terça-feira, 1 de setembro de 2026

Language games, family resemblances, and game design: a reading from Wittgenstein

In an interview I conducted here in Gaming Conceptz with researcher Espen Aarseth on March 11, 2012, I asked him: "There's a lot of definitions for 'game.' From Huizinga to contemporary authors we can find a lot of ideas about this subject. What's your definition of 'game?" He replied: "I am with Wittgenstein on this one; '"game" ("Spiel") is a concept that cannot be formally defined, and when we try to do so, we inevitably end up with merely a definition of a sub genre. I do have a definition of games, but I also acknowledge that this is an overproductive definition, that also includes phenomena such as musical instruments: "Games are facilitators that structure behavior, mainly for the purpose of entertainment." Note that I don't use the word 'rules,' but the broader term 'structure'."

From that day on, I devoted myself to studying the question through Wittgenstein's Philosophical Investigations. It took a while, but I finally began sketching some ideas connecting this point to the practice of game design (this post, in fact, will form part of an article currently in production).

The theoretical grounding for the definition of "game" is generally established through a dialogue between sociological and anthropological perspectives, such as those of Huizinga (2001 [1938]), Caillois (1986 [1958]), and Retondar (2013). This perspective, however, finds a fundamental turning point in Ludwig Wittgenstein's Philosophical Investigations (1953).

For the Austrian philosopher, the concept of game is not merely an object of study but the paradigmatic example for addressing the impossibility of delimiting concepts through unique, essential properties. In proposing the notion of "family resemblances," Wittgenstein argues that what unites the diverse manifestations of play is not a universal essence but a complex network of overlapping and criss-crossing affinities. This discussion, developed in sections 65 through 71 of his posthumous work (WITTGENSTEIN, 1999 [1953], pp. 52–54), lays the epistemological foundations that underlie the contemporary structure of game design and game studies, challenging the search for definitions in the field.

Before addressing the question of the game as an object, Wittgenstein introduces the concept of the "language game" (Sprachspiel), noting that he understands this to mean the whole formed by language and the activities into which it is woven (WITTGENSTEIN, 1999 [1953], p. 30). The metaphor of the game is chosen precisely to underscore that language is not a closed system of representations but a living practice whose meaning emerges from use in specific contexts.

Wittgenstein (1999 [1953], p. 35) also radicalizes this perspective by listing the multiplicity of possible linguistic forms: "acting according to commands," "describing an object," "inventing a story," "play-acting," "singing a round" and so on. The philosopher concludes that "this multiplicity is not something fixed, given once for all; but new types of language, new language games, as we may say, come into existence, and others become obsolete and get forgotten." This constitutive instability is fundamental: just as language is transformed through its uses, games likewise do not obey a stable, definitive form.

A point that stands out for its connection to contemporary game design ideas is the exercise of trying to define what, potentially, all games have in common. From here, Wittgenstein (1999 [1953], p. 52) proposes the following line of reasoning:

Consider, for example, the proceedings that we call "games." I mean board-games, card-games, ball-games, Olympic games, and so on. What is common to them all? Don't say: "There must be something common, or they would not be called 'games'" — but look and see whether there is anything common to all. For if you look at them you will not see something that is common to all, but similarities, relationships, and a whole series of them at that.


The instruction is methodological: rather than assuming an essence exists and then searching for it, one must look at the concrete phenomena themselves. And in looking, one finds that there is no single property running through all games. Board games share certain characteristics with card games, which in turn resemble certain games of skill, which share traits with sports — but the properties linking one pair are not always present in the next. The result is a network of overlaps and crossings with no fixed core. Wittgenstein concludes the reasoning by stating that "we see a complicated network of similarities overlapping and criss-crossing: sometimes overall similarities, sometimes similarities of detail" (WITTGENSTEIN, 1999 [1953], p. 52).

To name this structure of kinship without essence, Wittgenstein (1999 [1953], p. 52) coins the concept of "family resemblances" (Familienähnlichkeiten): the various resemblances among members of a family overlap and criss-cross in the same way — build, features, color of eyes, gait, temperament, and so on — and games likewise form a family. By the same reasoning, we recognize that two cousins belong to the same family not because they share all the same characteristics, but because each bears resemblances to other members of the family network. The concept operates through continuity and contrast, not through identity. Applied to games, this means that what makes something a game is not the presence of an essential trait, but its participation in a network of resemblances with other practices we already call games.

Wittgenstein (1999 [1953], p. 53) extends the argument using the concept of "number" as an example: just as we cannot define "number" through a single essential property, neither can we close the concept of game. The author asks directly: "How is the concept of game bounded? What still counts as a game and what no longer does? Can you give the boundary? No. You can draw one; for none has so far been drawn." For the philosopher, this openness is not a problem to be solved; it is precisely how the concept functions.

The Wittgensteinian discussion reverberates directly through the problems that designers and game researchers face when attempting to define, categorize, and design both video games and analog games. Suits (2005 [1978]) proposed that playing a game consists of "the voluntary attempt to overcome unnecessary obstacles," establishing criteria such as goals, rules, lusory means, and the lusory attitude — a direct response to the Wittgensteinian challenge. Salen and Zimmerman (2004) acknowledge the difficulty and compile dozens of existing definitions, evidencing precisely the proliferation of "family resemblances" that no single definition can contain. Juul (2005), in turn, adopts an intermediate stance, proposing a "half-real" model that recognizes the heterogeneity of games without relinquishing a minimal set of functional properties.

The diversity of the contemporary analog game market, for instance, renders the Wittgensteinian question observable in practice. Role-playing games such as Fiasco (MORNINGSTAR, 2011) operate with almost no formalized mechanics; narrative-experience games such as Dixit (ROUBIRA, 2008) challenge the centrality of victory as a defining component. No essentialist definition encompasses this entire diversity without arbitrarily excluding practices that we intuitively recognize as belonging to the same "family." The Wittgensteinian model is, potentially, the only philosophical framework that accommodates this multiplicity without forcing reductions.



The concept of the language game also has a specific application to game design: each game constitutes, in a certain sense, a language game of its own. Rules do not describe a pre-existing reality; they constitute it. The idea of "death" in the video game Dark Souls (FROMSOFTWARE, 2011) signifies a punitive restart that is integrated into narrative and mechanical progression; it is radically different from what "death" means in The Sims (MAXIS, 2000), where it may be tied to a comic, accidental, and reversible situation. These are distinct language games, whose meaning emerges exclusively from the context of rules and practices that constitute them.



Wittgenstein had already pointed to this: we learn what a game is through examples, not through definitions. As he writes, "examples are given and they are meant to be understood in a certain sense" (WITTGENSTEIN, 1999 [1953], p. 54). Meaning does not exist prior to the game; it is constructed in practice, in the act of playing.

This conclusion carries a direct implication for the design and playtesting process, to be explored in the following sections: if the meaning of each game is constituted by its own system of rules and practices, then testing it necessarily means putting it into play — that is, having people play it and observing what emerges from that experience. The singularity of each game, as a unique language game, is precisely what makes the presence of real players irreplaceable in the process of evaluating a prototype. No system external to the game can determine, in its place, whether that specific language game is functioning as an experience.

Wittgenstein's contribution to the field of game design is thus epistemological in nature: it frees the designer and researcher from the search for an essence that does not exist and invites them to operate with open, malleable concepts that are sensitive to history and to the context of use. In a field where new genres constantly emerge, this conceptual openness is not a limitation but a condition of thought.

#GoGamers

References:

CAILLOIS, Roger. Los juegos y los hombres: la máscara y el vértigo. Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1986 [1958].

HUIZINGA, Johan. Homo Ludens. São Paulo: Perspectiva, 2001 [1938].

JUUL, Jesper. Half-Real: Video Games between Real Rules and Fictional Worlds. Cambridge: MIT Press, 2005.

RETONDAR, Jeferson. Teoria do jogo: a dimensão lúdica da existência humana. Petrópolis: Vozes, 2013.

SALEN, Katie; ZIMMERMAN, Eric. Rules of Play: Game Design Fundamentals. Massachusetts: The MIT Press, 2004.

SUITS, Bernard. The Grasshopper: Games, Life and Utopia. Toronto: Broadview Encore Editions, 2005 [1978].

WITTGENSTEIN, Ludwig. Philosophical Investigations (Coleção Os Pensadores). São Paulo: Nova Cultural, 1999 [1953].

segunda-feira, 3 de agosto de 2026

Connecting gaming ecosystems: Serbia & Brazil

Two weeks ago, I unlocked a new milestone in my professional life: I gave a presentation about the Brazilian Games Ecosystem at the Serbian Games Association in Belgrade, Serbia.

Long story short: my cousin, João Eduardo Martin, works as a diplomat at the Brazilian Embassy in Belgrade. He manages cultural projects in the country and opened the door for me to talk about games at SGA. Since I was already visiting my cousin on vacation, we combined tourism with business.



João and I spoke with Mihajlo Jovanović-Džaril (CEO of SGA) and Tatjana Ristić (Project Coordinator) about potential partnerships in industry, market, and education.

Now, we have pitched initial ideas for future gaming projects between Serbia and Brazil. What’s coming next? A book? A game? A podcast? Soon I’ll share the news here!

Epic win

#GoGamers

quarta-feira, 1 de julho de 2026

Why the game of Go defies the universe

When we think of strategically complex board games, Chess is usually the first name that comes to mind for most people. However, if we look strictly at the mathematics behind the gameplay possibilities, the Western classic looks almost simple compared to the ancient Eastern game of Go.



A fascinating trivia piece from the Brazilian book "A descoberta dos números: uma aventura matemática" (The discovery of numbers: a mathematical adventure), by mathematician Marcelo Viana, helps us put this scale into a cosmic perspective.

Numbers That Defy the Universe

In Chess, it is estimated that there are "only" 1040 (the number 1 followed by 40 zeros) possible positions on the board. That is an enormous amount, without a doubt.

Yet, when we move to the Go board, the simple rules of surrounding territories generate an unbelievable combinatorial explosion: the number of possible positions is greater than 10170 (the number 1 followed by 170 zeros).

To give you an idea of what this actually means:

• 1040: Estimated possible positions in Chess.
• 1080: Estimated number of atoms in the entire known universe.
• 10170: Possible positions in Go.

The Game Design and A.I. Nightmare

In other words, there are drastically more possible configurations in a single game of Go than there are grains of sand on Earth, stars in the sky, or atoms scattered across the entire observable cosmos.

For anyone who studies or works with game design, this brutal difference explains why computers took so long to defeat human masters at Go. While "brute force" calculation managed to beat world Chess champion Garry Kasparov back in 1997 (with Deep Blue), a purely mathematical approach was physically impossible for Go. No machine could ever compute 10170 paths.

It required the development of deep neural networks and artificial intelligence based on intuition and continuous learning (like DeepMind's AlphaGo) to finally break through the barrier of this infinite tangle of nodes and branches in 2016.

Go proves that, sometimes, the most minimalist rules yield the most vast and unpredictable systems that the human mind—and the universe itself—can fathom.

#GoGamers  



Reference:

VIANA, Marcelo. A descoberta dos números: Uma aventura matemática. Rio de Janeiro: Tinta da China, 2025.

segunda-feira, 8 de junho de 2026

Understanding games as media: from McLuhan to Flanagan

The understanding of games as a media phenomenon finds one of its foundational theoretical milestones in Marshall McLuhan’s seminal work, Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man (1964). In the chapter dedicated to the subject, titled "Games: The Extensions of Man", McLuhan proposes a rupture with the trivialized view of play, elevating games to the same epistemological status as any other medium of communication. According to the author:
games are popular art, collective social reactions to the main drive and pressure of any culture. Games, like institutions, are extensions of social man and of the body politic, as technologies are extensions of the animal organism (MCLUHAN, 1964, p. 235).

This definition articulates two essential theoretical movements. The first concerns the collective and participatory nature of games: unlike other media, the game presupposes the subject's active adherence to its formal structure, what McLuhan terms interplay, meaning the dialogic quality that transforms the game into a system of symbolic exchanges among participants (MCLUHAN, 1964, p. 242). The second movement refers to the modeling function of games in relation to the culture that generates them; as the author notes, "games are faithful models of a culture. They incorporate both the action and the reaction of whole populations in a single dynamic image" (MCLUHAN, 1964, p. 235).



In this sense, the game does not represent culture from the outside; it is culture in operation, codified into ritualized rules, tensions, and resolutions. McLuhan articulates this thesis within his broader conception of media as extensions of the human body and mind. Every medium prolongs a human faculty: the wheel extends the foot, the book extends the eye, and games, as media, extend the social nervous system, offering models of collective participation that escape the fragmentation of specialized labor. This is precisely why the author states that "games are situations contrived and controlled extensions of group consciousness, which permit a release from customary patterns, as if society were holding a conversation with itself" (MCLUHAN, 1964, p. 244).

This perspective finds contemporary resonance in the work of Flanagan (2009), who situates digital games within the broader framework of hegemonic cultural media. Flanagan points out that digital games can be considered a contemporary medium, and that computers and video game consoles have become a highly significant cultural vehicle, reaching diverse audiences across different economic and social classes, ages, and genders (FLANAGAN, 2009, p. 1). The convergence between McLuhan’s and Flanagan’s theses lies precisely in the affirmation of the game as a mass communication system, not merely by the volume of transmitted messages, but by its capacity to engender forms of cultural participation and identification on an expanded scale.



References:

FLANAGAN, Mary. Critical Play: Radical Game Design. Cambridge: The MIT Press, 2009.

McLUHAN, Marshall. Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man. New York: McGraw-Hill, 1964.

sexta-feira, 1 de maio de 2026

New look, new projects: my game design portfolio is live!

Building a strong portfolio is essential for any game designer. It serves as your visual and functional resume, showcasing not just the finished products, but your creative process and problem-solving skills.

Here are three fundamental advantages of having a dedicated game design portfolio:

1.Proof of versatility: it demonstrates your ability to work across different genres, mechanics, and platforms—whether digital or analog.

2.narrative of process: a good portfolio explains the "why" behind your design choices, proving your strategic thinking to potential collaborators and clients.

3.professional identity: it establishes your unique voice and design philosophy in a highly competitive industry.

I'm happy to share that my portfolio website has been completely updated with a fresh new look! Check out my latest projects and games here! Click in the image below:



#GoGamers

segunda-feira, 6 de abril de 2026

THE ART OF FAILING WELL: Jesper Juul and the paradox at the heart of games

There is something strange about the way we play video games. We load them up knowing full well that we are going to fail — sometimes spectacularly, sometimes painfully, almost always repeatedly. And yet we keep going. We press continue. We retry. We lose an hour to a single boss fight and call it a good evening.



Jesper Juul, in The Art of Failure (2013), offers one of the most lucid and uncomfortable explanations for this behavior: failure is not a flaw in game design. It is the point.

Two kinds of failure

Juul opens his analysis by drawing a crucial distinction that any thoughtful player will immediately recognize:

"two types of failure: 1) real failure occurs when a player invests time into playing a game and fails; 2) fictional failure is what befalls the character(s) in the fictional game world." (JUUL, 2013, p. 25)

The example he gives is about Red Dead Redemption (*spoiler alert*). To advance the story, you must die with John Marston. There is no other way. The character's death is narratively mandatory; it is a fictional failure scripted into the architecture of the game. But the player's experience of that moment is something else entirely: real time invested, real emotional weight, and a loss that is simultaneously required and felt.

This double layer (the fictional and the real running in parallel) is what separates games from most other media. When you watch a film and the protagonist dies, you grieve. When you play a game and your character dies, you also grieve, but you also feel responsible. You were there. You were in control. The controller was in your hands.

Why we want to fail (at least a little)

This is where Juul's argument gets genuinely counterintuitive. He identifies two coexisting desires at work in the player:

"In games: 1) Immediate desire – desire to avoid failure; 2) Aesthetic desire – desire for an experience that includes partial failure." (JUUL, 2013, p. 43)

These two desires are in direct tension, and that tension is productive. You want to win — every instinct pushes toward success. But a game in which you never fail is not a game; it is an animation. The resistance of failure is what gives victory its meaning. More than that: partial failure, the stumble before the climb, is aesthetically desirable. It structures the experience. It creates the narrative arc that makes the eventual success feel earned. 

Juul pushes this further on page 45, offering a deceptively simple formulation that reframes the entire philosophy of play:

"Games are a perspective on failure and learning as enjoyment, or satisfaction." (JUUL, 2013, p. 45)

Games are not about succeeding. They are about the experience of learning to succeed — and that learning is, in itself, the pleasure. This has profound implications for how we think about difficulty, accessibility, and the design of failure states. A game that punishes without teaching fails its own purpose. A game that challenges while guiding turns failure into a feedback loop, and that loop is fun.

The emotional contract

There is another dimension to all of this that Juul does not let us ignore: emotion. We are not passive processors when we play. We are invested — sometimes uncomfortably so.

"We are emotionally affected by games, and we are aware of this before we start playing." (JUUL, 2013, p. 56)

This is remarkable if you sit with it. Before we press start, we already know that we will feel something. We anticipate frustration, excitement, satisfaction, even grief. We consent to being emotionally implicated. Games are, in this sense, a form of voluntary emotional exposure — and the management of that exposure, how much failure a player can absorb before the experience sours, is one of the deepest challenges in game design.

Responsibility and the fictional world

The most philosophically rich passage Juul offers on the subject comes near the end of the book, in a reflection on fictional tragedy:

"The problem with fictional tragedy also showed that it is failure that makes us feel responsible for the events in the fictional world." (JUUL, 2013, p. 117)

And then, almost as a counterpoint:

"Hamlet dies but it is not our fault." (JUUL, 2013, p. 118)

The contrast is sharp and clarifying. In theater, in film, in literature — we witness. We may be moved, we may be changed, but we are not culpable. Hamlet's death happens to him. In a game, your character's death happens because of you. The failure is yours, even when it is fictional. The agency that makes games uniquely engaging is the same agency that makes their failures uniquely personal.

This is why the death of John Marston lands differently than the death of any movie hero. You did not just watch it. You lived it, failed at it, and then had to choose to press continue.

What this means for design

Juul's framework has direct implications for anyone thinking seriously about game design. The management of failure — its frequency, its cost, its legibility, its emotional register — is not incidental to the game. It is the game. A well-designed failure state teaches, resets, and motivates. A poorly designed one exhausts, obscures, and alienates.

The games we remember most vividly are often those that failed us most meaningfully. The boss that took forty attempts. The level we thought was impossible. The narrative moment that demanded we lose before we could continue. These are not bugs in the experience. They are the experience.

Jesper Juul's The Art of Failure is a short book with a long argument, and that argument is this: to understand games, you must understand failure not as a negative outcome to be avoided, but as the generative force that makes play meaningful.

We load the game. We know we are going to fail. We press start anyway.

That is not masochism. That is game design.

#GoGamers



Reference:
JUUL, Jesper. The Art of Failure: an essay on the pain of playing video games. Cambridge/London: MIT Press, 2013.

quarta-feira, 4 de março de 2026

From game to the big screen: the minimalist horror of Iron Lung

Last year, I had the privilege of presenting my research on the indie Iron Lung at the Video Game Cultures conference in Prague. It was an incredible opportunity to discuss how creative constraints can redefine digital dread with scholars from around the world. I am now thrilled to share that this research has been expanded and transformed into a full book chapter, set to be published very soon, providing a deeper academic dive into how minimalism can maximize psychological horror.

While adapting the original conference paper into this upcoming book chapter, I saw a unique opportunity to expand the analysis by including the recently announced Iron Lung film adaptation. Observing how this indie narrative is transitioning to the cinema not only enriched the academic text but also served as the primary inspiration for this blog post. It is awesome to see how a project rooted in extreme digital minimalism is now evolving to challenge audiences in a completely different medium.

Check the content below!

• • •   

Minimalism, dread, and the leap to cinema

The timing of this publication couldn't be more appropriate. This month, David Szymanski’s oppressive masterpiece makes its debut in theaters, marking a significant milestone where indie game narratives occupy diverse media spaces. Iron Lung (2022) is a masterclass in what I term "horror ludens"—a playful yet terrifying engagement with fear that thrives not on high-fidelity graphics, but on the power of restraint.



The game’s transition to film underscores a core argument of my study: that the most unsettling stories are those that leave the most to the imagination. In the game, players are confined to a rusted submarine in an ocean of blood, forced to navigate using only a grainy, low-fidelity camera and rudimentary sonar. This "meta-diegetic" interface—where in-world tools are the only source of information—forces the player to become a co-author of their own terror. As Iacovides et al. (2015) suggest, removing traditional non-diegetic overlays (like HUDs) prevents immersion breaks, making the character's struggle identical to the player's cognitive labor.



Whether in the cockpit of a virtual sub or a seat in a dark theater, Iron Lung leverages "cosmic dread" by restricting sensory input. This forces our minds to fill the vast visual gaps with personalized forms of terror. As the film brings this desolate, blood-submerged moon to a wider audience, it continues to prove that in horror design, "less is more". By subjecting ourselves to these "unnecessary obstacles," we find a unique ludic pleasure in navigating existential despair.

 

References:

Iacovides, Ioanna, Jon Cox, Richard Kennedy, Paul Cairns, and Charlene Jennett. 2015. “Removing the HUD: The Impact of Non-diegetic Game Elements and Expertise on Player Involvement.” In Proceedings of the 2015 Annual Symposium on Computer-Human Interaction in Play, 13–22. London: ACM.

Mastrocola, Vicente Martin. 2014. Horror Ludens: Medo entretenimento e consumo em narrativas de videogames. São Paulo: Livrus.

Suits, Bernard. 2005. The Grasshopper: Games, Life and Utopia. Toronto: Broadview Encore Editions.


#GoGamers