Before designing a game, first decide: what is its musical tempo? If possible, write a theme song. The entire design should follow the rhythm and tone of that music.
– By Richard Bai

Too often, game design starts with mechanics, visuals, or lore. But truly cohesive games—ones that feel emotionally tight and tonally consistent—often begin with something deeper: a rhythm.

Music, especially a theme song, acts as a blueprint for everything that follows. It defines:

• Pace
• Mood
• Emotional baseline
• Player expectation

If the gameplay and progression don’t feel like the music, players will experience subtle tonal dissonance.

1. Rhythm defines genre identity

Ask: Is your game’s rhythm…

• Fast and punchy like a brawler?
• Calm and spacious like a farming sim?
• Tense and minimal like a survival game?

Once the core rhythm is clear, you now have a foundation for:

• Animation timing
• Combat pacing
• Level flow
• UI behavior
• Sound FX envelope

It becomes a creative gravity well—everything must orbit the beat.

2. Case example: The Match-3 Zombie Game “Puzzles and Survival” by 37Games

This hybrid game initially had an issue:

• The match-3 rhythm was gentle, like a gardening game—soft audio cues, smooth transitions.
• But the game also had zombie defense elements, which demanded urgency, tension, and reaction.

The result? A genre mismatch in rhythm.

Players subconsciously felt something was off. It wasn’t about polish—it was about emotional tempo conflict.
Eventually, the team adjusted the match-3 system to feel tighter and more reactive, aligning with the zombie threat level. Only then did the game begin to feel coherent.

3. Why a theme song matters

A theme song is not just branding. It’s a compass:

• It sets tone in 30 seconds.
• It creates shared reference across departments (art, design, animation, audio).
• It guides tempo in non-obvious places (e.g., how long to hold a transition screen).

Think of it like a film score: every moment is either matching, building on, or contradicting the emotional rhythm it introduced.

One-liner takeaway:
The best games don’t just play music—they are built on it.

The entire game must maintain a consistent sense of rhythm—across music, animation, and gameplay.
– By Richard Bai

A game’s rhythm isn’t just about beats per minute. It’s the underlying tempo that guides how everything unfolds—how characters move, how sound pulses, how menus respond, and how moments rise and fall. When rhythm is inconsistent, the experience feels off—even if the player can’t explain why.

Consistency in rhythm is the hidden glue that holds the player’s emotional flow together.

1. Rhythm creates trust between player and system

When gameplay, music, and animation share the same tempo, the game feels predictable yet dynamic. The player senses the pace and adapts to it subconsciously.

But if:

• The animation lags behind the beat
• The music swells before the action does
• The UI moves at a different pace than the rest of the game

Then the player experiences cognitive dissonance. They lose immersion—even if they don’t consciously know why.

2. Case example: Celeste

Celeste is a platformer about precision, difficulty, and emotion. But what truly elevates it is unified rhythm:

• The soundtrack adapts to game states (calm, intense, triumphant)
• The jump animations, screen shakes, and sound effects all hit on the same pulse
• Even the failure loop (dying and respawning) is tuned to the rhythm

This cohesion creates a game that is not just mechanically satisfying—it’s emotionally musical.

3. Game rhythm is multi-layered

Consistent rhythm exists on multiple planes:

• Micro-rhythm: frame timing of jumps, attacks, effects
• Mid-level rhythm: level pacing, enemy waves, dialogue beats
• Macro-rhythm: chapter structure, narrative tension arcs, difficulty curves

If these layers don’t move together, the player senses drag, chaos, or fatigue.

4. Rhythm is culture-neutral, emotion-deep

The body understands rhythm before the brain does. That’s why games with strong rhythmic consistency—whether action or ambient—generate flow.

A consistent rhythm is not just polish. It is emotional alignment between the game and the player’s nervous system.

One-liner takeaway:
If your game has rhythm, the player will follow. If it doesn’t, they’ll drift—and won’t know why.

Improving a number is gameplay: bigger, better, stronger, faster, smarter, richer, more skilled. Game design is about fulfilling the player’s inner desires.

At its core, gameplay is about change—from weak to strong, unknown to known, chaos to mastery. It doesn’t matter whether the game is action-packed or meditative. As long as the player feels they are becoming something more, the system is working.

Designing around progression is not just about stats or numbers—it’s about emotional resonance with transformation.

1. Players love to watch numbers go up

Whether it’s:

• Damage increasing from 5 to 5000
• Coins stacking from 1 to 1,000,000
• A character’s level, fame, or beauty rating growing

These changes give players a sense of control over time. They aren’t just playing—they’re shaping outcomes.

This is the appeal of:

• Idle games
• RPG progression trees
• Upgrade systems
• Life sims and tycoon games

The feedback loop is simple:
Play → Progress → Pleasure → Play again

2. It’s not just about numbers—it’s about identity

Progression taps into deeper desires:

• To feel stronger (power fantasy)
• To feel wiser (puzzle-solving, mastery)
• To feel wealthier (resource games, cosmetics)
• To feel more admired (multiplayer status, customization)

When you let players level up, you’re not just improving a stat—you’re reinforcing a psychological need.

3. Case example: Cookie Clicker

Cookie Clicker is absurdly simple. You click a cookie. You get more cookies. You buy a grandma who bakes more cookies.
But why does it work?

Because it’s pure dopamine architecture:

• Every click improves production
• Every upgrade reveals new layers
• Every number increase affirms effort

It’s not the theme. It’s the loop of I’m getting more.
Growth is a drug, and games are the cleanest, most ethical way to deliver it.

4. Why this matters for designers

A game can look stylish, feel smooth, and sound amazing—but if nothing gets better, players lose the will to stay.

The job of a designer isn’t just to challenge players. It’s to reward their time. And nothing rewards time more effectively than visible, tangible, repeatable growth.

One-liner takeaway:
The heartbeat of gameplay is simple: make the player feel like they’re becoming more.

Curiosity is one of the most primal and consistent drivers of human attention. In games, it’s what keeps a player moving forward when there’s no immediate reward, no explicit instruction—just a question left unanswered. Great games don’t just give players goals; they leave open loops that players want to close.

1. Curiosity is emotional propulsion

Players are naturally drawn toward:

• Hidden spaces
• Locked content
• Unexplained mechanics
• Characters who hint at backstories but don’t reveal them

These are not just content—they are emotional magnets. They ask the player: “Aren’t you wondering what’s next?”

2. Case example: The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild

In Breath of the Wild, much of the game’s magic comes not from scripted story beats, but from player-driven exploration:

• A strange rock formation on a hill
• A distant light that only appears at night
• An NPC who mentions a “lost place” with no map marker

The world is filled with soft mysteries. These aren’t quests—they’re questions. And that’s the key.

3. How to design for curiosity

You don’t need complex systems. You need intentional gaps:

• Show part of something, never all
• Create incomplete patterns
• Offer one answer, then raise a bigger question

Good design says: “There’s something here.” Great design says: “There’s something here, but I’m not telling you what it is… yet.”

4. Why it works

Curiosity activates:

• Intrinsic motivation (play for its own sake)
• Emotional momentum (players invent their own reasons to continue)
• World depth illusion (even a small world feels vast if not everything is explained)

One-liner takeaway:
A curious player is a self-motivated player. Design questions, not just answers.

Time is the most important dimension in the world—even though we often say “space-time” with space first. Many of the most dramatic moments in games come from coincidences rooted in timing.

While many games emphasize space—maps, environments, movement—it is time that defines urgency, rhythm, and drama. A perfect moment isn’t defined by where you are, but when something happens.

1. Time creates tension

Imagine:

• A countdown timer hitting zero
• A last-second shot in a sports game
• A boss defeated with your final sliver of health

These are not spatial events. They are temporal climaxes—drama born from compressed or converging timelines.

Time introduces:

• Deadlines
• Cooldowns
• Delays
• Surprises

Each one forces the player to react emotionally, not just tactically.

2. Case example: Super Mario Bros. (original)

In the original Super Mario Bros., the timer at the top of the screen is more than UI—it’s a hidden pressure system.

You could be exploring casually, but when that timer runs low:

• The music speeds up
• You panic
• You rush
• You make mistakes

It creates a structural pivot in gameplay, purely through timing. Space remains the same. Time changes everything.

3. Coincidence is often just timing in disguise

When players say “That was perfect timing!” or “I can’t believe that happened right then!”, it’s usually not about randomness—it’s about systems converging in just the right rhythm.

Games that manage timing well give players:

• Surprise (they didn’t expect it now)
• Relief (it almost didn’t happen)
• Agency (they made it happen just in time)

Great example: bullet hell games where you survive by milliseconds. Or rhythm games where precision is everything. Or narrative games where a choice made “too late” changes the story.

4. Why time matters more than space

In level design, we often focus on where the player moves. But in moment design, the real question is:

“When should this happen to hit the deepest emotional note?”

If space is form, time is pulse. That pulse is what players feel.

One-liner takeaway:
A perfect moment is never just in the right place—it’s always at the right time.

At its core, a game is a system that responds to player input. The more meaningful the input, the more engaged the player feels. Choice is not a garnish on top of gameplay—it is the very foundation of what makes a game a game.

1. Every choice is a miniature story

When players choose, they are:

• Weighing consequences
• Projecting outcomes
• Expressing identity

Even a small choice—jump left or right, upgrade speed or power—creates agency. That sense of “I did this, and it changed something” is a deep psychological reward.

2. Case example: Reigns

In Reigns, the player makes decisions by swiping left or right—simple binary inputs. But each choice alters the kingdom, the power balance, and future options.

The game becomes an unfolding drama, driven entirely by choice. Despite its minimalist interface, it delivers rich engagement through consequence-driven selection.

3. Choice doesn’t require complexity

Too many designers equate “choice” with deep RPG trees or moral branching systems. But even basic choices can feel impactful if the feedback is:

• Immediate (clear cause-and-effect)
• Emotional (something reacts to you)
• Persistent (your choice shapes future play)

Games like Papers, Please or Slay the Spire show that tight, constrained choices can be more powerful than endless options.

4. Why choice is inherently playful

Choice creates:

• Tension: what if I choose wrong?
• Ownership: I shaped the outcome
• Replayability: what if I choose differently next time?

This is why even casual games benefit from micro-choices—skins, loadouts, rewards, risk levels, timing. Every choice deepens the player’s personal footprint on the game world.

One-liner takeaway:
To let the player choose—even between two simple paths—is to invite them into authorship.

“Revenge” is not just a narrative theme—it’s a powerful emotional mechanic that can fuel gameplay loops, retention, and even monetization. Players don’t just want to win. Often, they want to get even. That drive becomes a deep well of motivation.

1. Revenge as a loop, not just a story

Revenge creates a loop of:

• Initial injustice or loss (frustration)
• Time spent regaining strength (grind, strategy)
• A comeback moment (release)
• A final strike or payoff (emotional closure)

This is not only emotional. It’s structural. It gives players a reason to persist.

2. Case example: Clash of Clans

In Clash of Clans, when your base is attacked by another player, you’re shown a replay. The system literally invites you to plot revenge.

The act of building up your base, upgrading units, and choosing the right time to strike back becomes a mini-campaign of emotional investment.

It’s not just PvP—it’s personalized motivation through loss.

3. Revenge introduces asymmetry and stakes

In single-player games, this dynamic shows up too:

• In Sekiro or Dark Souls, players return to the boss who humiliated them—stronger, wiser, angrier.
• In narrative RPGs, revenge arcs give players emotional structure. Think of games like Red Dead Redemption or The Last of Us.

The mechanic doesn’t need to be labeled “revenge”—it needs to feel like it. The emotional context makes the grind, risk, and time investment meaningful.

4. Why it works

Revenge is effective because it activates:

• Memory: players remember what (or who) wronged them
• Agency: players feel the power to change outcomes
• Closure: players seek emotional resolution

These are all core to long-term engagement.

One-liner takeaway:
When players want revenge, they’ve already written the story. All you need to do is give them the tools to finish it.

When we think of gameplay, we often picture explosions, boss fights, or upgrade systems. But one of the oldest and most intuitive forms of play — hopping between tiles — is a pure and timeless expression of choice, rhythm, and consequence.

1. Micro-movement = Micro-decision

• Every time a player chooses which tile to step on, they’re making a decision:
  • Is this safe?
  • Is it closer to my goal?
  • What comes after?
• That simple hop becomes a chain of micro-tensions.

2. Design tension through constraints

• Tile-based games like Hopscotch, Frogger, or even Monument Valley limit movement to a grid or platform.
• This constraint forces the player to think in patterns: predict, time, react.
• The act of movement becomes the challenge, not just the transition.

3. Casual mastery: games built on hopping

• Stack (by Ketchapp): tap to drop tiles perfectly on top of each other. Pure rhythm.
• Monument Valley: movement as puzzle — hopping from one illusion to the next.
• Tomb of the Mask: grid-based auto-hop with timing and trap avoidance.

These games aren’t “about hopping” — they are designed around the psychology of movement.

Why It Works:

Hopping is inherently rhythmic and visceral. It triggers a loop:

“I made it.” → “Can I make the next one?” → “I almost didn’t — that was close!”

It’s primal, satisfying, and scales perfectly for mobile. It also allows developers to introduce drama without violence, and urgency without speed.

One-liner takeaway:

Every tile is a question. Every hop is a decision. That’s gameplay in its purest form.