As I was alluding to previously, I finally cracked the code for Souls games — more than a decade after bouncing off Demon’s Souls on the PS3 around 2011. Back then, I misunderstood the core premise. I thought Souls was an all-or-nothing affair: die, and everything you’d gained was gone. That misconception alone was enough to make me walk away.
What I didn’t understand was that death doesn’t erase progress — it only costs time. Levels stick. Equipment sticks. Knowledge sticks. Once that finally clicked, the entire genre recontextualized itself.
I likely never would have revisited these games if not for the steady refinement FromSoftware brought with each release and remaster — and especially Elden Ring. For years I kept seeing the landscapes, the architecture, the scale, and the sheer reverence people had for it. Eventually it wore on me. It started to feel like I was missing a singular experience in a genre I’ve loved my entire life.
My affinity for dark fantasy goes back to Michael Moorcock and the Elric novels in the late ’70s and early ’80s — worlds that felt bleaker, stranger, and more morally ambiguous than traditional heroic fantasy. While the Souls games aren’t set in Moorcock’s Multiverse, they live in a similar emotional and aesthetic neighborhood. That alone should have tipped me off sooner.
These games challenge you on multiple fronts — not just mechanically, but mentally. They punish impatience, recklessness, and button-mashing. I’ve always played games primarily for worlds: environments, architecture, creatures, music. Gameplay matters, but it’s the means, not the end. Souls games force you to slow down, observe enemies, learn their patterns, and respect the space you’re moving through.
They’re also brutally honest. Death is frequent and often absurd. By the time I finished Dark Souls II and its DLCs, I’d died roughly 550 times — and at least half of those were due to my own stupidity: rolling off ledges, misjudging terrain, or getting greedy when I should’ve backed off.
If enemies don’t kill you, the environment usually will. FromSoftware seems to delight in stacking hazards — tight terrain, multiple enemies, ranged attacks — just to see how you respond. And respond you must, because the games offer very little hand-holding.
For Dark Souls I, I leaned on guides early. I knew flailing blindly would likely push me away again, and for my introduction, that felt like the right call. By Dark Souls II, I played almost entirely blind. When I looked things up, it was usually after clearing an area, only to discover how much I’d missed. FromSoftware is exceptionally good at hiding things in plain sight, rewarding curiosity just as often as it punishes it.
Playing blind — if you can manage it — is the ideal way to experience these games. Entering a new area with genuine caution, inching forward, knowing a mistake could cascade quickly, creates a level of tension and immersion that few games ever reach. Souls may not be as draconian as I once believed, but the stakes feel higher than almost anything else I’ve played.
I don’t think I’ve ever experienced anxiety, relief, frustration, and triumph in such rapid succession within a game. Combined with their worlds, creature design, and atmosphere, Souls games have become some of the most rewarding experiences I’ve had in decades of gaming. More than that, they’ve fundamentally altered how I think about gameplay itself — something I haven’t felt since I first started gaming in the 1970s.
Halfway through Dark Souls I, I knew I was hooked. I picked up the rest of FromSoftware’s catalog during sales — Dark Souls II, III, Bloodborne, Demon’s Souls Remastered, and Elden Ring. I finished DS1 in December, rolled directly into DS2, and wrapped it up yesterday.
I’ll probably take a palate cleanser or two before tackling DS3. But there’s no ambiguity anymore.
I’m a Souls player now — and these games will be part of my life for a long time to come.
