I. At some time in the far distant future there was a very popular game—a total waste of time—that young people loved to play, much to the chagrin and occasional outrage of their parents. It was called Game of the Worlds and was played on a TR (Total Reality) System.
The game, the kids said, ought to allay the adults’ most common concern—that their children were in the grips of a world of endless fantasy—since it offered the thrills of a real experience. In this case, TR didn’t remove them from the real world (worlds, plural, in this case). All my kids were quite keen, which didn’t surprise me because they always acted as a group with fraternal unanimity.
I used to complain that—thanks to the time and attention they spent gaming—they abandoned me, leaving me alone in the house for whole days at a time at the mercy of the Intelligent Home System: it caused me no end of problems and they were supposed to be my shield. But I let them play; they knew that I was permissive because I understood—and more than understood: I appreciated—generational differences, which have always existed and always should exist, to guarantee at least some evolution and to spare the species from total stagnation, even if that evolution doesn’t go in the direction we might prefer. Who are we to judge? Parents are never able to understand their children’s interests or passions.
At best we see banalities; at worst, barbarity. We’re too readily reassured by the tangible fact tha.