I am not a real gamer. I’m just putting that out there now, in the spirit of Fat Amy, to spare anyone the trouble of investigating whether I am in fact a real gamer. I’m not. Not that I imagine those investigations would be especially time-consuming: as I understand it, the conjunction of controller and vagina is usually considered sufficient to make the diagnosis, leading to no end of false positives in the detection of not-real gamers. But in this case, it’s true. I’m as not-real as they come.
Crafting is boring. Sandboxes are tediously over-large. Put me in a FPS and I’m more likely to bumble into a corner aiming at my own feet than I am to score a headshot. Or an anything shot. The idea of these things – yes, I love the idea of these things. I think about the infinite, unscrolling worlds of No Man’s Sky and a part of my heart leaps as if I was a real explorer paused on the cusp of the unknown. I imagine delving far into a BioWare game and becoming one of those people who speaks with true affection about the alien lover whose breasts I glimpsed and heart I shattered in the deepest outposts of the galaxy.