See you in Destiny 2 on June 9th, Guardians

The thing I've been thinking about the most lately is how weird grief is when it comes to games, especially seeing the outpouring of love and passion for Destiny 2 as it nears its final live-service game update. What gets me the most, though, is seeing so many people talk about what Destiny meant to them during the hardest periods of their lives. Every time I see someone share a story about losing somebody, surviving something, finding lifelong friends, meeting a spouse, finding confidence, finding purpose, whatever it may be, it reminds me that games are so much bigger than the discourse around them.

It's easy to get caught up in balance changes, expansion reviews, studio drama, leadership decisions, and all the things that dominate headlines and social media. Those conversations matter, sure. But when enough time passes, that's never what people actually remember.

People remember where they were when they cleared that raid for the first time. They remember laughing so hard they couldn't breathe because somebody accidentally wiped the entire fireteam. They remember the friend who was always online. They remember the person who isn't online anymore.

I think that's why this feels so emotional for so many people.

We're not really talking about a game. we're talking about years of our lives.

I know for me, Destiny existed across multiple versions of myself. There was the fan writing about it. The fan making videos about it. The fan consuming every scrap of lore I could get my hands on. Then there was the version of me that got to work alongside the people making it, which still feels surreal when I think about it. Then there was the version of me that had to walk away from it entirely because the association with one of the hardest experiences of my life became too overwhelming.

And now there's this version of me, a version that can finally try to boot it back up one more time.

A version that can hear that music again and not immediately feel like the walls are closing in, a version that can look back at everything with gratitude instead of pain.

That's not because the hurt disappeared, that's not how trauma works. It's because seeing the community, both internal and from the player side, has inspired me to try again. Even if it's just one more time. You've helped me remember why I loved it in the first place.

So while I know a lot of people are scared about what's next, I genuinely hope you leave a little room for excitement, too. Every franchise we love was once an unknown risk. Every universe that became somebody's comfort place started as an idea that hadn't proven itself yet. The people making games are still dreamers. They're still artists. They're still taking impossible ideas and trying to make them real. Sometimes they fail. Sometimes they create something that changes lives.

Destiny did that.

Halo did that.

Who's to say the next thing won't, too?

I don't know what the future looks like for Bungie. None of us do, not even most of the developers that work there. But I do know that this community has survived every possible prediction of its demise for well over a decade now, and somehow we're all still here.

Maybe that's the real magic, not the Traveler. Not the Light. Not the Darkness. Just... people. Guardians who cared enough to stay, Guardians who cared enough to come back, Guardians who cared enough to make this strange, beautiful little corner of gaming feel like home. Crying, but in the best way. You didn't just become legend, you fuckin' showed what it means to be a legend and you did it all with the kindest of hearts. Proud to be a part of this community.