Learning From Death: Every Gamer Deserves A 'Secret Level'

When German philosopher Martin Heidegger introduced the concept of "Being Towards Death," he probably didn't expect how future generations would interpret it—both similarly and differently—through video games.

A very happy New Year to all Peliplaters!

Secret Level was concluded on Amazon Prime two weeks ago. I believe many of you have likely watched it. Many viewers who subscribed because they loved Love, Death & Robots abandoned the show after the first eight episodes. This isn't surprising—for viewers who aren't familiar with gaming, Secret Level seems like a mindless action show with impressive visuals but weak storytelling, especially compared to the thought-provoking sci-fi concepts in Love, Death & Robots. Characters frequently resurrect after death, and they overcome challenges through passionate battle cries rather than deep reflection. These seemingly convenient plot devices appear to be narrative flaws that undermine the audience's intelligence, at least from non-gamers' perspective.

However, as a hardcore gamer, these "plot holes" carry profound meaning. Looking at the bigger picture, Secret Level is a faithful love letter dedicated to all gamers. This love letter goes beyond simply satisfying gamers' nostalgia and their wish to see games being adapted into visual media—more importantly, it honors their gaming spirit on a deeper level. While this spirit hasn't yet gained full mainstream acceptance, it's already become an integral part of our daily lives and culture. The gaming spirit defies simple explanation. To understand it better, we must first examine the fundamental game mechanism of learning from death.

The Secret Level of Our Childhood

For us gamers, adapting to the death-and-respawn mechanism is second nature. When I first played "Super Mario" at age four, my brain began training for it. The game puts you in control of Mario, a plumber on a quest to rescue a kidnapped princess from monsters. Throughout his journey, Mario faces various traps and enemies. Without any hints or tutorials, players can only rely on the infinite continuation system that respawns Mario at checkpoints after death. New players must learn crucial principles—like how Mario dies from touching monsters but defeats them by jumping on them—through trial and error. However, the lengthy levels and unpredictable death scenarios make this primitive learning system frustrating, offering little opportunity for deeper reflection on Mario's deaths. Once you complete the game, all you've really proven is that you're no longer a novice. This limited impact is why games were long dismissed as mere entertainment rather than art.

The introduction of games like "Contra" gave death more meaningful dimensions through two-player cooperation. Unlike "Super Mario," it lets you team up with another player to complete missions. As such, your teammate becomes vital—they can help eliminate enemies and even sacrifice themselves by blocking bullets for you. Additionally, your movement becomes strategically tied to your partner's position. Whether your teammate plays with Forrest Gump's determination or Superman's ease, you must protect him or her like Master Sergeant John Kinley guarding the wounded Ahmed in the movie Guy Ritchie's The Covenant. With less skilled partners, you must learn to read enemy patterns, anticipate their movements and eliminate threats before they endanger your teammate.

While my mom would mercilessly turn off "Super Mario" if I played too long, she was more lenient with cooperative games like "Contra" and would often stay to listen to the laughter shared between my friends and me. Some viewers dismiss the final episode of Secret Level as mere PlayStation product placement and frown on its contrived nature, but when courier O returns to her childhood home and reminisces about playing console games with her siblings, it brought tears to my eyes. Today's mobile phones and internet technology have shifted our focus to small, individual screens instead of shared TV experiences. As mobile games can be played independently online using players' own electronic devices, they can't recreate the intimacy of gathering around a TV with friends and family. In those moments, we feel one another's presence—such as the subtle movements and changing breathing patterns as games grow more challenging. We'll collectively sigh when characters die and, after completing a game, immediately set down our controllers to share high-fives and hugs. That is the true secret level we ought to achieve.

The emergence of multiplayer games like "Counter-Strike" brought a new dimension to character death. In this first-person shooter, players join either the Counterterrorist or Terrorist teams. Terrorists aim to destroy objectives or eliminate their opponents, while Counterterrorists must prevent destruction in addition to eliminating threats. Players experience death not only from a first-person view but also learn how their teammates' deaths impact the game. When teammates fall, their radar signals vanish—warning of nearby enemies. The game's weapon pickup system requires strategic thinking: buying expensive weapons means considering your position relative to your teammates, as enemies could claim abandoned weapons to devastating effect. In "Counter-Strike," teammate deaths spell doom while enemy defeats bring victory closer. Apart from learning from death, players must balance eliminating enemies, protecting teammates, and completing objectives. Episode 7 of Secret Level captures this tactical interplay well, though it assumes viewers fully understand first-person game mechanics and as a result, skip the building of an environment of menace or a heroic atmosphere that comes after sacrifices are made to defuse a crisis, which is common to crime and action films. To viewers unfamiliar with such games, the episode might seem like an arbitrary firefight that doesn't go down well with them.

While we've examined the gaming spirit from multiple angles, this perspective might still not fully resonate with non-gamers. Some might argue that these gaming characteristics lack broader relevance. Traditional sports, after all, can develop strategic thinking, cooperation, and reflexes more effectively than video games. Physical activities like basketball and soccer also offer clear fitness benefits that sedentary gaming cannot match. And it's true that solo gaming experiences dominate the market, with multiplayer and cooperative games being less common.

However, a preference for single-player games isn't a sign of anti-social behavior. Episode 13 reveals another crucial aspect of gaming culture: the joy of sharing. Set in a future where faster-than-light travel depends on navigation maps, the episode follows Captain Cassidy Taimak's space pirates on an ambitious heist. Though the story appears to celebrate collective action, it actually highlights gaming's collaborative spirit—the inherent desire to share experiences with others. The travel maps serve as metaphors for game guides, showing how the jubilation of gaming achievements is meant to be shared. When players exchange strategies, they can tackle challenges more efficiently while still mastering core gameplay. This collaborative approach isn't about circumventing the rules—players still need to develop their skills to succeed.

Furthermore, the enjoyment of single-player games isn't a solitary experience. On modern live streaming or video platforms, countless content creators share their single-player gaming experiences. Their unique playing styles often captivate viewers more than their completion strategies. While some creators master unexpected approaches to game objectives, others charm audiences with witty commentaries despite average gameplay skills. Their viewers—dubbed "cloud gamers"—may never touch a controller yet find joy in the gaming experience through observation alone. This shared enjoyment predates social media, tracing back to gaming's earliest days. In my childhood, I'd spend hours watching others play in arcades. Since each game cost money, children would cluster around adults playing games, and those who showed exceptional skills would gather even more spectators. As one of the onlookers, though I couldn't control the game myself, I became fully immersed in the character's journey, much like watching a movie. I'd feel the tension during dangerous moments, and despite knowing the character could respawn, the player's limited skills or memory meant success wasn't guaranteed. Whenever they dodged danger in surprising ways, I'd join the crowd in enthusiastic cheers.

The Secret Level of Virtual Death

Episode 3 of Secret Level resonates most deeply with many viewers. The story follows King Aelstrom and his loyal servant Scaevola, who find themselves on an island where death is temporary—everyone infinitely respawns. Upon his arrival, the arrogant Aelstrom immediately declares his intention to dominate the island and its inhabitants. He repeatedly challenges the island's ruler, King Zimah, dying countless times in the process. Yet after every resurrection, he returns with new tactics. Through all these defeats, Scaevola stands unwavering by his side, maintaining that Aelstrom will always be his king. Eventually, after countless deaths, Aelstrom has an epiphany: Scaevola's steadfast loyalty matters far more than conquering a meaningless island.

While this narrative is touching, I believe Episode 12—despite its apparent simplicity—truly captures the essence of Secret Level. It follows two explorers, an adult and a child, who repeatedly respawn in a monster-filled underground maze. Like in "Super Mario," they can only advance by learning from their deaths. The adult carefully records every death on the respawn point's wall, while the child sees it as pointless—why track deaths that aren't permanent? Similar to Episode 7, this might puzzle viewers unfamiliar with adventure games. However, the symbolism is striking: the adult embodies veteran players while the child represents newcomers. New players tackle games with boundless creativity, treating their avatar's death objectively as simply another unsuccessful experiment. Like Aelstrom after every respawn, their competitive drive quickly eclipses any frustration from defeat. For veterans, though, their "footprint"—the time and effort invested—matters most. They find pride in conquering challenges with as few deaths as possible.

In fact, this episode conveys a simple concept through the different mindsets of new and veteran players: It's neither the game designers nor the game itself that gives meaning to virtual death in games, but rather the players themselves. The true secret level isn't merely a hidden stage that designers deliberately conceal for players to discover through repeated failures. Instead, it represents a transformation in players' mindsets—from treating character lives as disposable to viewing them as precious. This evolution reflects not just an improvement in our gaming skills but also shows how each past failure has contributed to who we are now.

Many contemporary philosophers warn of the perils of gaming, particularly focusing on the respawn mechanism that allows endless revivals, arguing that it makes players numb to death. While this criticism might seem logical in theory, it reveals that these critics have never truly experienced the joy of gaming.

Even non-gamers would have likely heard of "Elden Ring," the sandbox game with zero clues or guidance that became a global sensation last year. Beyond its stunning graphics and compelling side stories, it offers an experience akin to watching a mini-series. Yet its steep difficulty curve often discourages newcomers to Souls-like games—many give up before defeating their first monster, while those who persevere are stunned to find even greater challenges ahead. The wisest approach isn't always direct confrontation, but rather strategically avoiding tougher enemies until you've grown stronger through other means. For me, the game's most poignant feature is the white marks left by other players at their death sites. These marks contain messages ranging from helpful tips to frustrated complaints. They make death in the game feel less isolating and prompt us to consider how our character's demise might affect others. Through this reflection, gaming's significance extends far beyond the game itself.

What do you think, Peliplaters?