Somatosensory bars in this world are like next-level gaming lounges, a step up from the old-school internet cafes.
Back in college, when my buddies asked me to hit up a gaming lounge, especially for an all-nighter, I'd be stuck in a weird limbo. "Go" or "no-go" felt like a coin toss in my head.
If a friend said, "Let's split the bill," I'd snap out of it and think, Nah, sleep's calling. I'm out. But if they said, "My treat," I'd be like, Hell yeah, let's roll!
We used to call it Schrödinger's gaming night.
But today, Zach Nolan was clearly in the "let's roll" mindset.
Rustle—
Slipping through a gap in the wall behind Evergreen University, Zach took a deep breath of the crisp early-winter air.
The somatosensory bar was just a block away, right across the intersection.
He and Max Wheeler were joking around as they strolled over.
Max covered the lounge fees, so Zach grabbed the drinks.
Soon, they were strapped into the somatosensory cabins.
"I'm gonna warm up with some PUBG first. Ping me when you hit the Red Devil," Max said through the voice chat.
"You better hustle, man. This level? I'm guessing twenty minutes tops. The early story beats wrap up quick. If I'm feeling it, I might even smoke the Red Devil and breeze through," Zach replied, cocky.
Max chuckled. "Alright, hotshot. Here's the deal: I'll play PUBG as a roamer, skip the P City chaos. If you take down the Red Devil in three runs, I'm buying you breakfast tomorrow."
"No take-backs! I want spicy beef hash in the morning," Zach shot back, grinning.
"Deal's a deal," Max said, mimicking Zach's Seattle drawl.
With that, they had a gentleman's bet.
Max dove into PUBG, teamed up with a random player he met online, and kicked off his battle royale grind.
Under WindyPeak Games' management, PUBG was killing it. Alongside Apex Legends, it had pretty much locked down half the battle royale market. The recent Tokyo International Game Festival dropped new airdrop weapons, maps, and modes, and IndieVibe and GameHub ran some killer discount events. PUBG's player count was hitting all-time highs.
Max got matched fast. Teamed up with his new online buddy, he was on fire—grabbing weapons, trading shots, sniping, and roaming like a pro. With his teammate hyping him up, they tore through the competition, making it to the second-to-last circle in their first match.
"Yo, Zach, I'm almost in the final circle. How's it going over there?" Max asked through the voice chat.
Zach's mic was unmuted, but Max had blocked him to focus on in-game sounds.
Then, Zach's frustrated voice broke through: "Goddamn it!"
Max nearly choked on his drink. "Whoa, dude! I'm covering your session, and you're cussing me out?"
"No, no, chill!" Zach said quickly. "I'm not mad at you. I'm just stuck and need to vent!"
"Stuck?" Max said, eyebrows raised. "What, you already blasted through the samurai general and the Red Devil and hit some crazy new level?"
"Nah, uh… Shigenori Yamauchi," Zach mumbled.
Max froze. "Are you kidding me? I'm one kill away from eating chicken, and you're still stuck on Yamauchi Shigenori? That's the first elite grunt you run into! I had to think back to remember him!"
Zach groaned. "I'm just… getting the hang of it, okay? Gimme a sec to adjust. I didn't even play the demo!"
"Alright, fair," Max said, nodding. "Most of us aren't on the level of pro streamers. Those guys live for this. For us, it's just a vibe, not a job."
Max's circle closed poorly, and he got wiped out. Sighing, he closed the death screen and queued up again.
One match, two matches, three matches… Max was in the zone, his aim sharp, his teamwork with his online buddy on point. He was mowing down opponents left and right.
But Zach? He was having a rough time.
Only after grinding did Zach get why streamers made Sekiro look so smooth. Their skills weren't just for show—they were the real deal.
This game was brutal! From the jump, it hit Zach with a wake-up call.
Grunts that were cannon fodder in other games were now legit threats, ready to end him if he slipped up. Elite monsters that he'd normally take down with a bit of focus were now beasts that could one-shot him. Even random creatures that he'd breeze past in other games were now death machines.
Zach had been gaming since he was a kid. At 21, after over a decade of playing, he'd never felt this humbled.
Clashing with Yamauchi Shigenori, sparks flew. Ding! Ding! Clang! A few moves in, his posture bar broke, and Yamauchi's blade came down hard.
"Come on, man! Can't you give me a break?" Zach muttered.
Dodging the samurai general's swings—Ding! Dang! Clang!—he thought he had an opening, but the general's delayed strike caught him off guard.
"Yo, what? A delayed attack? Is this lag?" Zach yelled.
Even the random soldiers and creatures in Ashina Castle were deadly. Three grunts ganged up on him, slicing him down in seconds. A duo with a dog played hit-and-run, leaving him no room to breathe. A big guy with a sledgehammer smashed his posture bar in two hits. Musketeers sniped him mid-jump with pinpoint accuracy. Spearmen, bandits, and torch-wielding sentries popped out of nowhere, each one a death sentence.
This game was a mind game. WindyPeak knew exactly how players thought and used it to set traps. Zach died once, twice, ten times, twenty times. Dead, alive, dead again.
Finally, he reached the Red Devil, ready to flex on Max, but the boss broke free and flattened him with one punch.
Zach lost it, his shout echoing in the cabin: "Are you kidding me?!"
"This ain't fair! What kind of game is this? I'm supposed to be the hero! I don't need superpowers or a magic sword, but come on, give me something! Everyone—everyone—in this game is wiping the floor with me like I'm the grunt! I'm a nobody?!"
Zach was shook, tempted to rage-quit and demand a refund. But something about Sekiro was like a drug. No matter how much it beat him down, he couldn't walk away. The urge to conquer it burned brighter than his frustration.
"You think you're tough?" Zach growled at the screen. "I've been gaming for over a decade. I'm not letting you win!"
It was crunch time at Tate's Gaming Scoop.
The virtual meeting room was down to three: Lucas "Luke" Sterling, Max Wheeler, and Lily Brook.
After rounds of reviews, Lily, with her sharp skills and quick thinking, had snagged the assistant editor gig. But Luke also saw potential in Max's work ethic and fair mindset, taking him on as a mentee.
Right now, Luke was guiding Max through Lily's Sekiro livestream, breaking it down.
"You've played this, right? Why do you think I call Sekiro's design a masterclass?" Luke asked.
Max thought for a second. "Because it's insanely tough? Nobody but WindyPeak would dare make a game this brutal?"
"Half-right," Luke said. "The difficulty's part of it, but it's the way it's done. What's the secret sauce?"
Max shook his head. "Break it down for me, boss."
Luke grinned. "Game feedback."
Max's eyes lit up. Of course.
Sekiro was a beast—arguably the toughest ARPG ever. That kind of difficulty could tank a player's vibe, making them rage-quit. Most studios played it safe with easy, hand-holding games to avoid scaring off players. But Sekiro? It leaned into the pain and still kept players hooked.
Why? Because it nailed feedback. The game's brutal difficulty dished out negative feedback—dying over and over sucked. But it also slipped in positive feedback so subtle you barely noticed. Every fight was a lesson. Deflect a strike, watch the enemy's posture bar climb. Nail a ninja kill, feel that rush. Add a skill point, spot the "danger" warning in time. Each death made you sharper, each win felt earned.
Max thought back to his own Sekiro runs. Getting one-shotted by the general stung, but landing that first perfect parry? Electric. Seeing through a "danger" attack? A high like no other. Every duel made him feel stronger, even if he couldn't quite pin it down.
"Sekiro doesn't skimp on positive feedback," Max realized. "It's in every fight. You're learning, getting better, until you finally take down that boss you thought was impossible. That feeling? Nothing beats it."
Luke nodded. "That's one piece of the puzzle. But there's more. Look at Lily's stream."
Max turned to the screen, watching Lily face off against a boss, her moves precise, her timing sharp. Sekiro's enemies weren't just roadblocks—they had patterns, weaknesses, just like players. It was a dance, and WindyPeak had choreographed it perfectly.