after all, as wanting. It is not logical, but it is often true.”
– Lieutenant Commander S'chn T'gai Spock, Starfleet
There once was a young boy who was able to wander in wonder at his game store. He didn’t see the covers of the games he gazed at, so much as he saw boxed joy – joy that could be his if only he had the resources to purchase them. If only he had more money. If only he could have both a Super Nintendo and a Genesis. Or, as long his daydreaming levels were set to ‘Scrooge McDuck Moneypiles’, why not a NeoGeo? He said to himself, “If only I could buy these games! If only I could afford them! If I had the money, then Sonic and Mario would all be mine!” And the boy imagined how happy this would make him.
Time passed. The boy became a man who got a job, then a better job, then a mortgage, then a marriage, then an investment home, then finally children of his own. The man grew into contented middle age, as people sometimes do. The man made a comfortable enough living that he doubted whether he would notice a difference in his bank account at the end of the month if he spent another sixty dollars on a game for his high-end computer or ninety cents on a game for his phone.
The man had as large a TV as he could wish for and speakers that surrounded him in a cocoon of sound. He watched as the digital world grew, expanding to the point where all those games of his youth were now available with a simple click of his hand. He could buy Mario or Sonic or even lonely and largely forgotten Bonk anytime he wanted. When he first discovered that his old childhood crushes were available for such a small amount, he had bought many of them. They, and many of their newer contemporaries, were all his; games of every genre and for every mood. Hard games. Easy games. Classic games. New games. Sequels to games he hadn’t thought of in years. Reboots of games forgotten by almost all. And yet for the most part, they remain on his system, unopened. They sit there still, waiting for him, untouched.