Possessing both a Ph.D. in video games and a giddily infantile disposition, I spend more time than an adult should with a controller in hand, slaying pixilated baddies or solving convoluted puzzles. It is not uncommon for members of my subspecies—the Nerdis Naturalis—to emerge blinking into the dawn’s early light after a night, say, of multiplayer Halo tournaments, or to witness with quiet frustration one’s faculties abandon their usual interests—politics, art, work, loved ones—and focus instead on the plight of Hyrule and its woebegone princess, Zelda.
If the aforementioned references mean little to you, rejoice. Call your friends and plan to meet them out this weekend. Take a stroll by the river. Your life is unencumbered, free of the urge to save the virtual world or seek imaginary treasures, blissfully grounded and real. But if you’re like me, there’s a very good chance that you’ll be spending the coming days playing games. One game, to be exact: The Beatles: Rock Band.