Have you ever paused to consider what game creators envision when they’re thinking about games—or how they view the medium itself? When a story doesn’t quite land, or when the writing feels out of sync, do you look for what’s behind that disconnect? Why does it happen? What steps, tools, and thought processes shape the work? And why do some choices stay merely “good” while others rise to something truly exceptional? Is there a kind of science at play—and if there is, what does it look like? A new book from Inkle, the respected British studio behind TR-49, Heaven’s Vault, 80 Days, A Highland Song, Expelled!, and many more, sets out to explore exactly that.
The title is The Game Narrative Kaleidoscope; “Kaleidoscope” hints at the lively mix of ideas inside. It includes more than 100 essays on the craft of game writing, written by people who build our gaming worlds or help shape them through narrative. Among the best-known names are Jordan Mechner, the mind behind Prince of Persia, and Rhianna Pratchett, who wrote for Tomb Raider, plus a long list of other contributors.
At first, it might sound like it could be a tough slog, and in physical form it really does come across like a weighty textbook—no disrespect to Inkle, but it does bring school days rushing back. Still, once you start reading, the whole experience shifts. The Kaleidoscope ends up being both compelling and surprisingly easy to get through. The essays arrive like a run of focused takeaways: small flashes of guidance delivered one after another. With a friendly, clever nod to Choose Your Own Adventure books, you can move through it in whichever order suits you, since there’s no fixed route. You don’t have to work through it from cover to cover. Each essay also points you toward a couple of similar pieces to check next, and I genuinely like that approach.
Most of the guidance is aimed at developers, but it doesn’t stop the rest of us from wanting to listen in. Talking about games is better when the conversation comes from someone deeply involved in making them. For example, an essay about improving NPC “barks”—the on-the-fly lines characters blurt out while they roam—becomes an easy doorway to a point I made about how The Witcher 3 includes a lot of swearing. Moments like that offer an intriguing window into how games are built, while also echoing bigger conversations about learning to appreciate players who can’t stand you.
Mary Kenney, who wrote Marvel’s Spider-Man: Miles Morales and co-led narrative development for the upcoming Marvel’s Wolverine, authored the sharply pointed essay mentioned earlier about what happens when players feel hostile toward you. “What happens when the player actually hates you?” she asks. She says she wrestled with this after GamerGate, when she found herself drained by an audience she was supposed to be engaging with. How do you rebuild that sense of goodwill afterward? “I don’t know when I’ll trust the player again,” she admits, even though she’s working her way back—right now she’s involved with Cyberpunk 2. It’s a blunt reminder of the real harm that toxicity can cause.
📖 THE GAME NARRATIVE KALEIDOSCOPE ❄️ is out NOW!
www.inklestudios.com/kaleidoscope
100+ essays on writing & narrative design, featuring articles from the writers of Baldur’s Gate 3, Control, Call of Duty, Prince of Persia, Tomb Raider, Sam and Max…
ALSO check out the Kaleidoscope Podcast with 2 complete episodes!— inkle (@inkle.co) 4 March 2026 at 09:54
As I went through the book, I noticed a handful of themes showing up again and again—one of them, I’m sure, won’t feel surprising. It centers on accepting the role of villains in games, something I’m especially drawn to, which you can see in my own Bertie’s Evil Adventures in Baldur’s Gate 3. I ran into multiple essays that circle this idea. “There will always be some drama-loving individuals who are drawn to the evil choices in a decision-driven game,” notes Christine Love—noted for her work on the erotic visual novel Ladykiller in a Bind and the lesbian road-trip RPG Get in the Car, Loser—almost like she’s speaking straight to me. “What makes an evil choice compelling is its capacity to surprise the player and push them out of their comfort zone; most importantly, it generates drama and intrigue.” I completely agree. “Significant consequences lead to a better narrative.”
That said, there was another perspective I hadn’t expected—one that gave me plenty to think about. It came from Adam Heine. He’s a writer who worked on Planescape: Torment years ago, and later on the spiritual successor Torment: Tides of Numenera. He shared thoughts with me earlier, and while he’s written dark dialogue options before, his Kaleidoscope essay reads like a shift in attitude: he says today’s sociopolitical climate has cooled his interest in that kind of storytelling. “In a world where cruelty has become an increasingly acceptable political tactic? I see no need to satisfy that particular player fantasy,” he writes. It’s hard to argue with that viewpoint.
Another thread I kept returning to is the value of leaving room in games for players to bring their own interpretations. Pete Stewart, an outstanding person and senior writer at Respawn—where he contributed to Jedi Survivor (previously working on Total War)—stresses how important it is to invite players’ imaginations so the game feels complete. He discourages overly thorough explanations, saying, “Hooks, presented but left unexplained, offer opportunities for imagination: these are the gaps between the bricks through which players may glimpse an untamed garden beyond.” And I really love how bold that message is: “The guesswork is the essence of storytelling.”
Alex Epstein, who writes for We Happy Few and South of Midnight, backs up this idea. “Mysteries foster the sensation that there’s more to this world than meets the eye. A universe devoid of mysteries feels contrived,” he says. Epstein goes on to share a few “dirty tricks”—his phrase for ways to make worlds feel more absorbing. Adding mysteries is one route, while omissions, misleading details, unreliable accounts, and competing versions of events are others. “We must compel the player to fill in our world for us,” he insists. “The player creates a richer and more convincing universe in their imagination than we could ever construct digitally. […] So, rumple all the beds in your game world and make the player question who has been resting there.”
“Rumple all the beds in your game world and make the player wonder who’s been sleeping there.”
A few additional ideas grabbed my attention as I read—like one raised by Sea of Thieves writer Chris Allcock, who wonders why games don’t include more moments of the “Previously…” variety. You know the sort: similar to those
found in television programs. “It’s our chance to step into the role of the gaming sidekick—someone who jumps in when our friend turns to us and asks that classic question: What am I supposed to be doing?” he writes. By the way, The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt does this especially well.
Another thought worth considering came from Andrew Plotkin (Hadean Lands), who wondered why games rarely show how much time is left. Books do it, films do too, and neither of those formats seems to be harmed by the practice. “Narrative tension is built from the story’s structure,” he explains.
So what perspectives does Jordan Mechner bring to the table? The main takeaway is this: games are a medium with their own identity. “A game is defined by the actions of the players,” Mechner says. “We don’t play video games to sit back and observe someone else’s experience, or to pick up emotions secondhand. We play so we can take on the part of the central hero in our own stories.” If players lose sight of that for too long—say, when they’re pulled into an extended cinematic sequence—you can end up damaging the enjoyment. “Leave them stuck there for too long, and your game will start to stumble.”
I’ll admit I’m being less than generous by not sharing every essay I’ve run across while browsing Kaleidoscope’s pages, but there simply isn’t room here, and I haven’t read everything anyway. Still, I’ve come away with plenty. I’ve found useful takeaways about game design and writing methods that I’ve already put into practice; even one small lesson has reshaped how I write. Thanks, Alice Camp.
It feels as if I’ve been gently ushered into a sort of club—or at least invited to linger just outside, listening through the letterbox while the fascinating people within offer thoughtful ideas as I quietly eavesdrop and borrow their phrasing. By putting this book together, Jon Ingold from Inkle seems to have given shape to something that’s usually hard to pin down: the hidden world of game creators.
We know these developers are out there, and that there are many people writing narratives for games. But until you actually see them presented together in a tangible form—like a volume such as this—it’s difficult to appreciate how many there really are. It amounts to a meaningful number of people, and I’m sure it’s only a slice of the total. The metaphorical gathering place where I’m standing outside has windows clouded by the breath of everyone inside, each of them energized and swapping ideas. Ideas linking up with ideas—wouldn’t it be a shame to lose that?
I’ll wrap up with one of the best opening sentences from an essay I’ve ever read. Christian Donlan once said that the first line of any piece is a gift—it’s an opening to win the reader over and encourage them to keep going, or something very close to that. I’m certain he put it more elegantly. I can’t think of a clearer example of this than the first essay in Kaleidoscope by Alistair Atcheson (The Incredible Playable Show). “Hollywood actor Pierce Brosnan lounges lazily in his armchair,” he writes. “‘Suck my toes, my darling,’ he says.” How could you not want to read on?
Have a wonderful weekend.
The Game Narrative Kaleidoscope is available in multiple editions from Inkle’s website, at very fair prices. There’s also a companion Kaleidoscope podcast, where the book’s essay authors are interviewed as part of more detailed conversations.