A few days ago, I huddled next to my PlayStation 4, and stared at the expensive piece of glass and plastic that’s sat next to the console, completely untouched, for more than a year. Upon closer inspection, I realized there were spiderwebs inside my PlayStation VR headset, and at some point, I’d borrowed the USB cable needed to power it on, and never returned it. There are three VR headsets in my house, but I can’t remember the last time I used any of them. Every time I’m tempted, the work needed to set everything up—the cables, the moving of furniture—is enough to push me towards a game that’ll boot up when I hit a single button.

There were few people more hyped for the arrival of affordable VR than yours truly. I didn’t back Oculus Rift on Kickstarter, thinking it wasn’t sensible to jump in so early, but eventually buckled, and soon strapped a headset on every family member or friend who waltzed near my PC. I had a carefully curated set of games and VR experiences to show VR off, and soon enough, I was being asked to give that same VR tour to complete strangers. I became convinced VR was going to be a huge part of gaming’s future, and despite being a notorious cheapskate, I spent $800 on a Vive, so I could actually walk around in VR. I was a convert.

The love affair was punctuated by the release of Resident Evil 7, a striking reimagining of a stagnant horror franchise whose use of VR was transcendent. Resident Evil 7 in VR is a wholly different—and far less intense—experience outside VR. I wanted more, and figured Resident Evil 7 was the start of something new. Instead, the headset was placed beside the couch, where it remained untouched. None of the games released in VR—PlayStation or otherwise—caught my attention. Nobody asked for VR tours anymore.