Why I love my gaming notebooks

One of the things I miss when I play digital games is the tactile aspect of it. This is why both video games and board games hold a special place in my life. Video games allow for complexity beyond what a pen-and-paper can track, while board games offer tangible elements like tokens, boards, and interactions between players. In the middle ground are video games that make me want to take notes.

These are not games that require a sheet of paper to play, but rather games where my experience extends beyond the screen and into the real world through drawings and words. I enjoy jotting down thoughts, phrases, locations, or areas to investigate further. Over time, these scattered notes can evolve into pages, maps, and connected clusters of information.

Playing Detective: Her Story is an example of such a game. The interface allows for the storage of information, including tags for each video clip and saved references. However, it lacks a way to note down all the potential search terms that arise during gameplay, which I often find myself sidetracked by. To ensure I don't forget, I reach for my notebook.

On one page, I create a record of the victim, while on another, I note down details about the local pub. The left side of my notebook is filled with keywords, while a cluster of notes attempts to follow outfit changes. However, this is soon overwhelmed by a lost baby, a widowed midwife, mushrooms, mirrors, and a forensic entomologist.

After a couple of hours of investigation, I manage to piece together a basic solution to the crime, which is then tangled in with the rest of my notes. The result is a notebook section brimming with curiosity, not because it's a useful record of information, but because the volume of writing and energetic connections make visible parts of the game-playing process.

My notes for Return of the Obra Dinn take a different form, but I still feel the same affection for them. After spending most of the game keeping information in my head or using maps and crew documents as reference points, I reach for my notepad to cross-reference objects and names, ruling out possibilities instead of gathering evidence.

The pages feel like a code due to shorthand and abstractions. My esports notes are another example. For games like Dota, League, and Smite, I record each match in my book, starting with the list of players, their chosen characters, and any bans. It helps me settle into the game as much as a journalistic reference. After the match, I might add key kills, big fights, unusual item choices, or even sketchy doodles of the excitement on screen.

The writing becomes faster and harder to read, filled with upper-case explosions of record-keeping and smothered in ellipses and exclamation marks. The notes I make around games, such as scrawled maps, gold marker pen spiders, lists of murder suspects, and double-page spreads, are some of my fondest possessions. They allow a digital pursuit to spill over into the physical world and express time, excitement, and mental energy.