On April 22, 2025, Bethesda and third-party studio Virtuos released a remastered edition of The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion (hereafter affectionately referred to as simply “Oblivion”). Originally released in 2006, Oblivion was a landmark roleplaying video game and my introduction to the Elder Scrolls franchise. In response to the release, the YouTube video game community has spun up to tell and retell the legends around Oblivion and Skyrim, Elder Scrolls, and Bethesda the studio.

The Elder Scrolls series, and Skyrim in particular, has a legendary and multilayered culture surrounding it. There are countless memes originating from Skyrim, and similarly in the world of Skyrim critique. The game is described as “wide as an ocean, deep as a puddle,” a much-echoed sentiment that isn’t entirely off base. The combat and user interfaces are derided constantly. Old heads in the Elder Scrolls franchise lament the simplification of the games from their hardcore stat-based roleplaying game roots. Much deliberation is had about the role of the modding community in the game’s appraisal, because these games are eminently moddable. And of course, Skyrim came out in 2011 and it’s been almost 15 years without a sequel, and fans are hankering.

Despite all of that, The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim is considered part of the culture-annointed canon of premium roleplaying games. Even critics admit that the games have a certain je ne says quoi to them, a mysterious quintessence that earns them their top spot and makes them near-incomparable.

Elder Scrolls players report a “Bethesda moment” of each game that is reliably magical, especially the first time. It’s when the tutorial level is complete and you walk across a metaphorical threshold and the open world is laid out before you. In Morrowind, it’s when you step out onto the dock at Seyda Neen. In Oblivion, it’s when you exit the sewers of the Imperial City and stare out at a quiet dock and the ruins of Vilverin in the distance. In Skyrim, it’s when you exit the cave leading away from Helgen and see the forests around Riverwood. It’s a feeling of freedom (of seeing the light…), that the story you are about to experience is really one of your own making.

I came to the series through Oblivion, but I don’t think I understood roleplaying at the time. I blasted through the game, broke it through its many exploits, and put it down. I don’t think I really enjoyed it.

In the following 19 years, I’ve read a lot of fantasy, I’ve wrote a bit of my own, I’ve dungeon mastered my own games, and I’ve cultivated the skill of roleplaying. The Oblivion Remaster is a chance for me to reforge my narrative with this game, and I’m happy to say that it has been a smashing success. The Remastered version is much more than a new coat of paint; it rebalances the game, adds content, and improves gameplay, all while keeping the idiosyncratic charm of the original.

I upgraded my PC to play this game; I got a new graphics card and a new monitor. It was an excellent opportunity to clean up my tired old setup. I dusted everything, wiped it down, and threw away old electronics gear. When I set it all back up, I even labeled my cables with my label maker, mostly just to be extra. These preparations felt very ritualistic at the time, knowing that they were all in service of the ultimate gaming experience. And I’m happy to say that I love the game to pieces.

Near the end of the honeymoon phase, I noticed something about how I play these games: when it gets near to the end of my gaming session, I start to rush through the game. I skip through dialogue, I fast travel more often. I plan and optimize my actions.

Very often, that is how I am at my job. While I do something, I plan all the things I have to do next. I can spend a whole day in this trance, my mind disconnected from my hands, without downtime. And if I have the energy for it, it works. I’m especially productive on a Monday after a good amount of rest.

Oblivion stops being fun when you try to play it like this. All the best parts of the game need to be mindfully appreciated. At least for me, the game is at its best when you notice the beautiful visuals, when you roleplay your character’s next moves, when you make your own story. So if the game isn’t even fun when you rush it, why rush it? This game is not a notch on my bedpost, it’s a treasured piece of my childhood.

The lesson I’m taking from Oblivion is this: you can’t optimize fun. Oblivion is acting as a mindfulness trainer, rewarding the practices that bring you toward enjoyment and discouraging those that don’t. Elder Scrolls games have an unfakeable trait of quality games: they don’t treat the player like a juvenile, thrill-seeking addict.

A few years ago, I read Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov and I was very proud of myself. As a confirmed B and C student in English class, I was very intimidated by Russian literature. But I got through it by not rushing. Those feelings of “I don’t get it” became an invocation to slow down, to study the words closely, and to take the time to enjoy the beautiful language. With that practice, I was actually happy that the book was 1000 pages long. It was a treasure trove of beautiful writing that would bring me a few minutes of enjoyment every night. I stopped thinking about finishing the book and started just enjoying the words in front of me. I’m going to talk about this in another post someday.

The point is, when it comes to fun and enjoyment, it shouldn’t be about outcomes. The feeling of enjoyment that we’re chasing is found in the present moment. And following that joy is how we produce our greatest work. I have to believe that novel writers don’t just enjoy telling stories, they enjoy the mundane activity of composing sentences, of writing dialogue, and even just typing. I have to believe that the best painters love the whisper of the brush on the canvas, that great sculptors savor every strike of the hammer, that great actors enjoy rehearsing lines. We shouldn’t try to achieve greatness and learn to love the process as a side benefit. We should follow our hearts honestly and truly, and maybe they will lead us to greatness, but it won’t matter so much.

So the title was pretty unrelated. It’s just lyrics from a Bastille song.