The Real Danger of Videogames

It's rare indeed that I'll last more than a few levels of a videogame these days. And this despite the fact that I was a fiend for them growing up. Yet, just this week, I tried my hand at an old PC classic called Portal, and instantly fell in love. It's a beautifully weighted puzzler backed up by a wonderfully written, slyly humorous script.

"A bit of harmless fun," I hear you say. "Sure, you're entitled, and what'd ye be doing anyway only watchin' telly or readin' books? Am I right?"

Oh, yes, you're right. Entertainment is entertainment after all and it's not as if I was playing during writing hours.

But here's the thing. I don't plan my books. I'm what's known as a "pantser". I start a story and wait to see what happens. In practical terms, this means I rely on a constant stream of inspiration. At every moment of the day, whether I'm thinking of food, or bullying small children, or surfing the NetWorld, my subconscious is busy in the background solving my problems.

But Portal -- the brilliant Portal! -- took over that process. Two nights in a row I dreamed about the game, and while I had plenty of inspiration during the week, it was all about solving the latest fiendish puzzle.

Ah, well. I've finished it now and can get back to daydreaming fixes for plotting conundrums. I'm glad I don't play games all that often. I'm not sure I'd ever get anything done!