Prolific fiction writers like Lois McMaster Bujold, Stephen King, and Brandon Sanderson are able to pump out so many words a day by greasing the groove. That is, training themselves to write a number of words each day that focus their thinking firmly within the controlled worlds of their respective imaginations. These beloved universes contained in prose feel lived-in and function by a set of rules their authors use to imbue them with real stakes, in spite of their fantastical plotlines. 

These authors describe their creative processes differently, yet each one stakes the efficacy of their writing on living within inspiring moments, riding these waves of incisive thought to driven narratives that ultimately connect with the human experience, regardless of how alien a world or its inhabitants might seem at first blush. 

McMaster Bujold’s famous for not knowing where she’s going when she starts writing a story, a prime example of how steeping in the lusciousness of an idea can spawn surprising narratives for writer and reader alike: “I've described my usual writing process as scrambling from peak to peak on inspiration through foggy valleys of despised logic.”

In a similar vein, King highlights the potential to build connective tissue between reader and writer when setting out to compose a story: “Description begins in the writer's imagination, but should finish in the reader's.”

Meanwhile, Sanderson’s process even sounds a little like playing a video game: “When I write my books, actually I'm known for very logical rule-based magic systems.”

What these paragons of creative output each have in common is an ability to live within their own ideas. They’ve spent their careers learning how to trust the worlds contained in their imaginations and are able to write and publish at such a blinding clip due to the pleasure of their practiced existence within them. Their metaphorical grooves are greased by how they’ve spent years training their brains to be creative as a daily practice.

So, how do we mere mortals emulate this process of imaginative immersion? If we want to try our hand at a regular creative practice but don’t know where to begin, what can we do to help smooth our transition into actually doing the work without putting ourselves at risk of feeling overwhelmed and tabling our dream projects when the rubber meets the road?

Well, my friends. I’ve got the answer. We can train our brains to be creative by playing video games. Let me start with an anecdote, then flesh out what I mean.

I’d wanted to write a novel my entire adult life, but every time I tried, I would end up writing for a couple days before feeling completely overwhelmed and losing myself in a fog of self-doubt before giving up on a project indefinitely. I can’t tell you how many half-baked characters sit moldering in the twisted maze of my file system as I type these very words. Not being able to establish a regular creative practice left me feeling stymied and concerned that my aspirations of writing long-form fiction were nothing but the makings of a sordid pipe dream, the kind old men talk about on public buses to no one in particular. 

To prevent my mind from stewing in its sad goulash of uncertainty, I began playing computer RPGs. Specifically, Baldur’s Gate 3. I played for an hour or two each day, investing my free time in the development of my characters and their relationships with one another, taking particular note of how my decisions impacted the layered narrative that unfolded before my eyes, almost like magic. Or, as Sanderson might say: “logical rule-based magic.” All I had to do was sit down at regular intervals, coax my brain into video-game mode, and enjoy the fruits of the fugue state it inspired. To this day, the punchy sound effect and artistic certainty of the mind flayer transformation undergone by Larian’s logo upon booting up the game cues me into focus. 

Soon, I realized that video games can sugar-coat the initial arduousness of a regular creative practice with feedback loops that provide enough dopamine to our brains to want to invest in them time and time again. Once we’re hooked on a game, we keep coming back, and my experience with BG3 helped me prove to myself that I could sit down at my computer, day after day, to help tell a story.

The way I like to view such games now, as distinct from other inspiring modes of media, are like guided courses to establish a practice of imaginative immersion that can be both routine and fulfilling. Like learning how to bike with training wheels. Because just having the confidence to sit down at your desk in front of a blank screen at regular intervals is a huge part of the battle. In fact, the only way McMaster Bujold can put her full trust in her scramble from “peak to [inspired] peak” is by giving herself the space to do so, day by day, trusting that the next breath of rarified, creative air is just over the horizon.

Video games, thus, have the potential to be powerful training tools in the establishment of a daily creative practice. By learning to tap into their creative “fugue state” through games, aspiring creators can grease the groove that will allow them to eventually take the training wheels off and switch out their narrative-heavy video game for the word-processor, digital audio workspace, drawing program, or [INSERT CREATION TOOL HERE] of choice.

Video games can be a glimpse into what a regular creative practice can look like with enough practice, when used correctly. They give us the ability to live within our favorite stories, and when we’re able to do such a thing, we learn what a lived-in world feels like. It’s the feeling that makes a writer’s desk magnetic. Take it from me. Someone who, at his lowest times, didn’t believe in himself enough to write even 10,000 words of decent fiction. 

At the time of writing, I’ve got over 90,000 done on my first draft of a sci-fi/fantasy novel I’m really excited about. Each day, I sit down to write at least 2,000 words. Any more than that’s a cherry on top of a successful effort. Many days, the writing sucks, but that’s not what matters. What matters is that I sit down and do it every day, and have grown to love my practice. I’m proud to say that I’m a writer, and even more giddy to explain that, without Baldur’s Gate 3 – my favorite game – I’d be nowhere near the writer that I am today. 

When we learn to live within our stories they, somewhat predictably, feel lived-in, and those are the kind of stories I want to spend my life reading and writing. Video games can help us get there, one story beat at a time.