Floppy Physics and Sarcastic Robots

So, Fall Guys.

It’s a glorified obstacle course. The controls are floaty, the physics are unpredictable, and sometimes your character trips on air like they’re being attacked by a ghost. But instead of rage-quitting, you laugh. You queue up another round. You keep going.

Why?
Because it’s not just a game—it’s an experience. And that experience is pure, delightful nonsense.

When the dumb stuff is the best stuff

Strip down Fall Guys to the mechanics and you’ve got a standard platformer with some battle royale elements. Sounds fine. Sounds... forgettable. But throw in jellybean-shaped avatars, garish color palettes, and ragdoll physics that turn every misstep into a slapstick routine, and now we’re talking viral sensation.

The point here isn’t just “make things colorful.” It’s that tone matters. Tone can transform a game from “mildly frustrating” to “hilariously fun.” Imagine if Fall Guys had gritty, military realism. Gritty soldier #403B flopping around and screaming in slow-mo while being hit by a giant spinning banana is less “hype clip” and more “bizarre fever dream.”

It’s not the mechanic—it’s the delivery.

Pain with a punchline

And it’s not just visual style. Tone can come from anywhere—a voiceover, a sound cue, even a loading screen message.

Take Getting Over It with Bennett Foddy. On paper, it’s cruel. You’re a man in a cauldron climbing a mountain with a hammer. You fall, you lose hours of progress. But Bennett’s deadpan commentary? The quiet, philosophical reflections as you descend back to square one? That turns the whole experience from torment into tragic comedy.

Without the narration, it’s a rage game. With it, it’s performance art.

Let me PlateUP some examples

One of my personal favorites is PlateUP, an indie co-op restaurant sim. Beneath the surface, it’s actually kind of intense. You’re managing time, layout, customer flow—it’s fast-paced and demands coordination. But the tone is so chill. The characters look like sentient erasers. The music sounds like the menu at a Parisian café. The animations are simple and bouncy.

And somehow... it feels cozy.

It’s this weird juxtaposition that works. Your brain is juggling five things, but your eyes and ears are vibing. The tone smooths the spikes. Without it, PlateUP could feel like high-stress micromanagement. With it, it’s the kind of game you play on a rainy afternoon with friends.

The GLaDOS effect

Of course, I’d be doing this topic a disservice if I didn’t mention Portal. One of the greatest examples of how tone elevates a game.

Mechanically? It’s a physics puzzler. But with GLaDOS? It’s a masterclass. Her dry wit, her passive-aggressive threats, her evolution from glitchy tour guide to psychotic overlord—it’s what kept you emotionally invested between test chambers. She made you care. She made you laugh. She made you a little bit scared.

The puzzles were clever, sure. But the personality? That’s what made Portal iconic.

Streamable, memeable, playable

There’s also a social media side to this. Games that don’t take themselves too seriously are way more shareable. They lend themselves to streamers reacting dramatically, players posting highlight reels of their worst fails, and friends laughing at a clip they just have to send you.

Nobody clips their 99th perfect kill in a hyper-serious shooter. They clip the time they flew off the map because they tripped over a rubber chicken.

Tone = content. Content = community. Community = longevity.

Not for every game—but maybe more than you think

Look, I’m not saying every game needs to be a circus. Sometimes you want grit. Sometimes you want realism. But let’s not pretend that comedy doesn’t have a seat at the table. Because it absolutely does. And it’s bringing snacks.

Funny games lower the barrier. They invite more people in. They keep players engaged, even when they’re losing. Especially when they’re losing.

That’s a superpower.