Playing Alone

I’m bad at competitive games. Not occasionally—genuinely, objectively bad. StarCraft, League of Legends, Overwatch, Minecraft, Final Fantasy XIV. I’d jump into any of them and get destroyed immediately. In dungeons I’d be running in circles, completely lost, and the group would be right to lose their minds. There’s no excuse for it. So I quit. Now I stick to single-player games where I’m the only one I’m letting down. Skyrim. Far Cry 5. Yakuza Zero. Games where failure is private.

Minecraft used to be what every kid was addicted to. Now it’s Fortnite, and Fortnite isn’t a game anymore—it’s a compulsion. I won’t go near it. Partly because I know I’d be terrible at it, but mostly because I know exactly what would happen. I’d be in a match for five minutes before some eight-year-old starts screaming that he fucked my mother, and he wouldn’t be wrong. I’d be moving wrong, shooting wrong, dying constantly. That kid would have more wins before his next energy drink than I’d get in a year.

That Jimmy Kimmel challenge proved it all. He got parents to turn off the TV right in the middle of their kid’s Fortnite match. Not at a stopping point. Middle of the game. The reaction videos are pure chaos—kids screaming, crying, throwing controllers at the wall. That’s the state of things now. That’s what this game has done to an entire generation.

I’ve officially given up on the next generation. They’re wired for constant stimulation and rage, and there’s nothing that fixes it. Might as well just speed up global warming and call it mercy.