Life is but a game

Smashing through a crisis

At 35 years old, I recently found myself rummaging around a storage unit trying to find my old GameCube — which was awkward. It wasn’t exactly every father’s dream to hear their son say, “Hey Dad, I need to pick up my GameCube controller so I can attend this Smash local.” This might not be what I envisioned for someone at my age, yet perhaps this is exactly what I need right now.

My obsession with Melee began when I first bought the title for the GameCube launch. Yet I didn't know much about the competitive scene until the last year, strangely enough.

You see, I was sitting around my apartment in Eastern Europe one day after a gruelling day of teaching. One night I decided I would watch The King of Kong documentary. In a strange way, I related even more with this than ever before — guys older in life using games to try to recapture some sense of agency and/or fulfilment in life. What I understood more than anything was a sense that something was missing and a drive to fill it with meaning, and for these men obsessive gaming was an approximation of that.

After the rewatch, I wondered if there was anything similar to this, and somebody recommended The Smash Bros. Documentary. I found myself deeply engaged by the passion this game inspired, consuming more and more Smash content online.

At the time, I didn't analyse why I became obsessed with this old game. But with the benefit of hindsight, I think it was that there was a sense of community here that I did not have in Eastern Europe. In addition, I sensed a drive and a sense of purpose. Sure, that purpose — to get good at a video game — only benefits you in basically one domain. It doesn't really help any other aspect of your life. Yet, I didn't have those two things. Instead, I was vicariously understanding the importance of connection and the importance of passion, while I had neither.

I've read many comments about Smash Brothers Melee, and one from someone somewhere remains lodged in my memory — that it doesn't matter what someone's hobbies are. What's interesting is why they like those hobbies — and I think that's what resonated with me in regards to Melee.

Flash forward six months, and after my life abroad didn’t work out, I came back to England recently, and one of the first things I did was check out what was possible on the scene — Smash, not dating. The only nearby social event I was checking out was the Smash scene. I soon discovered there was a nearby local event but the problem? All of my old games were in storage, and I was unemployed and living with my father.

When I got to the bar I saw CRTs buzzing, eyes of various competitors fixated, and others lounging around, waiting. I knew this feeling well — of feeling I didn’t belong at some gathering. It was the main reason I tended to avoid them.

I sheepishly asked if it was okay for me to play on an unused Wii, and after a few minutes other guys joined me to practice before the main event began. I soon made what turned out to be a Smash Bros. faux pas by continuing to play when apparently you're only supposed to play two games in a row. It felt like storming in to do a karaoke duet on someone else’s pick.

The bracket began. I took my seat and tried to explain to my opponent I didn’t understand the rules and didn’t play the game much. I felt a little guilty at how unfun this probably was for them. Like a black belt facing an 8-year-old red belt in a tournament. Perhaps feeling tempted to go easy on them while also not wanting to hurt their feelings by making that obvious. I had this co-dependent sympathy for my opponent’s position in facing me.

Though that soon evaporated to a degree as their Falco destroyed my Link and Donkey Kong. It all happened so fast and I was relieved to be out of the game. As we played, I noticed my opponent nodding their head after almost every move — a quiet rhythm of approval for their successes and thoughtful acknowledgment of what they perceived as mistakes, like a player assessing their own performance as they played. We exchanged the customary fist bump and Melee catch phrase of ‘gg’ (good game) and I was finished.

My relief was replaced with a pang of anxiety when I understood this was double elimination. I decided to go all in with Young Link and this time my opponent picked Link. What followed was an intense back-and-forth with bombs, sword swings, downward impalements into oblivion. Not a word was uttered as we played, and the silence was punctuated by controller clicks and occasional laughs as audacious projectile moves landed.

I felt suddenly warm under my jacket and began to sweat as I tried to maintain focus — eyes on the screen, hands on the buttons of the controller. I had a familiar frustration where I couldn’t match what I wanted to do with my brain with my skill on the buttons. I managed to just about take one set before getting eliminated yet again.

I talked to the organiser, who had a similar story of getting into the game via the documentary — though in my case it was more just relentlessly watching YouTube videos in the midst of a crisis than getting into Melee post-documentary.

The organiser suggested playing some friendlies now I was out, which was a bit like bowling with the inflatable rings on. But I was able to relax and enjoy myself more.

In many ways my participation in this community reminded me of my time doing stand-up. It's a bunch of guys sitting around, waiting to be ‘on’ with a specialist interest.

My takeaway is that I'm obsessive, and I will follow my obsessions into interesting realms that often connect me with people, and that's better than being alone. This provides structure, but sometimes it's hard to know if this is actually helping or distracting.

Ultimately, the goal of your life is to find something that has the resonance of a World Cup for you in terms of the stakes and what it would mean for you to succeed at it. A local Smash tournament in a pub isn’t the World Cup — but that doesn’t mean it’s meaningless. I may not have found my purpose in life, but I’ve found a place where I can lose myself for a few hours. Sometimes that’s enough.