John Carmack was watching The Color of Money. In that 1986 Scorsese flick, Tom Cruise walks into a pool hall carrying a black cue case. A guy asks him, "What you got in there?" Cruise smirks and says, "In here? Doom."
That’s it. That’s the whole origin story.
It wasn't some deep, brooding marketing strategy or a focus-grouped branding exercise. It was just a cool word from a movie that sounded right for a game about blowing up demons on Mars. Before that, the team at id Software was kicking around a much more literal title: Attack of the Attackers. Seriously. It sounds like a bad 1950s B-movie or a placeholder written by someone who hadn't slept in three days. But in the early 90s, the "working title" wasn't a formal stage of production; it was often just whatever the lead programmer shouted across the room.
The Chaos of Early id Software
The development of Doom was a messy, brilliant collision of egos and talent. You had John Romero, the rockstar designer, and John Carmack, the technical genius who lived in the code. They were coming off the success of Wolfenstein 3D, but they wanted something grittier. They wanted something that felt like Aliens meets Evil Dead II.
Most people don't realize how close we came to a game that looked totally different. Early design documents by Tom Hall—the "Doom Bible"—suggested a much more structured narrative with four player characters and detailed backstories. Carmack hated it. He famously said that story in a game is like story in a porn movie: it's expected to be there, but it's not that important. He wanted speed. He wanted violence. He wanted a title that felt like a punch to the gut.
Why nonsense working titles actually stick
In the software world, we use "code names" all the time. Sometimes they are random colors (Project Blue), sometimes they are cities (Chicago for Windows 95), and sometimes they are just inside jokes. But Doom was different because it wasn't just a code name; it was a vibe.
When you spend 16 hours a day staring at a CRT monitor, the name of the file you're working on becomes part of your identity. You don't call it "The Unnamed First-Person Shooter Project." You call it the thing that represents the feeling of the gameplay. For id, the word perfectly captured the dread of the flickering lights and the relentless speed of the engine. By the time they were ready to ship, any other name felt fake.
Imagine if they had gone back to Attack of the Attackers. The legacy of PC gaming would be fundamentally different. That name is forgettable. Doom is an omen.
Breaking the Rules of the 90s
The industry back then was the Wild West. There were no massive PR firms dictates what a "marketable" title looked like. You had games like Quake (another nonsense title that stuck) and Hexen. Developers were making the rules as they went along.
If you look at the technical leap from Wolfenstein to Doom, it’s staggering. We’re talking about non-orthogonal walls, varying light levels, and sector heights. This wasn't just a game; it was a revolution in how we perceived 3D space on a 2D screen.
- The engine used "binary space partitioning" (BSP) to render scenes fast enough for 1993 hardware.
- Sound design relied on stock libraries that we still hear in movies today (the "camel groan" for the Imp).
- Distribution was handled via shareware—the ultimate "word of mouth" marketing.
Romero knew that if the game was good enough, the name didn't need to explain the plot. It just needed to be a brand.
The Power of the Monosyllable
There is a specific psychological weight to one-word titles. Doom. Quake. Halo. Thief. These words are easy to remember, easy to shout, and they look great on a box. The nonsense working title worked because it was visceral. It didn't try to be clever. It didn't have a colon followed by a boring subtitle like Doom: The Reckoning of Mars.
It was just Doom.
What We Can Learn From the "Nonsense" Approach
The takeaway for creators today is pretty simple: don't overthink the branding until you've captured the soul of the project. If a "nonsense" name sticks during development, it’s probably because it resonates with the core experience.
In the modern era, we see this with games like Untitled Goose Game. The title started as a joke, a literal description of the file, but it became so synonymous with the project's charm that changing it would have felt like a betrayal.
Actionable insights for your own projects:
- Audit your placeholders. If you’re calling a project "The Beast" or "Chaos," ask yourself why. Does that word capture the energy better than a "professional" title would?
- Test for "mouthfeel." Say your title out loud. Does it sound like a command? Doom is a heavy word. It has gravity.
- Don't fear the movie influence. Some of the best ideas come from outside your medium. Carmack found a name in a pool hall movie; you might find yours in a cookbook or a science journal.
- Focus on the "vibe" over the "plot." A title should tell the player how they are going to feel, not necessarily what they are going to do.
The history of gaming is littered with "Project X" and "Working Title Y," but only a few have the staying power to define an entire genre. Doom proved that sometimes the first gut instinct—even if it's just a reference to a Tom Cruise movie—is the only one that matters. Stop trying to be "marketable" and start being memorable.
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Next Steps for the Curious:
To truly understand the impact of this naming convention, go back and read the original Doom Bible by Tom Hall. It’s a fascinating look at what the game could have been if the "nonsense" working title and the "no-story" philosophy hadn't won out. Then, look at your own current projects and see if you're over-complicating the "why" when the "what" is already staring you in the face.