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.
