Crafting Worlds: From Pen to Pixel

When I was in high school, I fancied myself a writer. I wrote a whole novel once—an actual, start-to-finish novel. It was terrible. Of course there were the dozens of first chapters to novels I never finished, and countless short stories scattered across notebooks. I was always chasing that perfect world, that perfect story. Fast-forward to now, and while my medium has changed, the process hasn’t. Whether I’m writing a novel or building a video game, everything starts with the same decision: genre.

Genre is the framework for everything. It’s the lens through which players or readers see your world, shaping their expectations before they’ve even hit “New Game” or turned the first page. When you say “fantasy,” players expect swords and magic. “Sci-fi”? They want tech and dystopia. And while there is some allowance for creative liberty and genre bending, by in large, audiences want what the genre is expected to deliver. In this way, genre is both a guide and a set of handcuffs.

Once I’ve nailed down the genre, I move to the next big decision: the main emotion I want the player to experience. Am I trying to evoke a sense of wonder? Fear? Nostalgia? What about a cozy feeling of warmth and relaxation? This decision shapes everything that follows. If I want players to feel a creeping dread, I’m leaning into unsettling environments, subtle sound design, and slow-burn pacing. If I’m aiming for joy or curiosity, I’m thinking vibrant colors, whimsical music, and gameplay that encourages exploration over urgency.

Next comes the artwork. The visuals are inseparable from the narrative and emotion of the game. They’re not just decoration; they’re part of the storytelling. If I’m building a gritty, post-apocalyptic world, the artwork needs to reflect that—not just in how it looks, but in how it feels. I think about the textures, the lighting, the little details that make the world feel alive. A rusted car. A torn billboard. A world worn down by time and despair. The art carries a part of the narrative that words or dialogue alone can’t express.

Then comes the tricky part: how gameplay fits in. This is where things get especially different from writing a novel. Gameplay isn’t just the delivery mechanism for the story—it is the story, or at least a huge part of it. I have to decide if the gameplay will be straightforward, like an FPS that focuses on fast-paced action, or something more open-ended, where players have the freedom to express themselves creatively.

For example, a platformer like Pac-Man World 2 builds its world and story through challenging gameplay that reflects the protagonist’s progression through the world. Meanwhile, a sandbox game like Minecraft hands players the tools to build their own story within a loose framework. Each choice has to feel intentional. If the story is about exploration and discovery, the gameplay should encourage curiosity and reward players for going off the beaten path. If it’s about survival, the mechanics need to create tension and a sense of scarcity.

Balancing all these elements—genre, emotion, artwork, gameplay—feels like solving a puzzle where every piece affects the others. If one element feels out of sync, the entire experience falls flat. But when it clicks, when the art, gameplay, and story all work together to evoke the exact emotion I’m aiming for, it’s magic. It’s that feeling I was chasing back when I was scribbling first chapters and building imaginary worlds in high school.

And that’s why, no matter how messy the process gets, I keep coming back to it. Whether it’s a novel or a game, creating a world isn’t just about the finished product. It’s about the thrill of discovery—figuring out what works, what doesn’t, and how to bring it all to life in a way that resonates.