Here’s the thing: I get it. Some games can’t live forever. But this movement isn’t asking for eternal corporate support. It’s asking for cooperation. For companies to work with communities - especially the ones still playing, modding, and loving these so-called “dead” games - to find ways to keep them alive. Whether that means releasing tools, open-sourcing older versions, or just letting people run their own servers without getting sued into oblivion.
Because right now? It feels like we’re renting joy on borrowed time. And when the timer runs out, we lose access, no matter how much we paid or how much we cared.
Gaming isn’t disposable. It’s not just about profits and quarterly reports. Some of these games might be obscure or out of the mainstream, but they matter to the people who still play them. They’re digital spaces, comfort zones, time capsules. And watching them disappear - sometimes overnight - is devastating.
If I buy a book, you don’t get to sneak into my house five years later and take it off the shelf because “it’s not selling anymore.” But with games? That’s becoming standard.
What frustrates me most is the shrug. The industry’s answer to a million voices is basically “That’s just how it is.” But it doesn’t have to be. No one’s asking you to support a game forever. We’re asking you not to slam the door shut and toss away the key.
At the very least, give us options. Let us preserve what we can. Don’t lock everything behind closed servers and corporate EULAs and then act surprised when people get mad.
So no - Stop Killing Games isn’t overreacting. It’s reacting exactly the way we should. Loudly, clearly, and with a simple ask: If we paid for it, let us play it. Don’t make digital memories disappear because a spreadsheet says it’s time.
