When was the last time you felt ‘at one’ with a game? When you knew a game’s rules and limitations like the back of your hand, when you felt that wonderful symbiotic link between your thoughts and the way your on-screen character responded, as though your fingers played no part in telling them what to do?
For me, it feels like it’s been years. And it’s quite worrying.
You see, I buy games when they’re cheap, months after their release and when review scores, demos and word of mouth lets me know which titles to keep my thrifty eye on. Despite my money-saving tendencies, this means that I currently have a backlog of around 20 games that are either not started or incomplete – known as ‘the pile’ – all vying for my attention, trying to catch my eye whenever I cast a glance in their cellophane-wrapped direction.
When I see a bargain I can’t refuse, I buy the game and add it to the pile, slowly working my way through and occasionally putting a newer game to the front of the jostling queue leading to my Xbox 360’s disc tray. I go through a game, finish it, put it to one side and immediately start another game. I consume games; ‘consume’ rather than, y’know, ‘play’. I’ve somehow turned my passion into a to-do list1.
This is vastly different from how I used to play games back on my beloved PlayStation and PlayStation 2. With my more limited disposable income and the constant demand of homework and uni coursework, I had to be much more particular with my gaming choices. This also meant that I spent a lot more time with individual games, learning their intricacies, their boundaries and their eccentricities. Finding my new-found and hard-earned skills being matched perfectly by the challenges thrown at me. That beautiful empowering Zen-like immersion where you truly feel a part of the digital world sat before you.
A week ago I decided to boot up an old classic, something I haven’t played for some time but felt compelled to revisit2: Burnout Paradise. A game I had previously felt to be ‘completed’, despite not having acquired all of the achievements that normally preclude my parting company with a game. So I loaded the game up, with no hidden agenda (triggering achievements or boosting experience points or anything like that). I just fancied playing it. Not consuming it.
Before I knew it, a whole day had gone. After relearning the idiosyncrasies of my favourite cars, I discovered playing online with and against completely random people, a community of like-minded gamers who, on that exact day at that exact time, also felt the need to play some Burnout. For that day I was removed from my living room and dove headfirst into Paradise City, freely exploring the environment created solely for our shared enjoyment, without regard for things like gravity, 100ft drops or personal safety. Songs etched into my memory played loudly as though the game knew what I expected of it, rather than the other way around. I felt at one with the game, truly immersed, removed from reality and placed into the game. And it felt amazing.
Rather than blaming the games, I know the fault lies with me. Is it that I’m becoming worse at games, that my own skills are holding me back from the true immersion I used to so easily enjoy? That as I grow older my ability to suspend my disbelief is gradually reducing? Or is it that the only reason I keep missing opportunities to truly connect with a game is because I skim-read over as many as I can squeeze in, hoping that ‘the pile’ will one day be vanquished?3
As with most undesired behaviours, the first step is admitting you have a problem. As to the solution, I’ve got some ideas. Perhaps I should dust off my PS2 and revisit some classics. Switch notifications off on my Xbox 360 so I become less aware of Achievements. Or just take more time to get to know my games, to stop trying to rush through them and to occasionally stand still and just take things in. To not consume the games, to not just play them, but to try to truly experience them.
Now there’s a thought.
_
Leave a Reply
You must be logged in to post a comment.