Let me tell you my worldview of game design—it is rooted in what Diane Ackerman calls Deep Play. To me, play is a medium of transcendence—a passage through which the soul momentarily escapes the gravity of the everyday. And what is transcendence, you may ask? It is the feeling that evades definition but arrives like a hush—rapture, immersion, stillness, awe. It is when the world blurs and the moment sharpens, when you lose track of time, hunger, thought—until there is only presence. Ackerman speaks of this with grace: the nature, the necessity, the spirituality of play.

Let me make this real for you.

It’s the moment when a basketball player enters “the zone,” and suddenly everything slows down—every movement is intuitive, every pass and shot feels inevitable. They're no longer thinking—they're being. The crowd disappears. The only thing that exists is this flowing dance between body, ball, and space. That is rapture through movement.

It’s the moment when a student, studying late into the night, stares at a problem they’ve been stuck on for days—and suddenly, click—a eureka. A mental floodgate opens. Patterns align, and the concept unravels in their mind like music. They sit back, stunned—not by the knowledge, but by how beautiful it all feels. That is transcendence through thought.

It’s the moment when a player, deep into a story-driven RPG, finishes a major quest arc—maybe they’ve chosen to spare a villain who reveals something deeply human, or maybe they’ve made a sacrifice that costs them a beloved companion. They’re sitting in silence. Controller still in hand. Not just watching a story, but feeling it. Changed by it. Reflecting on what they would’ve done. That is immersion through narrative.

But unlike the bards, playwrights, or poets of the past who told stories from a distance, game designers build game spaces where the player is the story. They don’ write myths. They simulate them.

In ancient times, myths were told through oracles, stage plays, or oral traditions—expressing our deepest fears, virtues, temptations, and redemptions. The Hero’s Journey, that timeless arc of transformation, was passed down through spoken word and inscribed in epic poems and novels. These stories stirred emotion, taught lessons, and offered a mirror to the soul. But today, in the 21st century, we are no longer bound to words alone—we can now simulate myth itself. We can build systems where the player does not simply read about the hero—they become the hero. What kind of world will the player inhabit? What rules shape their decisions? What values do these rules encode? What systems force them to confront who they are, or who they might become? The journey once traveled through imagination is now traveled through interaction. And perhaps most profoundly—these systems are often playful, offering space to fail, to die, to try again, without fear of true loss.

Games allow us to play with fate—to explore transformation not as a consequence, but as a rehearsal for becoming. They offer us a space where we can test not only our virtues, but also our shadows. In games, we are free to step beyond the boundaries of what is acceptable, legal, or even possible in the logic of the real world. We can become outlaws, gods, monsters, or spirits—not to glorify the forbidden, but to confront it, to understand it, to experience what it means without consequence. Playful. We design experiences for this very purpose: to give players the freedom to explore unconventional desires, to navigate taboo choices, and to experiment with alternate identities in a space that is safe, reversible, and profoundly human. In this sense, games do what myth and ritual have always done—they give form to the unspeakable and meaning to the impossible.

Designers today are not crafting myth texts, but myth systems—interactive experiences where players become Odysseus, Shiva, or the Wanderer through play. The myth is lived, not told.

Deep Play is not escapism — it is ritual, resonating the structure and power of religious ceremonies throughout human history. Diane Ackerman writes that religious rituals are “ecstatic, absorbing, rejuvenating,” and are designed to “swallow time,” immersing participants in a reality outside the mundane​. . This is precisely the nature, of something greater, a property of the human condition - deep play. Like sacred rites, deep play evokes a heightened state of consciousness—where action and awareness fuse, where time dilates, and where the self dissolves into the experience. Whether it's a climactic boss battle in a game, a perfectly executed move in a sport, or the quiet awe of exploring a fictional world, deep play replicates what ancient rituals once offered: a passage into the extraordinary. Both are intentionally designed experiences—structured, symbolic, and immersive—guiding participants through emotional and psychological transformation. In this way, deep play is not a break from life, but a return to the very nature of ourselves. It reconnects us with our need for meaning, for transcendence, and for the timeless feeling of being wholly alive.

Deep play, as Diane Ackerman describes, is ultimately a portal to transformation—a moment where the player is not just immersed but awakened. She writes, “One stands on the threshold of miracles… the individual becomes swept up in the action… drawing on forces she has never previously been aware of”​ . This is the very heart of a craftsman's calling in game design. A true craftsman does not merely build a game—they build a mirror. One that reflects back to the player not only who they are, but who they might become. Through elegant systems, meaningful choices, and evocative worlds, the game becomes a medium of personal mythology. It gives the player space to break, to rebuild, to triumph, and to mourn. It offers more than interactivity—it offers introspection. The beauty of craft lies not in surface spectacle, but in the quiet architecture of meaning woven beneath the mechanics. It is in those moments of stillness after a decision, of relief after survival, of quiet after chaos—that the player meets themselves. And in that moment, they are changed.

Game designers are not just mechanics-makers or storytellers—they are experiential engineers. Their true objective is to design systems that create experiences. What experiences, you may ask? Not just challenge, not just fun—but transformation. Take Tetris, for example. On the surface, it’s a simple puzzle game: rotate falling blocks, clear lines, survive. But beneath that simplicity, it triggers something deep within our inner selves—our need for order in chaos, our hunger for mastery, our response to rising pressure. The falling blocks mirror life’s unpredictability. The clearing of lines, our small acts of control and clarity amidst the noise. And as the speed increases, the game demands total focus—drawing us into a state of pure flow where thinking stops and being begins.

As Diane Ackerman beautifully states, deep play is defined not by the activity itself, but by the mood it evokes​ . It's not about what the player does—but how the game makes them feel, and what it allows them to become. This is the cornerstone of meaningful design. A sword fight may be exhilarating in one game, but trivial in another. A dialogue choice may seem small, but under the right emotional pressure, it can become unforgettable. The designer’s role, then, is not just to give the player tools—but to shape the emotional architecture in which those tools are used. Ackerman draws on Csikszentmihalyi’s “Flow” and Maslow’s “peak experiences” to describe deep play as a state of ego-loss, clarity, and fulfillment. It is the feeling of being fully alive, fully present, and momentarily free of doubt or separation. Systems, when designed with this in mind, do more than function—they become ritual engines. They guide the player toward immersion so complete that the self dissolves into the act. That is the real art of experiential design—not in the features you give the player, but in the inner journeys you quietly orchestrate

Naturally, not all share this worldview of mine. Some view games as mere entertainment, others as competitive arenas or technical showcases. But I believe—deeply—that play and games can be intertwined at the root of what makes us human. And to enable deep play, as Diane Ackerman describes it, is to make deep games—games that are not just played, but felt, remembered, and lived.

And how are deep games made?

They are not assembled from features, but forged through intention. They emerge when we treat mechanics as metaphors, systems as rituals, and player agency as sacred. They are made when a craftsman aligns technical elegance with emotional truth—when design becomes not just about balance, but about meaning. They are sculpted through patience, through playtesting, through listening—not just to players, but to the game itself, asking: What am I saying with this? What am I asking the player to become?

Deep games are elegantly crafted. They are invitations—to reflect, to transform, to transcend. They are, in every sense, playgrounds for the soul.

Exercises

1. [🟢 Remember] Recall a Deep Play Moment
Think back to a time when you experienced “deep play” in a game. What were you doing? What emotion or transformation did it evoke? Describe the moment and why it stuck with you.

2. [🟢 Understand] Compare Rituals and Systems
Compare a traditional ritual (religious, cultural, or mythic) with a gameplay system from a modern game. How do both structures guide the participant toward immersion or transformation?

3. [🔵 Apply] Design a Myth System
Invent a simple gameplay system that mirrors a Hero’s Journey arc (e.g., Call to Adventure, Abyss, Return). Use basic mechanics to express each stage. What does the player learn at each step?

4. [🔵 Analyze] Deconstruct a Deep Game
Pick a game that you believe embodies “deep play” (e.g., Journey, Outer Wilds, Shadow of the Colossus). Break down how its mechanics, world, and mood support transcendence and immersion. What rituals or symbolic patterns emerge?

5. [🟠 Evaluate] Question the Meaning Beneath Systems
Choose a mechanically well-designed game and ask: does it have something to say? Are its rules and rewards aligned with a deeper emotional truth, or are they merely loops of engagement? Where does it succeed—or fall short—as a playground for the soul?

6. [🔴 Create] Write a Ritual Game Concept
Design a game concept that functions like a sacred ritual. It should evoke a specific mood (awe, grief, clarity, rebirth) through mechanics alone. No dialogue, no exposition—just play. Describe how the ritual unfolds.

7. [🔴 Create] Compose Your Mythmaker’s Statement
You are not just a game designer—you are a craftsman of myth, ritual, and soul. In one paragraph, write your personal design philosophy inspired by Diane Ackerman’s Deep Play. What do you believe games are capable of? What kind of experiences do you feel called to create?