The Norwegian Game
We haven’t made that many great Norwegian video games. It’s an uncomfortable truth most of us in the industry carry with us. In Norway, we have around 600 people working in video games. In Sweden, it’s over 9,000. In Finland, 4,300. We are tiny.
But maybe size isn’t the problem.
My hypothesis is simple: We’ve been trying to make American and Japanese games. And it doesn’t work. Not because we lack talent—Norwegian developers make games of excellent quality—but because we’re trying to speak with a voice that isn’t our own.
Two Dominant Traditions
The American storytelling tradition is built around the hero’s journey. Luke Skywalker starts as a weak farm boy and ends as a powerful Jedi. It’s a power fantasy—the individual who overcomes everything, becomes stronger than everyone else, and saves the world. Games follow the same pattern: you start weak, you gather power, you crush the enemy. Weak becomes strong.
The Japanese tradition is often about purification. Something is corrupt—nature, society, the spirit world—and the hero must restore balance. The world is out of joint, and through rituals, battles, and sacrifices, it becomes pure again. Corrupt becomes pure.
These stories are powerful. They’ve shaped the entire industry. But they’re not our stories.
The Norwegian Voice
Consider A Doll’s House (Et Dukkehjem). Nora discovers that her entire life she has been a doll—first in her father’s home, then in her husband’s. The story isn’t about her becoming stronger or purifying evil. It’s about her discovering who she is. And then she leaves. No climactic battle. No victory over an external enemy. Just a door closing.
In Elling, we meet a man who has lived an overprotected life. When his mother dies, he is forced out into the world. He and Kjell-Bjarne push each other through everyday challenges. They learn to take the bus. To call a stranger. To buy hot dogs. They don’t become heroes in any epic sense—they become ordinary people. And that’s the whole point. The hero of the story might not even be Elling himself, but the welfare system that let him try.
And then there’s Skam.
Julie Andem conducted over 50 in-depth interviews with Norwegian teenagers before writing the series. What she discovered, and the reason Skam became an international sensation with millions of viewers in China, was what she calls “universality in specificity.” By being hyperrealistic about Norwegian teenagers’ lives—without pedagogical adult moralizing, without condemnation—she created something that resonated with everyone.
Skam is about identity. Who am I? Where do I belong? Am I who I pretend to be?
What is the first act in the American story—the hero who must choose their identity—is the final act in the Norwegian one.
Askeladden Knew It
Norwegian folk tales carry the same wisdom. Askeladden (the Ash Lad) doesn’t win because he’s strongest or bravest. He wins because he stops and helps the weak—an old woman, a hungry bird, a mare stuck in a bog. “If you help the weak, the weak will help you.” Wisdom over force.
Espen Askeladd isn’t a warrior. He’s someone who sees. Who listens. Who understands that the world isn’t conquered, but navigated.
Some Have Already Found the Way
There are Norwegian games that point in this direction.
My Child Lebensborn from Sarepta Studio is perhaps the clearest example. You play an adoptive parent to a Norwegian war child in 1951—a child born of a German soldier. The game isn’t about combat or adventure. It’s about helping a child through bullying, stigma, and existential confusion. About being there when the child asks: “Why do they hate me?” All the events are based on true stories from Norwegian Lebensborn children.
The game has been downloaded over 25 million times, won a BAFTA award, and is used in Norwegian schools as an educational tool. NRK’s gaming expert called it “a Norwegian gaming sensation.” In November 2025, the sequel My Child: New Beginnings was released.
This isn’t power fantasy. This is empathy as game mechanics. Identity as theme. Norwegian history told in a way only games can tell it.
Pode from Henchman & Goon in Bergen takes a softer approach. Two figures—a rock and a star—must cooperate to find their way through the mountain Fjellheim. No enemies. No combat. Just cooperation, friendship, and beautiful art inspired by Norwegian nature. The game won multiple awards at Spillprisen (the Norwegian game awards) and was nominated for Hollywood Music in Media Awards for its music.
What Does This Mean?
I don’t think there’s one recipe for “the Norwegian game.” But I think there’s a direction.
The Norwegian Film Institute already prioritizes games that use “an experimental or innovative narrative language” and focus on Norwegian culture or history. Research shows that while Sweden and Finland focus more on business and getting games to market, Norwegian developers are more concerned with putting a “Norwegian mark” on their games.
The Norwegian mark might be about this:
Not power fantasy, but realistic competence. You learn to master skills—not to save the world, but to understand yourself and find your place.
Not overcoming an external enemy, but navigating inner landscapes. Psychology over combat. Relationship over conquest.
Not heroes who save the world, but people who find themselves.
| American | Japanese | Norwegian |
|---|---|---|
| Weak → Strong | Corrupt → Pure | Lost → Found |
| Power fantasy | Purify corruption | Realistic competence |
| Individual’s destiny | Restore order | Integration with society |
| Save the world | Purify the world | Understand yourself |
A Tradition to Build On
Realism has deep roots in Norwegian culture. From Camilla Collett to Ibsen to Bjornson—we have a literary tradition that puts problems under debate without giving easy answers. Georg Brandes believed that literature must “put problems under debate” to live. Authors were not to come with solutions—they were to direct the spotlight.
Maybe this is what Norwegian games should do too.
Don’t give the player a victory over evil. Give the player a question to sit with.
Next time you start a new game project: Don’t ask yourself how to make a better American game. Ask yourself what Ibsen would do.