Friday, February 19, 1999
Even playing video games has dark side
SKILLS: Rational people driven to violence when computers cheat,
take on life of their own
I love video games. To me, every time I play a video game, I set
out to prove that growing older doesn’t mean "growing up," that the
kid inside me is still alive and kicking.
To the outside observer, every time I play a video game, I set
out to prove, once and for all, that human beings are not –
contrary to popular belief – intelligent.
This is because playing video games often causes me to engage in
irrational behavior, such as getting into fist fights with pieces
of furniture. It’s not that I have anything against furniture, but
it makes a good substitute for the real object of my aggression,
the video game, and even better, the furniture always knows when
"enough is enough."
It’s not that I get upset about playing video games, I get upset
about losing. And I don’t get mad about losing, per se – that would
be childish – I get mad about losing to the computer.
I’m referring, naturally, to the computer in my Sony
Playstation. He dwells inside the console like a tiny, malevolent
troll, and he is the biggest cheater ever.
"Come on," you’re probably saying, "How can a piece of silicon
possibly cheat at a game?"
It sounds outrageous, I know, but not once have I ever heard the
computer deny the allegation. If that’s not proof enough, I have
reason to believe the computer plays diabolical mind games with me
to disrupt my concentration and bolster his chances of winning.
For instance, when I’m sleeping, he takes a pair of my socks and
hides one so that I will never find it again. I suspect he also
siphons gas out of my car when I’m not around, because the amount
of money I spend per week on gas is equal to the gross national
product of Uruguay.
So the answer is, yes, Virginia, there is a computer in my
Playstation, and he is the biggest cheater ever. I even tell him
so.
"You are the biggest cheater ever."
After an endless string of dubious losses, I make this
accusation to tear at the very core of the computer’s self-respect
with cutting teeth. I expect him to whimper, to beg for a reprieve
from the damning accusation.
But the cold, mechanical bastard just levels an icy stare. He
sort of reminds me of Clint Eastwood circa "The Good, the Bad, and
the Ugly," only if Clint cut his hair a little shorter and was made
of gray plastic.
Of course, this probably isn’t news to you. Everyone knows about
the cheating, conniving shenanigans of computer games. These have
gone on since the dawn of time, but went largely unnoticed until
much later, when the television was invented.
Even the Atari 2600 resorted to cheating now and again. The
system was a half-wit with puny muscles, but it still got hung on
itself.
It had a knack for making me turn in the wrong direction while
trying to evade those lousy ghosts in Pac Man. I would clearly push
the controller "down" and Pac Man, completely of his own volition,
would go "left." "No, down, damn it!" I would yell. Sure enough,
Pac Man would go left and get swallowed by a smug, complacent
ghost. It was always Blinky.
In the early days, I blamed my problems on the controller. This
usually led to a ritual wherein I would "amend" the problem by
repeatedly throwing the controller against the floor until there
were no longer any pieces of it large enough to pick up with my
bare hands (I used tweezers).
It was only later, through drastically matured eyes (as you can
now see), that I realized the computer had been cheating all along,
and that the controller was simply a gullible pawn.
Of course, that didn’t stop me from pounding the almighty crap
out of the controller when I died, but it sure opened my eyes a
bit.
Unfortunately, I haven’t been completely enlightened. From time
to time, the computer still manages to lure me into his trap, even
when I know I would be better off doing something more productive,
and this includes picking my nose.
The problem is that he knows precisely how to get me riled
up.
"When we first met," the computer will say from across my
bedroom, "I was but the learner. Now I am the master."
I have no choice but to respond, in what I hope is an ominous
voice, "You can’t win. If you strike me down, I shall become more
powerful than you could possibly imagine."
The only problem with this reasoning is that the computer does
win, and I never, ever become more powerful. Usually, I just find
the nearest inanimate object – a book, a grapefruit, whatever – and
beat it senseless.
Sometimes, in a magnificent demonstration of self-restraint,
I’ll manage to not swear at the computer (that would be tactless),
but instead drool openly in a blatant gesture of contempt.
Other times, when the computer’s cheating ways are just too
unbearable, I’ll yell, at the decibel level normally associated
with the launch of manned spacecraft, "You cheat so bad!"
Invariably, my father will ask from downstairs, "Isn’t it rather
silly to get so upset over a video game?"
Outwardly, I tell him, "Everything is fine, thank you," but
inwardly I am calculating the precise force and trajectory needed
to hurl my television out of my bedroom window.
So far, I’ve managed to come through all of this with a few
scraps of dignity intact. I probably have a shade less dignity than
your standard barnyard animal, but slightly more than your standard
corporate attorney (Ha ha, just kidding guys! Don’t sue me,
please!).
The question remains, however: why play the damn games if
they’re so adept at making me upset? Is it for the fame? The money?
The women?
Well, I can’t say it’s for the women. As many game players
already know, there is a direct correlation between how much you
play video games, as measured in hours, and how close a woman will
get to you, as measured in feet. This relationship also holds for
involvement with Star Trek and for the amount of time spent
collecting postal stamps as recreation.
It certainly isn’t for the money. I spend more money playing
Street Fighter II than most states spend on highway infrastructure.
This is a lot of money, unless we’re talking about New York, where
the customary way to make the roads look better is to view them
from farther away.
I also don’t play video games for the fame. Not yet, at least.
It’s only a matter of time, I realize, before I won’t even be able
to attend the movies without wearing a disguise (Oh, look! It’s the
guy who beats up furniture! Get him!).
I suppose the real reason I play video games is to play video
games. There is no ulterior motive, no higher goal. It’s just pure
entertainment.
Plus, if I don’t practice, I’ll never get my revenge on
Blinky.
Anthony Scinta
Scinta is your worst nightmare. He is also a first-year graduate
student in social psychology. Contact him at tscinta@ucla.edu.
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