You can’t go very far today without hearing the term “level up.” You certainly can’t scroll through YouTube without seeing videos promising to show you how to level up your digital marketing skills, your guitar playing, or even how to level up as a human being. There’s little doubt that this phrase is borrowed and adapted from video games, which in turn borrowed it—quite liberally—from Dungeons & Dragons, where it has been part of the vocabulary for decades.

Personally, when it comes to real life, I’ve never been terribly fond of using the term “level up” to describe growth or improvement. There’s something embedded in the phrase that implies hierarchy—an invisible ladder of human value. Whether intentional or not, the suggestion is that some people are higher up, better, or more worthy than others. We already have enough stratification in society without importing additional metaphors that suggest some of us are simply more valuable by virtue of having “leveled.”

It’s not that unusual to hear someone say, “Well, if you don’t want to level up, that’s fine. You can stay right where you are and be miserable.” And then comes the pitch—how to level up your YouTube skills, your productivity, your life. There’s a clear, albeit often unspoken, judgment built into that phrasing. If you haven’t improved, you’re a failure. If you haven’t changed, you’re less. But that’s not how actual human growth works. And it’s certainly not how skill acquisition works.

Anyone who has ever tried to get good at something—anything—knows it’s not a simple or linear process. Let’s take learning the bass guitar. At first, it’s awkward. You’re holding the instrument like it might bite you. Your fingers fight you when you try to press down the strings. You’re trying to make your plucking hand work in concert with your fretting hand, and it feels like learning to walk on stilts during an earthquake. But then, slowly, things start to click. You learn a few scales, maybe a blues pattern. You figure out what a mode is, start seeing the relationships between chord tones and theory, and suddenly, progress comes fast. For a while.

And then the plateau hits. You’re competent. You can play songs. You know enough to sound decent. But the jump from good to great is slow—grinding, even. Improvement becomes subtle. The growth is in nuance. And though every now and then there’s a breakthrough, an epiphany, a sudden leap forward, it’s unpredictable. You can’t force it. What you can do is practice with intention, and with that practice, you may find yourself inching upward—almost imperceptibly—until one day something just clicks.

Most people don’t get paid for flashy virtuosity. Most of the money in bass is made with solid fundamentals. It’s not about being the fastest or the fanciest. It’s about being reliable, musical, and tasteful. And the person who knows a handful of grooves cold is not “less than” the person who can shred in every key at lightning speed. In fact, the leap between someone who’s never played and someone who can lay down a steady groove is enormous—far more significant than the difference between intermediate and expert.

This brings us back to the world of Dungeons & Dragons, where the term “level up” found early popularity. Talking with my friend José the other day, he pointed out how the game began to lose its way around the third edition. Originally, character classes started out relatively competent. A fighter could fight. A thief could sneak. A magic-user had a few tricks. The characters felt like the archetypes they were meant to be. But as the game evolved, new editions started locking core abilities behind higher levels. Suddenly, you couldn’t be the type of character you imagined—you had to earn it through gameplay first.

This created a peculiar dissonance. Players would come to the table with a vivid image in their minds—an experienced thief, a cunning ranger, a charismatic bard—but the mechanics forced them to start as ineffectual versions of those concepts, only becoming competent much later. The classic Appendix N characters—the heroes from the books that inspired the game—were already capable from the beginning. Conan didn’t wait until level 6 to become dangerous. Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser didn’t have to level up to be clever and capable. They just were.

Even more troubling is how level-heavy systems subtly alter the play experience. Instead of immersing themselves in the imagined situation—the world, the characters, the story—players begin to focus more on optimization. The goal shifts from playing the game to beating the system. From exploring a world to managing a spreadsheet of character advancements. The role-playing experience flattens under the weight of constant min-maxing, loot chasing, and experience point grinding. The fantasy loses its flavor, replaced with the cold logic of numbers and strategy guides.

Now, to be fair, I’ve had a long relationship with levels—44 years in this hobby and counting—and my opinion has changed over time. These days, I find myself increasingly drawn to systems that downplay or de-emphasize levels. Among them, Lamentations of the Flame Princess (particularly after the “Vaginas Are Magic” rule modifications) stands out. Characters in that game feel competent from the start. They are who they are. Growth is slow, deliberate, and appropriate. There’s no jarring leap from Level 1 to Level 3. There’s no “now I can actually play my character” moment.

When characters gain power too quickly or too dramatically, they cease to feel human. They become caricatures—superheroes in a world that started out grounded. The difference between them and the average villager isn’t one of skill or experience, but of species. They become demi-gods. Imagine being an 8th-level bass player who can cause the walls of a castle to crumble just by thumping a low B string. Fun? Sure. But believable? Not really. At a certain point, the suspension of disbelief snaps, and the game becomes something else entirely.

I much prefer the idea of front-loading character competence. Let people play the type of person they imagine, right from the start. From there, let them grow slowly. Let improvement feel earned, not handed out at the end of every session like candy. And let the game be about the story, not the stats.

I’m not anti-class. I’m not even entirely anti-level. But in recent years, I’ve found myself increasingly drawn to skill-based systems, where you shape an archetype from the beginning and refine it as you go. Where improvement feels tied to the character’s identity, not just their XP total. Where growth is satisfying, not compulsory.

We’re not in a video game. There’s no magical moment when all your stats suddenly increase and the enemies grow tougher to match. Real life isn’t a treadmill of escalating numbers. Whether we’re talking about RPGs, bass guitars, or just daily life, mastery comes slowly. Plateaus are normal. Progress isn’t linear. And most importantly, the person on the first step is not less valuable than the person further along.

They’re just at a different point on the same path. And that, to me, is a better way to live, play, and grow.