Shawn Layden Calls for Tighter 20-to-25-Hour Games Instead of 100-Hour Epics

For years, blockbuster games have largely chased one simple-looking metric: more. Bigger maps, more activities, longer campaigns, sprawling upgrade trees, seasons of post-launch content, and a daunting number of icons scattered across a world map have become familiar parts of premium game design. But former Sony Interactive Entertainment Worldwide Studios CEO Shawn Layden believes the industry should reconsider whether sheer size is really serving players, developers, or publishers.

Speaking on the Expansion Pass podcast, Layden argued in favor of a more concentrated template: high-quality games that run roughly 20 to 25 hours rather than enormous experiences that can stretch to 80, 90, or 100 hours. His central point was not that lengthy games cannot be worthwhile. Instead, he questioned the consistency of what fills those extra hours, particularly when a game's scale contributes to rising budgets and production risks.

"I've been involved with plenty of games that are 80, 90, 100 hours of gameplay," Layden said. "And I'll be the first one to say they're not all quality hours."

It is a concise criticism of an increasingly common tension in modern game development. Players regularly ask whether a new release is "worth it," and total playtime is often used as a quick answer. Yet a larger hour count does not automatically mean a better game. A 100-hour adventure may include memorable characters, extraordinary combat, and engrossing exploration, while still asking players to repeat activities, gather keys, travel long distances, or clear familiar objectives purely to extend its runtime.

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Layden's preferred alternative is not necessarily a return to tiny games. A 20-to-25-hour campaign remains a substantial experience, especially when it is designed with momentum and purpose. He described his ideal as an action-packed game that players do not want to put down, comparing that feeling to the propulsive pace of a John Woo film. The point is density: fewer dead stretches, less obligation, and a clearer sense that every major section earns its place.

When size becomes padding

The open-world format is one obvious part of this conversation. It has produced some of the medium's most impressive places, from detailed historic cities to enormous fantasy continents. It can also create pressure to populate every corner with something to do, even when that activity does not meaningfully deepen the game. The result may be a long checklist of towers, camps, collectibles, errands, challenges, or repeated combat encounters.

None of those systems are inherently bad. Optional activities can give a world personality, offer a break from a main quest, or let players engage with mechanics they enjoy. The problem comes when repetition is mistaken for richness, or when progression is tuned around tasks that feel obligatory rather than exciting.

Layden illustrated the issue with a familiar kind of videogame errand: crossing a large area to get a key needed to open a door somewhere the player has already visited. That kind of structure can build anticipation in a tightly designed adventure, but it can also become busywork when used repeatedly. The difference is whether the journey introduces an interesting decision, encounter, discovery, or story beat--or simply consumes time.

Recent major releases demonstrate why the debate is more complicated than "open worlds bad, shorter games good." Series such as Assassin's Creed and Final Fantasy offer huge amounts of material, while games including Clair Obscur: Expedition 33 demand considerable investment from players who want to see everything. For many fans, that commitment is a feature, not a flaw. They want a game they can inhabit for weeks, with side stories and systems that reward curiosity.

Even acclaimed superhero adventures such as Insomniac's three Spider-Man games have optional content that will land differently from player to player. One person may welcome a diversion that extends their time swinging through the city; another may view a similar activity as formulaic map clearing. The argument is not that every game needs to be short, but that length should arise from strong ideas rather than a perceived requirement to appear enormous.

An old business habit with modern consequences

Layden also connected today's bloat concerns to the video rental culture of the 1990s. In that era, developers had a practical reason to make sure many games could not be completed over a single rented weekend. Difficulty spikes, punishing level design, limited continues, and opaque objectives could all slow a player down. If a customer failed to finish, there was a chance they would rent the cartridge or disc again.

That incentive is quite different from today's subscription services, digital stores, and vast libraries of discounted games, but the instinct to equate longer runtime with higher value has survived. In some cases, it may have become embedded in design expectations. A premium game can face scrutiny if its campaign is perceived as short, even if it is meticulously constructed and highly replayable.

Classic examples of rental-era friction are easy to find. A notorious stage such as the stampede sequence in The Lion King on SNES and Sega Genesis/Mega Drive is remembered as much for its difficulty as for its movie tie-in appeal. Not every hard level existed solely to delay a rental customer, of course, and challenge has always been important to games. Still, that period helped reinforce a commercial logic in which keeping players stuck or occupied longer could be treated as a virtue.

Today's equivalent is usually less about a brutally difficult stage and more about volume: larger spaces, more quest chains, and longer completion estimates. Players have gained more choice and more accessibility, but the underlying question remains familiar. Is the game respecting a player's time, or is it stretching itself because a big number sounds more persuasive on a feature list?

Why scope matters to the business

Layden's comments also speak directly to the financial pressures facing the industry. Major games have become exceptionally costly to produce, especially at the blockbuster level. High-fidelity art, performance capture, orchestral audio, advanced technology, extensive quality assurance, localization, marketing, and years of staffing all add to a project's expense. Expanding a game's world and content footprint can increase those demands further.

Several of the industry's most anticipated projects are widely believed to carry budgets in the hundreds of millions of dollars, including Battlefield 6, Hideo Kojima's Physint, and Grand Theft Auto 6. Exact budgets are often uncertain or unconfirmed, but the broad trend is hard to miss: blockbuster development is becoming more expensive and more difficult to sustain.

The consequences of that escalation reach beyond a single release. When a project requires an enormous investment, publishers may become less willing to take creative chances. Teams can be pushed toward proven formats, familiar intellectual property, and features designed to maximize broad appeal. A commercial disappointment can then have severe consequences, including studio closures, cancelled projects, and layoffs. The industry has experienced widespread job losses, making any discussion of a more stable production model especially urgent.

Layden does not present smaller scope as a magical cure. A 20-hour game can still be expensive, and a large game can still be expertly made. But working toward contained projects could potentially slow the relentless upward march of development costs. It may also give teams clearer priorities: polish the core mechanics, make missions distinct, preserve a strong pace, and ship a complete experience without building an entire continent simply because competitors have one.

"Keep it tight and keep it banging," Layden said, arguing that a smaller-scale model could help costs decrease or at least stop climbing so rapidly.

More choice, not one ideal runtime

The healthiest interpretation of Layden's argument is not a demand that all long games disappear. There will always be an audience for massive role-playing games, open-world adventures, strategy titles, and live-service games built for hundreds of hours. Those experiences can be extraordinary when their systems, stories, and exploration continue to surprise players.

What the industry arguably needs is greater confidence in different shapes of games. A focused 12-hour action game, a 25-hour story-driven adventure, a 50-hour RPG, and a vast 100-hour sandbox can all coexist. The important distinction is whether each game's scope supports its creative goals instead of acting as a substitute for them.

For players, that could mean fewer games that feel like a second job and more releases that end before their best ideas wear thin. For developers, it could mean production plans with lower risk and more room to experiment. And for publishers, it could offer a path toward releases that are easier to budget, finish, and support without placing impossible expectations on every new project.

Games do not need to become smaller merely for the sake of being smaller. But Layden's challenge is worth taking seriously: if a game asks for 100 hours, it should have 100 hours of meaningful reasons to play. Otherwise, a sharp, memorable 20-to-25-hour journey may be the better deal for everyone involved.