The most nerve-wracking boss battle I’ve ever faced wasn’t against Sephiroth or Ganon or even that impossible Ninja Gaiden bird. It was the moment I handed my then-girlfriend (now my partner of seven years) a controller and said, “So… wanna try this game with me?” The look of polite dread on her face made me instantly regret every life choice that had led to that moment.
See, Amber wasn’t a gamer. At all. Her gaming experience consisted entirely of playing Snake on her Nokia phone in college and occasionally joining in on Wii Sports at family gatherings (where she’d somehow destroy everyone at bowling despite holding the remote like it might explode). To her, my gaming hobby was this strange, time-consuming thing I did—something she tolerated with bemused patience, like my collection of concert t-shirts that don’t fit anymore but I refuse to throw away.
That first gaming session was, to put it mildly, a disaster. I’d chosen Mario Kart 8, thinking it would be approachable and fun. Big mistake. I forgot that dual analog sticks, shoulder buttons, and drift mechanics aren’t actually intuitive to someone who’s never held a modern controller. She spent most of the race driving backward into walls while I—idiot that I was—kept saying helpful things like “just press B to accelerate” without specifying which one was B.
“This isn’t fun,” she finally said after her eighth consecutive last-place finish, setting down the controller with the careful precision of someone trying very hard not to throw it. “I don’t understand why you like this.”
My heart sank. Not because she didn’t like Mario Kart (though seriously, who doesn’t like Mario Kart?), but because I’d just botched what I’d built up in my mind as this perfect gateway into sharing one of my favorite hobbies. I’d been imagining cozy evenings playing co-op games, bonding over shared adventures, maybe even eventually getting a second PS5 controller. Instead, I’d just reinforced her belief that gaming was complicated, frustrating, and not worth the effort.
It took me two months to work up the courage to try again, and this time, I approached it very differently. First, I did my research, scouring forums for games specifically designed for asymmetric co-op—games where players could have different roles based on their skill level. Second, I actually explained the buttons before starting. Revolutionary concept, I know.
The game that saved my gaming relationship dreams? Portal 2’s co-op mode. Something about the puzzle-solving aspect clicked with her analytical mind (she’s an accountant, which explains… a lot, actually). The cooperative nature meant we had to communicate constantly—”Put your portal there, no THERE, on the white wall, the WHITE wall!”—which turned out to be both hilarious and surprisingly intimate. There’s something weirdly vulnerable about revealing how your brain works when trying to solve puzzles together.
After that breakthrough, we slowly expanded our co-op repertoire. Overcooked became our go-to, though it nearly caused our first serious fight when I kept throwing onions at her instead of putting them in the pot. (“They’re BOTH circular, Mike! How am I supposed to know the difference when you’re screaming about the kitchen being on fire?”)
The real game-changer, though—and I swear this isn’t a paid endorsement—was It Takes Two. If you haven’t played it with your significant other, stop reading this right now and go do that instead. I’ll wait. Seriously, it’s like someone designed a game specifically to test and strengthen relationships through co-op play. The asymmetric gameplay meant that neither of us felt like we were carrying the other, and the constantly changing mechanics kept things fresh enough that we were both learning together.
Through these gaming sessions, I’ve learned more about Amber than I might have through years of normal conversations. I’ve learned that she’s terrifyingly strategic when given time to think but panics under pressure. I’ve learned that she has surprisingly quick reflexes when properly motivated (usually by the prospect of beating me). And I’ve learned—much to my chagrin—that she has a natural talent for gaming that took me decades to develop. She beat the final boss in It Takes Two on her first try. Her FIRST TRY. Do you know how many times I died to that vacuum cleaner monster? I’m not bitter. Not at all.
The key to success, I’ve found, is treating gaming with a non-gamer partner like introducing someone to a new language. You can’t just drop them in the deep end and expect fluency. You need to start with the basics—here’s how you hold the controller, here’s what these buttons do, don’t worry about the rest for now. Then gradually introduce new concepts as they become comfortable with the old ones.
Patience is crucial, and so is checking your competitive instincts at the door. Nothing kills the fun faster than treating your rookie partner like they should somehow intuitively understand mechanics that took you years to master. I had to literally sit on my hands a few times to stop myself from grabbing her controller to “just show you how to do this part real quick”—a move that I realized would be patronizing and deflating.
Finding the right games makes all the difference too. Games with flexible difficulty, where failure isn’t punishing, and—most importantly—where waiting for your less experienced partner to figure things out doesn’t feel like a chore. And honestly? Sometimes the best co-op experiences come from games that weren’t specifically designed for co-op at all.
Some of our best gaming moments happened with single-player narrative games where we’d pass the controller back and forth, making decisions together. Life is Strange became our Sunday evening ritual for weeks, with heated debates about what choices to make. Somehow, selecting dialogue options for a teenage girl with time powers became this profound exercise in understanding each other’s moral compasses. (“You would TOTALLY rewind time to win the lottery!” “Yeah, and you’d use it to make sure you never said anything awkward ever again!”)
What really surprised me was how gaming together created this secret language between us. References to game moments have become shorthand in our relationship. When one of us is taking too long to get ready, “You’re overcooked-ing us!” is all that needs to be said. When we’re working through a disagreement, one of us might say “Portal solution?” meaning “let’s take a step back and think about this from a different angle.” Gaming metaphors have infiltrated our communication in ways I never expected.
It hasn’t all been smooth sailing, of course. There have been rage-quits (mostly mine, embarrassingly enough), moments of controller-gripping frustration, and the occasional “I’m never playing this again” declaration (we were back at it the next day). But even those moments taught us something about each other and how we handle stress and frustration.
The biggest hurdle was always balancing our different skill levels. Early on, I made the mistake of handicapping myself in obvious ways—deliberately playing poorly to keep things “fair.” This backfired spectacularly; nothing makes someone feel worse than knowing you’re holding back. Instead, I learned to find games where we naturally had different strengths, or where we could take on different roles that suited our abilities.
Racing games, for instance, were a no-go for years until we discovered that Amber is actually an incredible navigator. Now she handles the map and calls out turns while I drive in rally games like Dirt—a perfect division of labor that plays to our strengths. She’s never going to be into the hardcore action games that I love, and I’ll never share her newfound passion for farming simulators (I’m sorry, but watching virtual crops grow is where I draw the line). That’s okay. We’ve found our overlapping circle in the Venn diagram of gaming preferences.
What I never expected was how much I’d enjoy games that wouldn’t normally be on my radar. Without Amber, I might never have discovered the zen-like pleasure of Stardew Valley or the emotional gut-punch of narrative adventures like Firewatch. My gaming horizons expanded in directions I wouldn’t have explored on my own.
Seven years in, we now have “our games”—titles we play together, separate from what I play solo. It’s become this special shared territory, almost sacred in a way. There are games I could easily play on my own but deliberately wait so we can experience them together. And there’s nothing quite like the look we exchange when we see a trailer for a new co-op game that seems perfect for us. No words needed—just the mutual understanding that our calendar will be cleared when it releases.
For those of you trying to introduce your significant other to gaming, my hard-earned advice is simple: start with why you love it, not with the what or how. Communicate that you want to share this thing that brings you joy, not that you want to “convert” them into a capital-G Gamer. Find games that reflect something they already enjoy—puzzle-solving, storytelling, exploration—and build from there. And for god’s sake, explain the buttons.
Gaming with your partner isn’t just about finding someone to help you through the hard levels (though that co-op trophy in Cuphead wasn’t going to unlock itself). It’s about creating a shared vocabulary of experiences, inside jokes, and moments of triumph. It’s about learning how you both function under pressure, how you communicate, how you solve problems together. In some weird way, it’s been one of the most intimate parts of our relationship.
Not bad for something that started with driving backward on Rainbow Road, huh?
Oh, and in case you’re wondering—yes, she still absolutely destroys me at Wii bowling. Some things never change.
