Confession: In the eighth grade, I put a guy in a square-by-square room and starved him for four days straight.
The result: 12 bathroom ""accidents,"" nine crying spells, and, eventually, DEATH.
And guess what? I laughed the entire time.
I know, I know, you're probably thinking, ""who is this sadistic freak?"" How did she get into college? Didn't they see this kind of sick shit on her track record?
Nahhh, they didn't, because it wasn't real! It all happened on my computer screen, in the comfort of my own home, in virtually two minutes flat.
You've gotta love technology—and the computer game ""The Sims.""
The Sims is a control freak's delight; with the click of the mouse, you create a person, build their house and form their life in whichever way you'd like. Like a puppeteer, you're pulling the strings; the decisions you make for this person determine the events to follow—much like your own life. How funny.
Naturally, my 13-year-old self became addicted to this game. Every time I put the CD into the computer and waited for it to load, I felt transported to a New Year's Eve celebration. In a matter of seconds and with the click of a ""Start New Game"" button, I could start a new life.
I made resolutions with myself: Bonnie, this time is going to be different. This new creation is going to be popular and suave and have at least 10 friends. This time, he'll get married, have a baby and become a CEO of a major company that isn't real. Finally, this creation is going to get off his ass and make something of his simulated, pixilated life... YES!
With my eyes on the screen and my hand on the mouse, I'd start by designing the person; I'd choose what color hair and eyes he'd have, what outfit he'd wear and what his name would be. Then, I'd decide if I wanted him to be married with kids right off the bat or a bachelor. I usually chose single: baby steps, Bonnie, baby steps.
Then came the best part: building the house. Pressing the ""wall"" tool, I'd drag my clicker all over that freaking screen and design a foyer, kitchen, living room, bedroom and two bathrooms. Then, with my limited bank account, I'd buy furniture: tables, beds, couches (the loveseat, if he's lucky) and a refrigerator—all very Ikea-esque.
However, because I was a ""Sims"" enthusiast to the nth degree, I quickly memorized every cheat code known to man. I'd log onto the game's homepage and instantly devour the delectable new offerings, such as, ""Download this never-before-seen couch! Limited time only!"" or ""Make more money—fast!""
By bilking my way through the system, I found I could acquire far more luxurious goods and inflate my previously depleted bank account tenfold. It was a virtual delight. No longer did I buy the poster for the wall, but rather the original Picasso. Goodbye to the cheap twin bed and hello to the steamy ""Vibromatic Heart Bed""—and invigorating love life! Oh, he'll thank me later.
Dishonest stratagems and greedy intentions aside, I was a fairly good ""Controller of Life."" While meeting the neighbors, I'd almost always click the ""shake hand"" icon over the ""slap them"" icon. And when it came time to go to work, I'd generally try to get my little guy up before 7:15 a.m. so he could have a relaxing breakfast before a hard day at work. I was really nice.
But another feature of ""The Sims"" was an ability to control time. You could choose to live life at its usual pace—or you could line up a whole bunch of activities for your person to do and press ""fast-forward."" Suddenly, a day in the life of my simulated friend became nearly two minutes in real time. He'd live four days in the same amount of time that I'd live an hour.
And I was jealous.
I found myself harboring resentment for my ""friend,"" my very own creation.
Why couldn't I get a promotion in a matter of minutes?
Why couldn't I have a kitchen with hardwood floors and a six-person hot tub?
Where is my Vibromatic Heart Bed?!?!?!
At night, I'd dream; not of my real life, but of the simulated adventures I could have on that screen. I'd dream of dragging my own bedroom wall several squares to make the room bigger and placing a few mosaic tiles in the bathroom by my kitchen. I'd imagine opening the refrigerator to find ready-made, scrumptious meals and learning how to paint in under two minutes flat.
And then, I'd wake up.
Surrounded by my real walls, my real life, all in real time, I started to realize that my ""friend"" lacked what I had: reality.
He could never control his own destiny and live an unpredictable life. Heck, he couldn't even taste food! Instead, he watched as life passed him by in an uncontrollable fashion.
Once I fully realized this (after many months of intense game-playing), I knew it was time to stop. With the click of a button, I finally pressed ""Quit,"" ejected the CD and powered down. And then I ate a sandwich, and, man, that tasted good.
Have any Simulated adventures? Share them with me at gleicher@wisc.edu.
