tide of collaborative, nurturing entertainment. We are saturated with competition. Our careers are competitive ladders. Our social media feeds are competitive arenas for lifestyle and achievement. Our politics are bloodsport. We are told, from every direction, that life is a series of contests to be won.

People are exhausted by conflict. They are starved for genuine, non-transactional connection. We don’t need another arena in our living rooms. We need a garden.

Parallel Playtime, Shared Comfort

So we’ve stopped having ‘Game Nights.’ Instead, we sometimes have ‘Parallel Playtime.’ Sometimes we’re in the same digital world, building our own separate houses on the same plot of land. Other times, she’s playing a puzzle game on her tablet while I’m exploring a vast open world on the TV. We’re in the same room, sharing the same blanket, occasionally commenting on each other’s progress. “Ooh, that’s a pretty building.” “Watch out for that monster behind the rock.” There’s no winner. There’s no loser. There is only the shared, quiet comfort of inhabiting a space together.

A World to Inhabit Together