This is an era of talking about eras. Donald Trump says we’ve just begun a “golden age.” Pundits—responding to the rise of streaming, AI, climate change, and Trump himself—have announced the dawn of post-literacy, post-humanism, and post-neoliberalism. Even Taylor Swift’s tour name tapped into the au courant way of depicting time: not as a river, but as a chapter book. A recent n+1 essay asked, “What does it mean to live in an era whose only good feelings come from coining names for the era (and its feelings)?”
Oddly enough, the new edition of Civilization, Sid Meier’s beloved video-game franchise, suggests an answer to that question. In the six previous Civ installments released since 1991, players guide a culture—such as the Aztecs, the Americas, or the French—from prehistory to modernity. Tribes wielding spears and scrolls grow into global empires equipped with nukes and blue jeans. But Civilization VII, out this month, makes a radical change by firmly segmenting the experience into—here’s that word—eras. At times, the resulting gameplay mirrors the pervasive mood of our present age-between-ages: tedious, janky, stranded on the way to somewhere else.
In many ways, the game plays like a thoughtful cosmetic update. You select a civilization and a leader, with options that aren’t only the obvious ones (all hail Empress Harriet Tubman!). The world map looks ever so fantastical, with postcard-perfect coastlines and mountains resembling tall sandcastles. Then, in addictive turn after turn, you befriend or conquer neighboring tribes (using sleek new systems for war and diplomacy), discover technologies such as the wheel and bronze-working, and cultivate cities filled with art and industry. The big twist is that all the while, an icon on-screen accumulates percentage points. When it gets somewhere above 70 percent, a so-called crisis erupts: Maybe your citizens rebel; maybe waves of outsiders attack. At 100 percent, the game pauses to announce that the “Antiquity Age” is over. Time isn’t just marching on—your civilization is about to molt, caterpillar-style.
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In each of the two subsequent ages—Exploration, Modern—players pick a new society to transform into. In my first go, my ancient Romans became the Spanish, who sent galleons to distant lands. Then I founded modern America and got to work laying down a railroad network. Over time, my conquistadors retired, and my pagan temples got demolished to make way for grocery stores. Yet certain attributes persisted. For example, the Roman tradition of efficiently constructing civic works made building the Statue of Liberty easier. As I played, the word civilization came to feel newly expansive. I wasn’t running a country; I was tending to a lineage of peoples who had gone by a few names but shared a past, a homeland, self-interest, and that hazy thing called culture.
In the run-up to the game, Civilization’s developers have argued that the eras system is realistic. No nation-state has continuously spanned the thousands of years that a typical Civ game simulates; the closest counterexample might be China, which is playable as three different dynastic forms (plus Mongolia) in this game. Although Civ’s remix of history is always a bit wacky, in my head, I could maintain a plausible-ish narrative to explain why my America’s cities featured millennia-old colonnades (to quote a colleague: Are We Rome?). Each era-ending crisis created a credible kind of drama: In real life, revolutions, reformations, migration, invasion, disasters, and so much else can reshape societies in fundamental ways. The game succeeds at making the case that, as its creators like to say, “history is built in layers.”
Unfortunately, in the most recent version of the game, history also feels overdetermined. Winning in previous Civs meant accomplishing one self-evidently climactic feat—conquering Earth, say, or mastering spaceflight. During the many hours it took to get to that goal, you enjoyed immense freedom to improvise your own path. Civ VII, however, adds on a menu of goals for each era. To succeed in the Antiquity Age, for example, you might build seven Wonders of the World; in modernity, you could mass-produce a certain number of factory goods and then form a world bank. The micro objectives lend each era a sense of a narrative cohesion—but a limiting and predictable kind, less epic novel than completed checklist. Playing Civilization used to feel like living through an endless dawn of possibility. But this time, you’re not in command of history; history is in command of you, and it’s assigning you busywork.
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Making matters worse, the complexity of the eras mechanism seems to have encouraged the game’s designers to simplify other features—or, less charitably, to just pay those features less care. I played on what should have been a challenging level of difficulty—four on a six-point scale—but I still smoked the computer-controlled opponents, who seemed programmed to act meekly and unambitiously. Picking your form of government used to feel like an existential choice, but now despotism and oligarchy are hardly differentiated. Complicated ideas have been reduced to childish mini-games: Achieving cultural hegemony in Civ VI meant fostering soft power through a variety of options—curating art museums, building iconic monuments, shipping rock bands off on global tours—but in Civ VII, it’s mostly a matter of sending explorers to random places to dig up artifacts. Luckily, many of these problems seem fixable, and later downloadable updates may make the game richer and more satisfying.
Still, I worry that the dull anxiety that can creep in over a session of Civ VII results from a deeper flaw: the strictly defined ages. I like that the game wants to honor how societies really can change in sweeping, sudden ways. But in gaming and in life, fixating on an episodic view of time—prophecies of rise and fall, cycles of malaise and renewal—can have a diminishing effect on the present. Civilization VII suggests why the what’s-next anxieties of our times, stuck between mourning yesterday and anticipating tomorrow, can be so draining. Time actually doesn’t move in chunks. At best, eras are an imprecise tool to make sense of the messy past, and at worst, they rob us of our sense of agency. It’s healthiest to buy into the old Civilization fantasy, the dream that’s always propelled humans forward: We’re going to last.