Recently I sat on a panel at a games event where the organisers were discussing ways to attract more people to their festival, and lowering the intimidation barrier to make games culture more welcoming. The panellists talked about their experience with diversity initiatives and ways to spark non-gamer interest in playable exhibitions.The conversation solicited feedback from the audience, and was mostly fruitful. But at one point a young man raised his hand and said he didn’t like the idea of accessibility. He described how much less he would enjoy Dark Souls if it were friendlier. As he spoke, one of a row of men who’d had their arms crossed throughout shouted a supportive “woo!”Of course, his point wasn’t really relevant to the discussion, which wasn’t about making hard games easy or diluting traditional videogames but about how to share a passion for games with others who may be less exposed to them or have preconceptions about them. Other participants tried to get the discussion back on track, but nearly every one of them preceded their statements with the reinforcement that they liked Dark Souls, they really did, but other people might find it too intimidating. It’s as if they felt expressing a preference for easier, more welcoming games would somehow rob them of their credibility.Now, I like Dark Souls, I really do. But that turn in the conversation crystallised some thoughts I’ve had since reading argumentative comments on articles I’ve written calling for more diversity in gaming. Oh my goodness, I thought: people associate accessibility and diversity with the ‘dumbing down’ of an entire medium. How did that happen?I remember the mass exodus just a few years ago of traditional developers and experienced studio execs into the mobile and social space, which at its outset was highly focused on Facebook. These developers were entering a stage of life when marriage and family meant it no longer suited them to work the usual long hours. But more than that, they no longer had the time themselves to invest in the all-consuming 40-hour games they used to make.The Facebook boom heralded an uncomfortable identity crisis in the developer community, coinciding with the rise of Zynga. Why take years of skill, experience and faith in the medium of design, and work on products designed to forcibly monetise consumers through friction and pinch points? It wasn’t just the industry’s moral unease with social game monetisation, though. It was hard to admire endless cartoonish requests for farm goods and not see the player as a bug-eyed bobblehead eager for White Mystery Eggs.

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