TikTok won’t stop Zelda-splaining

In the beginning they were a perfect pair.

The Legend of Zelda: Tears of the Kingdom appeared on my Nintendo Switch on May 12, and in a flash 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 just building a really, really long bridge, I was tickled to see how many other people had had the exact same idea. Amateur engineers pieced together complicated contraptions and war machines that I had no intention of making, but I was happy to see. And speedrunners did what speedrunners do best: they broke the game.

Very gradually the tenor of my feed changed. It was still Zelda, but now the videos wanted to help me. First I got recommendations: “Need money? Try to duplicate diamonds!” Then came the demands: “You to have to stop what you’re doing Tears of the Kingdom and get the best shield in the game STRAIGHT AWAY!”

Unlimited money? The best articles? How could I resist! Warned that a patch would wipe out the chance to cheat diamonds, I spent a few hours in the game’s first week jumping off a stairwell, fumbling with my inventory, and dropping gems on the floor to get a perform a little alchemy. Again and again and again. In return, I had no fun and got a bunch of gems that, it turns out, I don’t really need. I’ve also been given a shield so powerful I’m afraid to use it.

I must not have been alone, as TikTok immediately offered solutions to problems it had caused, showed me where to buy expensive clothes and how a certain enemy could repair my weapons with a little patience. For a day or two I continued to follow these tips, but it undermined my joy. To play Tears of the Kingdom work had become. TikTok issued commands and I followed them, whizzing around the map like a bicycle courier rather than a free-roaming explorer. My TikTok feed had become a to-do list.

Image: Nintendo EPD/Nintendo via Polygon

I uninstalled the app for a week or two, and I bounced as well Tears of the Kingdom. Both of them started to freak me out, and I have a rule that if a game or a social media platform gets me down, it has to go. Even if it’s my favorite app or the best game I’ve played in years.

Later, when I tried to reinstall TikTok, my Zelda-powered feed had turned into something even worse. A video told me to make a “bone build” that would deal 800 damage. The following video chided me for using that shitty 800-damage bot build when I could use another bot build that deals 2,000 damage.

A question: What the hell is a bone buildup?

How do I describe this specific fear? It’s not quite FOMO, but it fuels my most unhealthy gaming habits. In theory, it’s like a game guide, but I appreciate instruction from guides I seek. But this… What is this?

My colleague Mike Mahardy described it to me as “Zelda splaining”, and I think that’s apt. Historically, video game manuals were used as a reference. While playing a game and encountering a frustrating obstacle, open a guide or search online and get the answer. Then you continue yourself.

Image: Nintendo EPD/Nintendo via Polygon

But this form of short video content is the opposite: it is the unsolicited guide. And because creators need to stand out on TikTok, they promise something provocative or hyperbolic. “The best weapon.” “The easiest cheat.” “The fastest way to finish a game you should enjoy 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, right?

To be clear, there is no malice behind these videos or wrongdoing on the part of the creators. This situation is just an unintended side effect of how the content people create on TikTok is shaped by the method of distribution. In other words: “The medium is the message.”

When Tears of the Kingdom launched, TikTok creators didn’t know what type of content would get the most views, so videos looked as varied and fun as my experience playing the game. But when TikTok’s public view of views revealed the “best” formats, some creators were motivated to make the videos that seemed to outperform most: the unsolicited guide.

And so my feed went from “I made a long bridge because games are hard” to “This bot build will make you a god.” And it did this largely because I couldn’t resist. The TikTok algorithm found my weakness and took advantage of it. I have no doubt that many – if not most – TikTok creators are still producing the Zelda stuff I’d rather see. That thousands of chill Zelda videos are waiting in the search field. But the fate of my feed is decided.

Image: Nintendo EPD/Nintendo via Polygon

I am playing Tears of the Kingdom again, and I’m just skipping Zelda content on TikTok. The guide videos are good – like, really entertaining! – but I brush furiously past it. I know they are bad for me and my specific neuroses. I remind myself that Nintendo’s designers created Tears of the Kingdom to enjoy in the first place alone. And that when I consume contiguous media it shouldn’t feel like peer pressure. I get most of my Zelda content from written stories or YouTube videos, where I have more control over what I see. And when I see an incredible new thing made by a stranger, I ask myself, “Should I do that? Will it improve my experience? Or can I just enjoy something to see?”

I’ve come to think of Zelda TikTok as if I were in professional sports: here the experts deliver amazing feats, and while they may 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 a modest two dungeons under my belt and recourse to very, very long bridges.