I was playing Tekken 7 with my brother the other day, a game that’s become an afternoon ritual for us. I picked Leo, he picked Kazumi, and we fiddled with our fight sticks, repeating combos to ourselves. Tekken 7‘s loading screens display hints on a chyron; I usually dismiss these, but while we were waiting, one caught my attention. It explained that Tekken‘s 4-button system corresponds to the 4 limbs of every fighter.

I had been playing Tekken 7 for a couple of weeks, and only then did it click. Of course! It’s so smart! What witty muscle-memory design, what a great establishment of the connection between player and fighter. I was stunned. I wanted to write a piece about this design, but I’m 22 years late to the party. I mulled over it; there was something about Tekken I needed to talk about. I realize now I was thinking too small.

In that moment, I didn’t just learn about Tekken. I learned a new language.

Well, it’s more like I learned to translate a new language. I had been learning it for years, and chances are, you have, too. If you’ve never touched a game before, you’ve at least studied a similar language. If you love paintings, you’re well versed in how to translate brush strokes. If you love film, you understand the different dialects of the camera. If you love games, you understand that tactility is the language of games.

Games have existed for thousands of years as tools, building blocks, second-hand experiences, but we’re just now realizing the potential of play within culture. Games and game criticism are still fledgling mediums. We haven’t gotten the “science” of them down yet, not in the vein of something like film theory. Because of this, it’s hard to critique games under a blanket ideology. There are no real metrics one can easily apply to a given game other than “is it enjoyable to play?” Every game has to be considered with a vastly different mindset than the last because the fundamentals of the medium and how we perceive it are still developing. I believe understanding the importance of tactility is a big first step in this process.

Let’s consider this from a literary standpoint. What is the tone and diction of tactility? The tone is a quite literal parallel; it’s the context of the player’s actions. In a wartime game, who are you shooting at? Why are you shooting? The diction of tactility is the content of the player’s actions. Do you shoot in the moment, like in Call of Duty, or through planning, like in Valkyria Chronicles?

Most games emphasize one of three types of diction: reflex, strategy, and input. These are the basic elements of play. In Bayonetta or Devil May Cry, how fast the player can move and attack is key. Sid Meier’s Civilization and Fire Emblem grant the player strategic freedom, asking them to consider the smartest move at any point. Dance Dance Revolution simulates the experience of dancing with specially designed inputs. If this is how games talk, then fighting games are Shakespearean in how they play.

All of the aforementioned elements of play are at the forefront of your brain when playing a good fighting game. Cat-like reflexes, adaptable on-the-fly strategies, and memorizing precise inputs are necessary in any match-up. You can get lost in the heat of battle, but when you step back and look at how much every frame matters, it’s intimidating.

The intimidation is worth it, however. I am by no means a professional in any fighting game, but I’m at a level where I can taste greatness just enough that it lingers in my mouth and makes me hungry for more. The tactility of fighting games, I find, resonates much stronger with me than most narrative-driven games. We’ve sunk into the belief that the only type of immersion is the one that values atmosphere, that the best type of play is done in idyllic, controlled environments. There is value in that, absolutely, but to me, games that aren’t afraid to embrace their identity, to be technical in every sense of the word, are the most immersive.

Say you picked up one of two things: Shakespeare’s Othello or Street Fighter III: 3rd Strike. It piques your interest, and it is technically in the same language you’ve known since you were a child, but it’s…different. Way different. So different it almost scares you off, there’s so much complexity and analysis required to comprehend any piece of information. What do you do?

Most people give up. And I get that. It doesn’t seem worth the effort, and there’s plenty of easier alternatives or simplified versions to enjoy. But if you decide to embrace it, with all it’s frustrating, beautiful complexity, its poetry. You digest the information differently. You start watching poets perform in this language on stages across the world, and you realize this is beyond anything you’ve spoken before. You learned a new language within your own.

And you can’t wait to start talking.