Do Videogame Designers Use The Medium Is Not The Message Idea?

That message landed like a splash of cold water, and I get how loud the little panic drum starts beating in your chest. When someone who used to be inside your life drops a line that says 'I'm done' with regret tacked on, it pulls a lot of old feelings into the present—confusion, anger, nostalgia, and sometimes a weird guilt. For me, the first thing I do is slow down: I ask myself what responding would realistically give me. Is it closure I need, safety for kids, respect, or some dramatic emotional exchange that will leave me raw for weeks? Sorting that out makes the rest clearer. If safety or legal matters are involved, I don't hesitate to respond in short, factual terms that protect me and any children involved—dates, logistics, that kind of thing. Outside of that, I weigh three main paths. No response: powerful and simple, keeps the narrative in my control. A boundary-setting response: brief and unemotional, something like, 'I heard you. I’m focused on moving forward and won’t be engaging in conversations about our past.' And a closure reply: if I genuinely want polite closure and not drama, I might say, 'I appreciate you saying that. I’ve moved on and wish you well.' The wording matters less than my emotional boundary when I press send. Sometimes I write a long, ideal response in a notes app and never send it—it's my therapy. Other times I block and breathe, and that’s okay too. I also remember that people often reach out wanting relief for themselves, not healing for me, so empathy can be useful but not mandatory. If you’re tempted to reopen old wounds because it feels like the right time for him, that’s a red flag. If you’re considering it because you genuinely want to reconcile and you’ve done the work, that’s a different road that deserves careful, slow steps. In my life, choosing silence after a regretful 'I'm done' message proved to be cleaner and kinder to my own rhythm — leaving me feeling lighter and oddly proud of my boundaries.

I’ve been thinking about this while nursing a cold and re-reading bits of my bookcase, and a few clear examples popped into my head. One is 'To Kill a Mockingbird' — the novel’s voice, moral complexity, and courtroom tension survive whether you read the prose, watch the 1962 film, or see it staged. The medium shifts the texture, but the heart of the story about empathy and injustice keeps beating. Another one that sticks with me is 'Pride and Prejudice'. I’ve devoured the original, binged modern retellings, and even laughed at a quirky web-series version. The witty social critique and the dance between Lizzy and Darcy isn’t owned by the paperback; it translates because the characters and their conflicts matter more than the exact medium. I also think of 'Frankenstein' — its frame narrative is clever, but the core anxieties about creation and responsibility carry across opera, film, and stage. To be clear, there are novels where the physical form shapes the meaning — 'House of Leaves' is famously inseparable from its typography — but plenty of other books prove that medium often dresses the message, rather than defining it. If you’re curious, try reading then watching an adaptation and ask which moments retain the same emotional weight for you — I do this on train rides and it’s a fun exercise.

Ever stumbled upon a book that feels like it was made for the digital age before the digital age even existed? That's 'The Medium is the Massage' for me. Marshall McLuhan's work is a wild ride through media theory, and its fragmented, collage-like design practically begs to be read in a format that preserves its visual quirks. I hunted for a PDF version once, and while I found some shady-looking scans on obscure forums, nothing matched the tactile joy of flipping through the physical copy. The book’s layout—with its overlapping text and images—doesn’t always translate well to digital. If you’re after authenticity, I’d track down a used paperback. But if you’re just curious, a quick search might turn up something serviceable, though maybe not legally. Honestly, part of the charm is how the physical object mirrors its ideas about media shaping perception. A PDF feels almost ironic for a book arguing that the medium itself 'massages' the message. I ended up buying a vintage copy after my digital hunt left me unsatisfied—it’s now a prized shelf oddity next to my beat-up 'Understanding Media'.

It's wild how 'The Medium is the Massage' still hits so hard decades later. McLuhan and Fiore’s collage-like approach wasn’t just about predicting tech—it felt like the internet before it existed. The way they mashed up text, images, and chaotic layouts? That’s basically how we consume content now: fragmented, hyperlinked, and sensory overload. I love how it forces you to think about how media shapes reality, not just delivers messages. Like, TikTok algorithms or Instagram aesthetics aren’t neutral—they rewrite how we perceive time, relationships, even ourselves. What’s eerie is how the book’s themes about globalization feel even sharper now. Tribal identities clashing in digital spaces, corporations as the new 'villages'—it’s all there. I reread it during lockdown and gasped at lines like 'electric media abolishe space and time.' Zoom fatigue, anyone? The book’s playful format keeps it fresh; it doesn’t preach, it performs its ideas. Still the best thing to hand someone who says 'but technology’s just a tool!'

Reading 'Krishnamacharya: His Life and Teachings' feels like uncovering layers of wisdom that go beyond just yoga poses. The book dives deep into how Krishnamacharya revolutionized modern yoga, emphasizing adaptability—how yoga should meet the individual, not the other way around. His teachings aren’t just about physical flexibility but mental and spiritual resilience, blending ancient texts like the 'Yoga Sutras' with practical, personalized methods. It’s a reminder that yoga isn’t a one-size-fits-all practice but a lifelong journey of self-discovery. What struck me most was his insistence on the teacher-student relationship’s sacredness. He didn’t just teach postures; he tailored practices to each student’s needs, whether a sickly child or a king. The book subtly critiques today’s commercialized yoga, urging readers to return to yoga’s roots—mindfulness, breathwork, and philosophy over Instagram-worthy poses. After finishing it, I found myself slowing down in my own practice, focusing more on intention than perfection.

The ending of 'Black Liturgies' feels like a quiet storm—subtle but deeply transformative. At its core, the story wraps up with this piercing realization that healing isn’t linear, and justice isn’t a destination but a practice. The protagonist’s final ritual isn’t about closure; it’s about reclaiming agency in a world that’s tried to erase them. The way the author frames the last scene, with that recurring motif of hands—holding, creating, resisting—it’s like they’re saying, 'We’ve always had the tools; we just needed to remember how to use them.' It left me sitting with this mix of grief and hope, like the weight of history wasn’t gone but now had space beside joy. What really stuck with me was how the ending mirrors real-life Black spiritual traditions—there’s no neat resolution, just an ongoing conversation with ancestors and the future. The book’s title suddenly made so much sense; liturgies aren’t one-time performances but repeated acts of faith. That last chapter where the community gathers not to 'fix' anything but to witness each other? Chills. It made me think of my grandma’s stories about how resistance lives in ordinary moments—peeling potatoes, humming hymns, choosing to survive another day. The message isn’t shouted; it’s woven into the fabric of the characters’ lives, and by extension, ours.

Reading 'Being Jazz' was such an eye-opener for me. Jazz Jennings' memoir isn't just about her journey as a transgender girl—it's a raw, heartfelt exploration of identity, courage, and the power of unconditional love. What struck me most was how she balances vulnerability with resilience, whether she's discussing her early childhood struggles or the public scrutiny that came with her TV show. It’s not just a 'trans story'; it’s a universal coming-of-age tale about finding your voice when the world tries to box you in. One thing that lingers with me is how Jazz emphasizes the importance of family support. Her parents’ unwavering acceptance contrasts so sharply with the societal barriers she faces, and that duality really drives home the book’s core message: authenticity isn’t a solo act. It’s a chorus of voices lifting each other up, even when the notes are messy. I finished the last page feeling equal parts inspired and furious—inspired by her bravery, furious that kids still have to fight so hard just to exist.

Cosmic Consciousness' ending message is this beautiful, almost poetic reminder that we're all tiny specks in this vast universe, yet intrinsically connected to something greater. It left me staring at the ceiling for hours, questioning my place in the cosmic web. The final scenes weave together the protagonist's personal journey with these grand philosophical ideas—like how individual enlightenment ripples outward to affect collective consciousness. What really stuck with me was the visual metaphor of constellations forming neural pathways, suggesting that the universe might literally be thinking through us. It's one of those endings that doesn't tie everything up neatly, but makes you feel both insignificant and profoundly important simultaneously. I still get chills remembering the closing monologue about 'finding infinity in your own heartbeat.'