(In which I type for five straight minutes and stop when the timer goes ding.)

I’m writing this with the strains of an epic battle wafting in the background.

Yes, C is playing World of Goo on the Wii, and for some reason, the music is Braveheart-esque.

Video games and I have a mixed history. I wasn’t one of those kids who grew up with an Atari, or a Commodore 64…not until I was an adult did I own a Nintendo 64, then the Nintendo cube thing, then an Xbox 360, and now, a Wii. I’ve played Halo until my stomach turns, I’ve attempted Grand Theft Blah Blah, and I’ve gotten many stars in Super Mario. But somehow, I always lose interest.

I’ve watched friends play video games for hours, with the kind of hyper-focus that I hope every surgeon devotes to her patient. I’ve seen loved ones’ pupils dilate to the size of quarters. I’ve felt the hot, sweaty controller after it’s been manipulated for six straight hours.

At times, I’ve envied this kind of disappearing act. I wonder – are they able to become Mario? Is that why it persists in being so entrancing? I’m never able to forget the fact that I’m just manipulating a small Italian man into jumping and shouting woo hoo. It’s definitely fun, bu