Despite its flaws, nothing has come close to capturing the magic of E3.
There was a time when the words “press conference”, “hands-on demo”, and “surprise reveal” all meant one thing: E3. It was the event. And as someone fortunate enough to attend six times – and who followed closely when I didn’t – I think that E3, at its best, was unlike any other video game event.
E3 wasn’t perfect. It was chaotic, sometimes badly organised, and always exhausting to cover. But it had a certain magic. A scale and significance that made it feel bigger than any one company, and certainly bigger than the organising body, the Entertainment Software Association (ESA). It was the closest thing the industry had to a true festival with a sizeable attendance, extravagant booths, and a palpable buzz in the hotel lobbies and diners near the LA Convention Center. At its peak, there was nothing like it.
For those of us covering the games industry, E3 felt like a pilgrimage. Once a year, the entire industry converged on one place to celebrate what we loved, argue about what we didn’t, and catch a glimpse of the future. Whether you were IGN, a publisher or developer, or a modest outlet like Thumbsticks, you had a place. It felt like everyone was there. And if they weren’t, they were certainly watching. While I won’t defend the ESA – which is a troubling organisation at best – the good outweighed the bad.
What made E3 special wasn’t just the announcements. The press conferences were technically adjacent to E3, after all. It was the collective experience of being there that truly mattered.
You could feel the tension before the doors opened. You could hear cheers – or groans – ripple around the show floor. You’d walk out of a press event, eyes wide, racing to file your impressions before the next one started. You’d try your luck blagging your way into a demo you weren’t invited to. There was an electricity that came from being in the same physical space. You could bump into an old friend on the show floor, grab a coffee with a journalist you’d met in a queue, or catch a glimpse of someone who made your favourite game. It wasn’t just access to content. It was access to context. And to people.
Even from afar, following the beat of your outlet of choice was part of the fun. There was a shared rhythm to the week that made it feel like the world – or at least the gaming world – had stopped to pay attention.
The reasons for E3’s demise are well documented. Some are saddening, others maddening – but the impact of the pandemic, a changing media landscape, and fumbled attempts at public access all took their toll.
Enter Summer Game Fest.
It’s not that Summer Game Fest is bad, it just doesn’t feel like the true successor. It’s not a festival of games, despite the name. It feels like an opportunistic move into a post-E3 power vacuum.
I don’t doubt Geoff Keighley’s passion for the medium for one moment. His enthusiasm is genuine, and he’s done more than most to keep games in the mainstream spotlight. But the format – whether it’s SGF, Gamescom Opening Night Live, or The Game Awards – lacks magic. The pacing feels off and the tone lacks the shambolic charm the ESA accidentally managed. To me, these events have feel less like industry gatherings and more like ad-driven productions, with access carefully gated.
Where E3 welcomed a broad mix of publishers, developers, and media outlets – large and small – SGF feels much more consolidated and controlled. If you’re not in the SGF orbit, your announcement might as well not exist. That doesn’t feel healthy for a creative industry that thrives on diversity and discovery.
There are plenty of excellent ancillary PR events and reveal streams happening alongside Summer Game Fest – both officially and unofficially – but the shared sense of occasion is lost.
Amid all the chaos, E3 had a genuine festival vibe. There was an organic, celebratory energy, even among the tired eyes, smelly sweaty bodies, long queues, and looming deadlines. It was a place where you’d book an appointment to see Batman: Arkham Asylum but come away raving about Scribblenauts.
E3 wasn’t flawless. It had an identity crisis, an organising body that mishandled data and was often felt out of step with the industry it was meant to represent. But it felt shared.
I hope we get something like it again. A place, a time, a reason to come together en masse. An event that feels bigger than one person and a promotional rate card for every season of the year. Until then, I’ll keep missing E3 – not just for the reveals, but for the rhythm, the camaraderie, and the memories that only happen when the entire industry shows up.
