The videogame industry and I are about the same age. In the 1970s, we played with blocks. We blooped and bleated, the big people gathered around us with kindly smiles of incomprehension. By the mid-'80s, we hurtled toward puberty together. We bounced to synthesized beats, decked in neon and steeped in a culture the old folks labeled a passing fad.
The millennium came and went. We experimented. We argued. We put on airs of edginess. We prioritized style. Our girlfriend locked us out of our apartment because we made $5.25 an hour folding bath towels at K-Mart and we’d rather guzzle six-packs of Rainier tallboys on the futon or run out to see whichever aggressively apathetic Nirvana-bes were playing the local dive bars than stay home and help with the dishes and laundry.
But as 30-somethings, mainstream gaming and I went in different directions. Today, one of us knuckles-down at his white-collar gig to pay for the mortgage and the Rogaine, while the other still believes he'll be President of the United States of Firefighting Astronauts when he grows up.