I’ve called myself a gamer since I was twelve years old. Some years, particularly those in high-school, I had almost no other identity at all. There would be little exaggeration in saying that games have always been my drug; I often turn to virtual worlds for comfort whenever I’m depressed or bored.

But, like any addict, I’ve learned my drug of choice causes just as much trouble as it solves. My worst spats find me tearing through games, consuming them in giant gulps before moving on to another the moment I tire of the last. The feverish pace of play is worsened by announcements, arguments and forum wars, which I read with dedication I rarely grant a textbook or novel.

You’d think that such periods of intense gaming would go hand-in-hand with some of my most memorable experiences, but in fact the opposite is true. Instead, I would often come away from games with more bile and loathing than ever. By digging into them so thoroughly, I destroy the very escape I sought, and reduce everything to a rush of number-crunching and petty arguments, punctuated only by the hope that the next game will be different. But, of course, it never is; after an initial honeymoon it’s torn apart like all the rest, reduced to components to be endlessly picked and mocked.

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