An often quoted metric in game development is the Lifetime Value or LTV, signifying the overall contribution of an average player, generally in financial terms. The problem with this metric is that it exists purely on the company side, used by developers to estimate monetary impact each user has on their game and consequently how much they can afford to spend in reeling in additional users. This is business logic, both necessary and useful.

We talk about user retention, or how long that user will keep coming back to play our game. We talk about optimizing for fun, that magical and elusive quality that makes this all worthwhile, and there’s nothing fundamentally wrong with this.

Looking at things from the other side, though, we often forget that the best games are also fun when we’re not playing them.

We find delight in ownership; there’s a certain kind of intrinsic value that we feel from possessing a piece of media or art that is meaningful to us, knowing that it’s in our reach on our whim. At each sale on Steam or iTunes, we continue to fill our library with titles that could save us from boredom, should we ever find ourselves stuck on a desert island with no Internet access, or simply hiding as the Western civilization descends into anarchy.

We enjoy the anticipation; knowing that we will have that moment of meaningful fun with our favorite game, waiting for the outcome of our next turn against a challenging opponent or sometimes feeling thrilled to play a game months or even years before it even makes to the market. We love being surprised when the surprises are the kind that we like, something games are really good at.

We also feel achievement; maybe we caught all the pokemons, maybe we’re a high level chieftain in Clash of Clans, or maybe we have saved Hyrule a dozen times from peril eternally cementing our place as a champion of the realm. The hero’s journey is not over at the end credits, but it continues in us. We are forever changed by each challenge we overcome.

Beyond content offered by the game itself, we can find community and meaningful human connection with others who have shared the experience, who have done battle at our side or even become the nemesis we love to hate. Often it’s not the game itself, but the people we play with that bring us the ultimate value.

One of the most meaningful things that free-to-play game design has taught us is to think more about pacing; how to make the game last longer.

When the mechanics and design inhibit or discourage us from binging to the point of boredom or anxiety, what remains is a better game. Controversially, this is why even a simple game like Candy Crush is improved by the fact that you can’t play it too much in a single session.

A long time from today, Candy Crush will still be right there, carried in our pockets, offering us the ownership, tokens of achievement and the anticipation of more of the kinds of feelings that keep bringing us back.

For others it will be an early Zelda game or a multiplayer realm they revisit every so often, almost like meeting with an old friend. Our attachment to the games we play is both subjective and personal.

The longer this goes on, the higher the Lifetime Delight a game can offer us regardless of how much time has passed before we come back to it. Even when we’re not crushing any candies or gathering loot, the other contributions remain.

When we recognize how the Lifetime Delight is a function of all these things coming together paced over a long period of time, we can learn to build games that offer players lasting experiences, not just moments of fun.