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I’ve talked a lot about Imposter’s Syndrome and the all-encompassing, paralytic thrall it’s cast over me for basically my entire life. I second guess my shit constantly. I’m slow to start new projects, because my brain assumes I’ll be incapable of making them any good.

This was especially true from college onward. I majored in broadcast journalism, a field I found myself wholly unsuited for. I was uncomfortable talking to people, especially strangers — which, you know, kind of comes with the territory.

At Joystiq, I wrote news posts and reviews, and the whole time I was there, I never thought I was very good at it. I believed I was in a field that I was terrible at, and feared it was only a matter of time before I was discovered.

That’s Imposter’s Syndrome 101. And even as I started doing stuff I was a bit more comfortable with — namely, the Joystiq podcast and MBMBaM, I was never able to be fully confident in the work I was doing. It kept me up at night, wondering when the other shoe was going to drop.

When we started talking about moving over to start Polygon, that fear became the loudest voice in the room. I knew that with starting a new project came an enormous amount of scrutiny, and that I wouldn’t be able to sail under the radar much longer.

I was Deputy News Editor when Polygon launched, meaning now, I was responsible for helping to oversee and help train other reporters in my field. As much as I loved this work, I couldn’t shake the guilt that I was in no position to teach folks these ropes in ANY capacity.

Two years later, my Imposter’s Syndrome and its associated anxiety reached a breaking point. I considered leaving games altogether, then, and focusing on the podcasts — a realm where my lack of confidence still existed, but was much quieter than it was in this, my full-time job.

Around that time, Polygon started to rethink its video efforts. The strategy had been a focus on high-touch video packages and longform storytelling. As superb as that stuff was, it was a somewhat unsustainable model that left a lot of gaps in what our channel could offer.

We needed someone to spearhead video for the site, and, being unhappy and uncertain about my journalistic chops, I saw it as a vine I could swing onto — despite the fact that I had zero idea how to actually make a video. Somewhat hesitantly, I agreed to take on the task.

The first month in this position was fucking terrifying. Not only did I have to self-educate myself about a lot of technical skills, I also wrestled with the responsibility of rebuilding our website’s video strategy from the ground up.

But I stuck with it, trying to improve the quality and quantity of the Overview-style stuff we were making in those days. A year in, and I felt like our video output was passable, if still not entirely in my wheelhouse.

Then, about sixteen months after taking the new position, and after a weeklong strategy meeting w/ our ragtag video team: We did the first Monster Factory.

The reception to that first Monster Factory was a total sea change, both for the tone of the videos we started to make, and for how I thought about the work I could do in this industry.

There was a realization that my middling feelings about my work was actually a direct result of how I tried to distance myself from the things I was making.

That “flying under the radar” approach was precisely the cause of why I felt like my work was merely adequate — it was only through really leaning in that I started making things I was proud of.

Which brings me to what I want to say about Polygon. There has never been a moment while I’ve worked here that I did not feel encouraged to chase that instinct.

(That isn’t to say that ideas don’t get shot down — they totally do! But only after long, supportive discussions about how to make our ideas and passions work.)

I said when we announced we were leaving that I adore our team, but that goes beyond the individual level — though I do admire the individuals, as well. I adore the TEAM, and this atmosphere of experimentation and boundless personal expression that it fosters.

And all of this culminates, in my mind, with one particular video series. It began as a very silly joke I made during a weekly meeting, which the team encouraged me to chase after.

I shot the first episode that same day, and by the end of the week, the video was live. It was, and continues to be, the strangest thing I’ve ever done.

This series, and the other stuff I’ve done in the past few years at Polygon — it leaves no room for the Imposter’s Syndrome that has cast a shadow over my entire creative life.

Though it seems an unlikely candidate for this truth, it was one of the most personally, creatively empowering things I’ve ever worked on. And so: