At first they were a perfect couple.
The Legend of Zelda: Tears of the Kingdom came out on my Nintendo Switch on May 12th and in no time the game filled my TikTok feed. I couldn’t escape Hyrule – and I loved it. I felt part of a community.
After solving a complex problem by simply building a really, really long bridge, I was thrilled to see how many other people had the exact same idea. Amateur engineers cobbled together intricate contraptions and war machines that I had no ambitions for but enjoyed seeing. And speedrunners did what speedrunners do best: they broke the game.
Gradually, the tenor of my feed changed. It was still Zelda, but now the videos wanted to help me. First I got recommendations: “Do you need money? Try duplicating diamonds!” Then came the demands: “You have to stop what you’re doing Tears of the Kingdom and get the best shield in the game AT THE MOMENT!“
Unlimited money? The best articles? How could I resist! Being warned that a patch would nullify the ability to manipulate diamonds, I spent a couple of hours in the first week of play jumping off a staircase, messing with my inventory, and getting gems falling to the ground too leave to do a bit of alchemy. Again and again and again. In turn, I wasn’t having any fun and got a lot of gems that, as it turned out, I didn’t really need. I also acquired a shield so powerful I’m afraid to use it.
I must not have been alone, as TikTok immediately provided solutions to the problems this created, showing me where to buy expensive clothes and how a certain enemy, with a little patience, could repair my weapons. I continued to follow these tips for a day or two, but it took away my joy. Play Tears of the Kingdom had turned into work. TikTok provided quests and I followed them, darting around the map like a bike messenger rather than a free-spirited explorer. My TikTok feed had become a to-do list.
I deleted the app for a week or two and then left again Tears of the Kingdom. Both had started to annoy me, and I have a rule that if a game or social media platform brings me down, it has to go. Even if it’s my favorite app or the best game I’ve played in years.
When I later tried to reinstall TikTok, my Zelda powered feed turned into something even worse. In a video I was told that I have to do a “Bone Augmentation” which does 800 damage. The next video chastised me for using that crappy 800 damage bone build when I could use another bone build that does 2,000 damage.
A question: What the heck is a bone structure?
How do I describe this particular fear? It’s not quite FOMO, but it feeds my unhealthiest gaming habits. It’s like a game guide in theory, but I appreciate the guidance of the guides I’m looking for. But this… What is this?
My colleague Mike Mahardy described it to me as “Zelda splaining,” and I think that’s accurate. In the past, video game manuals were used as a reference. When you play a game and encounter a frustrating obstacle, open a guide or search online and get the answer. Then you go ahead alone.
But this form of short video content is the opposite: it’s the unsolicited guide. And because YouTubers need to stand out on TikTok, they promise something provocative or over the top. “The best weapon.” “The easiest cheater.” “The quickest way to finish a game that should be enjoyed for months or even years.”
The end result is a content chimera where good intentions meet peer pressure: You have to do this because you don’t want to miss out on the very best, do you?
To be perfectly clear, there is no malice or wrongdoing on the part of their creators behind these videos. This situation is just an unintended side effect of how the content people create on TikTok is shaped by how it is distributed. Or to put it another way: “The medium is the message.”
If Tears of the Kingdom When launched, TikTok creators didn’t know what type of content would get the most views, so the videos looked just as varied and fun as my experience playing the game. But when the public display of TikTok’s views revealed the “best” formats, some YouTubers were motivated to create the videos that seem to perform better than most: the unsolicited guide.
And so my feed went from “I built a long bridge because games are hard” to “This construction of bones will make you a god.” And that was mostly because I couldn’t resist. The TikTok algorithm discovered and exploited my weakness. I have no doubt that many – if not most – TikTok developers are still producing the Zelda stuff I’d like to see. That thousands of cool Zelda videos are waiting in the search box. But the fate of my feed is decided.
I play Tears of the Kingdom again, and I’m just skipping Zelda content on TikTok. The instruction videos are good – for example: really entertaining! – but I swipe past them like crazy. I know they are bad for me and my particular ndollarses. I remember the designers at Nintendo creating something Tears of the Kingdom above all enjoy pure. And when I consume related media, it shouldn’t feel like peer pressure. Most of my Zelda content comes from written stories or YouTube videos where I have more control over what I see. And when I see an incredible new thing done by a stranger, I ask myself, “Do I have to do this?” Will it improve my experience? Or can I just enjoy seeing something?”
I now think of Zelda TikTok as if I were a professional sportsman: the experts pull off amazing feats here, and while they might want to offer help, their guidance isn’t necessary. I’ll never be like her, and that’s okay. I’ll just be Link, with two modest dungeons under my belt and a dependency on very, very long bridges.