I“I’ve spent over 15 years in the gaming industry, and one of the most frustrating aspects is explaining it at social gatherings. People frequently respond with, ‘Oh, I’m not really into gaming.’ I don’t particularly enjoy croissants, but that’s not the first thing I mention to a pastry chef I meet.”

One of the highlights of publishing my debut novel last year was the chance to sidestep that entirely and say, “Oh, I’m a writer.” I penned a novel. I’m currently working on another project. Now that you’ve wrapped up with work, we can continue our conversation. Nobody says, “Oh, I’m not really reading a book,” which is at least somewhat unlikely to be true.

It’s become evident that I’m not alone in transitioning between these two mediums. Why is that? For many, it boils down to finances. Writing novels is notoriously challenging as a source of income, and novelists have traditionally depicted careers across various fields. A 2022 report by the Author’s License and Collection Association (ALCS) revealed that professional authors earn a median of £7,000 annually from writing. Romance author Mallory Marlowe, whose debut love story became a bestseller last year, notes that her day job in video games supports her writing endeavors. “Fortunately, I receive a steady paycheck,” she states.

At the same time, game writers are facing their own struggles. GDC’s 2025 Game Industry Report indicates that one story designer and writer was let go last year. Naturally, some game writers are now exploring opportunities in other sectors.

Occasionally, writers create a direct connection between the two mediums, allowing them to influence one another. Written in both Scottish and English, Harry Josephine Giles’ “Game Like” serves as a precursor to her book “Deep Wheel Orcadia,” a poetry novel capably expressed in the 2022 Arthur C. Clarke Award-winning Orkney dialect. Meanwhile, John Ingold, co-founder of Narrative Game Studio Inkle (known for “80 Days!”), has released two novels set within the studio’s “Game Heaven Vault” universe. Ingold self-published these works. For him, writing them was a means to immerse himself more in the gaming world, but he remarked that “the novel’s plot proved challenging to construct. The main character consistently hesitates to abandon things.”

When I inquire about the primary differences in form from fellow novelist game writers, I’m often surprised by the diversity of responses. For some, it relates to the creative process. The act of writing a novel can serve as an escape from collaborative compromises, while games require immersive teamwork. Joe Dunthorne (author of “Submarine,” “The Tullterants”) has written novels, poetry, and most recently, a memoir titled “Radium’s Child.” Despite setbacks in the gaming industry, he commented, “After the solitude and madness of novel writing, I found relief going into the office each day. Collaborating with game designers was especially inspiring; I marveled at their ability to conceptualize complex, dizzying structures.”

Sharna Jackson creates children’s novels, including high-rise mysteries and nine-night quests. She has also contributed to the audio experiences of Die Gute Fabrik’s post-apocalyptic mystery games “Saltsea Chronicles” and “Yoto.” For her, the crucial difference lies in the volume of text available in games: “Many words remain unread or unheard, depending on the player’s choices within the experience.” Some of the most rewarding moments result in “rare occurrences and Easter eggs” that only a select few players may discover. Mallory Marlowe emphasizes the “strange independence” afforded to writers in gaming, yet acknowledges that novelists might take time to adapt to crafting narratives for players who approach story engagement with varying levels of commitment. “Some people just want to press a button and cause chaos,” she points out. “Others dive deep into the narrative.”

Ultimately, nearly everyone I converse with raises the distinct cultural status disparity between games and literature. Jim Munroe (author of “We Are Raccoons,” “Unmanned”) has been crafting games and books for over 25 years. He notes that books are culturally revered in a way that games are not. “Creators are engaged in gaming, despite its lower status,” he observes. Naomi Alderman, author of “Disobedience” and “Future,” echoes these sentiments. During a week when both her novel “The Power” and the game “zombies run!” (a co-creation involving six individuals) garnered awards, her book received attention on the front page of India’s Times, while “zombies run!” barely made a ripple within the specialized gaming press.

Conversations often circle back to the contrasting societal roles of gaming and literature, with varying responses to this reality. Munroe suggests that the gaming industry often attracts those with a penchant for independence. Marlowe appreciates the curiosity and confusion surrounding the notion of writing for games, cherishing the subsequent discussions. For Harry Josephine Giles, the unique space gaming occupies brings her joy; she underscores that games, being a newer form, have less rigid conventions. Early English novelists like Aphra Behn and Laurence Sterne disrupted norms, fundamentally altering the landscape, while today, only the most experimental novels enjoy similar flexibility. Games—carrying a lower cultural status—remain adaptable. As Dunthorne puts it, “Writing is often a lower priority in game design, and that’s alright. Games aren’t novels.”

Clearly, a new wave of young writers has emerged who grew up as native gamers, seamlessly transitioning between the two cultural forms without perceiving one as inherently superior to the other. Indeed, even in gaming, one might still encounter individuals at social events declaring, “Oh, I’m not really into them.” However, this might simply indicate the opportunity to create something extraordinary and unique while remaining unnoticed.