The Price of Gaming: Here We Go Again...
- Nathaniel Hope
- 7 minutes ago
- 24 min read
“If you love a game, buy it at f**king full price...” —Jon Garvin, Director of Days Gone
Two years ago, I opened The Price of Gaming with that quote. Even then, it felt out of touch—a plea from a frustrated developer placing the burden of a game’s success squarely on the players. But now? It lands even harder… and not in the way he probably intended. Back then, my argument was simple: games were expensive, often launched broken, and publishers were doubling down on subscriptions, sales, and storefront discounts that undercut the very idea of “buying at full price.” They wanted loyalty—but were also the ones flooding the market with ways to avoid paying full price in the first place. Gaming was already expensive in 2023. But now, in 2025, it’s getting worse—and from a company few expected to lead the charge: Nintendo. With the Nintendo Switch 2 announced at $450 and Mario Kart World priced at $80, one of the biggest conversations in gaming right now isn’t about features or performance—it’s about cost. Not just “Is this worth it?” but “What kind of precedent is this setting?”
For decades, Nintendo has been seen as the family-friendly, budget-conscious alternative in the console wars. Their hardware has consistently used older or more affordable components to keep prices accessible, without compromising on fun or creativity. Systems like the Wii and the original Switch thrived on affordability and innovation, often undercutting competitors while still delivering unique experiences. But now, for the first time since the 3DS launched at a shocking $250 back in 2011, we’re seeing a very different side of Nintendo—one willing to push the envelope on pricing. The Switch 2’s $450 price tag is now official, with pre-orders set to begin on April 24th. For many, that’s a bit of a relief—especially after weeks of speculation that newly introduced U.S. tariffs might push the cost even higher. In fact, some even suspected the delay in pre-order announcements was Nintendo weighing how—or if—those tariffs would affect the launch. Thankfully, the price held. But while the console itself escaped the impact, accessories appear to have been caught in the crossfire.
And with $80 quickly becoming the new baseline for first-party games, the conversation about cost still hasn’t gone away. This isn’t just about one console or one launch window. It’s not a one-off. It’s a pattern. AAA games already launch at $70—and that’s just the base edition. Season passes, battle passes, day-one DLC, deluxe editions… all piled on top of a game that may or may not even be finished at launch. That old Jon Garvin quote? It doesn’t sound like a plea anymore. It sounds like a threat. It’s no longer “Buy it to support us,” it’s “Pay up or you’re part of the problem.” The expectations have changed. The market has changed. And let’s be honest—so has the trust between players, developers, and publishers.
We’re paying more than ever, but somehow getting less—broken launches, missing features, and endless monetization layered on top of already inflated base prices. That $70–$80 price tag? It’s not buying a full experience anymore—it’s just the cost of admission. And yeah, I get it—this topic feels like beating a dead horse.
But the reason it keeps coming up is because it keeps getting worse.
More Than Just Complaints This Time
While conversations about the cost of gaming have been going on for years, something feels different this time. Ever since Nintendo revealed its new pricing structure for the Switch 2 and Mario Kart World, there’s been a noticeable shift in the community. I’ve seen more people talking—really talking—about price, value, and loyalty than I ever have before. Sure, the usual toxic corners of the internet are still doing their thing—rage posting, doom spiraling, shouting “this sucks” into the void—but what’s caught me off guard is how many thoughtful, legitimate conversations are happening. I’m seeing full-on essays, deep-dive videos, Reddit threads, and posts across X (Twitter) that actually engage with what all of this means. And for once, it kind of feels like we’re united—not in hype, but in frustration. People are stepping back and asking the same questions: How did it get this expensive? Where is it going? And what can we do about it? Some are calling for boycotts. Others are sharing personal reflections on how gaming used to be more accessible. Many are wrestling with the effects of inflation, or writing openly about how hard it is to justify these prices anymore. It’s become a collective moment of clarity. One video in particular stood out to me—something that showed up in my YouTube feed from the channel Legendary Drops. He said something that really stuck with me: “Value doesn’t scale with price anymore.”
And that, right there, is the heart of the issue.
We’re being asked to pay more than ever for games that are often launching broken, unfinished, or underwhelming. Massive day-one patches are the norm. Content “roadmaps” have replaced full, complete experiences. Battle passes are stacked on top of deluxe editions, which are stacked on top of microtransactions. That $70–$80 price tag? It’s no longer the cost of the game—it’s the entry fee. There’s a growing tendency from publishers—and even some fans—to justify these rising prices with inflation math. You’ve probably heard the argument: “Hot take—$80 games are actually cheaper than they were 20 years ago when you adjust for inflation.”
But as Legendary Drops so perfectly put it: “Nobody cares about inflation. Nobody cares about how much $80 was over 20 years ago. They are worried about how far their paycheck will go today. And right now, their paychecks aren’t going very far.” That hit me hard—because it’s true.
Wages haven’t kept pace with inflation. People’s hard-earned money isn’t stretching like it used to. Every year, spending power shrinks, and with it, the amount that can be set aside for things like video games—things that used to be a regular part of life and are now starting to feel like a luxury. It’s not about economic theory or price charts. It’s about reality—about hovering over a “Buy Now” button and wondering if that $80 would be better spent on groceries or gas.
When games were $60, there was still room for impulse. Room to say, “Screw it, let’s see what this is about.” But it wasn’t just about impulse buys—$60 used to mean something in gaming. It used to stretch far. Back then, $60 could get you a complete, content-rich experience with no strings attached. Games like Skyrim and The Witcher 3 launched at that price, offering hundreds of hours of gameplay with no paywalls, no season passes, and no deluxe editions needed to unlock the “real” content. Mass Effect delivered a full cinematic space opera, and Oblivion gave us a sprawling fantasy world long before microtransactions started creeping in. Even Halo 3, at $60, came packed with a full single-player campaign, online multiplayer, four-player split-screen, and Forge Mode to create your own maps. It was everything in one box—no internet connection required, no subscriptions, no digital storefronts trying to upsell you. You bought the game, and you had the game. Even the titles that weren’t massive open-world RPGs still offered incredible value. Super Smash Bros. Melee, Gears of War, and countless others gave you full local multiplayer out of the box—something that’s practically extinct now unless you’re playing indies or Nintendo party games. And for those of us who grew up with demo discs or rental stores, $60 wasn’t even a commitment you had to make blindly. You could try before you bought. If you were done with a game, you could lend it to a friend or sell it back—there was still value in ownership.
And then there was Minecraft. It didn’t even cost the full $60 when it launched, but its value was nearly infinite. A one-time purchase gave you a world you could live in for years, with endless creativity and a modding community that expanded it well beyond what the developers initially built. That was the era where $60 felt fair—earned, even. You weren’t just buying a product. You were investing in something that felt complete, lasting, and worth your time.
Now? At $70 to $80, it feels less like a purchase and more like a down payment. You're not just buying a game anymore—you’re being asked to commit. And year after year, the return on that investment is looking thinner. As Legendary Drops so perfectly put it, “Raising prices introduces friction. That friction is deadly in a marketplace overflowing with choice.” You stop thinking, 'Is this game good?' and start asking, 'Is it worth it?' Not just in terms of fun, but in groceries, gas, or bills. That friction—the hesitation at the checkout screen—is the death of curiosity. And for a lot of games, that hesitation is the difference between a smash hit and a complete flop. Take Dragon Age: The Veilguard—it missed its sales targets by nearly 50%, pulling in just 1.5 million players in its first two months. EA was hoping for 3 million. Didn’t happen. And that was at a $70 price point. What happens when you throw another ten dollars on top of that? Star Wars Outlaws, developed with a staggering reported budget of $200–$300 million, also failed to meet sales expectations. And these weren’t universally panned games either. Both titles received “generally favorable” reviews from critics. The Veilguard scored between 77 and 86 on Metacritic, with 71% of critics recommending it on OpenCritic. Outlaws held a Metacritic score of 76, with IGN calling it a decent action game. The reception was mixed—not bad, just not exceptional. Fans criticized both games for lacking depth and originality, but they weren’t total disasters. They were solid, middle-of-the-road releases.
But even that only tells part of the story.
Critically acclaimed, well-reviewed games like Final Fantasy XVI and Final Fantasy VII Rebirth also underperformed commercially. FFXVI earned a Metacritic score of 87, with 92% of critics recommending it. Rebirth scored an impressive 92 on Metacritic, with praise for its expansive world, evolved combat system, and faithful-yet-bold storytelling. Yet despite glowing reviews, Square Enix reported that Rebirth sold about half as many copies as Final Fantasy VII Remake did during a similar launch window.
Like I said, these aren’t bad games. Some are just okay. Others are genuinely extraordinary. But the problem isn’t just quality—it’s value. It’s price. It’s perception. You can have a beautifully polished, content-rich, critically acclaimed game… and it can still struggle. Why? Because even greatness has to earn its price tag now. This is the new lens players are looking through. Being good isn’t enough anymore. Even being great isn’t always enough. The question isn’t just “how does it play?”—it’s “what do I get for this cost?” That’s the threshold everyone’s starting to feel. Value used to be a bonus. Now it’s the entire conversation.
A game can have a deep story, tight mechanics, and dozens of hours of content, but if the $70—or worse, $80—price feels out of sync with the experience, players hesitate. They hold off. They wait for a sale. Or, they skip it entirely. Not because the game isn’t worthwhile, but because the pricing feels off.
That’s the shift. Quality and value still matter, but they’re no longer enough to carry a game across the finish line. Price is now the filter every game has to pass through. And if it doesn’t clear that bar right away, the damage is already done. Which raises a bigger question: what exactly are publishers hoping to gain by raising prices in a market already showing clear signs of strain? We’re seeing ballooning budgets, mass layoffs, shuttered studios, and industry-wide consolidation. Risk-taking is disappearing. Innovation is shrinking. And in its place, we’re getting “safe bets”—sequels, remakes, reboots—and even those often struggle to hit the sales numbers needed to justify their bloated costs. Meanwhile, companies like Nintendo are re-releasing older games from previous generations at higher prices than ever.
Take The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild, for example. Originally released in 2017, it’s now set to be resold on the Switch 2 for $70—without the Expansion Pass. Want the full experience, including the DLC that’s been out for years? That’ll be another $20, bringing the total to $90. Already bought and played the game years ago? Doesn’t matter. If you want access to the Switch 2’s “enhanced” version, you’ll need to cough up an extra $10—unless, of course, you're subscribed to Nintendo’s Online + Expansion Pack service, because in 2025, even replaying old games has a subscription tier. And what do you get for that upgrade? Some faster load times, HDR support, and minor visual polish. That’s it. Nothing new. Nothing meaningful. Just the same game, resold under the illusion of added value.
And no—this isn’t an isolated case. The wild thing is, Nintendo has proven it knows how to price games fairly—it just chooses not to most of the time. Pikmin 1+2 were bundled together and re-released for $50, which felt like a small miracle: two full games for less than the price of one, in an era where everything else seems to come with a markup. And Metroid Prime Remastered? Practically a love letter to fans. Priced at $40, it featured substantial visual upgrades, modern controls, and actual care put into its presentation. For once, the community didn’t just applaud—they stood up and clapped. It was a rare, shining moment where price, value, and respect for the player all aligned. But those moments are the exception, not the rule—and Nintendo knows it.
Then you get something like Skyward Sword HD for the Nintendo Switch. Originally , it was a Wii game from 2011, now polished with a coat of HD paint and an option to play it without motion controls… resold for a full $60. For comparison, the original Skyward Sword launched at just $49.99—and even the collector’s edition with a gold Wii Remote and symphony soundtrack only cost $69.99. Fast forward ten years, and the remaster alone is now nearly as expensive as the original deluxe bundle. No controller. No soundtrack. Just slightly tweaked motion controls and a steeper price tag.
Super Mario 3D All-Stars wasn’t any better—a slapped-together collection of three emulated games, barely touched, sold as a “limited-time” product like it was some rare collectible instead of, you know, digital files. No meaningful enhancements. No individual purchase options. Just a $60 nostalgia trap with an expiration date. These aren’t new games. They’re not rebuilt. They’re not even meaningfully expanded. They’re legacy content dressed up in barely enhanced visuals, resold at inflated prices simply because Nintendo knows their fans are emotionally invested enough to pay it. And when the same company that gave us Metroid Prime Remastered at $40 turns around and slaps an $80 price tag on a Wii port or a $90 bundle on a nearly decade-old title… it stops feeling like nostalgia and starts feeling like manipulation. It’s not about honoring the past anymore. It’s about mining it—for every last dollar they can squeeze out of it. They know we care. They know these games matter to us. And that’s exactly what makes this whole thing feel so gross.
Gamers Remember
$80 sets a whole new precedent. At that price point, a game isn’t just a product—it’s a promise. It has to be polished. It has to deliver. It has to justify its existence. Because if it doesn’t? The backlash will be swift and brutal. We’ve already seen it happen at $70. The higher the price, the higher the expectations. Players aren’t just investing money—they’re investing trust. And when that trust is broken, it doesn’t come back easily. Disappointment at that level doesn’t just fade away—it festers. It lingers. It becomes part of a company’s legacy. Especially in the age of social media, where nothing ever really dies. The internet might already be a hive of scum and villainy, but if you want to stir the pot? Charge $80 for a broken game. That’ll do it. And when that moment happens, gamers remember. They remember Battlefield 2042. They remember Redfall. They remember Skull and Bones. They remember being promised one thing and delivered something entirely different. And not only do they remember—they make sure no one forgets.
The reviews. The think pieces. The blog posts. The YouTube deep dives. The Twitter threads. The Reddit rants. It all stays in circulation, echoing long after the credits roll—if the game even earns enough goodwill to be finished. It's amazing to me because after all these years, I still see people bringing up the PlayStation 3’s price reveal. The Xbox One’s DRM disaster. The backlash to the 3DS launch price has resurfaced recently, thanks to the Switch 2 announcement. It's absolutely wild. These moments live on because gamers are passionate. They care deeply about this medium, about the experiences that shaped their lives. And when they feel burned, they don’t just shrug and move on. They tell the world—loudly—because they want to make sure you don’t get burned like they did.
And here’s the scariest part: the gap between success and failure is getting wider. With more players holding off on day-one purchases, waiting for reviews, performance breakdowns, or the inevitable sale, the margin for error is razor-thin. One bad launch—one misstep—and a studio’s entire future can be on the line. There’s less room for patience. Less room for trust. Less room to recover. In an industry already teetering on bloated budgets, inflated expectations, and development cycles that stretch on for years, that kind of friction isn’t just inconvenient—it’s dangerous. It turns every release into a make-or-break moment. Studios close. Staff get laid off. Entire franchises are shelved because one game didn’t hit an arbitrary sales milestone in its first 30 days. It’s not just a bad system—it’s a brittle one. One that demands perfection at a premium price, but keeps delivering broken promises at full cost. And all of it rests on a shrinking foundation of consumer trust that’s being eroded with every overpriced upgrade, every rushed launch, and every re-release no one asked for.
But here’s the thing—I don’t think it has to be this way.
Gaming is in Our Hands
The AAA industry might be stuck in a cycle of bloat, burnout, and broken promises, but gaming itself? Gaming is still alive and well—it’s just thriving in places the spotlight isn’t always pointing.
More and more players are shifting their attention toward indie games, fan projects, ROM hacks, mods, and even retro titles. And honestly? That shift feels like a return to what gaming was always supposed to be—passionate, creative, personal, and overall, fun. Look at the indie scene. Games like Hades, Celeste, Hollow Knight, Stardew Valley, and Vampire Survivors cost a fraction of what AAA titles charge, yet offer experiences packed with heart, challenge, and innovation. These aren’t games burdened by market forecasts or shareholder expectations. They’re crafted with love—and it shows. That same spirit—the care, the passion, the purity of the experience—is exactly what still thrives in the world of retro gaming.
Retro gaming is still as popular as ever, and every retro game store brings its own kind of charm and character. And no—I’m not talking about GameStop. I’m talking about those independently owned shops tucked between strip malls and coffee spots. The hole-in-the-wall places with dusty shelves, CRTs flickering in the corner, and rows of plastic bins filled with cartridges, discs, memory cards, and strategy guides. You’d be surprised just how many of these places are still out there in this day and age—often hiding in plain sight. And sure, it’s easy to assume that stores like this are built for people chasing memories of a simpler time. But is that really a bad thing? Nostalgia may be the draw for many, but retro gaming is more than just reminiscing—it’s value. It’s a chance to experience full, finished games without needing to download a day-one patch or unlock half the content through DLC. It’s knowing that what you buy is what you get. These games were made to be played from start to finish, with no internet connection, no monetization strategy, no strings attached. And in a time where modern games increasingly feel like fragmented products, there’s something deeply satisfying about slipping in a cartridge and just playing.
But what’s even more exciting is what retro gaming offers to newcomers. Kids today aren’t just playing what’s new—they’re discovering what came before. Retro stores aren’t just museums for millennials and Gen Xers; they’re gateways for a new generation. They’re places where curiosity becomes discovery. Where a kid can stumble upon Donkey Kong Country or The Legend of Zelda: Link’s Awakening for the first time and feel the same spark we did decades ago.
I’ll never forget the time I watched a mom bring her son—maybe ten years old—to pick out his very first Game Boy Color. And not just any Game Boy Color, but a modded one—complete with a new IPS screen with a custom backlight and a slick custom faceplate. Watching him light up with excitement, like he was holding the future in his hands—even though the console was older than he was—was one of the most heartwarming things I’ve ever seen in a game store. It reminded me of what it felt like to fall in love with gaming at that age. That pure, wide-eyed joy.
Moments like that are why these places matter. Why they still matter. They’ve survived despite the direction the industry has taken. They’ve weathered the shift to digital, the rise of microtransactions, and the slow fade of physical media. And yet, here they are—still open, still welcoming, still full of magic. You just have to do a little digging to find them. Where I live, there are more than a few. And each one feels like its own little time capsule—a treasure trove of pixelated memories waiting to be rediscovered. And if you're not lucky enough to have one nearby, you're still not out of luck. Online communities have stepped up, creating entire ecosystems around buying, selling, and preserving the games that defined generations. From dedicated Facebook groups to curated eBay storefronts to passionate collectors on Discord and Reddit, the retro scene is thriving in ways that don’t rely on big corporations to survive. It might take some effort to track down that one game you used to love—or the one you never got to play—but honestly, that’s part of the thrill.
But I will say, there’s something magical about stepping into a retro shop and seeing a game you loved as a kid sitting on the shelf. Or discovering something you've never played before and getting to experience it fresh, the way someone else once did decades ago. It’s a mix of memory and discovery—and it doesn’t stop at the games. It’s the people, too. The shared stories.
The casual conversations about your favorite Dreamcast titles or which SNES game has the best soundtrack (any Donkey Kong Country 2 fans in here?). These spaces become little hubs of connection. Not just nostalgia, but community. Finding a copy of Super Metroid for the SNES, or Shenmue on the Dreamcast, or Dance Dance Revolution 2nd Mix—complete with a physical dance pad—is more than a lucky score. It’s proof that you can still experience gaming in its purest form: no patches, no microtransactions, no deluxe editions. Just a game. That works. That respects your time. That respects your wallet.
Of course, not everyone has a retro shop down the street or the budget to chase down original hardware. That’s where emulation comes in—and it's just as vital to the retro gaming ecosystem as the physical stuff. I know I’ve talked a lot about emulation here, but that’s because the stigma surrounding it is finally starting to fade and it's something I'm very passionate about. More and more people are realizing what the gaming community has known for decades: emulation isn’t just a workaround—it’s a lifeline.
Even major companies—Nintendo included—now rely on emulation to deliver retro titles through digital storefronts and subscription services. They've even used emulators in their own interactive exhibits at the new Nintendo Museum in Kyoto, Japan. The irony, of course, is hard to ignore. This is the same company that has spent decades aggressively fighting fan-made emulators and ROM sites, framing them as threats to the industry. And yet, here they are, using the very same technology to preserve and showcase their legacy. Whatever side of the irony you land on, one thing is clear: what was once seen as sketchy, underground, or outright illegal is now becoming mainstream—embraced not just by fans, but by the very companies that once condemned it.
That said, while the industry is only just beginning to embrace emulation on its own terms, fans have been carrying that torch for decades—quietly, passionately, and with a sense of purpose that goes far beyond profit. What used to be dismissed as a haven for piracy has evolved into one of gaming’s most important tools for preservation. It’s not about cutting corners. It’s about making sure a copy of Chrono Trigger isn’t locked behind a $300 cartridge on eBay. It’s about letting new generations experience EarthBound, Jet Set Radio, or Panzer Dragoon Saga without having to mortgage their future. Emulation is access. It's preservation. It's a quiet rebellion against digital rot and corporate indifference. And the best part? Emulators keep getting better.
Smoother visuals. More accurate performance. Features like save states, widescreen hacks, and controller remapping bring old games to life in new ways—without altering the heart of what made them special. Communities have worked tirelessly to translate Japanese-only titles, fix bugs developers never had time to patch, and even upscale textures to make decades-old games shine on modern screens. Emulation is DIY game preservation. It’s community-powered, passion-fueled, and driven by people who refuse to let these experiences fade into obscurity just because a company no longer finds them “profitable.” It’s the digital version of walking into a dusty game shop and discovering a gem—except now, the shop is global, and everyone’s invited.
And if emulation is how we preserve games, then fan projects are how we celebrate them.
Every day, fans are out there doing what entire studios won’t: remaking, reimagining, and rebuilding the games they love—not for profit, but for the sheer joy of it. ROM hacks that breathe new life into familiar worlds. Fan translations that give voice to games that never left Japan. Full-blown remakes made in Game Maker, Unity, or RPG Maker that rival the work of professional dev teams—sometimes even surpass it. Think of AM2R (Another Metroid 2 Remake), created by one person over the course of a decade. Nintendo took it down, sure—but by then, it had already spread like wildfire. Why? Because it was actually good. Because it captured what fans wanted and delivered it with care and polish. Or look at Mother 3—a game Nintendo still refuses to localize. Fans stepped up and did the job themselves, for free, with a level of detail and love that most official releases can only hope for.
Fan projects aren’t just technical marvels—they’re emotional ones. They exist because players care. Because they remember. Because they’re tired of waiting for publishers to notice, to act, to value these stories the way fans already do. These projects thrive not in spite of the industry—but in the absence of it. In the gaps left behind by neglect, mismanagement, and IP hoarding.
They're a reminder that gaming doesn’t just live in storefronts or marketing cycles. It lives in communities. In the hands of people who love it too much to let it fade.
In a world where $80 has become the new normal for AAA releases, it’s not just the underdog studios keeping the soul of gaming alive—it’s the players themselves. The fans. The preservationists. The ones digging through retro shops, maintaining emulators, translating decades-old RPGs, and building fan projects out of pure love. Because while the big publishers chase cinematic universes and investor slide decks, the rest of us are doing something quieter—but far more meaningful. We’re going back. We’re revisiting the games that shaped us, discovering the ones we missed, and finding new ways to enjoy old favorites. We’re reconnecting with what made gaming magical in the first place—not for profit, not for hype, but for the experience. And maybe that’s where the real future of gaming lives. Not just in what’s next—but in remembering what’s always been worth playing.
It’s that same mindset—rediscovery, value, freedom—that led me to the Steam Deck.
For all the noise around modern consoles, rising prices, and limited ecosystems, the Steam Deck has quietly become one of the most refreshing gaming experiences I’ve had in years. It’s not perfect, but it offers something the modern gaming landscape seems to have lost sight of: freedom.
You can install and play thousands of Steam games, many of which are already marked as “Steam Deck Verified” — meaning they’re optimized to work seamlessly on the handheld. From big AAA titles to indie gems, there’s no shortage of games ready to go right out of the box.
But what truly sets the Steam Deck apart is its openness and flexibility. Unlike closed consoles, you’re not locked into one storefront or ecosystem. You can install non-Steam games, emulators, and other launchers like Epic Games or GOG. You can run fan-made mods, community patches, and even full ROM collections if that’s your thing. You can boot into a full desktop environment and use it like a regular PC. It’s not just a gaming device—it’s a sandbox. A portable portal into gaming’s past, present, and future. That’s the magic. It’s a device that puts players first. That doesn’t nickel and dime. That doesn’t force you to repurchase games you already own or lock content behind a subscription. It reminds you what it feels like to just… play.
Power to the Players
Honestly? That part’s up to us. We’re not powerless in this—no matter how much it might feel that way. Every time a new console is announced or a $70–$80 remake or re-release trends for all the wrong reasons, I see the same tired, defeatist reactions echo across social media. The outrage flares up, then fades under a wave of comments like:
“We need to boycott!”
“Nothing’s ever going to change.”
“Just vote with your wallet.”
“This is the world we live in now.”
“They’ll keep charging more because people keep paying.”
“It is what it is.”
But I’m here to tell you—our voice matters. And it has made a difference. The gaming community, when it comes together, has moved mountains in this industry.
Remember the $599 PS3 reveal? The memes, the mockery, the backlash—it wasn’t just about the price. It was about the tone. Sony’s E3 2006 presentation was widely criticized for being arrogant and out of touch, famously boasting about the system’s “work ethic” and encouraging players to “get a second job” to afford one. The reveal was packed with awkward moments—from the bizarre “Giant Enemy Crab” demo to a gameplay showcase that lacked polish. But nothing landed harder than that $599 price tag. In a single announcement, Sony alienated fans and gave Microsoft’s Xbox 360 a massive head start.
While the PS3 eventually found its footing later in the generation thanks to stellar exclusives and a gradual price cut, the damage from that reveal lingered for years. Sony lost its dominant position in the console space, and the PS3 lagged behind the Xbox 360 for most of its life. It wasn't just a commercial stumble—it was a lesson in hubris. A reminder that even the market leader can fall when it forgets who it's speaking to.
And then there was the disastrous Xbox One reveal in 2013, where Microsoft tried to push always-online DRM, restrict used game sharing, and force Kinect integration as a non-optional, always-listening peripheral. The reveal focused more on TV features, sports partnerships, and voice commands than games, leaving many fans confused, frustrated, and even insulted. Gamers raised hell. The messaging was tone-deaf and corporate, seemingly treating consumers more like data points than players. Pre-orders tanked. Memes went viral. Sony, smelling blood in the water, struck hard at E3 by revealing a cheaper, more powerful PlayStation 4 with a simple message: “We’re here for gamers.”
Within weeks, Microsoft backtracked—reversing almost every policy, unbundling Kinect, and eventually replacing Don Mattrick with Phil Spencer to lead the Xbox division. But the damage was already done. The Xbox One never recovered its momentum. That single reveal gave Sony a massive head start and a surge of goodwill heading into the PS4 era—an advantage they carried through the entire generation. PlayStation reclaimed the top spot in the console race, while Xbox spent years trying to repair its image and rebuild trust with the gaming community. Even now, more than a decade later, the effects still linger.
Microsoft is still working to redefine what the Xbox brand even is...
Especially with pivoting to services like Game Pass, cross-platform play, and cloud gaming. They’ve done a lot of good since then. But the ghost of 2013 still haunts them, and in many ways, they’re still trying to climb out from under it.
Then there’s the Mass Effect 3 ending backlash. After investing hundreds of hours across an epic trilogy where every choice was promised to matter, players were met with an ending that felt rushed, vague, and disconnected from everything they had built. Fans weren’t just upset—they were devastated. Forums lit up. Reddit exploded. The disappointment was everywhere. And it wasn’t just noise—it was grief over the loss of an emotional journey that deserved better.
The outcry became so overwhelming that BioWare responded directly, releasing the Extended Cut DLC just a few months later. It added context, clarity, and emotional closure to the original endings—something they hadn’t initially planned to do. It wasn’t a perfect fix, but it was a direct acknowledgment that the fans’ voices had been heard.
Star Wars Battlefront II? That wasn’t just internet outrage—it was a full-blown industry reckoning. The game launched with a progression system deeply tied to loot boxes, meaning players were encouraged to spend real money to unlock core gameplay elements like heroes and abilities. The grind was intentionally brutal, pushing microtransactions as the “convenient” alternative. When a Reddit post criticizing EA’s response to this system became the most downvoted comment in the platform’s history, it lit a fire across the internet.
The backlash exploded beyond the gaming sphere. It made headlines on major news outlets. It drew the attention of U.S. politicians. Shareholders panicked. EA scrambled to remove the monetization system just days before the official launch, and later overhauled the entire progression model. But the ripple effect didn’t stop there. This controversy became the tipping point for how governments began to view loot boxes. Belgium and the Netherlands became the first countries to officially classify them as a form of gambling—forcing publishers like EA and Blizzard to disable or remove loot box mechanics in those regions entirely. What started as a fan revolt became a global catalyst for legislative action, sparking debates that continue to shape how games are monetized today.
Even recently, Helldivers 2 players organized a massive review-bombing campaign against Sony after the company announced it would begin requiring all Steam players to link a PlayStation Network (PSN) account—even in countries where PSN isn’t available. The move was seen as intrusive, unnecessary, and outright exclusionary, effectively locking out players in dozens of regions. The backlash was immediate and ferocious.
Within hours, the game’s Steam rating plummeted from “Overwhelmingly Positive” to “Overwhelmingly Negative,” as tens of thousands of players left negative reviews. Social media exploded. Developers at Arrowhead, the studio behind the game, began responding directly to fans, expressing their own frustration and hinting that the decision wasn’t theirs to make. And within days—days—Sony backtracked. The requirement was dropped, and the PSN linking plan was scrapped entirely. Why? Because when enough people push back—loudly, clearly, and collectively—companies have no choice but to listen.
Gamers Remember
And these are just a few examples of the kind of power gamers truly have. These aren’t flukes. These are milestones. Proof that organized, passionate communities can challenge even the biggest players in the industry—and win. We, the gamers, have forced policy changes. We’ve changed laws. We’ve changed launch strategies. We’ve flipped billion-dollar marketing plans on their heads. So no—“nothing’s ever going to change” isn’t an excuse. It’s a mindset the industry wants you to have. Because if you believe it, you’ll stay quiet. You’ll keep scrolling. You’ll keep spending. But they don’t control the conversation. We do.
As much as publishers want us to believe that rising prices, paid upgrades, and endless monetization are just “the new normal,” we still have a say. We decide what’s worth our time, our money, our trust. We decide who we show up for—and who we walk away from. Even now, as Nintendo carves out its own path with $70 ports and $90 bundles, it’s worth remembering: gamers aren’t angry because they don’t care. They’re angry because they do. Because we remember what this medium meant to us. Still means to us. We remember what it felt like to be excited for something—before the upgrade fees, before the microtransactions, before the spreadsheets.
And here’s the truth the industry doesn’t want to admit: the future of gaming doesn’t belong to publishers, platforms, or price tags. It belongs to the players who never stopped caring.
So if you’re tired of what gaming’s become—don’t give up. Push back. Speak up. Support the creators and communities who still believe in what this medium can be. Share the games that inspired you. Revisit the ones that reminded you why you fell in love with it all in the first place.
Because the future of gaming?
It’s not locked behind a paywall.
It’s in our hands.
Always has been.
Thanks for reading.
Sincerely,
BlueNile101
Comments