For a long time, I was an avid gamer.

Video games had been a constant in my life since 1988 when I got a Nintendo Entertainment System for Christmas. In that first year, feuds with my brothers were started and settled with Tecmo Bowl. Friends would gather for multiple playthroughs of Contra and Ninja Gaiden. Later, I would spend whole weekends obsessing over The Legend of Zelda, Clash at Demonhead, and Blaster Master. As the years wore on, the systems changed and the games grew more complex. Ninja Gaiden was replaced by multiple iterations of Street Fighter II and Mortal Kombat. Zelda games, once a series of static screens with fraught with enemies, grew into massive fantasy worlds with a compelling overarching narrative starting with A Link to the Past. That era has one of my favorite memories: me and two friends playing through an obscure (and obscenely difficult) game for the Sega Genesis called Kid Chameleon on a cold February night. Well, outside was cold, but the apartment was easily 85 degrees. We took turns on all the challenging parts, gave suggestions, tried countless different strategies. But try as we might, we never finished it.

The next gaming era brought us games like Final Fantasy VII, Goldeneye 007, Resident Evil, and a new, 3D Zelda game called Ocarina of Time. I was into it all. The worlds were immersive and interactive escapist fantasy. It was kind of like writing to me; I could chronicle the adventures of someone not like myself, see a world through their eyes. For two decades, video games were my exclusive downtime activity. If I wasn’t at work, or in class, or writing, I was playing video games.

I’m not exactly sure how or when it happened—maybe the realities of adulthood finally caught up with me—but over the last few years, I stopped playing. Looking back, it happened gradually. I worked more, I wrote more, I put much energy into publishing. The last couple of years saw me hardly play at all, as my Xbox 360 collected dust. The last game I played with any real vigor was Rise of the Tomb Raider, from 2014. Now I look up, the gaming landscape looks nothing like it did five years ago, and I think I missed an entire hardware generation.

I dipped my toe in gaming again while visiting family this past December. My nephew in Florida has an Xbox One, and he downloaded an indie game called Cuphead. It was a throwback to old-school, side-scrolling, run-n-gun gaming, and it was addictively fun. My nephew showed off the latest Assassin’s Creed game, and it was a beautiful and stunning representation of ancient Egypt. I remembered why I liked video games in the first place; it transports you to another place, like a good book or movie, where you’re the star. Your actions shape your experience.

I picked up a Nintendo Switch in March. That console made the most sense to me; it’s playable at home and also portable. Since I’m not home very much these days, it’s nice to have the option to play on the go (or, more accurately, during my 12-hour night shift). The first game I got? The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild. Old habits die hard, I guess.

Now, more than enough ink has been spilled extolling the virtues of that game, so I won’t add to the critical praise. It’s named on several best-ever lists for a reason. What I will say is that it has been far too long since I’ve allowed myself to get lost in a video game world. That sort of thing sparks my imagination and can only help my writing. Gaming is back in my life, and it’s here to stay.

How I’ve missed it.

#2018 #writing #videogames #reunion