Are Video Games Actually “Games”?

10 Mar

Written By JC Pass

The term “video game” has been part of everyday language for decades, bringing to mind interactive entertainment experiences enjoyed on computers, consoles, and smartphones alike. From retro arcade classics like Pac-Man to sprawling open-world epics like The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild, these diverse creations are collectively called “games.” Yet, when we compare certain modern titles—narrative-driven experiences like Journey, contemplative “walking simulators” such as Firewatch, or even sandbox-building platforms like Minecraft—to traditional board or sports games, we may start to wonder: Are these interactive experiences still “games” in the classical sense, or does the term “video game” now encompass something much broader?

In this article, we will explore how philosophers, psychologists, and game theorists have wrestled with this question, delve into the varying definitions of “games,” and discuss why calling these immersive digital experiences “video games” can sometimes feel inadequate. Along the way, we will consider alternative classifications and examine how these interactive titles influence our experiences, our psychology, and our understanding of play itself.

Defining “Game”

It is helpful to start by looking at traditional definitions of “game.” One influential voice in this space is Dutch historian Johan Huizinga, who, in his seminal work Homo Ludens (1955), described play as a voluntary activity occurring in a “magic circle” of engagement. Huizinga argued that play, as a concept, stood apart from ordinary life, governed by rules and generating its own sense of order.

Contemporary game designers and theorists such as Katie Salen and Eric Zimmerman expanded on this notion in Rules of Play: Game Design Fundamentals (2003). They define a game as “a system in which players engage in an artificial conflict, defined by rules, that results in a quantifiable outcome.” By emphasizing rules, conflict, and outcomes, their framework covers traditional board games (like Chess), sports (Football), and many classic arcade and console games (Space Invaders, Tetris, Super Mario Bros.). The purpose of these elements is to provide structure, challenge, and a measure of success or failure.

However, even in the early 2000s, the boundaries of what a “video game” could be were already expanding. Designers were experimenting with narrative, art, and user agency in ways that could minimize or even eliminate competition, failure states, or defined goals. This shift drew attention to possible limitations in rigid definitions: Is it still a game if you cannot “lose”? Must there be rules, or is interactivity alone sufficient?

The Evolving Landscape of Video Games

In the mid to late 2000s, a new wave of titles emerged that blurred the line between a game and an interactive narrative. For instance, Dear Esther (2012) primarily involves walking through a beautifully rendered environment, listening to poetic monologues, and piecing together a fragmented story. There are no clear objectives, adversaries, or competition. The experience is more akin to reading a short story in an immersive digital format, leading some critics to call it a “walking simulator.”

Similarly, Journey (2012) focuses on cooperation and exploration. There is a faint goal—reaching a distant mountain—but no explicit scoring system or direct penalties for failure. Instead, the experience emphasizes emotional resonance, beauty, and shared discovery. These qualities do not align perfectly with definitions requiring conflict and quantifiable outcomes.

Many players and critics have also pointed to games like Minecraft (2011), which can be played creatively without any defined goals, or Animal Crossing (first released in 2001), which simulates a charming life in a village without firm win/loss conditions. As the medium matured, more and more titles fell outside the conventional boundaries of what we have traditionally referred to as “games.”

The Role of Player Agency

One perspective on “Are these still games?” focuses on player agency, or the degree to which the player can make meaningful choices. The field of ludology (the study of games and play) often highlights that games provide interactive possibilities that shape outcomes. Even if these outcomes are less about “winning” or “losing” and more about “experiencing” or “exploring,” the core is the player’s active role.

The late game scholar and professor of digital culture, Espen Aarseth, in his book Cybertext: Perspectives on Ergodic Literature (1997), introduced the concept of “ergodic literature,” describing works in which nontrivial effort is required to traverse the text. While Aarseth’s focus was not solely on games, his ideas apply well to the question at hand: from Dear Esther to Minecraft, the effort a player invests to progress, unlock story elements, or build structures differentiates these interactive experiences from passive consumption, as one would have in a movie or a traditional novel. In Aarseth’s framework, anything that requires a player’s intentional, active input to reveal or alter content can be seen as “ergodic.” Hence, many video games (even those without classic win/loss states) might still fit into this category of interactive, participatory media.

Psychological Perspectives: Flow and Engagement

From a psychological standpoint, focusing on definitions might be less compelling than focusing on why people enjoy these experiences and how these experiences influence them. One of the foundational concepts in psychology regarding engagement and enjoyment is flow, popularized by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi (1975; 1990). Flow is the state of deep focus and absorption, where a person’s skill and the challenge of a task are closely matched, and they lose awareness of time passing.

Many traditional video games strive to trigger flow by offering carefully calibrated difficulty curves, rewards, and clear feedback loops. You may have experienced flow if you ever played Tetris, found yourself “in the zone,” and suddenly discovered hours had passed unnoticed. Does this apply to story-driven or exploration-based “non-games” as well?

Interestingly, the concept of flow can still apply. A player immersed in Dear Esther might experience a sense of flow not from skill-based challenges but from the absorbing audiovisual storytelling. In Journey, the flow might come from the mesmerizing visuals and gentle puzzle-solving. This implies that even if these experiences lack the traditional rules-based conflict, they often maintain a capacity for flow-like engagement through exploration, discovery, and emotional investment.

The Purpose of Labels

Why do we care if these digital experiences are “games” or not? In part, it is about cultural legitimacy and expectation. The word “game” often carries connotations of leisure, competition, or triviality—although that view is changing. As the field matures, there is an ongoing push to see video games recognized not just as entertainment but as an art form, a storytelling medium, and even a vehicle for education or mental health interventions.

Artistic Expression: By questioning whether narrative-driven or purely exploratory titles are “games,” critics sometimes downplay the legitimate artistry behind them. On the other hand, some artists might prefer not to call their work a game to emphasize its conceptual or narrative nature.
Academic Study: Definitions matter in research because they determine the scope of study, the theoretical frameworks used, and how findings are categorized. When psychologists study the effects of video games, should they include interactive narratives that lack competition and scoring mechanics? These questions shape the design of studies, the interpretation of results, and our broader understanding of interactive media.
Consumer Expectations: People often buy a “video game” expecting certain features—levels, challenges, or at least a sense of progression. If a title is an interactive story or environmental exploration, some players may feel misled. This tension between labeling and marketing can cause confusion, disappointment, or, conversely, delight when a player encounters something unique and unexpected.

Alternative Classifications

The medium’s rapid evolution has led to a proliferation of alternative labels and subgenres:

Interactive Experience: A broad term that can describe almost anything requiring user input, from virtual reality museum tours to immersive narratives.
Walking Simulator: Initially meant derogatorily, this label has been embraced by fans and developers of story-rich, non-challenging exploration titles. It emphasizes slow-paced movement, atmospheric storytelling, and introspection.
Digital Narrative: Highlights narrative as the core of the experience. Examples like Tell Me Why, Life is Strange, or Heavy Rain use branching dialogue, character choices, and story outcomes as the primary form of engagement.
Playable Media: A catch-all term introduced by some scholars to refer to any digital work that involves user-driven exploration or manipulation, regardless of whether it has explicit goals.

Each classification tries to capture nuances that the umbrella term “video game” might obscure. However, “video game” remains the dominant label, embedded in both popular culture and academic discourse. It can be hard to unseat a term with so much historical and commercial weight.

Case Studies in Defying Game Conventions

Gone Home (2013)
Gone Home sees the player exploring an empty house to uncover a family’s story. There are no real puzzles—just the slow process of reading notes, interacting with objects, and forming emotional connections. While some critics labeled it a “walking simulator,” others hailed it for proving that video games could convey emotional resonance as effectively as novels or films. Gone Home challenges the idea that you need conflict and risk to create an engaging interactive experience.
Firewatch (2016)
Combining first-person exploration with narrative branching, Firewatch places the player in the role of a fire lookout in a Wyoming wilderness. Conversations with a colleague come through a walkie-talkie, forging a meaningful relationship central to the game’s emotional core. Despite an undercurrent of mystery, there is no “losing,” and the tension stems largely from introspection and environmental immersion.
Death Stranding (2019)
A more polarizing example, Death Stranding encourages players to traverse large swaths of desolate landscapes, delivering cargo and forging social bonds through shared infrastructure. Although it still contains traditional gaming elements—such as stealth and combat—the primary engagement often involves navigating challenging terrain and forging emotional connections with a lonely world. This unique emphasis makes it, in some ways, more akin to a meditative experience than a classic action game.

Are They Still “Games”?

Considering the diverse nature of interactive digital media, do we need a strict definition that relegates some experiences to “games” and others to “not-games”? Or can we adopt a more inclusive attitude that sees “video game” as an evolving term, able to encompass everything from high-octane shooters to serene walking simulators?

Game scholar Jesper Juul, known for works like Half-Real (2005), suggests that the definition of games can adapt over time, influenced by cultural contexts and the progression of technology. If game-making is viewed as a craft that merges art, narrative, and interactivity, then the discipline itself is inherently malleable. The word “game” may simply be a convenient catch-all for interactive digital experiences, even if some titles deviate from the earlier norms of defined conflict, competition, and quantifiable outcomes.

Alternatively, some might argue that dropping “video game” for a broader term (like “playable media”) would better reflect this expansive range. Proponents of this view suggest that embracing broader terminology can help people appreciate different forms of interactive art without imposing expectations of challenge, skill, or mastery. However, this is easier said than done in a world where “video game” is deeply intertwined with industry, academia, and consumer culture.

Psychological Implications of Broader Definitions

Beyond semantics, how we categorize these experiences can also affect how we research and understand their psychological impacts. For instance:

Motivation: Why do people play games—or experiences? For competition? For relaxation? For narrative immersion? Labels can shape user and researcher expectations about what the experience should provide.
Effect on Well-Being: Studying how “non-game” interactive narratives affect mood, empathy, or stress requires different frameworks than those used for researching, say, skill-based or competitive titles. Some interactive narratives aim to evoke empathy or reflection rather than adrenaline or problem-solving prowess.
Therapeutic Applications: As serious games and gamified apps become prevalent tools in mental health interventions, understanding the boundaries between “game” and “interactive activity” is crucial. A program designed to help with anxiety may involve game-like elements—points, levels, achievements—or it may rely more on introspective, narrative-driven interaction. Both approaches can be beneficial, but labeling them “video games” might impact user adoption or expectations.

Simply Put

The question “Are video games actually games?” might appear straightforward, but it cuts to the heart of how we define play, art, and interactive media. Traditional definitions focusing on rules, conflict, and quantifiable outcomes may not fully capture the breadth of experiences the medium has evolved to include. Rather than disqualifying any title that strays from established norms, many theorists and practitioners argue for an inclusive definition that acknowledges the dynamic nature of these digital works.

From “walking simulators” to narrative adventures, from puzzle-driven storytelling to vast creative sandboxes, these titles embody unique forms of engagement that defy simple categorization. They can generate emotional resonance, challenge our perceptions, and, yes, offer that elusive sense of flow—whether or not they adhere strictly to classical definitions of a “game.”

Ultimately, while the term “video game” has its limitations, it remains a convenient, culturally embedded way to refer to this ever-expanding range of experiences. Perhaps the best approach is not to fixate on strict boundaries but to celebrate the innovation and diversity the medium has spawned. In a sense, this flexibility is exactly what makes “video games” so intriguing: they can be many things to many people—and that is part of their enduring appeal.