I’ve always been drawn to storytelling through games. That probably started with The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time, but the version of that fascination that really stuck with me came later—Chicago, early twenties, broke, working retail, living with my best friend Dru.
In 2011, when The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim came out, we played it relentlessly. On days off we’d trade controllers, wander off the main quest, and disappear into side stories. At the time, it was just affordable entertainment. Looking back, it was quietly training my eye.
One night, while I should have been finishing renderings for an upcoming show, I found myself wandering through a Nordic ruin. The stone wasn’t just stone—it had age, weight, history. Moss crept up broken columns. Light slipped through cracks in the ceiling. And I remember thinking, this is the exact feeling I’ve been trying to create onstage.
Years later, at Okoboji Summer Theatre, I was designing Mamma Mia and needed a Grecian stone floor—fast. I had six hours. I cut a 4’x4’ stencil out of luan, laid it down, and used a Hudson sprayer to build the texture. It wasn’t precious, but it worked. The floor read immediately.
That’s when it really clicked: texture isn’t decoration. Texture is how you convince an audience that a world existed before the actors walked into it.
[IMAGE SUGGESTION: Skyrim or Elden Ring ruin — wide shot emphasizing texture, scale, and light][IMAGE SUGGESTION: Photo of Mamma Mia stone floor painting process — stencil + sprayer]
The Shared Language of Illusion
Theatre and video games are doing the same job: building a place the audience agrees to believe in.
No one actually thinks they’re walking through a fantasy world in a game, just like no one truly believes they’re sitting in a 19th-century apartment during a Chekhov play. What matters is whether the space has internal logic—whether the details support the story well enough for the audience to emotionally buy in.
In game studios, this work is divided across teams. Someone blocks out the space. Someone textures it. Someone lights it. In theatre, scenic designers often track all of that at once.
The early part of our process is basically level design: ground plans, traffic patterns, sightlines, and actor movement. We’re solving the same questions—just with real bodies, real gravity, and real budgets.
Texture: The Workhorse of Believability
Texture is one of the most powerful tools we have, and it’s something games understand exceptionally well.
In Skyrim, a stone wall carries layers of information: base material, weathering, soot, moss, and damage. None of that requires complex geometry—it’s texture doing the heavy lifting.
More recent games build on this idea in different ways. The Last of Us Part II uses decay to tell human stories—collapsed ceilings, water stains, overgrown interiors that still feel personal. Baldur’s Gate 3 fills its interiors with clutter that feels intentional, not random. Elden Ring turns architecture itself into mythology.
That thinking translates directly to paint and materials onstage.
While designing Barefoot in the Park, I needed white brick walls with character. We painted brick masonite with eggshell white, hit the grout lines with flat white, and then layered thin brown washes where dirt would naturally collect—corners, baseboards, around switches.
The wall wasn’t flashy, but it felt lived-in. It had receipts.
[IMAGE SUGGESTION: Close-up of aged white brick scenic wall — showing grout vs brick sheen]
Strategic Detail: Where the Scene Actually Lives
One of the smartest lessons from game design is restraint.
Games don’t give every surface equal attention. The spaces you spend time in get the detail. Everything else supports the read.
I used to exhaust myself trying to make every inch of a set equally rich. It’s expensive, time-consuming, and often invisible from the house.
Now I focus on where the scene actually lives:
- entrances and first impressions
- primary acting areas
- objects that anchor dialogue
- places where emotional turns happen
Those areas get the love. Everything else gets quieter—not sloppy, just simpler. The result is a cleaner read and a stronger story.
[IMAGE SUGGESTION: Production photo highlighting a single detailed scenic focal point]
Environmental Storytelling: Let the Set Do Some of the Talking
Games excel at telling stories without dialogue.
In Fallout 4, a child’s bedroom frozen mid-play or a kitchen table left untouched tells you everything you need to know. Skyrim does the same with abandoned interiors and scattered objects.
That approach is incredibly useful in theatre.
In my own work, I embed quiet tells: water stains that suggest neglect, furniture that’s been repaired instead of replaced, “nice” objects displayed prominently while cheaper ones are hidden. None of this is called out in the script—but the audience feels it.
When the environment carries part of the narrative load, the actors don’t have to explain it.
[IMAGE SUGGESTION: Environmental storytelling cluster — table, photos, mail, small clutter]
Digital Tools and Cross-Disciplinary Inspiration
My process starts in Vectorworks, where I build 3D models to test space, movement, and function. That early digital pass lets me solve problems before anything is built.
What’s useful about studying games isn’t the software—it’s the thinking. How texture, light, and space work together. How detail is allocated. How environments support story.
I often pull screenshots from games as reference—not to copy, but to analyze. Where is the wear? Where is the contrast? What’s doing the storytelling?
[IMAGE SUGGESTION: Vectorworks model — early massing vs refined model]
Bringing It All Together: A Practical Design Framework
Here’s how these ideas show up in my workflow:
- Establish the emotional tone of the space early
- Use digital models to test movement and sightlines
- Build texture-focused mood boards
- Identify where detail actually matters
- Embed narrative clues into the environment
- Communicate texture clearly through paint elevations
- Draft precisely for areas that require layered treatment
[IMAGE SUGGESTION: Mood board combining scenic references and game environments]
The Future Is Mixed: Physical Space + Digital Thinking
Game environments succeed because lighting, texture, sound, and architecture are designed together.
Theatre works best the same way.
Early collaboration with lighting and projection designers allows scenic elements to support—not compete with—other disciplines. A textured surface designed to catch light or projection is far more effective than a perfectly flat wall.
[IMAGE SUGGESTION: Stage environment combining physical scenery and projection]
Exciting Possibilities Ahead
One of the most promising directions in scenic design is the thoughtful blending of physical texture with subtle digital enhancement.
Imagine a deeply textured brick wall that can shift from afternoon to night, dry to rain-soaked, purely through light and projection—without losing its physical presence.
That’s where scenic design can evolve without abandoning craft.
[IMAGE SUGGESTION: Projection-mapped textured scenic surface]
Your Turn to Level Up
If you’re feeling stuck, spend time with environments in Red Dead Redemption 2 or The Last of Us. Pay attention to how spaces feel, not just how they look.
Then ask yourself: How can my next set feel more lived-in?
That’s usually where the breakthrough happens.
Frequently Asked Questions
Focus on principles—layering, contrast, and storytelling—not visual style.
No. Gameplay videos, art books, and environment breakdowns are enough.
Intentional focus. Not everything deserves equal detail.
Talk about storytelling and audience psychology, not games.
Absolutely. Texture, restraint, and placement cost time—not money.
