Time and the Rush of the Tokyo Game Show

By Diego Nicolás Argüello | October 3, 2025 | 1:49pm

Photos by Diego Nicolás Argüello

Video Games Features Tokyo Game Show

Time and the Rush of the Tokyo Game Show

“You’re all set—just remember to press circle instead of cross since, well, we’re in Japan.”

One of the first culture shock moments of my trip to Japan didn’t actually register as a big deal. Truth be told, the lead up to my first appointment at Tokyo Game Show had been a whirlwind. I left my apartment in Buenos Aires, Argentina at noon on Monday and arrived at Haneda Airport at 4 p.m. local time on Wednesday. I didn’t sleep at all during those three days, and only snoozed for a handful of hours before trying to figure out the train system to start my day.

Saying that I was in a state of daydream is an understatement. The overwhelming cacophony of booths and crowds didn’t help, either—putting on headphones to play a demo was a refuge of sorts, but also an odd moment, to travel this much only to sit in front of a screen with a controller in my hand.

Tokyo Game Show is the fourth video game event I’ve ever attended, preceded by the last E3 in 2019, PAX West, and the last two runs of Summer Game Fest. It’s safe to say it’s the biggest one so far. Even during the business days, getting anywhere took forever due to how crowded it was. Most of the big publishers were present, each doing its own thing—Konami had a big push for Silent Hill F with an exhibition that involved some puzzles and getting around people dressed as the game’s mannequins, EA had a massive helicopter hanging on top of dozens of people in demo stations for Battlefield 6, and Sega had Lotus Juice and Azumi Takahashi perform songs from Persona 3 Reload live on a stage, the staff forming a human line while holding a cord to try and contain the crowd.

Most Popular

Everywhere I looked there was something that caught my eye, but it’s a different experience when you’re press. For one, media check-in usually takes place on the back of a booth. If a demo or interview is behind closed doors, you don’t even set foot on the actual demo stations. And when you do, you’re just a person cutting in line trying to make the most out of a 15 to 30 minute long demo before you’re kindly asked to step away.

It might be because the last two recent events I attended, both being Summer Game Fest, are industry only, but I kept thinking about the divide between the public attending an event and the press. In this case, the former meant paying for an expensive ticket tier so they could attend business days, or just attend during public days. After an appointment, a developer told me they were expecting three hour long lines for the second option. “But not with this,” she said, showing me her badge.

Tokyo Game Show 2025

There were some other “benefits” for anyone wearing a lanyard around their neck. You got to skip security when entering the event, for example, meaning that no one searched your bag. There was also a press room, which took me 25 minutes and three different conversations with fellow colleagues to find. Turns out it was in a different building altogether outside of the main event halls and business area. Once inside the facility, you had to head downstairs, follow a sign next to an empty space, and squeeze your way down a corridor. The room itself had rows of tables that were mostly occupied, as well as a separate section reserved for specific Japanese outlets. And while it was nicely equipped with snacks, soft drinks, and as many energy drinks as anyone could possibly want, it did feel like a basement of sorts. During my second day at the event, I resigned to sit on a staircase leading to one of the main halls and embrace the background chaos instead. It felt more right somehow, and there were quite other people doing so. There were also rest areas outside, but I completely ignored them.

These moments of rest gave me time not only to give my weary feet a break, but also to reflect on my experience. My schedule was pretty packed so I barely had the time to wander around, yet it wasn’t necessary to see where Tokyo Game Show stands in 2025. It was clear that publishers spent a lot to make their booths seem lively and eye-catching, attempting to stand out with people doing cosplay, picture opportunities, and massive screens to distract passersby. For those unaware of industry news, it was like they hadn’t spent the last two years issuing layoffs and shutting down studios across the board.

The event itself was also permeated by trends. One was companies’ obsession with transmedia collaborations. The Sega booth featured Sonic Racing CrossWorlds, which naturally meant seeing inflatables of Minecraft characters next to Sonic driving a car decorating the booth. Over at Square, people were lining up to take a picture holding the Buster Sword within a person-sized mosaic of Cloud’s Magic: The Gathering card.

Another one was, well, AI. A considerable portion of the main hall’s section was dedicated to it, which I completely ignored. Alongside the obvious downsides of generative AI, this space was previously occupied by an independent developers section. This year, it was moved to that separate building where the press room was, which I hope is more of a one-time thing rather than the standard going forward.

I might return to Tokyo Game Show at a later date to make a viable comparison. As a few days passed, however, the thing I reflected on the most was my presence, and how different it was from most people there. I’d often get annoyed at others due to how packed the convention halls were, mentally wishing people would move out of the way or walk faster. But I quickly realized I was one out of a select few in such a rush. Most attendees chose to take their time, taking pictures and doing long queues just to take a photo sitting on top of a Chocobo or next to a stand-in of Professor Layton.

It reminded me of how much of a privilege having a press badge is, even with all the inside baseball bullshit that comes with it. My reality, especially within an event’s halls, is shaped by it. Everybody who chooses to go to these events, in one way or another, does so because of a passion for the medium. For folks like me, that means talking to developers to learn more about their process, or writing criticism to better understand the place that games have in a larger culture picture. Most people, however, do so simply to materialize their fondness for this art, regardless of how long queuing times are.

While navigating the city, I witnessed that same love everywhere I went. In trains, you can usually catch a sign that says to please refrain from “using mobile devices or games while walking.” There’s always a 50/50 chance of at least one person playing a game on their phone in any train you get in, and they usually continue doing so while waiting to get on an escalator or as they snake their way through the crowd to get to a different platform.

Of course, this also extends to other things—I’ve seen folks reading on e-books, listening to anime mashups on YouTube while holding the phone close to their ear to listen, or completing paperback crosswords. People find their own ways to recover time during long commutes and enjoy their hobbies before returning to the usual routine.

All the while, I was trying to make time to actually work on coverage around the event, preparing transcripts and writing down blurbs on my phone while waiting for a train to depart. I spent almost every night preparing drafts, lamenting the usual trade-off of traveling somewhere for an event, which was particularly aggravated by lack of sleep, the jetlag caused by a 12-hour time zone difference, and all the rushing I did at the event while being exposed to the last remnants of summer.

My state of daydream lasted until today, the day I’m leaving Tokyo to Osaka. I decided to call it early last night to pack my things before checking out, and I figured that I could make up for it by writing on the way. Now, I’m sitting in a Shinkansen looking out of the window, and the last thing I want to do is work. Not because I don’t love writing—I found my passion in it, and it’s given me the immense privilege to travel and attend events, meeting wonderful people from all over the world in the process. But right now, after the fog has cleared, I know exactly what’s going to happen. This moment, like so many others in the past, will cease. So I’ll try to capture what I see instead.

I see a small blue car driving through an open field of perfectly squared flower fields. The horizon shows rows of houses that seem made out of porcelain, all forming bands of different colors.

I see antennas the size of skyscrapers, towering tractors moving back and forth amidst greenery. I see an empty baseball field with massive fences around it, and try to picture if it’s possible for a home run to fly past the train tracks.

I see towns juxtaposed by seemingly endless forests as my ears pop for the fifth time. I see a string of clouds hovering the hills surrounding a small town, a backdrop that could easily pass as a painting. I see rackets with clothes hanging out to dry outside the houses.

I see a canal with a boat port corroded by erosion still standing next to a pristine one.

I see the things we take for granted everyday.

Diego Nicolás Argüello is a freelance journalist from Argentina who has learned English thanks to videogames. You can read his work in places like Polygon, the New York Times, The Verge, and more. You can also find him on Bluesky.