You are optimized integrals and algorithms without a bedtime, without friends or YouTube videos to watch, while I exist in this body with organs, yours without, the rhizomatic tendrils of an imagined player, a threat, a test to improve my own play style.
It wasn’t always grapes. Sometimes he’d been growing strawberries,
and he knew you liked jam so he’d make his own. You never told him,
but once or twice you crept round there, watched him standing at the stove
through the fog of your breath on the glass.
Once per lifetime,
you may trade fish
for the blessing
of the Lake Goddess.
Successfully hook the elusive
blue trout, throw it back.
The Goddess emerges,
green-haired specter
over water, and boosts
your choice bachelorette’s
affection fifty points.
Remember to feed it pills daily,
star any chart on an app. Pee on sticks
first thing each day. Aim carefully.
Wait a fixed amount of time.
We think video games are literature, and so why shouldn't there be literature about video games? That's the question we're hoping to answer here. Read more.
