The genre of fighting games is a beautiful style and experience that I truly believe more people should experience, and I’d like to do my part in inspiring you to start your journey.
With my article journey coming to an end, I want to take some bold strides and present some ideas I’ve always held that are less inspired by recent events and more backed by words I’ve always wanted to share. It was the release of Alpha Lab 2 for Riot Games’s “2XKO” that got me thinking more about the genre of fighting games, something I’ve dabbled in and quickly became my favorite genre of game. The distilled experience of battle within a fighting game is intoxicating, a beautiful dance and fast paced test that did more for my mental health than any passion I’d indulged in apart from writing this very website. I want to take time in this article to highlight the beauty and joy I’ve received from getting into fighting games as well as provide some great starting points and entrances to the genre so that you can experience this if you so desire.
Primarily, the style of traditional fighting games is the perfect environment of competitive intimacy—a concept of which I think is both deterring and alluring. It can be intimidating as you square up against an opponent on your own, an experience that I share and sympathize with. The stakes can feel much higher than they really are, and I’m sure people who are adverse to this stand-off are wondering why I mentioned how it affected my mental health. The reason is simple—our current competitive gaming sphere is focused on team games such as MOBAs or hero and team shooters. The competitive elements that we might want to engage in is incredibly dependent on the way cooperation and communication functions to create a power that’s greater than its whole. The amount of losses explained by “my team is garbage” is evident enough of this point—in a team game, your weight in affecting the outcome is not entirely in your hands. In a fighting game, with two opposed foes, there is no room for excuses. Every action and every step, forward or backwards, is in the hands of you in order to outsmart and outplay your opponent to come out on top.
You will lose. And god damn will you lose. My first competitive fighting game was “Melty Blood: Type Lumina,” in which I achieved a startling 25% win rate during 100 games of play. The losses are part of the journey, especially stepping into an established game of dedicated players with nothing but hope that you’ll win. It was that experience in multiple losses in a row that taught me that it was my own skill that led to this avenue. It wasn’t a demoralizing experience, but an inspiring one. I started to learn and adapt to the common ways people exploited my weaknesses. Blocking high. Teching throws. Catching mixups. The win rate increased slowly as I started taking more and more wins. Some were easy as I learned how to find blind spots in my opponents. Some were tough, back and forth fights that felt like at any time I could have lost it all. Despite it all, there’s a beauty in that struggle that I learned I had fallen in love with long before I took it all further.
My first local tournament was an attempt to curb my experiences. I wanted to steel myself for something, and I stepped into a venue by myself with the intent to overcome my anxiety. In a conscious effort, I put myself somewhere I knew nobody in a world I barely had joined. The closed off hallway lined with computers only housed a couple sets of players who were warming up, something I sat on the side to observe. The players were sometimes quiet, simply focused on the screen in front of them as they practiced muscle memory as the clock approached the starting time. Some were chatting, joking and smiling as they casually skirmished with small crowds. I didn’t end up playing until the time of the tournament, in which I was waved over by the organizer. She asked me to test their streaming setup, inviting me to play against another girl who waved to me as she sat down in the left chair. I placed my new fightstick on my lap, plugged it in, and played against her.
And she whooped my ass on stream.
It didn’t really feel like it, even if it was a first to 5 set of getting absolutely demolished in the mirror match. We were both smiling and chatting, and she took the time to help point out some fun tips and details about our fight to help teach me. I was sure she was much better than me, but even a total loss left me thinking more about what I could do. Somehow I was having more fun losing to someone in person than winning online, despite not knowing the person on the other side in both contexts. The intimacy of a 1 on 1 fight in this way is a joy that makes me recognize the satisfying nature of the fighting game genre, a journey that I was on to get better while meeting people with their own drives for victory. Instead of a pain in failure, there was a communal joy in success that echoed between players. I’m sure others might have had various negative experiences, but a majority of my time was spent with people who had nothing but respect for their fellow players.
When the tournament began, there was a determination that set across all the experienced competitors. Their smile was there, but the way they focused on the screen showed me what the joy of a tournament like this really was. This was performance—a time in which everyone agreed to set themselves to play at their highest level and leave no room for potential error. This was a fight in which everyone put aside their reservations and hesitations in order to come out on top, knowing that only one would be left with a first place finish. It was this silent aura that weighed on me slowly, stepping closer and closer to my station in order to play a first game. The pressure of a tournament. The adrenaline of competition. The absolute rush of emotion that surges as you step into the stakes of a fight you’ve been preparing for. I sat down, fist bumped my opponent, and put on the headphones as I began.
I went 2-2.
The wins were intoxicating, and the losses were enlightening. Every step of the way was a euphoric experience I’d never quite found in a place before. There was a nature of relief when it was over—the moments of rushing feelings were finally dying down as I took a step back and looked at the venue one more time with my bag in hand. While esports sometimes feels like an unreachable level of play that only acts as a viewing experience, the local tournaments were a way to bring a fraction of that experience to quite literally anyone—a simple step for people to take in order to continue their journey in whatever way they wanted to.
And I wanted more. About a month later, I hopped on a plane to Las Vegas to attend Evo 2023 with my brother and his friends. I had known I’d be going for a couple months—the first locals I went to were stepping stones to get here. I knew I’d be wandering on my own and fighting by myself in pools with strangers, and I looked for some way to curb my anxiety in order to steel myself for the future. The experience was transformative—high-intensity games and communal cheering interspersed with casual walks along artist alley and new game announcements that turned the weekend into an unforgettable experience of great meals and memorable first times. The day of finals arrived and gave me the first enjoyable crowd experience I’d ever been in, yelling my voice out and standing and cheering with people as I watched the best of the best compete for the top and staying long into the night with emotions always running high.
Oh, right. I also went 0-2 in every game I played.
The experience of nothing but losses is a bucket of ice cold water in my face while I’m staring starry-eyed at the premiere fighting game tournament filled with the best players around the world, reminding me just how far I have to go on my journey. Even then, it wasn’t unpleasant. It was a reminder of how much I can learn. It was an indicator that my future would be full of this journey as I continued to grow up. It also was a fun trip I was able to take without my parents to help learn about how to be independent and handle myself.
And after all of that, I’d spent the past 2 years after then still slowly learning and getting better. I’ve played in less tournaments considering the time I’m spending in college and such, but I still find time to break out my fight stick and enjoy a couple of games against friends and strangers alike as we all continue to learn more and get better. The joy in this was something that helped me finally beat back my generalized anxiety and find a bit more control in how I was able to handle myself. In that way, fighting games helped me more than anything else has.
I’d like to spend more time talking about this, but my resulting story has taken up the space for two entire articles and I think I have to take some time to let this sit as its own story and write a second piece directed more to introducing people to the genre. For now, I’d like you to consider this as my pitch and the reasons I have for wanting to offer this experience. Tomorrow, I’ll go over how to get into fighting games and good options for accessible entries as well as paths to take in order to enjoy the experience further if you desire.
Until then, I hope you’ll consider the ways in which it feels to take on a passion like this. There’s always so much more to what we are and what we can do.