I understand the comfort afforded by an endless grind for which the only reward is more grind, perhaps a little too well. It’s about maintaining the appearance of working toward something, without the pressure of having to derive any ultimate fulfillment from whatever it is.
We, as players, were instructed to go out into the world and collect data on monsters, that data often including a horrific backstory.
It is the bed you have been resting in
for years. Someone is making coffee
and expecting you to rise.
There’s, like, ten million versions of Pokémon. It’s sold millions of copies. There are half-a-dozen movies about it, and a television show. The gear is everywhere. I played for ten hours because there had to be something there, some quality. Sometimes three billion smokers are right.
Today I woke to find you gone and have no name to call out into the wild. I tried giving you a name once, but you rejected it.
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.
