Why Open World Games and Immersive Storytelling Matter to Me

There’s a reason I keep going back to games like Skyrim, Oblivion, and Fallout. It's not just about the epic quests, the sprawling worlds, or the unique items (though I’ve lost more weekends than I can count to those). For me, it's about something deeper—something that speaks to how I connect with stories on a personal level.

Open world games have always felt like more than just games. They’re living, breathing spaces where I can step out of my day-to-day life and become someone else entirely. Not just an adventurer or a warrior or a mage, but a character I’ve shaped—one with history, flaws, choices, and consequences. I love the freedom to wander off the main quest and find some forgotten cave, stumble upon a strange little side story, or just stand on a mountain and watch the sun rise over a virtual world that somehow feels more real than it should.

What I’ve always found fascinating is how these games don’t just tell a story—they let you live one. Every choice, every interaction, every moment of silence or chaos becomes part of your narrative. You’re not just watching events unfold, you’re shaping them, owning them. That’s something I find incredibly powerful.

It’s the same reason I’m drawn to immersive storytelling in books and film. I want to feel something real, even in the most unreal settings. I want to believe in magic, or monsters, or a world teetering on the edge of collapse—but I also want to believe in the people trying to survive it. That blend of the fantastic and the grounded, the epic and the personal, is what keeps me coming back.

As a writer, I carry that love of immersion with me. Whether I’m building a scene, crafting dialogue, or dreaming up a new world, I’m always asking: How can I make this feel real? How can I make the reader care, like I cared when I first stepped into Tamriel or wandered the Capital Wasteland?

At the end of the day, that’s what it’s all about. Escaping, connecting, and feeling something real in the heart of a story that was never truly yours—until you made it so.

The Art of Fear: Horror in Video Games

Many moons ago, I played a game called F.E.A.R. at a friend’s house. I didn’t know what to expect—hadn’t seen a trailer, read a review, or even glanced at the box art. I assumed it was just another generic shooter. That assumption didn’t last long.

From the opening moments, it was clear F.E.A.R. was something else entirely. Jump scares hit hard. The atmosphere was oppressive, unnerving. You’d catch a fleeting glimpse of something—someone—just out of the corner of your eye. Was it real? Did you imagine it? That constant uncertainty installed a level of tension no amount of firepower could dispel.

Horror in video games is a tricky beast. You want players to feel afraid—but not so afraid they quit. There’s a fine balance between fear and frustration, tension and terror. Get it right, and the result is unforgettable.

Alien: Isolation nailed that balance. You’re not a super-soldier. You’re prey. The alien is relentless, unpredictable, and unkillable. The game leaves you in a state of constant vulnerability. Every door you open, every corner you turn—your heart skips a beat. It’s survival horror in its purest form.

But for me, the most unforgettable horror moment in gaming came from a perhaps unexpected place: Half-Life 2.

Enter Ravenholm.

The game up until that point is a slick sci-fi shooter. Then suddenly, you’re thrown into a decaying town infested with headcrabs and zombies. The tone shifts. You’re no longer the hunter—you’re being hunted. And just to twist the knife, your only real weapon at first is the newly introduced gravity gun. Tense doesn’t begin to cover it.

Ravenholm is pure survival horror. The fast zombies shriek as they scramble across rooftops. The poison ones knock your health to a single point before retreating into the shadows. And the grotesque brutes? They launch headcrabs at you like biological mortars. It’s horrific, and yet it’s rich in atmosphere and storytelling. You start to understand why “we don’t go to Ravenholm anymore.”

And when you finally get the shotgun? It’s not just a weapon—it’s payback. Every tense encounter, every jump scare, every desperate scrap for survival culminates in that satisfying moment of catharsis.

Horror in games isn’t just about making you jump. It’s about atmosphere. Vulnerability. Suspense. And sometimes, just sometimes, giving you the tools to turn the tables—if only for a moment.

Witchfire Awakens is out!

I wanted to share that I’ve just released a short story called Witchfire Awakens. It’s the start of a new urban fantasy series I’m working on.

The story follows Gideon Voss, a paladin working for the Arcane Operations Unit (AOU), a branch of law enforcement dealing with magical incidents. Alongside him is Izzy, a witch and his second-in-command, who helps keep the peace in a world still getting used to living with magic.

When a young witch accidentally unleashes her power in a park, Gideon and Izzy step in to protect her before others with less kind intentions can get involved. It’s a story about trying to do the right thing in a messy world, and about small acts of protection and kindness, even when it’s difficult.

It’s a quick read and the first step in a series I plan to continue.

If you’d like to take a look, you can find it here:

https://amzn.eu/d/4lprs1f

Thanks for reading.

Making Your Own Story

I love to read, but my favourite stories are the ones I can’t wait to put down.

Sounds counterintuitive, I know. Let me explain.

I don’t think there are bad books, just ones that aren’t right for me at that moment. Some books I’ll persist with, carrying them around in my bag or leaving them on the arm of the sofa, picking away at them slowly. Others I let go of, quietly admitting that I’m not the reader they need. There’s a kind of freedom in that, in letting stories find their right moment.

The good books, though—those are the ones that pull you in so deeply you lose track of time. You tell yourself, “just one more chapter,” and suddenly it’s midnight and your drink has gone cold beside you. They’re the books that let you live in someone else’s shoes for a while, where the world feels bigger and softer because of what you’ve read.

But the really good books? They’re different. Those are the stories that reach out and shake something awake in you. You start to see what’s coming next for the characters, and you can’t help but hope for a different path. You want to step in and save that character from heartbreak, or give them the courage to speak up, or even take the villain aside for a cup of coffee to ask, “Is this really what you want?”

They’re the books that make you pause mid-chapter, staring at the ceiling, imagining how the scene might go if you were the one telling it. They’re the ones that make you close the cover gently and pick up your notebook, or open a blank document, just to capture the spark they’ve left behind.

The really good stories make you want to stop reading—and start writing. They remind you that you have your own stories to tell, in your own voice, in your own messy and beautiful way. They inspire you to take that feeling of adventure, fear, love, or hope, and pour it into something new.

Those are the stories that matter most. The ones that remind us we’re allowed to build our own worlds too—and that sometimes, the best way to honour a story you love is to start creating one of your own.

That First Step into the Wasteland: Experiencing Fallout 3

I didn’t know what to expect from Fallout 3. I knew there were earlier games in the series, but I’d always struggled with isometric RPGs. Something about that perspective made me feel disconnected from my character, which is the opposite of what you want in an RPG. The only exception was Diablo, but that was more about chasing loot than getting pulled into a story.

Playing through the introduction, living out my character’s early years, I still wasn’t sure what I was in for. It felt almost like a shooter, but the dialogue was sharp, and the dark humour shone through right from the start. Escaping the Vault to search for my character’s father, I didn’t quite know what kind of game Fallout 3 was trying to be.

Then the Vault doors opened.

I stepped out into the blinding sun and saw the ruined sprawl of the Capital Wasteland for the first time. I looked around, taking in the collapsed highways and skeletal buildings, and thought:

Ah. I recognise you now.

I’d been a huge fan of Oblivion, spending countless hours chasing every quest and exploring every corner of its world. Now, I was faced with what felt like Oblivion in an alternate, post-apocalyptic future—and I couldn’t have been happier.

I ignored the quest marker and set off in a random direction, free to explore in a world that seemed to say, Go on, see what’s out there.

Unfortunately for me, what was “out there” turned out to be a nearby ruin where I ran into the local raiders. Let’s just say they weren’t exactly welcoming—and their idea of a meet-and-greet involved shooting first and not asking questions later. Not the friendliest start, but it was the perfect introduction to Fallout 3’s chaotic, darkly funny world—and I was hooked from that moment on.