Sometimes We Lose

by David Gallaher

This week, one game stalled out. Budgeting issues. The usual song and dance. Not the outcome you were expecting, but it happens. Likely fixable, but at a cost of jobs. Another game? Canceled. The studio’s shutting down. The work—years of it—vanishes into the ether.

It’s not just the rug being pulled out from under you—it’s the whole damn floor collapsing. One minute, you’re sprinting toward the finish line; the next, you’re in freefall. And nobody’s throwing you a parachute.

So what do you do? How do you climb out? How do you fight back when the thing you built is gone?

Here’s the truth: writing is war. And war isn’t won by sitting in the wreckage.

You claw your way out.

STEP 1: Take the Hit

First, don’t gaslight yourself. This sucks. It’s supposed to suck. Something you poured yourself into is gone, and there’s no "bright side" that makes that okay. Let yourself feel it. Scream into the void. Eat the ice cream. Take the long walk. Find a therapist. Do whatever you need to do.

Because if you don’t process it, it festers. If you try to pretend it doesn’t hurt, it just drags you down later.

But—set a timer.

Grieve, but don’t get lost in the graveyard. The game is dead, but you’re not.

STEP 2: Preserve the Wreckage

The work is gone, but the work is not wasted.

Document everything. Before you do anything else, before time dulls the edges, before you lose details to the haze of frustration—write it all down.

• The story beats.
• The lore.
• The characters.
• The dialogue.
• The things you were proud of.
• The things that still haunt you.

Build a Cut File. This isn’t a junk drawer—it’s a morgue where nothing ever truly dies. And one day, when the time is right, you’ll play necromancer.

Because here’s the secret: everything can be repurposed.

That villain? He’s not dead. He’s waiting. That cutscene? That character arc? That monologue? They will live again.

Not everything stays buried.

STEP 3: Burn the Dead Weight

Now that you’ve salvaged what’s worth keeping, it’s time to let the rest go.

That means:

• No obsessing over the “what ifs.” The game is gone. The studio is closing. No amount of spiraling is bringing it back.
• No blaming yourself. This didn’t happen because your writing wasn’t good enough. Games die because of money, politics, and business decisions made in boardrooms you weren’t in.
• No clinging to ghosts. If you spend your energy mourning what was, you won’t have any left to build what comes next.

Brutal truth: this industry does not stop for grief.

Neither should you.

STEP 4: Take What’s Yours

They can take the game. They can take the credits. They can take the job.

But they don’t get to take your skills.

Every project leaves you better than you were before it. So write down what you learned.

• What worked?
• What didn’t?
• What battle scars did you earn that will make you stronger next time?

Because next time? You’ll be sharper. Faster. More dangerous.

This wasn’t a loss. It was training.

STEP 5: Make Something New—Now

Momentum is everything. And the worst thing you can do? Stop.

Even if it’s small. Even if it’s a short story, a one-page RPG, a script no one will see—write something.

Not because you "should." Not because of hustle culture. But because writers write. And the only way to keep your head above the water is to keep moving.

The game died. The work didn’t. So use it.

STEP 6: The Final Truth

You are not your canceled project.

You are not your cut content.

You are not your lost work.

You are a writer. And writers survive.

So shake off the dirt. Climb out of the wreckage.

And then?

Write the next damn thing.