As you play a game and hit a frustrating obstacle, you open a guide or search online and receive the answer. Historically, video game guides have been used for reference. My colleague Mike Mahardy described it to me as “Zelda-splaining,” and I think that’s apt. In theory, it’s like a game guide, but I appreciation the instruction of guides that I seek out. How do I describe this particular anxiety? It’s not quite FOMO, but it feeds my most unhealthy gaming habits. One question: What the fuck is a bone build? The very next video chided me for using that shitty 800-damage bone build when I could be using a different bone build that deals 2,000 damage. One video told me I needed to make a “bone build” that would deal 800 damage. Later on, when I tried reinstalling TikTok, my Zelda-fueled feed had devolved into something even worse.
Even if it’s my favorite app or the best game I’ve played in years. Both had begun to bum me out, and I have a rule that, if a game or a social media platform brings me down, then it has to go. I deleted the app for a week or two, and I also bounced off Tears of the Kingdom. TikTok provided assignments and I followed them, zipping around the map like a bike courier rather than a free-wheeling explorer. Playing Tears of the Kingdom had turned into work. For a day or two, I continued following these tips, but it sapped my joy. I must have not been alone, because TikTok immediately offered solutions to problems it had created, showing me where to buy expensive clothes, and how, with a bit of patience, a certain enemy could repair my weapons. I also acquired a shield that’s so powerful, I’m afraid to use it. In exchange, I had no fun and got a bunch of gems that, it turns out, I don’t really need. Unlimited money? The best items? How could I resist! Warned that a patch would wipe the opportunity to dupe diamonds, I spent a couple of hours in the game’s first week jumping off a stairwell, fussing with my inventory, and dropping precious stones on the ground to perform a bit of alchemy. At first, I got recommendations: “Need money? Try duplicating diamonds!” Then came the demands: “You have to stop what you’re doing in Tears of the Kingdom and get the best shield in the game RIGHT NOW!” It was still Zelda all the time, but now, the videos wanted to help me out. Image: Nintendo EPD/NintendoĮver so gradually, the tenor of my feed changed. And speedrunners did what speedrunners do best: They broke the game.
Amateur engineers cobbled together complicated contraptions and war machines that I had no aspirations to make, but I was happy to watch. I felt like part of a community.Īfter I solved a complex problem by just building a really, really long bridge, I was tickled to see how many other people had had the exact same idea. I couldn’t escape Hyrule - and I loved it.
The Legend of Zelda: Tears of the Kingdom appeared on my Nintendo Switch on May 12, and in a flash, the game filled my TikTok feed.
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