Why I Am the Hero… Until I Blame the Stupid Cow

A few thoughts on immersion, identity, and emotional betrayal in games

Last week, I was gracefully dodging enemy attacks as EVE in Stellar Blade. The world blurred around me as I parried with near-perfect timing, thinking—no, feeling—“I did it!” It wasn’t EVE parrying. It was me. I was her. Later, while editing footage of Dungeons of Hinterberg, I caught myself saying aloud:

“I’m jumping. I’m searching. I’m solving this puzzle.”

But when things didn’t go quite so smoothly, when I missed a jump as Luisa or got blindsided by a boss as EVE, I suddenly snapped:

“Come on, jump! What are you doing, you clumsy ###?”

Just like that, the magic was gone. She wasn’t me anymore. She was someone else who let me down.

Stellar Blade's EVE from my gameplay

The Delicate Spell of Immersion

This is immersion in a nutshell: the moment you mentally step inside the game world and forget you're holding a controller. You become the character, and their journey becomes your own. But that connection is fragile. Easily formed, and just as easily broken.

There are a few forces at play here:

• Identity overlap: The more you relate to the character—visually, emotionally, narratively—the easier it is to say “I did it.”

• Control and responsiveness: If the character reacts precisely to your input, you're bonded. If there's lag, stiffness, or weird AI behavior, you detach. She messed up, not you.

• Flow state: When gameplay pulls you in just right—challenging but not overwhelming—you lose awareness of the outside world. That’s when you say “I’m in it.”

  
  

But here's the kicker: when the illusion breaks, we blame the avatar. Not ourselves.

“She Failed Me”: Why We Flip from I to She

There’s a small but telling shift that happens when something goes wrong: we switch pronouns.

Success? I dodged. I nailed it. I’m awesome.

Failure? She missed. She didn’t jump. What the hell is she doing?

This isn’t hypocrisy—it’s human. Psychologists call it a self-serving bias: we naturally take credit for success and deflect blame for failure. In games, that bias plays out in real time. The character becomes a kind of emotional avatar, a proxy for pride and frustration.

Ironically, that outburst (“You stupid cow!”) isn’t a sign that you don’t care. It’s a sign you cared a lot. Enough to feel betrayed.

Luisa from Dungeons of Hinterberg getting her magical abilities

Who We Feel With and Who We Don’t

Immersion often relies on how easily we see ourselves in the character. Gender can play a part. Many women feel more immersed when playing a woman, while some men strongly prefer playing male characters. But it’s not just about gender. It’s about how much room the game gives us to project ourselves into the role.

And sometimes, when the character isn’t human at all, say a robot, ghost, animal or creature, we feel even freer. No expectations, no baggage, no need to “match.” It’s pure experience.

That doesn’t mean immersion is stronger with non-human protagonists, but it does mean the rules shift. We stop thinking “Would I do this?” and start thinking “What is it like to be this?” That can be just as powerful, sometimes even more so.

In Conclusion: The Glorious Double Standard

So yes, I’m the hero. I parry. I solve puzzles. I clear the platforming section like a legend.

Unless I fall into a pit twice (or twenty times) in a row. Then it’s her fault. I didn't fail. She did.

And honestly? That little hypocrisy is part of the joy. Because in those moments when it all clicks, we get to become someone else. And when it doesn’t, we still get to yell at the screen and feel like it matters.