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I consider it a fair bargain. It is the same standard I hold myself accountable to every day.

Battle after battle, I step onto the field with my compatriots, knowing that even the smallest error could see me gone. At this level, mistakes are measured in milliseconds, and only the sharpest of reflexes ensure our survival. I acquit myself admirably for most of the campaign, but then catastrophe strikes during an otherwise routine engagement.

I take an arrow to the knee.

The pain is grievous, but there is no time to rest, no time to heal. The campaign continues, and if I do not keep up, then no one will mourn my passing. Time enough to recover once winter sets in. I force my way onward, hiding my weakness as best I can, for if the enemy scents it, there will be no respite.

Mercifully, the campaign ends one month later, and my first year on the great stage lies in the history books, my name engraved on the leaderboards for eternity. Now I must focus my attention on getting healthy. The game waits for no one at this level, and our next campaign is scant months away. I consult with our healers, allow them to apply poultices and potions. One year is barely an eyeblink, and I mean to endure.

Seven more years pass, each with their own trials and tribulations. New leaders come and go, jockeying to facilitate their own rise in the strategic leaderboards. Political struggles wax and wane, bringing attention in blinding waves, and then just as suddenly, receding to soft whispers. Heroes of legend join us, then leave, some auspiciously, some ignominiously. Our seat of power collapses in a blinding snowstorm, leaving us stranded and adrift, warriors without a home, and throughout it all, we train, and we battle, collecting scars and wounds like golden coins from the crowds.

Conflict is our bane, our boon, our very reason for existence, and we dare not give it up, because then what meaning would our lives have? Without the many-thousand-voiced roar of the mob, what would we hear? Without the crackling electron’s hiss, echoing through merciless glass lenses that capture our souls so that others may consume them, what would we see? Without the grinding pain of bone scraping against bone, muscle tearing from flesh, blood running from nose and eyes and ears, what would we feel?

Are we but puppets, set to dance on our own private stage while all around us cheer at our plight?

The questions echo through my head like concussive sparks, and I wonder if any of my compatriots feel the same. I know my time might be coming to an end—lately, I’ve refused to play the game by the unspoken rules we’re all expected to abide by. Oh, not the rules on the battlefield—there I still perform my tasks with diligence and grace, unlocking achievement after achievement. No, the rules I break are the ones you find in any game, and every game.

“Don’t ruin my fun.”

Turtling, zerg rushing, net decking, camping doorways, and nade spamming spawns, all perfectly acceptable by the rules of the game, and all universally reviled because
now you see the game for what it is
. A collection of mechanics, dancing numbers, sleight of hand designed to fool you into thinking that this make-believe world really matters when in actuality, it doesn’t, and once the veil is pierced, it’s very hard to go back to that ignorant bliss.

Witnessing the voice behind the curtain is a sobering moment for everyone.

Frothing rage explosions on Internet forum boards, leading to multi-thread Dumpster fires, brawls in the stands and outside stadiums, people stabbing and shooting each other over the arbitrary antics of keyboard warriors and spandex-clad manchildren who we hold up as role models while teachers are forced to pay for their own classroom books because funding schools is
boring
.
These
are the scorecards of the games we play, but we don’t want to acknowledge them, because it would ruin our fun. Why should we have to care about things that matter when we’re playing/watching a game? Life’s hard enough as it is, right? Let us eat our lotus in peace.

That is the rule I broke, at the end of my decades-long quest, at the pinnacle of achievement in my field. I trespassed against the unspoken rule that governs all our games. I dared to bring something that mattered into what many regarded as a sanctuary from thought. I shattered the illusion that so much time and effort had gone into building, like subverting a comfortable story with a jarring syntactic break.

I ruined their fun. Quest failed.

Why did I do it? Maybe it was boredom—the boredom when one realizes they’ve achieved everything they can achieve in a limited field. An ennui of the soul, bread and circuses no longer sufficient to pass the time. All games grow boring after a while. Can boredom be a catalyst for change? Perhaps.

Maybe it was an awakening, the realization that a game is just that and life is more than a game, no matter the perceived value others place upon that game. All our constructs, our make-believe worlds, filled with arbitrary rules—how important we think they are! Yet, when we break everything down, we see their illusory selves, shadows dancing on a cavern wall. Not an atom of justice, nor a molecule of mercy, and somehow, life goes on. The only equality, that which we’re willing to make, and oh, how hard the making of it is!

Maybe it was simply a wish for things to be different, better, a small voice crying out in rage against the vast uncaring depths of the game, angry at the ceaseless grind. When our very existence conspires to drag us back to nothingness, why should we help it with its dirty entropic business?

Games are fun, yes, but when we let ourselves sink too deeply into the lie, when we abnegate our responsibilities to reality and overreact to meaningless contests or digital fantasies, then games are the drug that kills societies, and not in the reloadable, wrath from above,
SimCity
kind of way. When we value stadiums over sewer mains, forty-man raids over feeding our children, political theater and news-as-entertainment instead of rational discourse about the many problems people would rather play games than hear, well, the barbarians are gonna come a knockin’ sooner rather than later, and a single archer garrison isn’t going to cut it.

“GAEMS AREN’T THE PLACE”
does a disservice to video games, those who create them, and those of us who play them. Any medium is a valid avenue of social expression.

And always…

Chris Kluwe is a former NFL punter and a writer, onetime violin prodigy, rights advocate, and obsessive gamer. Kluwe graduated from UCLA with a double major in history and political science and played for the Minnesota Vikings for eight years. He is the author of the acclaimed essay collection
Beautifully Unique Sparkleponies:
On Myths, Morons, Free Speech, Football, and Assorted Absurdities
and has been profiled in
The New York Times
,
The Wall Street Journal
,
USA Today
, and
Salon
. Kluwe has appeared at TED, discussing the topic of the future of virtual reality technology and its connection to building a more empathetic society, and he regularly makes presentations at major corporations, universities, and human rights organizations.

START GAME

*Click*

CHOOSE REALM

*Click*

CREATE CHARACTER

*Click*

You gave me life with a click. Such a simple, inconsequential thing for you, but to me it meant everything.

I remember floating in a void of nothingness—a howling darkness curling around me, cold and desolate. I didn’t know enough to be afraid back then. Although for a long time afterward the very thought of being left in that place filled me with a creeping, lonely terror.

I looked down and saw that my torso and limbs were partially encased in badly tanned and crudely stitched leather. It was barely enough to keep me decent, let alone protect me. But I still remember the smell; warm and mellow with a hint of cheap fish oil. I took some comfort in it back then, as a brief distraction from the emptiness around me. It was at least something real and tangible.

Now the smell of cheap leather turns my stomach.

I try to move, but my limbs are caught fast. Not tight, nor painfully, but as if I am gently held by unseen hands. I scan my surroundings, trying to find anything that would give me a clue as to the nature of the place I find myself in. Eventually my eyes fix upon a pinpoint of light buried among the blackness. It expands slowly into a shimmering portal of color, and then your face fades into view. It is a thing of beauty to me. Without quite knowing why, my heart flutters with hope.

When you begin to touch me, it is not with your hands but with your mind. It’s warming at first and I’m almost pathetically grateful for it. But when you start to shape me, it hurts—as if every bone in my body is being broken and reset over and over again. My mind reels in horror as you expand and contract my proportions in front of my eyes. But I have no voice to cry out.

In order to distract myself from the pain, I fix my eyes on your face, seeking to understand what kind of monster would do this to me. I study each pore, count each eyelash, and watch the movement of supple skin across bone. I observe your countenance—brow furrowed with concentration, tongue tip pushing through the side of your lips. I can see that this is serious to you. This matters. And even through the agony…I somehow feel special.

Nothing about me is left untouched. You manipulate my height, girth, and even chest size. That last one was particularly painful, especially as you are rife with indecision. Back and forth you go until I’m sure that my eyes must be watering. But you can’t see the tears. Or perhaps you just don’t care.

Of course now that I have gotten to know you better, and studied your anatomy in almost as much detail as you have studied mine, I realize that you were sculpting me in your own image. As if you were a god of old, creating new life from your own reflection, your own divinity.

But even if I’d had that knowledge back then, I doubt it would have been anything more than cold comfort. Pain is still pain. And in truth you were a fickle creator—unable to decide whether I should represent reality or how you desire reality to be. Maybe this is just how creation works. Do gods normally concern themselves with how tall they are or the circumference of their thighs? Is the act of creation always about the desired self? I have very little frame of reference for such things.

I must admit that I would have preferred a physique with a little more muscle and heft to it. I have the growing realization that whatever lies beyond this place will require it. I know deep inside that I do not want to go beyond the blackness—if that is indeed what you have in store for me—with legs like tree saplings and arms that could barely lift their own weight.

But once you have shaped my body to suit your whims, you move on to my hair. I was born into this murky darkness with locks very much like your own. In the future I will hear you refer to our hair as “unremarkable brown.” I had hoped that you might leave it be for that very reason, and that the pain in my body would not be joined by the throbbing of every hair follicle. But I was very wrong. For in this regard you immediately shed all pretense of molding me in your likeness.

Instead you flit through an array of colors that flicker around my face and eyes. Eventually you settle on an azure blue; a turquoise explosion the color of the ocean when sunlight hits it. At first I think it’s pretty. It’s certainly a marked contrast to the lifeless world around me. Later, I will come to realize that you might as well have painted a target on my back.

After what feels like an eternity, you finish your work. I watch you studying me, your creation, and I see you smile. Instinctively, I feel the corners of my own mouth start to turn up in response. Despite all the pain, I see happiness in your eyes and it gladdens my own heart. There will be many times when I will live for that smile, and many more when I will pity it.

The last thing you do is place a long, flat piece of metal in my hand. Its sharp edge glints in the light from your portal. It’s unfamiliar to me, but nevertheless, my fingers instinctively curl around the blunt end. It feels good in my hand. Reassuring. Like it belongs there. I begin to relax a little. The pain is starting to fade now. And despite the harshness of your touch, I begin to feel that I must really mean something to you for you to take this much trouble shaping me.

And then suddenly you’ve gone. Just like that. Vanished. The portal of light closes. As the howling blackness returns, I begin to panic. How could you pay such careful attention to your creation one minute and then abandon it the next? Perhaps this is some kind of punishment. But I was good, I thought. I endured your painful, clumsy touches without a word, even though I was screaming inside. Maybe I didn’t blink back enough tears. Perhaps you saw and it alarmed you.

A vast sadness begins to fill me. Terrified thoughts run through my head. Was I wrong? Did your obsessive crafting of my every detail really mean nothing to you? How could you bring me so much pain and then discard me like I was a passing fancy?

But I can do nothing but float there alone in the darkness. I sleep, but it’s fitful and restless. Every time I wake it takes me a few seconds to realize that I really have opened my eyes. Black upon black. But each time that I do, I wish I hadn’t. It makes me ache inside far worse than anything you’ve done to me so far. It would have been better if you’d just left me to the nothingness. That at least would have been kinder. Looking back, I suspect that would have been as much of a kindness to you as to me. But even if you’d known, I doubt you would have done things differently.

It’s only when I have resigned myself to the fact that I may never move from this spot—that this is all my existence will ever be—that your face appears again. Brighter and cleaner, and as if you have absolutely no idea of what you’ve put me through. My heart soars and then plummets at the thought that perhaps you’re about to start the process all over again. More expansion and contraction. More pushes and pulls. I harden myself. I can stand it, all of it, I think. Just as long as you don’t leave me again.

ENTER REALM

*Click*

Suddenly the darkness blurs around me. Colors start to bleed in and I find myself born into a world of green. Trees, grass, bushes. Nature bursts forth in every direction. I have emerged into a verdant woodland in the full throes of summer foliage. The assault to my senses is too much. I find myself utterly overwhelmed and fight the urge to fall to my knees and vomit. And all at once that dark place doesn’t seem so bad anymore. I desperately want to crawl back, but I know you won’t let me.

But as I see your face calmly regarding me from the portal behind me, the urge to wretch leaves me and is replaced with a burning need to make you proud somehow.

When you direct me forward into this new green world, I do so without hesitation. And as I take those first few tentative steps, I feel the sun upon my face. As my walk turns into a run, the breeze begins to caress my blue hair. It feels utterly wonderful. Like freedom.

Behind every corner there is a new sight or sound to be discovered. Everything is a revelation to me. I find myself fervently wishing that you would just slow down and give me more time to absorb and examine my surroundings, but there’s clearly somewhere you want me to be.

You direct me toward what I can only assume is some kind of village. Smoke curls out of dumpy stone dwellings dotted among the greenery. Birds sing sweetly in the treetops, butterflies flitter among the flowers, and deer graze by limpid pools. It’s serene and tranquil…as if it were constructed to be nothing more.

I approach with high hopes that perhaps this place will be my new home. But although the cheery, apple-cheeked women and leather-handed men who inhabitant it are friendly, they don’t open their doors to me. Instead they tell me that they are in the midst of various troubles. The rising population of aggressive creatures in the area seems to be at the top of their list. And although I am a perfect stranger in their midst, they ask if I can help them.

I’m flattered by their confidence in my capabilities, but instead of allowing me to think carefully about my next course of action, perhaps sleep on it, you direct me right toward the offending fauna. And as the creature leaps toward me—claws unleashed and teeth bared—I realize that the flat, sharpened metal in my hand is a weapon. I have no time to let that sink in before you force me to bring it down hard upon my aggressor’s skull.

A few more strikes and the beast is dead. I’m shocked at this act—a life cut down by my very hand. It’s horrifying and I feel sick again. But as I stare at the creature’s inert body it vanishes…my crime erased in front of my very eyes. I hardly have time to gather myself before your keenness takes over and you’re pointing me toward other of its kin. I begin to run and suddenly my sword is raised to bring it down upon it as I had done to its brother.

I lose count of how many I’ve killed, and yet still their numbers never seem to dwindle. Now I see why the villagers were so concerned: truly this is an unnatural state. Nevertheless, they seem quite happy with my attempts to aid them. They even give me a piece of apple pie, and a pair of boots. Well-worn, and slightly pungent, but I’m grateful for them nevertheless.

I sit down to eat the pie—a perfect slice, juicy and still warm. Yet as I hold it, the pie appears to pass directly into my stomach without touching my lips. I gain the sensation of being full without the satisfaction of tasting it. To say I am disappointed is an understatement. And when I see you yourself enjoying your own sustenance on the other side of the portal, it makes my mouth water uncontrollably. Are you
trying
to torture me?

Before long, I’m up and exploring again. It’s busy work. Everyone around here seems to have something for me to do. Fetching and killing mainly. And although I’ve seen a few other capable-looking adventurers about, the shops are constantly running low on pelts, skulls, and various herbs.

I honestly don’t see why they can’t seem to manage to do any of these tasks themselves. They clearly have weapons (since I am eventually presented with one in thanks for collecting some particularly pungent fungus) but they are very reluctant to use them. You, on the other hand, seem only too keen for me to facilitate their every desire unquestioningly. And so we move from place to place, action to action, reward to reward.

As the hours and days roll by we explore mountains and caverns, seas and forests together. But still I remain confused as to why you wish to have me explore this world in the first place. For beyond the portal that separates us I can see that you have a whole world of your own to explore. I spend a great deal of time pondering this issue. Perhaps you have explored every inch of it already and it simply holds no interest for you anymore.

It’s only on the occasions when you step away from the portal but leave it open that I can get more of a glimpse into the enticing world of my creator. It’s not picture-perfect like this one, but messy and unkempt. It is textured and substantial. It looks as though one could take an action there and not know what the outcome would be. It is through those observations that I begin to see how different the world you’ve brought me to really is.

The very first thing I saw of your world—aside from your face, of course—were the leaves outside your window. As they fluttered in the breeze I realized they looked very different from the ones in this realm. In this place, every brick, leaf, and blade of grass is shaped perfectly. Some almost copies of the last. Nothing is shriveled, chipped, or out of place. Not like in your world, which seems to embrace chaos.

One time, when you stepped away to take sustenance, I pulled a leaf off a bush and watched it disappear in my hands, only to see a perfect copy sprout from its stalk. I tried again and the same thing happened. But beyond the portal I could see the seasons change and watched as the leaves outside your window yellowed, curled up, and died.

Life is fragile in your world. It is fleeting and imperfect. But its closeness to death makes it feel much more alive. Not like here, where death, I have discovered, is not only not the end—it is merely an inconvenience. If I “die,” I find myself locked inside a cold gray spirit-plane until I can locate my fallen corpse, whereupon I reinhabit it and spring back to life as if nothing had happened.

I do everything I can to please you in the hope that you will keep me safe. But I cannot help but think that the carelessness you sometimes show toward my life and limb is bordering on cruelty. Like that time you left me in the corner of a scorpion pit, while you answered a call of nature. By the time you’d returned, they had respawned and I’d been stung more than a dozen times. You found me lying there while they skittered over me, my limbs coursing with their toxic poison as it gradually dissolved my insides.

That was definitely among my worst deaths. And of my deaths there have been many: eaten by sharks, gored by boars, chewed by lions, impaled on spikes, crushed by boulders, boiled by steam, flayed alive by dark magic, drowned by mermaids, and, most embarrassing in light of all the rest, fallen from high places.