March 3, 2017. That date changed everything for people who grew up playing games. It wasn’t just the day the Nintendo Switch hit shelves; it was the day we all stepped out of a dark cave onto a cliffside in Hyrule and realized the rules had shifted. Honestly, calling The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild just the game of the year 2017 feels like an understatement because it basically dismantled the open-world genre and rebuilt it from the ground up. Before this, most "open" games were basically just checklists. You’d open a map, see five hundred icons for "find the hidden feather," and feel your soul slowly leave your body. Nintendo did the opposite. They gave us a chemistry set and told us to go play in the dirt.
It’s weird to think it’s been nearly a decade. Yet, developers are still trying to figure out how Eiji Aonuma and Hidemaro Fujibayashi made a world that felt so alive without relying on constant waypoint hand-holding. If you see a mountain, you can climb it. If you see a fire, you can use the updraft to fly. It sounds simple, but in 2017, it was revolutionary.
The year that wouldn't quit
2017 was a ridiculous year for gaming. It was actually kind of exhausting. Think about it: we got Horizon Zero Dawn, Super Mario Odyssey, Persona 5, NieR:Automata, and Resident Evil 7. Any of those could have been the definitive game of the year 2017 in a weaker release cycle. But Breath of the Wild (BotW) sat at the top of the pile for a very specific reason: agency.
Most games treat the player like a passenger. "Go here, talk to this guy, press X to win." Zelda treated us like scientists. You’d spend twenty minutes trying to figure out how to cross a river, only to realize you could just chop down a tree and walk across it. Or maybe you’d freeze the water into ice blocks. Or maybe you’d use a magnetic power to pull a metal chest out of the muck and use that as a stepping stone. There was no "right" way, just your way.
Why the "Chemistry Engine" changed the game
Usually, game developers talk about physics engines. You know, how things bounce or fall. But Nintendo pushed something they called a "Chemistry Engine." This governed how elements interacted. Fire burns grass. Wind moves fire. Water puts out fire but conducts electricity. This sounds like basic logic, but implementing it across a massive world meant that the environment became a weapon.
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I remember once I was caught in a lightning storm. In most games, lightning is just a visual effect. In BotW, if you’re wearing metal armor, you’re basically a walking lightning rod. I was terrified. Then I realized I could unequip my sword, wait for the sparks to start flying, and then throw the sword at a group of Bokoblins right before the bolt hit. It worked. I didn't learn that from a tutorial; I learned it because the world worked the way the real world works.
The art of the "Sights"
Most open worlds are designed around landmarks, but BotW used a concept called the "Triangle Rule." If you look at the landscape, it’s full of jagged peaks and hills. These triangles hide things from your view. As you walk around a corner, a new point of interest—a shrine, a weird-looking tree, a smoking campfire—reveals itself. It’s a constant loop of curiosity. You set out to save the princess, but three hours later, you're on a remote island trying to figure out how to cook a radish so it gives you extra health.
The music helped too. Or rather, the lack of it. Manaka Kataoka, the lead composer, opted for sparse, minimalist piano notes instead of a sweeping orchestral score that loops every two minutes. It allowed the sounds of the world—the crunch of grass, the chirping of birds, the whistling wind—to take center stage. It made the world feel lonely, but in a meditative way. You weren't just a hero; you were a survivor in a world that had already ended a century ago.
Everyone got it wrong about the weapons
Let's talk about the elephant in the room: weapon durability. People hated it. They still hate it. You find a cool flaming sword, use it for five minutes, and then—shatter—it’s gone. It feels bad, right?
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But honestly, the durability system is why the game of the year 2017 worked. If your favorite sword never broke, you’d never use anything else. You’d find the "best" weapon and ignore the rest of the systems. By forcing weapons to break, the game forced you to be creative. You’d run out of swords and have to use a Korok leaf to blow enemies off a cliff, or use Magnesis to drop a heavy crate on their heads. It kept the combat from becoming a stale grind. It turned every encounter into a mini-puzzle.
The impact on the industry
After 2017, you started seeing "Zelda-likes" everywhere. Genshin Impact took the climbing and gliding. Immortals Fenyx Rising tried to mimic the shrine puzzles and the tone. Even Elden Ring, years later, took a massive cue from Zelda by removing the "map markers" and letting players just get lost.
The industry realized that players actually want to be confused sometimes. They want to discover things on their own without a mini-map pointing the way like a GPS. The "Ubisoft Tower" model—where you climb a tower and a hundred icons pop up—suddenly felt dated. When you climbed a tower in Hyrule, nothing happened on your map except the geography filling in. You had to use your own eyes and a pair of binoculars to mark things that looked interesting.
It wasn't just about the Switch
We also shouldn't forget that this was a Wii U game. It’s wild that a console that was essentially a commercial failure birthed one of the greatest games of all time. The fact that it ran as well as it did on the Switch at launch—even with the occasional frame rate dip in Korok Forest—was a technical miracle. It proved that art style (that gorgeous cel-shaded, Studio Ghibli look) matters way more than raw teraflops.
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The legacy of 2017
When we look back at the game of the year 2017, we’re looking at the moment Nintendo regained its crown. They had spent the Wii U years feeling a bit out of touch. Then, they dropped a masterpiece that influenced everyone from indie devs to the biggest AAA studios. It reminded us that games are supposed to be about play, not just "content."
If you go back and play it now, it hasn't aged a day. The grass still ripples in the wind the same way. The puzzles still feel clever. The world still feels enormous. It’s a rare instance of a game that lived up to impossible levels of hype and then actually exceeded them.
How to get the most out of Hyrule today
If you’re jumping back in or playing for the first time, keep these things in mind to actually enjoy the experience rather than fighting it:
- Turn off the Pro HUD. Go into the settings and turn off everything on your screen except your hearts. Without the mini-map constantly pulling your eyes to the bottom right corner, you actually look at the world. You’ll find things you never would have seen otherwise.
- Don't fast travel. I know, the map is huge. But the best moments in this game happen between the "important" spots. If you teleport everywhere, you miss the wandering merchants, the hidden Koroks, and the sudden dragon sightings that make the world feel alive.
- Experiment with cooking. Don't just throw things in a pot. Pay attention to the descriptions. Five "Endura" ingredients will give you an extra stamina wheel, which is a total game-changer for early-game exploration.
- Embrace the death. You’re going to die. A lot. Especially to Guardians. Instead of getting frustrated, use those deaths as a learning tool. If a Guardian is kicking your butt, maybe you aren't ready for that area yet, or maybe you need to learn how to parry their laser with a shield.
The beauty of this game is that it doesn't care if you finish it in 40 hours or 400 hours. It’s a space to exist in. That’s why we’re still talking about it years later, and why it remains the definitive benchmark for what an adventure should feel like.
Next time you're stuck in a rut with modern games that feel like chores, go back to the Great Plateau. Jump off the ledge, open your paraglider, and just see where the wind takes you. You'll find something new. You always do.