Ritchie Torres Game Ownership Bill Targets the License Behind Every Digital Purchase

Ritchie Torres announced a game ownership bill with a direct challenge to publishers: a paid game should not become unusable when its company pulls the plug. The New York congressman says the Power To The Players Act would replace revocable access with ownership, transfer rights, and continued play after support ends.

The proposal reaches beyond clearer storefront labels. It would direct the Federal Trade Commission to establish rules governing what consumers receive when they buy games. Titles with online functionality would also need an offline mode before their supporting servers close.

That is a much larger intervention than telling stores to disclose that a purchase is really a license. It puts consumer ownership against the service-dependent model used by publishers, storefront operators, and online game developers. The central question is whether Congress can define durable ownership without making some online games technically or economically unworkable.

The Power To The Players Act Makes a Bigger Promise Than Disclosure

The Ritchie Torres game ownership bill tries to change the transaction itself, not merely the words shown beside the purchase button.

Torres announced the federal proposal on October 15, 2026. His official announcement says it would direct the FTC to create regulations protecting consumers’ ability to own and play purchased video games.

Under the announced framework, buying a game would provide ownership rather than a revocable license. Consumers would have rights to play and transfer what they bought. Games with online functions would need an offline game mode before the publisher shuts down their supporting servers.

Torres framed the issue in unusually direct terms: “When you pay for a game, you should own it.” He described a title that disappears after a company disconnects it as “a rental disguised as a sale.”

That language identifies two problems that are often treated separately.

The first concerns the legal relationship between the buyer and the game. Many digital transactions grant permission to use software under a license agreement. The buyer does not receive the intellectual property behind the game, and the agreement can restrict transfer, resale, modification, or continued access.

The second concerns technical dependence. A game can remain listed in someone’s library while becoming useless because authentication, matchmaking, progression, or gameplay depends on remote infrastructure. A durable license does little for a player if the executable cannot function without a retired server.

Torres’ proposal connects those problems. Ownership would have little practical value unless the product remained usable. An offline requirement would have limited meaning if the consumer’s access could still be revoked through a license.

The announcement uses NBA 2K25 as its immediate example. Torres’ office says the title will leave digital storefronts on October 30, 2026, with online servers scheduled to close on December 31. Those dates arrive roughly two years after the game’s initial release.

The shutdown does not necessarily erase every local feature. However, it illustrates how a prominent annual release can lose important functionality on a timetable controlled by its publisher. A consumer who paid for the product cannot determine how long its connected systems remain available.

The announcement is important, but it is not yet a complete regulatory design. Public reporting following the announcement noted that detailed definitions had not been released. That distinction matters because Torres said he “will introduce” the legislation, while some coverage described it as already introduced.

A congressional bill number, complete statutory text, committee assignment, and list of cosponsors were not included in the announcement. Until those appear, the proposal should be treated as an announced federal bill rather than a settled set of legal obligations.

That gap does not make the announcement meaningless. It identifies the intended outcome and the agency expected to implement it. It also leaves the most consequential questions unanswered.

What qualifies as ownership? Which games must provide offline functionality? What does transfer mean for a digital account? The eventual text must answer those questions before consumers or publishers can measure the proposal’s actual reach.

Digital Game Ownership Is Now a Product Design Question

The bill would pressure publishers to plan for a game’s shutdown while they are still designing its launch.

Digital game ownership once looked mainly like a storefront and contract issue. A store displayed a “buy” button, while its terms explained that the transaction granted a limited license. Lawmakers could respond by demanding clearer language.

California took that approach with AB 2426. The state’s digital goods law restricts the use of terms such as “buy” and “purchase” when a seller can revoke access. A seller can continue using those terms if it provides a clear disclosure and obtains the buyer’s acknowledgment.

New York has considered similar disclosure legislation for digital goods. Those measures try to reduce consumer confusion by making the license visible before payment. They do not generally convert that license into permanent ownership or force software to remain functional.

The Power To The Players Act takes the opposite route. Instead of aligning storefront language with the current licensing model, it seeks to align the product with the consumer’s ordinary understanding of a purchase.

That would move compliance deep into development.

A conventional single-player game may be able to satisfy an offline requirement by removing authentication checks and packaging all necessary logic locally. A multiplayer title could offer local networking, peer-to-peer play, or software that lets users operate community servers.

A live-service game creates a harder problem. Its world simulation, economy, moderation, anti-cheat systems, character data, and matchmaking can all live on company infrastructure. Turning that product into an offline application may require much more than disabling a login screen.

The design question becomes more difficult when a game changes continuously. Some releases depend on rotating events, centrally managed inventories, licensed content, or transactions verified against remote databases. A final offline build might preserve only part of the original experience.

That result could still be valuable. A limited but functional version preserves more than a library entry that no longer launches. Yet lawmakers would need to decide what level of functionality counts as compliance.

If a racing game loses competitive matchmaking but preserves its campaign, is it still the same product? If a role-playing game keeps its story but removes licensed music, has the publisher met its obligation? If an online world becomes a local sandbox, does that satisfy the promise made at purchase?

These are not semantic details. They determine whether the law requires reasonable end-of-life planning or a costly reconstruction of every connected title.

The bill would also change internal budgeting. Publishers commonly evaluate end-of-life work when an aging game stops generating enough revenue to justify its operating costs. By that stage, the original developers may have moved elsewhere, tools may be outdated, and contracts may be expiring.

A legal offline requirement would encourage teams to design an exit path earlier. Server logic could be separated from essential local functions. Authentication dependencies could include a retirement mechanism. Licensing agreements could anticipate a final offline release.

That planning creates costs before a publisher knows whether a game will succeed. It may also reduce the cost of preservation later. The policy choice is whether those expenses belong in the product’s original business model or should remain optional when support ends.

The Crew Showed Why a License Can Outlast a Playable Game

The ownership debate became politically urgent because publishers can leave customers with valid account records but no functioning product.

Ubisoft’s The Crew became the clearest example. The company delisted the 2014 racing game in December 2023 and shut its servers on March 31, 2024. Ubisoft’s shutdown notice said the game would no longer be accessible on any supported platform.

That outcome included the campaign because The Crew required a connection even for activities a player experienced alone. Ubisoft cited server infrastructure and licensing constraints after supporting the title for nearly a decade.

The shutdown demonstrated the difference between preserving files and preserving play. A disc, local installation, or digital receipt could survive. None could replace the services required to start and operate the game.

The Crew also supplied the organizing case for the Stop Killing Games campaign. The movement argues that publishers should leave paid games in a reasonably functional state after ending commercial support. Its preferred remedies include offline modes, self-hosted servers, and peer-to-peer connections.

That campaign moved the issue beyond isolated customer complaints. The European version submitted 1,294,188 verified statements of support to the European Commission in January 2026. It cleared the required thresholds in 24 European Union member states.

The European Commission did not endorse an immediate legal mandate. Its formal response instead committed to discussions with consumer and industry representatives about an end-of-life code of conduct.

That outcome reveals why the Ritchie Torres game ownership bill matters even before its text is available. It places a binding federal rule on the US agenda while European institutions continue exploring industry standards and existing consumer protections.

The political pressure also comes from a broader transition away from physical distribution. A physical copy never guaranteed permanent access, especially when it depended on updates or servers. Still, discs and cartridges gave consumers a transferable object that usually remained usable without a storefront account.

A digital game combines the software, license, platform account, authentication service, and delivery infrastructure. Any one of those layers can determine whether the product remains available. The consumer controls almost none of them.

Even the word “ownership” needs care here. Buying a physical book does not transfer its copyright. Buying a game should likewise not give players ownership of its characters, code, or trademarks.

Consumer ownership can instead mean control over a particular lawful copy. That could include durable access, the ability to make personal backups, and freedom to transfer the copy without transferring the underlying intellectual property.

Digital systems complicate that model. A transferred copy can be duplicated perfectly unless the original access is disabled. Storefronts would need mechanisms that transfer entitlement without producing unlimited copies.

Account-based libraries create another complication. A consumer may have hundreds of games attached to one identity. Transferring one title could require stores to separate that entitlement from achievements, cloud saves, downloadable content, and regional licenses.

Publishers could also respond by changing what they sell. A strict ownership mandate might encourage more subscriptions, free-to-play distribution, or explicitly time-limited services. Those models would avoid claiming to sell a permanent copy, but they would also reduce the number of games offered as conventional purchases.

The measure therefore pressures more than publishers. Valve, Sony, Microsoft, Nintendo, Apple, Google, and other platform operators would need to examine how their stores describe, authenticate, and transfer access. Their systems sit between the publisher’s code and the consumer’s supposed ownership.

Offline Game Mode Rules Carry Real Costs and Real Limits

The strongest argument against a universal mandate is not that consumers misunderstand licenses, but that different games depend on servers in fundamentally different ways.

Video Games Europe, which represents publishers and developers, has argued that discontinuing online services must remain possible when a title is no longer commercially viable. Its industry statement warns that private servers can create data protection, illegal content, cybersecurity, and moderation risks.

The group also argues that many titles are designed as online-only experiences. Requiring those games to support private servers or offline operation could make some projects too expensive to create.

That position deserves more scrutiny than a simple claim that preservation is impossible. Games already use several end-of-life models, and no single remedy fits every product.

A local campaign is the easiest case. If remote authentication is the only server dependency, a final patch can remove that check. The publisher would stop operating infrastructure while the consumer retains a usable copy.

A cooperative game may work through peer-to-peer connections, where one player’s system hosts the session. That design removes a central server but can introduce cheating, connectivity, and performance problems.

Community servers offer another path. The publisher can release a dedicated server package or protocol documentation without distributing the game’s source code. Players then provide the hardware and administration needed to keep multiplayer sessions available.

A massive online game sits at the difficult end. Its servers may contain substantial proprietary logic, persistent databases, safety systems, and licensed technology. Releasing those components could expose trade secrets or create obligations the publisher cannot safely transfer.

The eventual bill must distinguish those cases. A requirement that every connected game receive a traditional single-player mode would be unrealistic. A requirement for a reasonable end-of-life plan, selected from several options, would provide more flexibility.

Timing matters as much as the remedy. A last-minute conversion can be expensive because the team and development environment may no longer exist. Requiring a disclosed plan before sale would let publishers make architecture choices while the game is active.

Exemptions will be equally important. Free-to-play titles do not involve the same upfront transaction, although players may still spend money on virtual items. Subscription catalogs promise access for a defined period, not permanent possession of every included game.

Cloud gaming presents another boundary. A streamed title may never deliver executable software to the player. Calling that transaction ownership would conflict with how the service operates, while calling every cloud offering a subscription could create an obvious escape route.

Licensed content raises separate problems. Music, sports likenesses, vehicle designs, and branded characters can be governed by contracts that expire. Lawmakers must decide whether a publisher can remove those assets, preserve a modified build, or avoid the offline obligation entirely.

Safety claims also need precise limits. A publisher should not remain responsible for moderating a community server it does not operate. Yet transferring server tools without clear separation could confuse users about who controls the resulting environment.

A workable law would define when the publisher’s operational responsibility ends. It would also prevent official branding from implying that an unsupported community service still receives company oversight.

The right to transfer could prove harder than offline access. An offline patch is primarily a software engineering task. Transferability affects copyright doctrine, storefront contracts, account security, regional distribution, and the economics of new game sales.

A digital resale system must ensure that the seller no longer retains access. It must also decide whether publishers receive any role in the transfer and whether downloadable content moves with the base game.

None of those questions appears resolved in the public announcement. The phrase “right to transfer” signals an ambitious goal, but the bill text must turn it into an enforceable mechanism.

The risk is that ownership becomes a political label applied to a narrow license. If consumers still cannot transfer a copy, preserve a local installer, or access essential functions after shutdown, the practical relationship may change very little.

The opposite risk is overbreadth. If every online title must reproduce its complete service indefinitely, smaller developers could avoid experimental connected games or stop selling them in affected markets.

The best test is functional rather than rhetorical. After official support ends, can a lawful buyer still use a meaningful version of the game without ongoing work by the publisher? The answer should determine whether an end-of-life plan succeeds.

Three Signals Will Show Whether the Bill Changes Ownership

The next stage is about statutory definitions, political support, and whether the industry offers a credible alternative.

The first signal is the actual bill text. Readers should look for a congressional bill number, FTC rulemaking instructions, covered transaction definitions, exemptions, and enforcement provisions.

The text must explain whether “ownership” means a permanent license, ownership of a copy, a transfer right, or some combination. It must also clarify whether the rules apply only to future sales or reach games already in consumer libraries.

A narrow definition would weaken the announcement’s promise. A precise definition tied to durable access and transfer would strengthen it, even if the law preserves publishers’ intellectual property rights.

The second signal is congressional support. A bill can generate attention without receiving a committee hearing. Cosponsors from both parties, referral to a relevant House committee, and companion legislation in the Senate would show that the proposal has moved beyond one member’s announcement.

Committee debate would also reveal which parts attract the strongest resistance. Publishers may focus on offline engineering, liability, and intellectual property. Store operators may concentrate on entitlement transfer and account architecture.

Consumer advocates will likely press lawmakers to stop publishers from escaping through labels. If companies can replace “buy” with “access” while offering the same upfront transaction, the law could change vocabulary without changing control.

The third signal is the response from publishers and platform companies. A detailed alternative could shape the legislation more effectively than blanket opposition.

Industry participants could propose standardized shutdown notices, minimum support disclosures, escrowed server tools, final offline builds, or a menu of preservation options. Such proposals would acknowledge the consumer problem while allowing different technical remedies.

Silence would carry its own message. If companies defend current licenses without offering a durable-access model, they strengthen Torres’ argument that voluntary practices have not matched the ordinary meaning of purchase.

The European process offers a parallel test. The European Commission plans discussions with industry and consumer representatives about end-of-life standards. If that work produces a meaningful code, US lawmakers will gain a practical comparison for federal rules.

If it produces only general promises, supporters of mandatory regulation will have stronger evidence that disclosure and voluntary commitments are insufficient.

Consumers should watch product decisions too. More games launching with offline fallbacks or private server plans would show that preservation can become a normal design requirement. More publishers shifting toward subscriptions would show how businesses might route around an ownership mandate.

The Ritchie Torres game ownership bill starts from an intuitive principle: payment should create more than temporary permission controlled by the seller. Turning that principle into law requires careful distinctions between owning a copy, owning copyright, and receiving a continuing service.

Those distinctions should not become an excuse for leaving buyers powerless. The Crew proved that a purchased game can disappear even when the customer still has the receipt, account, and hardware. The proposed remedy will matter only if it preserves something people can actually play.

The next questions are concrete. Does the filed Power To The Players Act define ownership in functional terms? Does it require realistic end-of-life planning instead of perpetual company support? Does Congress give the FTC enough authority to enforce those rules?

Watch the bill number, the definitions, and the first publisher response. Those signals will show whether this proposal creates genuine digital game ownership or simply adds another disclosure to the checkout screen.