complexity with each completed level and now adjusted by the controller’s thumbsticks, your avatar slamming into walls, resting against the right angles and panting, screaming horribly when it plunged down one of the holes.
He’d decided to take her to New York Noodle, his favorite hole in the wall in Chinatown, not only because the food was great but also because it was the last place on earth his wife might walk into unexpectedly. “We’ll get some duck,” David said, “if that’s okay with you.” He nodded toward the birds hung in a row before the window, hooked, headless, and baked bronze. “The tripe soup’s great, by the way.”
“You order.” Georgine closed her menu, put her elbows on the table, and leaned forward, resting her chin on the backs of her folded fingers. Her blond hair hung lushly around her face, and her lipstick was red as an apple. “I eat anything.”
He ordered two Tsingtaos. It wasn’t like him to drink at lunch but he was feeling game, relaxed, it seemed, for the first time in ages.
When Georgine put the bottle to her mouth, the tip barely touched her upper lip. “I have a confession to make,” she said.
“I’m officially nervous.”
“I came to Spellbound because of you. Don’t laugh! It’s
true
. It was because of Bang, You’re Dead! I remember playing that game and thinking how perfect it was. My friends and I used to name the characters after people we went to school with. There’s Miss Girgus! Mr. Romano! Shoot ’em! Look out! They’re trying to zap you from behind. After playing that, I thought, ‘This is what I want to do with my life.’ I even dreamed up Labyrinth in its spirit. It’s a paean to your work.”
“I’m flattered.”
“You know, I saw you speak at the Electronic Entertainment Expo in Vegas last year. The seminar on omniscience in multiplayer shooters.”
“You should’ve introduced yourself.”
“I was too intimidated. I’m like, what, he’s a genius and he’s hot.”
“Please.”
“Can I tell you about a game idea I have?”
“Of course.”
“It’s big, though it isn’t fully realized, but I can’t shake it.”
“I’m all ears.”
“All right,” she said. She sat forward, laying her arms over each other on the table and bunching her breasts together.
Oh, David thought, the tyranny of tits, the bug eyes at boobs. Her T-shirt said, WHY DID THE CHICKEN CROSS THE MÖBIUS STRIP? Staring at her apple-hard ass as they walked to their table, he’d looked up to see the answer: TO GET TO THE OTHER SIDE?
“It’s called Playworld,” she said. “It’s loosely based on this Piers Anthony book I read as kid called
Split Infinity
. In this world, all anybody does all day long is play games. They’ve taken care of all their material needs, I guess, so the only currency is gaming prowess. It’s like the coolest communist state in the universe. People are ranked by record and enjoy status accordingly. Strangers or friends can issue challenges in a whole range of games and skill sets, from the physical to the mental, obstacle courses to board games to hand-to-hand combat. It’s how you interact socially, how you meet lovers, how you live life. Oh, and everybody walks around naked. And when they screw they put on clothes.”
“I like it.”
“Screwing with clothes?”
“Walking around naked.”
“Ditto. So Playworld takes this idea and combines two kinds of interface. The way I conceive it, it’s like World of Warcraft—a massive multiuser, the whole wide world can play, subscription-based for a revenue stream. But it’s also like Facebook, where you have a profile—though in this case that also includes your skill level. Your world rank. And it’s not your own picture, mind, not your identity, but a highly detailed avatar—think Second Life—that’s your own Warhol of yourself or your bent or ideal version, your cartoon equivalent but as buff or thin or hot or warped as you want to make yourself.
It’s you
He’d decided to take her to New York Noodle, his favorite hole in the wall in Chinatown, not only because the food was great but also because it was the last place on earth his wife might walk into unexpectedly. “We’ll get some duck,” David said, “if that’s okay with you.” He nodded toward the birds hung in a row before the window, hooked, headless, and baked bronze. “The tripe soup’s great, by the way.”
“You order.” Georgine closed her menu, put her elbows on the table, and leaned forward, resting her chin on the backs of her folded fingers. Her blond hair hung lushly around her face, and her lipstick was red as an apple. “I eat anything.”
He ordered two Tsingtaos. It wasn’t like him to drink at lunch but he was feeling game, relaxed, it seemed, for the first time in ages.
When Georgine put the bottle to her mouth, the tip barely touched her upper lip. “I have a confession to make,” she said.
“I’m officially nervous.”
“I came to Spellbound because of you. Don’t laugh! It’s
true
. It was because of Bang, You’re Dead! I remember playing that game and thinking how perfect it was. My friends and I used to name the characters after people we went to school with. There’s Miss Girgus! Mr. Romano! Shoot ’em! Look out! They’re trying to zap you from behind. After playing that, I thought, ‘This is what I want to do with my life.’ I even dreamed up Labyrinth in its spirit. It’s a paean to your work.”
“I’m flattered.”
“You know, I saw you speak at the Electronic Entertainment Expo in Vegas last year. The seminar on omniscience in multiplayer shooters.”
“You should’ve introduced yourself.”
“I was too intimidated. I’m like, what, he’s a genius and he’s hot.”
“Please.”
“Can I tell you about a game idea I have?”
“Of course.”
“It’s big, though it isn’t fully realized, but I can’t shake it.”
“I’m all ears.”
“All right,” she said. She sat forward, laying her arms over each other on the table and bunching her breasts together.
Oh, David thought, the tyranny of tits, the bug eyes at boobs. Her T-shirt said, WHY DID THE CHICKEN CROSS THE MÖBIUS STRIP? Staring at her apple-hard ass as they walked to their table, he’d looked up to see the answer: TO GET TO THE OTHER SIDE?
“It’s called Playworld,” she said. “It’s loosely based on this Piers Anthony book I read as kid called
Split Infinity
. In this world, all anybody does all day long is play games. They’ve taken care of all their material needs, I guess, so the only currency is gaming prowess. It’s like the coolest communist state in the universe. People are ranked by record and enjoy status accordingly. Strangers or friends can issue challenges in a whole range of games and skill sets, from the physical to the mental, obstacle courses to board games to hand-to-hand combat. It’s how you interact socially, how you meet lovers, how you live life. Oh, and everybody walks around naked. And when they screw they put on clothes.”
“I like it.”
“Screwing with clothes?”
“Walking around naked.”
“Ditto. So Playworld takes this idea and combines two kinds of interface. The way I conceive it, it’s like World of Warcraft—a massive multiuser, the whole wide world can play, subscription-based for a revenue stream. But it’s also like Facebook, where you have a profile—though in this case that also includes your skill level. Your world rank. And it’s not your own picture, mind, not your identity, but a highly detailed avatar—think Second Life—that’s your own Warhol of yourself or your bent or ideal version, your cartoon equivalent but as buff or thin or hot or warped as you want to make yourself.
It’s you
Similar Books
