Got to time this perfectly: hold the right arrow, press and hold A, aaaaaaaand jump! Yes, nailed it! The synthetic beeps and boops along with the 8-bit fireworks filled me with pride as I completed one of the final stages of Super Mario Bros on my cheap knock-off TV games console. I could be the last person on earth and I wouldn’t care as I perched on the edge of our faded pink and white carpet in the middle of our lounge, eyes glued to the TV screen, fingers moving in a blur over the rectangular controller. My grade 3 maths homework was a distant memory and the chores I had been given were left unattended because as soon as I had gotten home and made the short sprint from our front door to the TV I was in my own world. “Breeeeendooooon!” My mother’s loud strong voice brought me rushing back to reality as I quickly tried to save, exit and turn off the TV before she made it to the lounge. But it was too late, and yet again I wait in my room, head down as she goes and retrieves the wooden spoon.

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Fast forward 11 years and nothing much has changed, we moved to a new house, the games have gotten way better, and I have changed over to a computer but my compulsion to leave my reality behind for a virtual one is still strong. My room smells stale, small slits of light fight to break through my tightly closed blinds as I sit hunched over my desk, enthralled by the colours and lights emanating from my HD computer screen. I was Commander Shepard of Earth, sent out on a routine recon mission to the new colony world of Eden Prime, but everything had gone wrong. 30 hours later I was still consumed by this world, fascinated by my ability to choose to sacrifice myself for the greater good. I felt strong, courageous and heroic because I was the one that was going to save the galaxy. I was the one that chose whose life to save and who had to die, what race should be uplifted and what war I should fight. I was strong in this world, I was a man.

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I carried this sense of heroic loneliness into real life. I looked at my emotions and told them that they had to take a back seat for the greater good. I would approach tasks with a stubborn mindedness that rivalled that of J.R.R. Tolkien’s dwarves and would engage in extremely lopsided relationships with people. I would tell my friends that I would always be there for them when they were in need, but would coldly reject any assistance offered to me. I saw every experience I had as a chance to prove that I could stand, and against overwhelming odds emerge victorious, alone. I was wrong.