The dangers of an adolescent, abusive relationship with gaming

We need a proactive and empathetic understanding of why some teenagers seem glued to their screens.

Confusion, embarrassment and an overwhelming sense of disappointment are all emotions people associate with their first time.

This isn’t the case however, when it comes to discussing the first time you fall in love with a video game, especially if that game happens to be Pokémon Red/Blue. For me, it was playing Crash Bandicoot Warped on my friend’s PS1. After my first taste of the enjoyable platformer I was totally and utterly enchanted with gaming of every sort. Many of my friends moved on as they grew up, but my fascination only increased. By the age of fifteen my PS3 was my entire world and I did little else with my time. Gaming was no longer a leisure activity – it was the focus of my existence.

This was, as you can imagine, a profoundly unhealthy relationship. It wasn’t just that I was wasting my time – I was actively avoiding the pressing emotional realities of growing up. I don’t believe that I was alone in experiencing this enforced hermithood. Innumerable young men across the planet use gaming to hide from the unpleasant process of growing up, to the bafflement of their parents and wider society. This is my attempt to convey what is really going on in the minds of the world’s young couch potatoes.

As well as having to deal with a hormonal tsunami and appearance of acne, teenagers are obligated to contend with an array of societal demands on their character. Along with added responsibilities, adolescents are imbued with the desire to claim some level of status and respect from wider society. Young men have always been obsessed with gaining recognition – in some cultures this might take the form of military service, or in gang culture, or in higher education. Video games can meet the same longing, but in the form of a solitary, unproductive leisure activity.

When one achieves a high level in a massively multiplayer online role-playing game (games like World of Warcraft) there is an automatic respect given by other players. Gaining status in these games requires hours and hours of hard work, but it’s codified and easy to understand. While personal progress in the real world is uncertain, virtual progress is measured in numbers. The player knows that the repetition of certain actions will be rewarded by a visually pleasing confirmation of advancement. The drive to go out and achieve something in the real world is thus circumvented. The unpleasant feelings that propel us into action are self-medicated through participation in far safer virtual realities. The game doesn’t necessarily have to be a social one – as long as the player is rewarded with a coherent simulation of status and authority it is vulnerable to be overused. It doesn’t matter if it’s a mindless shooter or a story driven role-playing game, the seductive opportunity to medicate one’s cognitive growing pains can be hard to resist.

What makes this process so damaging is the isolation it inflicts upon the individual. Thousands of hours that should be spent learning the rules of basic social interaction are thrown to the wind. Conversing with girls becomes an insurmountable challenge and the teenager is further burdened with feelings of inadequacy and frustration. Once the increasingly despondent individual has become accustomed to avoiding these feelings it becomes difficult to break out of the cycle.

When an adolescent has answered every life issue with obsessional gaming since the age of thirteen, he is woefully ill-equipped to step up to the mark. This disempowerment is something that can hamper development for a long time – despite the fact that I’ve managed to fashion something equating to a happy existence, I am still living with the legacy of my ill-spent youth. I didn’t climb trees or ride my bike through the countryside – I sat in my room and hid from the intimidating world of expectations and pretty girls.

If a mother spots that their son is dealing with their problems through consumption of drugs or alcohol, it is unlikely that they will look the other way. The danger with abusive gaming is that it is accepted by society. A mum is far more likely to tut and complain about the PS3 than call an intervention. That’s not to go over the top – I acknowledge that the vast majority of people can enjoy video games for what they are, an absorbingly and brilliant way to relax and have fun. I merely wish that I could travel back four years, give my fifteen-year-old self a hearty slap round the face, throw the PS3 out the window and get him a girlfriend.

 There’s an awful lot of fear-mongering about video games, but most of it is total cobblers. There needs to be a deeper, more empathic narrative regarding the relationship many young males have with gaming. Panic-stricken headlines help nobody, but a proactive understanding of why some teenagers seem glued to their screens may prevent a lot of demotivated young men from chronic underachievement.

To witness Will Hazell try and figure out how hashtags work, visit @WiltHazell

By the age of fifteen my PS3 was my entire world. Photograph: Getty Images
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How Donald Trump is slouching towards the Republican nomination

There was supposed to be a ceiling above which Trump’s popular support could not climb.

In America, you can judge a crowd by its merchandise. Outside the Connecticut Convention Centre in Hartford, frail old men and brawny moms are selling “your Trump 45 football jerseys”, “your hats”, “your campaign buttons”. But the hottest item is a T-shirt bearing the slogan “Hillary sucks . . . but not like Monica!” and, on the back: “Trump that bitch!” Inside, beyond the checkpoint manned by the Transportation Security Administration and the secret service (“Good!” the man next to me says, when he sees the agents), is a family whose three kids, two of them girls, are wearing the Monica shirt.

Other people are content with the shirts they arrived in (“Waterboarding – baptising terrorists with freedom” and “If you don’t BLEED red, white and blue, take your bitch ass home!”). There are 80 chairs penned off for the elderly but everyone else is standing: guys in motorcycle and military gear, their arms folded; aspiring deal-makers, suited, on cellphones; giggling high-school fatsos, dressed fresh from the couch, grabbing M&M’s and Doritos from the movie-theatre-style concession stands. So many baseball hats; deep, bellicose chants of “Build the wall!” and “USA!”. (And, to the same rhythm, “Don-ald J!”)

A grizzled man in camouflage pants and combat boots, whose T-shirt – “Connecticut Militia III%” – confirms him as a member of the “patriot” movement, is talking to a zealous young girl in a short skirt, who came in dancing to “Uptown Girl”.

“Yeah, we were there for Operation American Spring,” he says. “Louis Farrakhan’s rally of hate . . .”

“And you’re a veteran?” she asks. “Thank you so much!”

Three hours will pass. A retired US marine will take the rostrum to growl, “God bless America – hoo-rah!”; “Uptown Girl” will play many more times (much like his speeches, Donald J’s playlist consists of a few items, repeated endlessly), before Trump finally looms in and asks the crowd: “Is this the greatest place on Earth?”

There was supposed to be a ceiling above which Trump’s popular support could not climb. Only a minority within a minority of Americans, it was assumed, could possibly be stupid enough to think a Trump presidency was a good idea. He won New Hampshire and South Carolina with over 30 per cent of the Republican vote, then took almost 46 per cent in Nevada. When he cleaned up on Super Tuesday in March, he was just shy of 50 per cent in Massachusetts; a week later, he took 47 per cent of the votes in Mississippi.

His rivals, who are useless individually, were meant to co-operate with each other and the national party to deny him the nomination. But Trump won four out of the five key states being contested on “Super-Duper Tuesday” on 15 March. Then, as talk turned to persuading and co-opting his delegates behind the scenes, Trump won New York with 60 per cent.

Now, the campaign is trying to present Trump as more “presidential”. According to his new manager, Paul Manafort, this requires him to appear in “more formal settings” – without, of course, diluting “the unique magic of Trump”. But whether or not he can resist denouncing the GOP and the “corrupt” primary system, and alluding to violence if he is baulked at at the convention, the new Trump will be much the same as the old.

Back in Hartford: “The Republicans wanna play cute with us, right? If I don’t make it, you’re gonna have millions of people that don’t vote for a Republican. They’re not gonna vote at all,” says Trump. “Hopefully that’s all, OK? Hopefully that’s all, but they’re very, very angry.”

This anger, which can supposedly be turned on anyone who gets in the way, has mainly been vented, so far, on the protesters who disrupt Trump’s rallies. “We’re not gonna be the dummies that lose all of our jobs now. We’re gonna be the smart ones. Oh, do you have one over there? There’s one of the dummies . . .”

There is a frenzied fluttering of Trump placards, off to his right. “Get ’em out! . . . Don’t hurt ’em – see how nice I am? . . . They really impede freedom of speech and it’s a disgrace. But the good news is, folks, it won’t be long. We’re just not taking it and it won’t be long.”

It is their removal by police, at Trump’s ostentatious behest, that causes the disruption, rather than the scarcely audible protesters. He seems to realise this, suddenly: “We should just let ’em . . . I’ll talk right over them, there’s no problem!” But it’s impossible to leave the protesters where they are, because it would not be safe. His crowd is too vicious.

Exit Trump, after exactly half an hour, inclusive of the many interruptions. His people seem uplifted but, out on the street, they are ambushed by a large counter-demonstration, with a booming drum and warlike banners and standards (“Black Lives Matter”; an image of the Virgin of Guadalupe, holding aloft Trump’s severed head). Here is the rest of the world, the real American world: young people, beautiful people, more female than male, every shade of skin colour. “F*** Donald Trump!” they chant.

After a horrified split-second, the Trump crowd, massively more numerous, rallies with “USA!” and – perplexingly, since one of the main themes of the speech it has just heard was the lack of jobs in Connecticut – “Get a job!” The two sides then mingle, unobstructed by police. Slanging matches break out that seem in every instance to humiliate the Trump supporter. “Go to college!” one demands. “Man, I am in college, I’m doin’ lovely!”

There is no violence, only this: some black boys are dancing, with liquid moves, to the sound of the drum. Four young Trump guys counter by stripping to their waists and jouncing around madly, their skin greenish-yellow under the street lights, screaming about the building of the wall. There was no alcohol inside; they’re drunk on whatever it is – the elixir of fascism, the unique magic of Trump. It’s a hyper but not at all happy drunk.

As with every other moment of the Trump campaign so far, it would have been merely some grade of the cringeworthy – the embarrassing, the revolting, the pitiful – were Trump not slouching closer and closer, with each of these moments, to his nomination. 

This article first appeared in the 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism