It Works. Now What?

The Hardest Part of the Pixel Pilgrimage

Last week, I was in Chicago for the final gathering of the Phygital Fellows. It was the culmination of two years of work together. Nineteen of us gathered to share what we had learned, what we had tried, and where we thought things might go next.

Everyone had their own way of presenting. Some people shared research. Some shared stories from their projects. Some reflected on their journey through the program.

For my slot, I decided to do something experiential.

Instead of presenting about the Pixel Pilgrimage, I wanted them to experience a little bit of it themselves.

Finding Pilgrimage In Video Games: Why Game Worlds Make Perfect Spiritual Journeys

So I led them through a micro Pixel Pilgrimage using the opening twenty minutes of Neva, which was the very first Pixel Pilgrimage we ever did.

Now, the important detail here is the room I was in.

This was a room of more than twenty people, most of whom do not play video games. A few of them played growing up. A couple play games with their kids. I know at least one person who plays sports games and another who will occasionally try out big AAA releases.

But, generally speaking, this is not a group that would have sought out something like the Pixel Pilgrimage on their own.

So before we started, I tried to set the table a little bit.

I walked them through the ground rules. I talked about the four questions we use during the pilgrimage. I encouraged them to write down an intention or two before we began.

One thing I specifically encouraged them to name was doubt.

If you are not a gamer, name that.
If you think this experience probably isn’t for you, name that too.

Don’t leave that at the door. Bring it with you and see what happens.

Then… we started the game.

I mostly stayed quiet during the experience. I occasionally pointed out a moment in the narrative, but for the most part, I let the game speak for itself and encouraged people to jot down notes as they watched.

After about twenty minutes, we stopped.

The room was quiet.

Not the awkward silence of confusion, but the kind of quiet that happens when people are actually thinking about something—processing it.

What surprised me the most was how seriously everyone took it.

This was a captive audience, sure. They were there because it was part of the program. But even with that, there are plenty of ways people could have kept some distance from the experience. They could have treated it as a curiosity. They could have mentally checked out. They could have said to themselves, “This isn’t really my thing.”

But they didn’t. They leaned in and went on the journey with me.

One moment in particular really stuck with me.

After we finished, one person began reflecting out loud about what they had just experienced. Earlier they had mentioned that they were not a gamer anymore. They even said they were bad at video games when they had tried them in the past.

But that didn’t matter here.

Because in this format they didn’t have to wrestle with the game mechanics. They didn’t have to worry about failing or struggling with controls. They could just engage with the story.

And almost immediately, they began connecting the opening of the Neva to their own life over the past few years. They started naming parts of their own journey through the lens of the story we had just walked through together.

That moment really clicked something into place for me.

It reminded me that this is actually very similar to what happens on a physical pilgrimage.

When you go on a pilgrimage, you usually go with someone who knows the terrain. You’re not expected to know the roads or the landmarks ahead of time. The guide helps you move through the space. They can move at your pace or slow things down when necessary.

The Pixel Pilgrimage works the same way.

Removing the barrier of gameplay opened the door for someone who normally wouldn’t have access to this kind of experience.

Several people came up to me afterward and said something along the same lines.

“I’m not a gamer. This isn’t something I would normally do. But now I’m curious.”

One person told me that if they saw another opportunity like this in the future, they would absolutely sign up for it.

That was incredibly encouraging to hear.

But it also clarified something important for me.

The Pixel Pilgrimage works.

If it can resonate with a room full of non-gamers, then it makes perfect sense that it resonates with gamers. The structure works. The Spirit shows up. The reflections happen.

The real question is something else entirely.

How do people find it?

Because nobody is going to participate in something they have never heard of.

Gamers or non-gamers, it doesn’t matter. If the experience never enters their line of sight, they will never have the opportunity to step into it.

So the real challenge moving forward isn’t proving that the Pixel Pilgrimage is meaningful.

It’s making sure people encounter it.

In some ways, this reminds me of a small moment in the Gospel of John.

When Philip tells Nathanael that they’ve found the Messiah, Nathanael’s response is skeptical, “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?”

Philip doesn’t launch into an argument. He doesn’t try to prove anything.

He simply says, “Come and see.”

That posture feels right to me.

I don’t think the Pixel Pilgrimage needs to be forced on anyone. Foisting it on people would probably do more harm than good. Experiences like this work best when people step into them willingly.

But the invitation still matters.

People need someone who will say, “Come and see.”

The Chicago experience reinforced something I’ve been sensing for a while.

What the Pixel Pilgrimage needs now are people who have experienced it and are willing to share it with others. People who can tell the story. People who can invite others to try it.

People who can say, “Come and see what happens when a video game becomes a pilgrimage.”

Because once people actually step into the experience, something interesting tends to happen: they discover something they weren’t expecting to find.