I’m terrified of video games. I feel them too much.
They stress me out, they scare me, they show me the several million different ways in which I could die. I’ve seen so much bloodshed, so much explosive chaos that ends in ‘Game over,’ that I’m just not sure I can take it anymore. My hands shake when I try to eat.
Whenever I see a commercial for a new game on TV, I have flashbacks.
When I come to, I find myself threatening family members with the neck of a broken bottle, screaming things like “I’m wearing level 48 armor and an invisibility cape! Nobody come near me!”
This has been the subject of several family conferences, but I’ve been trying to find different ways to cope, and the one that has worked best has been a diary. It’s not the “manliest” thing in the world. It’s certainly not something that would convince girls that I’m “the one.” It might even be the sort of thing that causes other guys to “shove my head in a toilet,” and “pee in my shoes,” and then make me “wear my pee-shoes around all day.” You know, hypothetically. Anyway, let me show you some of what I’ve written.
Entry 1
0800 hours. My eyes are darting all over the screen. Lights and sounds assault at me at several hundred miles a minute, and I find myself envying the epileptics that get to have a seizure and just get the business over with. I’m pretty sure this is what it feels like to either be an anime character, or take heroin.
Ever hear of a game called “Splinter Cell”? It’s somewhat older, and the basic premise is as follows: you control a spy that has to sneak around in the shadows, gathering intelligence and silently killing a series of malcontents planning some rather seedy crap. The key in this game is to creep silently and slaughter stealthily, without getting detected.
When I play, I try to do the things I’m supposed to do, but my sneaking isn’t terribly sneaky – guards catch me all the time. They greet me with search lights and high caliber weapons (but once, just once, I wish it would be a surprise party). You know, sometimes, while going around a corner, I’ll pause the game just so I can wipe my hands on my jeans/the tears out of my eyes. But I have to press on. But I can’t press on. My bladder hurts.
The guy on the screen didn’t sign up for all of this! I think to myself. He’s just waiting for me to give him commands, but I’ve frozen up. The chain of command hasn’t just been broken, it’s been dipped in liquid nitrogen and drunkenly thrown against the neighbor’s garage. He creeps forward, and suddenly it’s carnage on the screen; my man looks like a straw that sky-dove right into the middle of a fireworks extravaganza. He might be digital, but I feel for him. All he wanted was to serve the stars and stripes. Every time I touch that controller, another good, 128-bit man dies. I imagine I feel the same way that many seasoned generals do: guilty, haunted by my mistakes, and sort of wanting to write a book about myself.
Entry 2
I’m in combat for 20 minutes – or maybe 20 years. I just can’t tell anymore. Time seems to shrink and dilate. I don’t measure time in minutes anymore, but rather in game deaths – by the hundreds. I’m playing “Halo 3″ online, and while I believe the good Lord made me to do many things, such as taking my shirt off for the ladies, he definitely didn’t make me for this. Read More
