Ah, the tutorial level. That awkward first date of video games. You know the one—where the game clamps onto your hand so tightly your knuckles turn white, earnestly explaining how to jump, crouch, and look around as if we haven’t been doing that since the days of pixelated plumbers. My name is Takeshi Morimoto, and I’ve been gaming since I could wrap my tiny fingers around a controller. I’ve watched tutorials balloon from a single text box that said “Press A to jump” into sprawling, unskippable cinematic epics that rival a feature film’s runtime. And I have to say it: most of them are too long. Not just a little too long—painfully, unnecessarily, I’m-checking-my-phone-while-NPCs-talk too long.
Now, don’t get me wrong. A good tutorial? I appreciate it. When it’s done right, it’s like a friendly senpai gently nudging you through the basics before cutting you loose into the wild world of the game. But somewhere along the line, developers forgot that we, the players, are not goldfish. We can remember that the left stick moves our character for more than ten seconds. We can figure out that red barrels explode without a thirty-minute lecture on explosive barrel physics. The problem isn’t the idea of tutorials—it’s their bloated, pace-killing execution. Let’s break down why I think most tutorial levels overstay their welcome, and what makes a tutorial actually shine.
The Padding Problem: When Tutorials Turn into Time Sinks
Picture this: you’ve just bought a brand new game. You’re hyped. The cover art promised epic battles, deep exploration, maybe some snappy dialogue. You pop the disc in—or hit “play” on your digital library—and you’re greeted with… an hour of slow-walking behind an NPC who won’t stop yammering about the inventory system. By the time you reach the actual game, your snack bowl is empty and your enthusiasm has curdled into mild resentment. This is the padding problem, and it’s everywhere.
A lot of modern tutorials suffer from what I call “cinematic bloat.” Developers are so proud of their world-building, their lore, their lovingly crafted opening sequences, that they forget the player is here to play, not to watch a movie with occasional button prompts. Take any open-world RPG from the last decade. You’ll often spend the first two hours in a “starting area” that’s really a glorified tutorial zone. You learn to swing a sword, cast a fireball, and chat with a quest giver. But instead of a quick five-minute drill, it’s stretched into a multi-mission saga complete with fetch quests and melodramatic cutscenes. I’m not naming names, but my eye twitches thinking about certain snowy opening levels.
The irony? All this padding actually makes learning harder. Cognitive science tells us our working memory has a limited capacity. Dump too much information too slowly, or bury it in noise, and retention drops. A study on video game tutorials published in the Journal of Educational Psychology—focused on educational games, sure—pointed out that concise, just-in-time instructions often beat lengthy upfront tutorials. They reduce cognitive load and keep learners engaged. Same idea applies to action games. If you’re teaching me to parry, don’t make me listen to three minutes of dialogue about the ancient art of parrying first. Just let me parry!
The “Unskippable” Sin and Respect for Player Time
Let’s talk about the cardinal sin of tutorial design: the unskippable tutorial. This is the game design equivalent of locking someone in a room and forcing them to sit through your vacation slideshow. It shows a basic lack of respect for the player’s time and intelligence. I’ve been gaming for decades. I don’t need to be told that the right trigger shoots the gun. I’ve played sequels where the control scheme hasn’t changed one bit, yet the game still forces me through the same “This is a gun. You shoot it.” routine. It’s maddening.
Some games are getting smarter about this. They offer a “Skip Tutorial” option or ask, “Are you familiar with first-person shooters?” If you say yes, they drop you straight into the action. This should be the industry standard. Period. It’s not a “casual vs. hardcore” thing. It’s about accessibility. A player might be new to the genre, or they might be on their fifth playthrough. Both deserve a tailored experience. Forcing everyone through the same hour-long hand-holding session is lazy design pretending to be thoroughness.
Another flavor of this sin is the forced slow-walk sequence. You know the one: your character can’t run, can’t jump, can only trudge forward at a snail’s pace while an NPC exposits. It’s meant to be immersive, but it’s just tedious. It treats the player like a passive observer in their own power fantasy. I want to be the hero, not a toddler on a leash being dragged through a museum. Let me break free, let me experiment, let me fail! Failure is the greatest teacher in games. A tutorial that shields you from failure until the “real game” begins is doing you a disservice.
The Goldilocks Zone: What a Perfect Tutorial Looks Like
So if most tutorials are too long, what’s the sweet spot? I think of it as the Goldilocks Zone: not so short you’re clueless, not so long you’re bored, but just right. The perfect tutorial respects three principles: it’s contextual, concise, and optional.
A contextual tutorial teaches you a mechanic exactly when you need it. The classic example is the first Portal. It never stops the game to throw a wall of text at you. Instead, it places you in a safe environment and subtly guides you. A sign on the wall says “Press E to pick up objects.” You do it. A moment later, you need to place that object on a button. The game taught you the verb, and now you’re using it in a sentence. No lecture, no patronizing NPC. Just pure, elegant design. The tutorial is the game.
A concise tutorial gets to the point. It uses minimal text and maximal action. Think of the classic “Here’s a wall, press A to jump over it” setup. It takes five seconds. You immediately master jumping. Then the game trusts you to remember that skill. It doesn’t repeat the prompt for every single jump for the next hour. It treats you like a capable human being who can apply a learned skill to new situations.
And as I’ve ranted about, an optional tutorial is a beautiful thing. Give me the option to skip, or better yet, design the game so the tutorial is seamlessly baked into the first level but the prompts only appear if I’m clearly struggling. Dynamic difficulty adjustment in tutorials! If I nail five headshots in a row, the game should understand I don’t need the “aim for the head” tip. If I’m spinning in circles shooting the sky, then pop up the hint. This adaptive approach is more work, but it shows a deep care for the player’s experience.
Lessons from the Arcade Era
I often think back to the arcade games of my youth. There were no tutorials. There was an “Attract Mode”—a demo loop that showed gameplay—and then an “Insert Coin” prompt. You learned by doing. You watched the demo, you mimicked it, you died, you learned, you inserted another coin. It was brutal but effective. Modern games can’t be that punishing (and shouldn’t be, given their complexity), but the spirit of that immediate, hands-on learning is worth preserving. The best tutorials capture that “jump in and figure it out” energy while providing a gentle safety net.
Games like The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild master this. The Great Plateau is a tutorial area, but it doesn’t feel like one. It’s a miniature version of the entire game. You’re free to explore, experiment, and fail. The game teaches you through environmental cues and your own curiosity. You learn that fire burns grass, that cold requires warm clothing, that weapons break. It’s a tutorial that respects your intelligence and trusts you to learn through play. It’s lengthy, yes, but it never feels padded because you have full agency from moment one. You’re not on a leash; you’re on an adventure.
The Psychology of Impatience and the Modern Gamer
Let’s be honest: we’re an impatient bunch. I have a stack of games in my backlog that could crush a small animal. My free time is precious. When I sit down to play, I want to play, not to be schooled. This isn’t a character flaw; it’s a reality of the modern gaming landscape. A long, drawn-out tutorial doesn’t just waste my time—it actively poisons my first impression of the game. That first hour is critical. If I’m bored, I might drop the game entirely and move on to something that respects my time.
Developers would do well to study the “onboarding” techniques of successful mobile games. Those games have seconds to hook a player, not hours. They introduce one mechanic at a time in tiny, satisfying bursts, often disguising the tutorial as a series of trivial levels that make you feel clever. The core flow is: do, learn, feel smart, repeat. Console and PC games could learn from this. Make the tutorial a joy, not a chore. Make me feel powerful, not patronized.
There’s also a social element. Back in the day, we’d gather on the couch and pass the controller. A long tutorial killed the party vibe instantly. Now, we share clips and stream our gameplay. A clunky, overlong tutorial is a barrier to sharing. Nobody wants to watch a streamer walk slowly through a canyon for twenty minutes. They want action, drama, skill. A tight, optional, or seamlessly integrated tutorial lets the fun start immediately, which is better for the player and better for the game’s community.
When Long Tutorials Get a Pass (Rarely)
I’m not a complete monster. There are rare cases where a longer tutorial is justified. Deeply complex simulation games, like hardcore flight sims or grand strategy titles, need a thorough onboarding process. You can’t just “jump in” to a game that models every switch in a 747 cockpit. In those cases, the tutorial is often a series of modular lessons you can dip into. It’s respectful because it’s self-paced and specific. You learn what you need, when you need it.
Narrative-heavy games sometimes use the opening as a tutorial for the story’s tone and mechanics. A game like The Last of Us uses its unforgettable prologue to teach you the basics of movement and stealth while emotionally devastating you. It works because the tutorial is so tightly woven into the narrative that you don’t realize you’re being taught. You’re too busy feeling things. That’s the key: if a tutorial is long, it had better be compelling. It can’t be a boring checklist of mechanics; it must be a gripping experience in its own right.
Even then, I’d argue for replayability. Once I’ve finished that emotionally devastating prologue, let me skip it on my second playthrough. My heart can only take so much, and my time is limited. A simple “You’ve played this before. Skip to the main menu with default settings?” option is a gift from the gaming gods.
FAQ: Your Burning Tutorial Questions, Answered
Why do game developers make tutorials so long if everyone hates them?
It often comes down to fear and data. Developers are terrified that players will get stuck, frustrated, and quit if they aren’t hand-held through every mechanic. They look at playtesting data where one person missed a button prompt and decide to make it unmissable for everyone. It’s a classic case of overcorrecting for the lowest common denominator. Plus, long cinematic tutorials are a way to show off expensive art and animation assets, even if it kills the pacing.
Is there a way to tell if a game has an overly long tutorial before buying?
Absolutely. Look at the “Let’s Play” videos for the first hour of gameplay. If the streamer is still reading pop-up boxes and following a slow NPC past the 45-minute mark, you know what you’re in for. User reviews on storefronts often mention the tutorial’s length and whether it’s skippable. I personally check the game’s accessibility options online; sometimes screenshots reveal a “disable tutorials” toggle, which is a green flag.
What’s the worst tutorial you’ve ever experienced?
It’s hard to pick the absolute worst, but any game that makes me repeat a basic action multiple times to “prove” I’ve learned it is a special kind of agony. “Press A to jump.” jumps “Good! Now press A to jump over this obstacle.” jumps “Excellent! Now press A to jump over three more obstacles while I talk about the kingdom’s backstory.” Just stop. I’ve been pressing A to jump since I was in diapers. Trust me.
Are there games with no tutorials at all that do it right?
Yes, though they’re rare. The classic example is Minecraft. The game drops you in a world with zero instructions. You punch a tree because it’s the only thing you can do. That act of experimentation is the entire tutorial. It works because the core loop is simple and the stakes are low at first. However, it can be alienating for players who prefer some guidance. The best modern approach is the “soft tutorial” like in Breath of the Wild, where the game subtly nudges you without explicit pop-ups.
In the end, the tutorial is a promise. It sets the tone for the entire adventure ahead. A bloated, patronizing tutorial promises a game that doesn’t trust its players and doesn’t value their time. A slick, respectful tutorial promises a game that understands the joy is in the doing, not the explaining. So, to the developers out there: please, tighten up your opening acts. Let us press A to jump into the action, and trust that we’ll figure out the rest. We’re smarter than you think, and our backlogs are not getting any smaller.