For the Love of the Grind

Embracing the Creative Struggle

When it comes to creative pursuits, one of the most important lessons I’ve learned is this: growth happens in the grind, or what I call, the Core Design Loop. That’s why I’ve always valued teammates who embrace this truth, and George—Stone Blade’s creative director—is a prime example. Whether he’s crafting SolForge Stories, designing new art, or, as you’ll read here, wrestling with the intricacies of learning a new language, George approaches challenges with a determined and growth-oriented mindset.

In this article, George describes the parallels between learning a skill and playing a punishing video games like Dark Souls or Elden Ring—where the grind isn’t a hurdle but the core of the journey. Through his personal quest to conquer Italian, he describes what it means to embrace the struggle, not just as a means to an end, but as a transformative process in itself.

George’s lesson will remind you that the grind might be tough, but it’s also what makes the victories worthwhile.

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For the love of the grind

Learning something new is like a playthrough of Dark Souls or Elden Ring—the grind is unavoidable and inglorious, but it’s how you grow enough to progress the story. Yet, so many products on the market promise a grindless experience, as if it’s not the most crucial part of the creative process.

Recently, musician Nick Cave, in a conversation with Stephen Colbert, expressed his concern about forces like AI making people view “the creative experience as an impediment on the road to the product.” While I’m not against AI, I understand his point—and I don’t think this concern is solely an AI issue. For years, people have been selling “grindless” paths to mastering skills and artforms.

“Learn a language in just 10 minutes a day!” “Become fluent without leaving your couch!” Marketing promises like these are everywhere, from best-selling books to language apps like Babbel and Rosetta Stone. While these tools can be helpful for getting started, they often reduce learning to a series of quick fixes, skipping over the depth and effort required to truly master a skill. The grind—the daily work of practicing, failing, and trying again—is where real growth happens. It’s the struggle that transforms a skill into an art, yet it’s often treated as an inconvenience rather than the heart of the process.

I’ve come to appreciate that the grind is not just essential—it’s transformative. Justin, my boss-friend-mentor, frames it beautifully as the core design loop: iteration and playtesting. This approach has encouraged so many up-and-coming designers to embrace, and even enjoy, the grind as part of the process.

Lately, I’ve been living this reality every day as I wrestle with learning Italian. It feels like starting a new game at level one, armed with a rusty sword and flimsy leather armor, hacking away at goblins to earn my first experience points. The grind is unavoidable and unglamorous, but it’s through this process that I grow—shaping not only my skills but also my identity within them.

Endless verb forms—essere and avere behaving as unpredictably as rabid dogs—paired with subtle distinctions, like the difference between bello and buono, and the seemingly impossible mastery of perfect and imperfect pronouns, all feel insurmountable at times. I remember trying to say something simple but blurting out, “Vedo comprare un latte”—literally, “I see to buy a milk”—when all I wanted was a coffee. My classmates, many of whom have been studying for years, speak with ease while I feel like I’m wielding a dull stick against a dragon.

But I always remind myself of what many beloved role-playing games have taught me: the grind is not glamorous, but it’s essential. I have to put in the practice and embrace my mistakes as part of the process. Every wrong word, every fumbled verb tense becomes another dire rat I’m slaying for experience points. In conversation class, I lob words like alchemical bombs, waiting to see how the explosion of feedback—my classmates’ reactions, the teacher’s corrections, and shared anecdotes—shapes and refines my skills. I’m determined to forge that stick into my own version of Sigurd’s Gram and wield it to slay the dragon.

Every time I speak Italian and the person I’m speaking to doesn’t switch to English—a common courtesy here to spare a tourist the awkward struggle of fumbling through a handful of words—it feels like earning another skill point on my very human character sheet. In those moments, it’s clear I’ve reached a level where my accent and fluency are strong enough to carry the conversation in Italian—a small but meaningful victory in my ongoing grind.

Over time, those tiny victories add up. I’ve learned to celebrate small wins—like ordering a meal without repeating myself or catching snippets of street conversations. Each moment, no matter how small, is proof I’m leveling up. Not surprisingly, I love going to class. My terrible sentences aren’t embarrassing—they’re inevitable. They’ve become opportunities to laugh, ask more questions, tell another broken story, and ultimately learn more about the language and about myself.

The apps and programs are useful, but they’re just part of the process. I use them to fill the gaps between grind sessions. Duolingo on the toilet, Babbel on the train—they aren’t where the real lessons happen, but they reinforce what I’m already learning. Day by day, they help me chip away at the dragon’s scales.

The grind is frustrating, yes, but it’s also what makes progress meaningful. Just like in a game, the reward is sweeter when you’ve worked for it. In learning Italian, I’ve discovered that the grind itself can be a source of pride. It’s the unglamorous work that turns the impossible into the achievable—one awkward conversation at a time.