Video games are unique because, as systems of immense complexity, they create the illusion of having living, accessible minds themselves. What I’m describing might sound a little terrifying, but just about anything intended for a human audience wants to be held in the mind, the longer and more powerfully the better. Being locked into a game feels a bit like one of those dreams in which you realize you’re dreaming but can’t wake up, or like experiencing a fugue state in which you remain paradoxically attentive. Why don’t they finish me off with one overwhelming attack? Because that’s not what they do. Why can’t I jump? Because it’s not part of the rule set. In fact, both things seem totally logical. You don’t question why you can’t jump, or why your enemies insist on attacking you in groups of three rather than, say, 50. When you’re really playing something, though, all that ridiculous game-y stuff winds up getting internalized.
Video games, even (especially?) excellent video games, are pretty much defined by arbitrary rules and restrictions.
Possibly it’s just simple masochism, but someone once said to me, long ago, that you’re not truly playing a well-designed game unless you’ve allowed it to nest inside the circuitry of your central nervous system. Why do I do this to myself? I have no idea.
I‘m a video-game reviewer who insists on playing 90 percent of my games set to the “Hard” difficulty.
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