Gotta Catch ‘Em All
Running down the planes of Hyrule, intent on solving the mystery of the missing woman in Hateno Village, you get distracted by a rock that just seems so noticeably out of place. You don’t know exactly what it is about its positioning that gives it away, but your internal Korok detector is ringing full alarm and you absolutely must investigate. Sure enough, the slight pause in gameplay, the burst of confetti-like leaves, and the oh so gratifying “Ya-ha-ha!" soon follow. With a satisfying sclinck of the seed into your inventory, you’ve found a Korok. Only 900 more to go.
This past week, I’ve been thinking a lot about collecting and the pivotal role it plays in video games, especially in long-running franchises. The Legend of Zelda, particularly in the last two entries (Breath of the Wild and Tears of the Kingdom), has mastered the art of making collecting intrinsic to the very essence of the gameplay loop. Every quest, no matter how urgent, is always in danger of being interrupted by players chasing that next collectible. Pokémon, of course, is another quintessential example. Its entire premise revolves around the collector’s dream—Gotta Catch ‘Em All. Both franchises tap into a deep, primal satisfaction that goes beyond merely acquiring items. They hook you into the act of collecting itself.
But what is it about games like Zelda and Pokémon that make the pursuit of completing a collection so irresistible? It’s clearly more than just an appeal to have an abundance of items, characters, or skins. For instance, I’ve felt an almost obsessive need to collect every Disney character in Disney Emoji Blitz, but I’m utterly indifferent when it comes to collecting skins in Fortnite. Personal preferences aside, I think there’s a deeper, structural element at play.
From a technical perspective, I’ve been reflecting on what makes a collection feel genuinely rewarding and how that influences player engagement. The more satisfying and seamless the collection process, the stronger the dopamine response, and when that response hits just right—and often—it becomes the engine behind massive time investment. A well-designed collection mechanic isn’t just a feature, it’s a finely-tuned psychological tool, subtly pulling players deeper into the game world. Every detail matters: the UI design when an item is added, the interruption to the gameplay, the accompanying sound effects, and the reward animation. All of these elements must be precisely calibrated for maximum satisfaction. And the key to it all is how quickly and consistently this feedback loop rewards the player, turning what could be a fleeting distraction into an ongoing obsession.
This feedback loop of reward is essential in games like Zelda and Pokémon because it’s not just about the tangible reward, but about the subtle layering of mini-goals within the larger narrative. In Breath of the Wild and Tears of the Kingdom, for example, you’re not only solving shrines or defeating Calamity Ganon/Ganondorf, you’re scouring the vast open world for Korok seeds or rare clothing sets that enhance your capabilities, adding depth to exploration by offering smaller, bite-sized challenges that trigger a dopamine rush each time you succeed. These mini-quests sit comfortably alongside the larger, more structured quests, creating a dynamic where everything feels interconnected. Whether you’re unlocking a new weapon slot with a Korok seed or catching an elusive legendary Pokémon, the reward is often both immediate and cumulative, feeding into the larger objective of completion.
This system is deeply rooted in a player’s intrinsic motivation—the desire to master and complete, a drive that stretches back to childhood. We see this outside of games as well. From collecting trading cards to finishing puzzles, the satisfaction of completing something feels wired into us. What games like Pokémon and Zelda do so well is provide a digital environment where this inherent drive is fed continuously and on multiple fronts. You’re never just working toward a single goal; you’re chasing dozens of them at once. The beauty of this design is that it keeps you in a constant state of progress. Even when the game’s central plot feels distant, the sensation of accomplishment is never far off, whether you’re placing that Korok seed into Hestu’s hands or adding another species to your Pokédex.
But not all collections in games have the same magnetic pull. A collection feels meaningful when it’s framed as part of the player’s journey, not just as a checklist. In Fortnite, for example, I simply could not get pulled into the allure of collecting all the skins. After all, the skins are aesthetic choices that don’t fundamentally alter gameplay. They don’t carry the same sense of discovery or progression that collecting does in other games. While they might give a sense of individual expression, they lack that deeper connective tissue to the game’s core mechanics. By contrast, in Pokémon, collecting isn’t just about filling up a digital catalog, it’s about strategy, evolution, and discovery. Each Pokémon you catch opens up new possibilities for your team, expanding not just your roster but your strategic toolkit.
Games that understand this build their systems around player agency and the illusion of endless potential. Zelda lures you into thinking that around every corner there’s something new to find, whether it’s a Korok puzzle, a hidden treasure, or an unexpected Yiga Clan encounter. That sense of wonder and possibility is crucial. The player is rewarded not just with items or achievements, but with the feeling that the world itself is alive, brimming with secrets waiting to be unearthed. In these moments, the act of collecting becomes more than just a task—it becomes a bridge to immersion, pulling you deeper into the world, reinforcing the idea that this place, these characters, and this story all belong to you, as long as you keep searching. After all, you gotta catch ‘em all, don’t you?
