A post told of a father who decided to play computer games so he could understand why his son was so absorbed. It didn’t take long before he was the one who couldn’t stop—more hooked than his son. Reading it, I thought back to the months right after I graduated.
A few of us who had just started work used to get together whenever we had a free evening. Sometimes we met outside; sometimes we ended up at a colleague’s place. I grew close to Li, a coworker who lived in staff housing and liked the same kind of entertainment, so his home became a regular stop.
Back then, personal computers still booted from command lines, and few families had one. Even if they did, there wasn’t much to play. I bought a game console with hand controllers, and several of us wore out games like Contra. Li got hooked too; at his place we’d play until we lost track of the time.
His wife, naturally, wasn’t pleased. A bunch of grown men would crowd into the house, shout at the screen, then move on to drinking and talking nonsense. When they’d eaten and drunk their fill, everyone patted themselves on the back and left. The mess stayed behind for her.
Eventually Li suggested she try it. At first she resisted: what was the point of that thing? It was idle entertainment, nothing but a waste. He brought it up a few times, and then—whether out of sudden interest or because something finally clicked—she joined in. And once she started, she was louder than any of us. From far outside the building you could hear her shouting and laughing. She became more addicted than we were. She got so absorbed that nobody cooked for us anymore.
Many years have passed. The dusty console still hangs in a corner of the old home, quietly holding on to its glory days. The people who played it are scattered across different jobs now, busy with their own lives. They only recall those good times when they get together.