From Vice.com.

As a child, video games were my main pastime. There were few things that my younger nerd enjoyed more than a journey into a virtual world that was as vivid as my imagination would come to be. I wasn’t lonely; I had many friends with whom I played at school and occasionally in the street, but, for the most part, the non-educational hours of the day were me time with my consoles.

For some reason, however, that had to involve deflecting the nagging of family, whose constant urging me to play outside suggested that our house stood in the middle of fucking Disney World. Sonic didn’t pester me like that. The only way he would ever judge me was tapping his foot impatiently while I stopped playing to get more juice. All Mario ever had to say was “wa-hoo!” as we leapt into another adventure, never, “It’s a lovely day outside, get off the computer.” They understood me.

My mother then—perhaps reluctantly—bought me a game for my birthday, a recommendation from her friend’s son. Little did I know he was a long-haired, dope-smoking recluse, and death metal aficionado. I hasten to add that I have nothing against such types—they’re just not necessarily ideal role models for childhood recreation. Considering my interest in sea life and a vague ambition of becoming a marine biologist (it didn’t materialize in later life—if I could be snorkeling for a living, I wouldn’t be sitting here writing), she took his advice and purchased a copy of Ecco the Dolphin for the SEGA Mega Drive. It was to be one of the most memorable games I would play in my life. Continue reading on Vice.com…

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