When I first heard about Getting Over It with Bennett Foddy on an episode of The Besties, I thought: "Now there's a game for me."

"A cerebral, challenging, meditative yet absurd game for someone interested in engaging with one of the best independent game designers of his era," I thought. And I was right.

Then, this came to mind: "I'll enjoy playing this one. It will be tough, but I'll stick to it and beat it because that's my way. I may not be the best at something, but I am one of the hardest workers. That's how I'll succeed."

Getting Over It* showed me just how wrong I was. About the beating it part, yes. But also about my preconceived notion of "success." In fact, this game helped me take a large step on my journey toward a healthier, more authentic self by beating the shit out of me the few times I tried to pick it up.

Bennett Foddy made Getting Over It as an homage to Sexy Hiking, another painfully difficult game that challenges players to use a simple yet novel climbing mechanic to progress through a series of increasingly perplexing obstacles. Getting Over It is this with better graphics and more interesting trappings.

You play as a shirtless person with no legs who grows out of a cauldron and has a climbing pick attached to both his hands. Players use their mouse or analog stick to move the climbing pick around in order to propel the cauldron-bound character up and over obstacles as they progress up a mountain of miscellaneous objects.

But progress is the wrong term to describe the climbing in this game. There are no checkpoints. If you fall - which you do a lot - you have to re-tread the same path. No second chances. No fail safes. Just fails.

The "With Bennet Foddy" part of the game comes into play when the titular designer actually speaks to you through voiceover when you mess up or do something frustrating. He'll tell you about the game's inspiration, why he made it, and other facts. He'll encourage you to keep going, reminding you that mistakes are what make us human and help us grow. He'll groan right alongside you as you plummet from ten minutes of careful climbing back down to exactly where you were when you started your session, where you have been countless times. In addition to Foddy's voiceover, you'll be treated to old blues tunes and other music that has encapsulated human frustration throughout recorded history.

And it's cute for the first little bit. For the first hour, even. Then, it's frustrating. Then more time goes by and you turn the game off. At least, that's what I did. I thought I would come back to it another time. When I had more patience or read more about the most optimal controls and strategy tips.

Then I'd work on it and beat it, I thought. I am a hard worker. I appreciate Foddy's product, and to show it respect I will solve it before I move on.

I had this in my head for about a week. Then a speed run of the game showed up on my YouTube feed. It was a two-minute long video. After watching for thirty seconds I knew I would never beat the game.

The speedrunner had a golden cauldron - which you probably get for making it to the top of the mountain (or, some might say, getting over it) a trillion times or something. It took him all of fifteen seconds to make it past the part I'd spent over three hours trying to solve. Then he went higher. And higher. Through obstacles precarious enough to make my eyes water. Through entirely different landscapes of pain. Through the twitchiest of conundrums that could probably send you tumbling back to the start of the game if not navigated with the swiftest and most careful hand. Up and up and up and into space.

Then the credits rolled. And there I sat with my new knowledge. That I would never beat or review the game, and - probably, if I was being honest with myself - never even boot it up again. Because... how could I?

Approaching Getting Over It with my original attitude made me dislike the game. I found it nearly impossible to progress. I knew that this difficulty was the game's main conceit, but I thought that I'd be different. I thought that I would overcome. Be one of the few to soldier on and "get over it" like Foddy wanted me to. I thought I would be special. At least, I wanted to be. But I wasn't. I was just another person who gave up.

As I sat with these thoughts, I came to realize that the point of Getting Over It is not to win. Or, rather, winning the game does not have to look like beating it for the vast majority of folks. Instead, winning is to realize that completing something does not have to be the metric for whether something is pleasurable or whether you can appreciate it. In games, in art, in sports, in life, success is the work that one does as an individual to size up how they will be able to take pleasure in how they spend their time and then follow through on that enjoyment in whatever ways feel right to them.

For me, getting pleasure out of Getting Over It actually turned out to be being humbled by it and writing this piece, rather than making it to the top of the mountain and into the stratosphere. Beating the game would not bring me half the satisfaction or pleasure that I get sharing these reflections with you. In this way, writing is my gold cauldron. That said, I don't expect you to get pleasure from reading my words or writing about the game yourself. If pleasure looks like beating something, more power to you.

Success looks different for everyone because every individual is - as the term implies - their own living breathing ball of unique preferences. And, if you dig deep enough into the nuances within, everyone is (at least slightly) different from one another. And that's beautiful.

That a speedrunner who takes pride in beating the shit out of each game they approach, spending hundreds of hours honing their craft, and me - a writer whose patience levels (or lack thereof) are not equipped to play more than three hours of Getting Over It without putting the game down (probably forever) - can both find pleasure and success in playing it is beautiful.

Life does not have to be a series of isolated events that you must complete or see through to their ends. Ends are given far too much mythological importance in today's world. People crave ends. We fear them, yet we want them and put them on pedestals as mementos of completion and closure. But these ideas are constructs that hold no more substance than sweat evaporating off a frustrated gamer's furrowed brow. There is no such thing as an end. Not even death or beating Getting Over It leads to one. There will always be more people and more memories. More moments. Faster, more efficient climbs to chase.

So we may as well enjoy it.