While visiting my parents in St. Louis, I happened upon my mom's latest issue of Wired magazine. The magazine whore that I am could not resist cracking the spine of a fresh, untouched, virgin publication so without further ado, I dove right in. And I was not disappointed.
I am not a gamer. I don't play video games and neither does my husband. I tried to play with my nephew once -- at his request -- and he beat my "character" in three quick moves. We had two more failed attempts at gaming before he shook his head and said, "Aunt Shel, it's ok. I can play against the game."
Still, I was intriguied by the story about the new sim-esque game called "Fatworld." That's right, you can make your character get fatter and fatter until they DIE. Is there something wrong with that concept? Oh yes. Do I still want to play it? Oh for the love of God, YES!
"Fatworld" — although outwardly neutral about whether your character should inflate like a loaf of yeasty bread and die young — works through a strange mix of empathy and ridicule, more like a short story than a toy. "Fun" is not adequate to describe the experience. In fact, Bogost brings to gaming something that fiction writers have always known: Moral discomfort is the root of comedy, and pain can be a source of pleasure, too.
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