The Feeling I Keep Chasing
I know a specific feeling when I find it.
It’s the feeling of discovering a game that seems to have been made for me. A game that doesn’t feel like a generic recommendation. A game that feels personal.
It’s not about the game being perfect. It’s about the game being right. Right for my taste. Right for my mood. Right for the kind of player I am.
I’ve been chasing that feeling for years. And I’ve started to notice what makes some games feel personal—and why others feel like they were recommended by a generic algorithm.
The Algorithm Problem
Most recommendations are generic.
You see a game. The reviews are positive. The genre is right. The screenshots look good. You buy it. You play it. It’s fine. It’s good, even. But it doesn’t feel special.
That’s the algorithm talking. The algorithm is good at matching broad categories. It knows you like puzzle games, so it recommends puzzle games. It knows you like pixel art, so it recommends pixel art games.
But the algorithm doesn’t know what makes a game feel personal to you. It doesn’t know the specific things that make you connect with a game. It doesn’t know the subtle details that separate a good game from a great one.
That’s where the human element comes in.
What Makes a Game Feel Personal
I’ve been thinking about what makes a game feel personal. Here’s what I’ve noticed.
Specificity. A personal recommendation is specific. It doesn’t just say "this is a good game." It says "this is a good game if you like X" or "this game does Y better than anything else." It’s focused. It’s precise.
Context. A personal recommendation comes with context. It tells you why the game matters. It tells you when it was released. It tells you what it was competing with. It tells you who made it and why they made it.
Honesty. A personal recommendation is honest. It doesn’t pretend the game is perfect. It acknowledges the flaws. It tells you what doesn’t work. It helps you decide if the game is right for you.
Discovery. A personal recommendation feels like discovery. It’s not a list of the most popular games. It’s a list of games that deserve more attention. It’s about finding something that was hiding in plain sight.
Connection. A personal recommendation feels like a connection. It’s someone saying, "I think you’ll like this because I liked this." It’s personal. It’s human. It’s not a transaction.
The Difference Between Generic and Personal
Let me give you an example of the difference.
A generic recommendation says: "This is a good puzzle game. You should play it."
A personal recommendation says: "This puzzle game has a clever mechanic where you manipulate time to solve puzzles. It’s short—about 4 hours—and it doesn’t waste your time. The puzzles are challenging but fair. The atmosphere is quiet and reflective. If you liked Monument Valley or The Room, you’ll probably like this."
See the difference? The generic recommendation tells you nothing. The personal recommendation tells you everything you need to know to make a decision.
Why This Matters
This matters because recommendations are how we discover games.
When someone recommends a game to you, they’re not just giving you a name. They’re giving you a reason to care. They’re giving you a reason to try it. They’re giving you a reason to trust them.
A good recommendation is a gift. It’s someone sharing something they loved with you. It’s personal. It’s human. It’s not just information.
How I Find Personal Games
I spend a lot of time looking for games.
I scroll through Steam discovery queues. I read festival demos. I follow threads on forums I’ve been visiting for years. I keep a notebook with names of games I want to try.
But I also pay attention to the context. I look at when a game was released. I look at what it was competing with. I look at who made it and why.
I’m not just looking for good games. I’m looking for games that feel personal. Games that seem like they were made for someone like me.
The Role of Restraint
One thing I’ve noticed about personal recommendations: they’re restrained.
When you recommend a game to a friend, you don’t say "this is the best game ever made." You say "I think you’ll like this."
Restraint is important. It builds trust. It tells the reader that you’re not just trying to hype up a game. You’re trying to help them find something they’ll actually enjoy.
I try to practice restraint in my writing. I don’t overpraise. I don’t pretend every game is a masterpiece. I’m honest about the flaws. I’m honest about the limitations.
If a game is good but not great, I say that. If a game is flawed but still worth your time, I say that too.
What I’m Trying to Do
I’m trying to write personal recommendations.
I’m trying to tell you why a game matters to me. I’m trying to tell you why it might matter to you. I’m trying to be honest about what works and what doesn’t.
I’m not trying to be a critic. I’m not trying to be a journalist. I’m just trying to be a person who loves games and wants to share them with other people.
If that sounds like something you’d be interested in, stick around. I’ve got a lot of games to talk about.
The Bottom Line
A hidden gem doesn’t feel like a personal recommendation because it’s obscure. It feels personal because someone made an effort to connect.
It’s not about the game being rare. It’s about the recommendation being thoughtful.
If you want to find games that feel personal, look for recommendations that are specific, honest, and contextual. Look for people who care about the games they’re recommending.
That’s what I’m trying to do here.
What it does well is smaller—and smarter—than the marketing suggests.
Not a masterpiece. Still worth your time.
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