Satre's famous line "Hell is other people" from his short, existential play No Exit recently floated out of my subconscious the other day and I spent some time pondering its relevance to me. Sure, there are days at my place of work (which, sadly, has nothing to do with creativity, games, or much else that is fun) that I can certainly identify with this phrase. I'm also not exceptionally social, as I greatly enjoy my time alone to write fiction and play my games. In fact, most days I don't feel the need for social contact (I don't even have a facebook profile) - but not always; I recognize the benefits of being with friends and when a good opportunity arises I'll find myself having a few drinks and laughing with these other humans. So, as amusing and thought-provoking as Satre was, I wouldn't tattoo "Hell is other people" to my forehead and avoid humans like the devious little devils they can be. No, to me hell is not other people...
It is this: I'm in the seemingly alluring Ovei gaming pod:
but once I close the side door I realize the ultra-comfy lounge seat has been replaced with a pole sticking up from the floor, and on the pole is a disturbingly skinny, and nearly cement-hard, bicycle seat. I grudgingly sit down, knowing that what awaits is complete gaming immersion - crisp audio, beautiful colors from the monitor, and all of this enhanced by the lack of outside stimuli as the pod closes me off from the outside world. But, wait...
There is no monitor to dazzle the eyes, only a 13-inch black and white television, the kind my grandparents used to have in their family room. I used to hook up my Sega Genesis to this and attempt to play Sonic and Phantasy Star in tight-lipped denial that I wasn't having a horrible time. But there is not even the luxury of the Genesis' 16-bit glory in this gaming pod, only an NES, one controller, and a game cartridge with no label. The air in the pod grows slightly warm and I tug at my collar as I try the door, which I find to be locked tight. I decide I can handle playing a classic NES game, and I smile as I realize by the light of the static buzzing on the small television that the blank cartridge is Zelda-Gold in color. I cringe as I sit on the bicycle seat, and find myself deep in the ritual of blowing on the cartridge and turning on and off the NES as I wait for the static to give way to some classic gaming.
Finally, my labor is rewarded by a black screen and... the Sunsoft logo? My eyes widen in terror as I realize Zelda this is not. The title screen for Fester's Quest greets me, nay, mocks me in the dim and now stifling hot gaming pod from hell. I curse at the prospect of playing this horrible game once again. I once rented it from a small video store down from my home and spent a couple of days trying to mine some amount of fun from its deviously futile gameplay. I found no fun; and, in fact found my mood extremely dreary after having played it so much. And now it stares me in the face, after all those years of trying to forget its horrible effect on me. I attempt to throw down the controller and find it impossible, my hands having fused with the flat grey plastic. I weep and look around for something awesome in this dismal pod. I find nothing awesome. I weep some more, the bicycle seat becoming uncomfortably familiar with my backside.
Then, from all around me comes the sound of rock and roll! My mouth gapes in hope that I might hear Black Sabbath, or Motorhead, or, for god's sake, anything but the Fester's Quest theme song! It is none of these, it is Ted Nugent's awful, awful, awful "song" Wango Tango. Wherever the unholy speakers are in this pod, they are all at full blast and I begin to feel my head pound like a Jack Daniels hangover. My hands begin shaking as the song comes to an end, and to my horror begins to repeat ad nauseum. Nausea. I feel the need to vomit but can't quite make it happen. Wango Fester. Tango Quest. Head pounds. I begin to play Fester's Quest, and start chewing my bottom lip in hopes that I bleed to death before my ears cave in. Hell is not other people... it is the worst parts of the things you love dearest coming to a head. Wango.
