I sit at my desk in my ordinary office, surrounded by pictures of my wife and children. A clock, ticking away the first few minutes of the morning, hangs above my dual monitors. The lights hum to life above my office-standard Cisco phone. Emails begin to charge into my inbox: a random assortment of morning urgencies from those bizarre populations who choose to rise from their beds while the sun is still down. Hurriedly scrawled messages from the ghosts of meetings past haunt my whiteboard. Deliberate notes about communication initiatives and production durations beg for my attention.
Beyond my open door is Cubeland: long avenues of people working between shoulder-high partitions. Keyboards clack between snippets of conversations, some eager and others entirely casual, otherwise punctuated only by the busy footsteps of people walking past to and from meetings. At the far end, a window runs the length of the building, looking out only to the alley between us and the larger building of our parent company. Sunlight struggles into the gap.
Here, I am middle-manager-Sean, overseeing several teams with a dozen-plus members per group. I will coach, which is a nice way of saying boss-around, the people who directly report to me. I will woefully bastardize completely innocent words like ‘silo’ and ‘vertical’ to my own nefarious, nonsensical uses. I will have important sounding phone calls. And all the while, invisible and secret, I will think about the next level of Dishonored or XCOM that I am eagerly waiting to play when I am home and can be Gamer-Sean again.
But he is unwelcome here — this room, this place, this office. Gamer-Sean is not welcome, and, were he to suddenly appear, I fear he would quickly wither and die.