Let’s get one thing straight: game design isn’t some pristine craft executed by geniuses in perfectly lit studios, sipping artisanal coffee. It’s messy, chaotic, and often done with a low-grade sense of panic humming in the background. But that’s what makes it worth doing. You’re not just making something to entertain people; you’re building worlds, inviting strangers to walk through them, and hoping they don’t call you out for leaving the bathroom doors locked for no reason. It’s a scrappy art, an underdog’s hustle, and if you’re willing to get your hands dirty, it might just be the most rewarding work you’ll ever do.

Start with the People

Forget about your “big idea” for a second. No one cares about your idea if it doesn’t connect with people. Games aren’t made in a vacuum; they’re for players, and players are unpredictable. They’ll break your systems, exploit your mechanics, and laugh in the face of all your careful planning. And that’s beautiful. Your job is to give them tools and boundaries, then step back and let them surprise you. The best designs don’t just entertain; they respect the player’s intelligence and invite them into a conversation.

So ask yourself: who’s playing this? What do they care about? What do they want to feel? If you don’t know, stop what you’re doing and go find out. Listen to them. Watch them. Let their desires shape your work, but don’t be afraid to challenge them, either. People don’t always know what they want, but they’ll know it when they see it. Your job is to give them that moment.

Embrace the Chaos

Game design is about juggling ideas, mechanics, art, sound, and narrative, all while gravity laughs in your face. It’s controlled chaos, and if you’re doing it right, you’ll spend half your time teetering on the edge of disaster. That’s okay. Hell, that’s the point. If you’re comfortable, you’re not pushing hard enough. The best games come from risk, from trying something that might fail spectacularly.

Of course, failure will happen. You’ll design a level that’s too hard, a mechanic that’s boring, or a story twist that lands like a wet sock. Good. That’s progress. Game design isn’t about perfection; it’s about iteration. Test, fail, tweak, repeat. Every disaster is a lesson in disguise, and every lesson makes you better.

Build Systems, Not Scripts

A lot of people get stuck on trying to script their games like movies or novels. Don’t fall into that trap. Games aren’t passive; they’re interactive. They’re systems of cause and effect, rules and feedback, action and consequence. Your job isn’t to write a script; it’s to build a sandbox and let the players throw sand at each other.

Think about what makes Tetris timeless. It’s not a story about falling blocks—it’s the elegant interplay of rules and player choices. The same goes for Dark Souls, Minecraft, or Portal. They’re not great because they tell great stories (although some of them do); they’re great because their systems feel right. Players want to do things, not just watch things happen. Give them the tools to explore, experiment, and screw up gloriously.

Keep It Honest

Here’s a hard truth: you can’t fake a good game. Players will know. They’ll feel it when your systems are shallow, your mechanics unpolished, or your heart isn’t in it. Authenticity matters, even in something as abstract as game design. So don’t try to be something you’re not. If you love making weird, quirky games, lean into that. If you’re all about hardcore mechanics, own it. But whatever you do, do it with sincerity.

Games are art, and art is personal. The best ones carry a piece of their creators in them, a little spark of humanity that makes them resonate. So don’t hold back. Pour yourself into your work. Let it be messy, flawed, and uniquely yours.

Finish What You Start

Every designer has a graveyard of unfinished projects. It’s easy to start something new, to chase the next shiny idea. But finishing? That’s the real work. And it’s not just about putting out a product—it’s about learning to see something through, to wrestle with your own doubts and exhaustion until you make it to the other side.

So finish your game, even if it’s rough, even if it’s not what you imagined. Release it into the world and let it stand on its own legs. Then start the next one. Every game you make is a step forward, a chance to grow and get better.

The Reward

In the end, game design isn’t about the money, the accolades, or the reviews. It’s about the moment when someone plays your game and gets it. When they smile, gasp, or curse your name because they missed that jump for the tenth time. That’s the magic. You created something that touched another person’s life, even for just a moment.

So go make something. Make it messy. Make it bold. Make it yours. And don’t stop. The world needs more good games.