Designing from the Ground Up: Drew Williams-Rostron on Building Worlds That Talk Back

When Drew Williams-Rostron talks about game design, he's not pulling from some abstract theory or buzzword-laden playbook. He's speaking from deep inside the machinery from the guts of games. It's the voice of someone who knows what it's like to obsess over systems until they click, to shape stories that feel like memories, to build virtual spaces that people step into and claim as their own. Listening to him, you get the sense he doesn't just make games.

He inhabits them. He leaves fingerprints on every corner, even the ones most players never see.

By the time you're reading this, Drew might be halfway through balancing a weapon that's just a little too powerful. He might be rebuilding a character arc to hit harder when the lights go out and the monsters creep in. Or maybe he's buried in spreadsheets, massaging in-game economies to feel fair, rewarding, challenging, and just frustrating enough to keep you hooked. Whatever the job, he's in it. He's been in it for over eight years now, and he's not even close to burning out.

His journey started as a Junior Designer at PlayStation, where the stakes were high, and the learning curve was steeper than most. From there, he moved through roles at Lucid Games and Ballistic Moon. Now, he's bringing all that experience to Climax Studios. The titles on his CV tell you he's been busy. But they don't tell you what drives him. They don't show you the craft, the care, the need to make something that lasts.

Ask him about world-building, though, and suddenly the picture sharpens.

"I always try to get some of my culture involved in games I make," he says. "But you have to also look at the game and the world that you're making and respect the universe that exists within it."

That balancing act is something Drew takes seriously. He's British-born Jamaican Guyanese and proudly Mancunian, and all those identities hum beneath the surface of his work. He's not trying to force references into spaces where they don't belong. He's trying to make things feel real. Emotionally real. Like you've wandered into a world that was already living, breathing, evolving before you got there.

"If I'm working on a horror game, I'm not going to try and force in cultural references just for the sake of it," he says. "But I will pull from things that actually scare me. I'll use memories, stories, anything that feels personal and true."

You feel that truth in his level design. Not always in what's there but in what's left unsaid. The creak of a floorboard that sounds just a little too human. The silence between two choices. The faint sense is that this game world knows more than it lets on. That you're not just playing it. You're trespassing in it.

One thing Drew never forgets is that players bring their own truths to the games they play. Their histories, identities, frustrations, and dreams. That's why character customisation matters so much to him. Not just as a cool feature. As a statement.

"I'm not a fan of the way things are going with fixed characters," he says. "I grew up spending hours in character creators. Trying to make characters look like me. And then running around in games with huge armour or weird powers. It was a version of me, you know?"

There's something beautiful and a little heartbreaking about that. The idea is that, for so many players, just being visible in a digital space is an act of joy. A small kind of revolution. But it's a revolution that's slowly being erased.

More and more studios are leaning toward fixed protagonists. Maybe it's easier to brand. It may make for a neater cinematic trailer. But for Drew, it feels like losing something essential.

"I get why they do it," he says. "It's probably easier to sell a strong brand. Easier to make a cinematic experience when you know exactly who your hero is. But it closes off a whole layer of imagination. And for people like me who used to always make versions of themselves in games, it's a bit of a letdown."

What would it look like if that layer of imagination stayed intact? Drew wants hybrid models. Stories with shape and weight, sure, but with enough room for players to see themselves inside them. Enough space to stretch your identity without breaking the world around it.

Bring up Black hairstyles in games, and you'll hear that passion hit full volume. It's not just a talking point for him. It's personal. And honestly, it should be for everyone.

"For years, we only had like four options," he says. "Buzz cut. Big afro. Generic dreadlocks. And the 'Killmonger dreads' which, like, nobody even really has."

It sounds like a joke, but there's a sting to it. Because representation isn't just about checking boxes or throwing in a token character; it's about detail. It's about care. And hair? Hair is identity. It's culture. It's memory. And when it's done wrong or left out entirely, it's not just disappointing. It's alienating.

"There are more and more artists now who understand how to make different textures, waves, braids, fades, high tops, twists, all that. It's coming. But it's still too rare. If I get into a character creator and there's barely anything I can use, I just think, man, that's rubbish."

And it's not just about him. It's about the kid picking up a controller and trying to find themselves. It's about the idea that someone, somewhere, saw you and thought you were worth building into the world.

"It shouldn't just be added in because someone said you have to check a diversity box. It should feel earned. It should make sense in the world. If it does, it won't feel out of place. It'll feel natural."

That's the thread running through all of Drew's work. Earn it. Make it count. Don't do it because you have to. Do it because you believe people deserve to see themselves, to feel themselves, in the worlds we build.

As a kid in Manchester, Drew wasn't just playing games. He was peeling them apart. He was the one on forums arguing about plot holes, writing headcanons, and dreaming up mods that made gear feel better, faster, and more real.

"I used to love reading fan theories and coming up with my own. Especially horror games. Trying to figure out what really happened, or what was going on behind the scenes. That's the kind of stuff I want to design now. Stuff that people talk about even after they finish it."

And they do talk. Drew was on Reddit for Until Dawn while working on it, lurking quietly while players picked his work apart, theorising about timelines, choices, and secrets. Watching fans bring the world to life in new ways.

He wasn't just reading. He was learning.

"It was amazing. Watching players try to piece everything together. You feel like you've made something that lives on beyond the game itself."

That's the dream. That's the reason for all the long nights, the spreadsheets, the pixel-perfect lighting passes, the arguments over tone and pacing and UI flow. It's not just about making something that works. It's about creating something that breathes.

Drew isn't interested in building disposable experiences. He wants obsession. Connection. Legacy. These are the kinds of games that don't end at the credits. The kind that gets under your skin. The kind that stays with you.

This resonated with me deeply as a Black woman who grew up gaming. I know what it's like to pour hours into a character creator just trying to make someone who looks even a little like me. I know what it's like to explore a beautifully rendered world and still feel like a visitor because no one there reflects your culture, features, or truth.

Hearing Drew talk about representation not as a checkbox but as a design ethic, something earned, something rooted in emotional and cultural truth, felt rare. Powerful. Honest. And necessary.

He's not just advocating for better hair options or richer lore. He's pushing for something bigger: for worlds that recognise us. For characters that invite us in instead of asking us to watch from the sidelines.

Drew's approach reminds me of what good design can do in an industry where "diversity" sometimes feels like a buzzword instead of a baseline. It can include. It can affirm. It can make you feel seen.

Games like that don't just entertain. They matter.