I honestly can’t believe it. After learning that Bungie will officially be ending its ongoing development of Destiny 2 with one final update on June 9, 2026, I’m not sure how to feel about it. I knew the day would eventually come, especially in light of how rough its last couple of years have been, but knowing that hasn’t made the news any more bearable. I’m still in denial, my mouth agape in disbelief, that the game I once called home will now be abandoned by its builders, as it keeps its doors unlocked but leaves all the furniture inside subject to dust and natural decay. I’ll certainly revisit it one last time, but saying goodbye to Destiny 2 will still be the hardest thing I’ll ever do in gaming.
Destiny 2 wasn’t perfect, but no game is. It wasn’t universally loved, but no game is. Video games don’t need to be flawless or near-unanimously praised to make bidding them farewell heartbreaking. They just need to mean something to those who play them, and for myself and many others, Destiny 2 truly meant a lot. I know reading the comments on social media can make it seem otherwise, with so many claiming that both Bungie and what happens to be one of the most successful live-service games of all time deserve this unfortunate end. But those loose tongues are nothing new, and simply the ongoing love-to-hate parade that has plagued Destiny 2 for years. Meanwhile, for millions of players, including myself, Destiny 2 is one of the greatest gaming experiences we’ve ever had, regardless of the times it frustrated us or left us wanting more.
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Destiny 2 Brought Me and My Friends Together
I still remember it like it was yesterday, even though it was nearly a decade ago. I was standing in line at a restaurant with a friend of mine, and we were getting ready to order our food. He mentioned Destiny 2, telling me he was going to be playing it when it came out and asked if I would be as well. I was a little nervous, to be honest, primarily because I wasn’t a fan of online gaming with other people. I always preferred games I could play alone, as it allowed me to play at my own pace and kept me away from any form of competitiveness, whether it came directly from others or my own internal comparisons.
Who’s That Character?
Identify the silhouettes before time runs out.
Identify the silhouettes before time runs out.
Easy (7.5s)Medium (5.0s)Hard (2.5s)Permadeath (2.5s)
I had played the original Destiny quite a bit, but I had only ever played it by myself. Playing Destiny 2 with friends would be a whole new ballgame for someone whose social gaming experience only ever amounted to some couch co-op and multiplayer in games like Super Smash Bros. and Halo. Nevertheless, I took the plunge, bought Destiny 2, and after playing one session with a few buddies, I was sold. For years after that, playing anything solo felt lonely, and I found myself craving more Destiny 2 and the quality friend time I got with it.
For millions of players, including myself, Destiny 2 is one of the greatest gaming experiences we’ve ever had, regardless of the times it frustrated us or left us wanting more.
We started a clan of misfits—players who were decent at the game, but not quite to the point of being able to complete Destiny 2‘s Leviathan raid when it launched. We tried, but failed miserably. Even so, we kept trying, night after night, determined to beat it. For me, it would have been the first Destiny raid I had ever completed, and now that I had a solid group of friendlies whom I knew I could count on, I was convinced we could as long as we didn’t give up.
Well, a few weeks later, we defeated Calus at around 4 a.m. my time, and I let out a shout of victory that I’m sure woke up my wife. I was ecstatic. This was a moment in gaming unlike anything I had ever experienced. To have not only come so far in Destiny 2, but to have also conquered my fears of playing games online with other people to the point that we were coordinating mechanics, trusting one another, laughing through mistakes, and staying up until unreasonable hours just to see it through made that victory feel bigger than the game itself.
In that moment, Destiny 2 had given me something I didn’t even know I wanted from games. It was a shared place to struggle, improve, celebrate, and build memories with people I cared about. From that point on, Destiny 2 became the game I associated with friendship, late nights, inside jokes, and some of the best moments I’ve ever had with a controller in my hands. That’s ultimately what made its slow descent into something most of my friends no longer wanted to play so difficult to accept, because even as I continued pouring thousands of hours into Destiny 2, the game increasingly felt like a place I was visiting alone rather than the home we had all built together.
Destiny 2 Made Me a Better Gamer
Destiny 2 didn’t just give me a reason to play games with other people though. It made me a better gamer altogether. Before that, I had never really thought of myself as someone who was especially skilled at games. I loved them, obviously, but I was usually more comfortable playing alone, taking my time, playing on easier difficulties, and avoiding anything that made me feel like I was competing against other players. Destiny 2 gradually changed that, and it started in Calus’ throne room in the Leviathan raid.
During the Leviathan raid, my friends actually started calling me “Throne Room” as a joke because I became known as the guy who stayed behind in Calus’ throne room while everyone else went through the portals. It sounds ridiculous now, but it was one of those little clan jokes that became a memorable part of our history. Everyone had their role, everyone had their strengths, and for whatever reason, mine became surviving in that room while everything in it wanted me dead.
What made it matter more to me, though, was that I wasn’t always staying behind because it was the cleanest strategy. There were plenty of times when we didn’t even have enough players to fill a full raid team in Destiny 2, so someone had to make the best of a bad situation. More often than not, that meant I stayed in the throne room alone while waves of enemies rushed me, and somehow, I kept surviving. I don’t think anyone realized how much that encouraged me at the time, but it did. Every time I made it through another round by myself, my confidence grew a little more. I started to believe that maybe I wasn’t just tagging along with better players, but maybe, just maybe, I was actually good at Destiny 2.
Destiny 2 didn’t just give me a reason to play games with other people though. It made me a better gamer altogether.
That confidence didn’t come from nowhere, of course. I loved Destiny 2, so I kept playing it. Across multiple platforms, I eventually logged more than 5,000 hours in the game, which is something I had never done with any game before and will probably never do again now that I have children. The more I played, the better I got, and the better I got, the more other people noticed. Friends who only jumped in occasionally would still comment on how sharp I had become, how quickly I could clear content, or how naturally I seemed to understand what the game was asking of me. None of that is me trying to sound cocky. Honestly, I’m still kind of impressed with myself, because I know where I started.
That skill followed me into other games, too. Before Destiny 2, I was terrible at Soulslike games. I would creep through areas, get nervous before every boss, and farm the same enemies over and over just so I could overpower whatever was ahead of me with stats instead of actually learning the fight. After Destiny 2, that changed. I became more comfortable failing, adjusting, and trying again. I wasn’t as afraid to move forward anymore, because Destiny 2 had taught me that getting better usually comes through repetition, frustration, and eventually realizing that the thing that once felt impossible is now something I can handle.
Destiny 2 also made me better at shooters in general. I started on console with a controller, back when I played almost everything on console, but after getting a gaming PC, I moved over and forced myself to learn mouse and keyboard. Once it clicked—pun intended—I realized how much more control I had, especially with how quickly I could move and how precise I could be with every shot. That carried into Destiny 2‘s Crucible, where I started finding myself near the top of the scoreboard more often than I expected, and eventually into Call of Duty, a series I had mostly sworn off when I was younger because I was so bad at it. I was never some sweaty multiplayer monster, but I was good enough to surprise myself.
Even now, friends still comment on how skilled I am at Destiny 2 and video games overall, and some even started calling me the “Grind King” because of how quickly I could progress through a game. The funny thing is, I didn’t usually have more free time than everyone else. Destiny 2 had just made me a better gamer, and that has stuck with me everywhere else I’ve gone.
Destiny 2 Is a Memory Not Even Destiny 3 Could Replace
I know that, after recent reports, Destiny 3 probably isn’t going to happen. Maybe that changes someday, and believe me, a big part of me would love for it to. But even if Bungie somehow announced Destiny 3 tomorrow, it wouldn’t be able to replace what Destiny 2 has been in my life. A sequel could bring new worlds, new raids, new classes, new builds, and even a fresh start for the franchise, but it could never give me back that exact season of life. The best times I had with Destiny 2 are already behind me, and that is part of what makes this so hard.
My life is completely different now than it was when Destiny 2 first came out. I’m almost ten years older, I have two children who are my world, and my wife and family are my priority and always will be. I don’t have the same late nights to give away anymore, and even if I did, most of the people who made Destiny 2 what it was for me have moved on too. So, as much as I would love to see Destiny 3 become real, I already know it wouldn’t be the same. I might play it alone, or maybe with my best friend when we could make the time, but I couldn’t recreate the clan, the late-night raids, the inside jokes, the first clears, or that feeling of logging in and knowing everyone else was already there waiting.
The best times I had with Destiny 2 are already behind me, and that is part of what makes this so hard.
That’s why saying goodbye to Destiny 2 is the hardest thing I’ll ever do in gaming. It isn’t because the game was perfect, because it never was. It isn’t because every decision Bungie made was the right one, because plenty of them weren’t. It’s because Destiny 2 was there for a version of my life I can never go back to, and it gave me memories I never expected a video game to give me. I can move on, and I will. But when I think about Destiny 2, I won’t just think about loot, raids, expansions, or all the hours I poured into it. I’ll think about my friends, the player it helped me become, and the home it gave me for a little while. That is what I’m really saying goodbye to.
- Released
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August 28, 2017
- ESRB
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T For TEEN for Blood, Language, and Violence
