What will Addiction and Honesty Bring You, My Stranger?

What will Addiction and Honesty Bring You, My Stranger? By Stephen Marshall Stephen received a B.A. in English and plans to continue shoving lots of information into his brain, officially and otherwise. His hobbies and activities include, but are not categorically limited to: writing, reading, video games, exercise, learning, racing, and stuff. Favorite novels of his include A Picture of Dorian Gray, Childhood's End, and Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship. His favorite MMO is EVE Online. He lives in Overland Park, Kansas, and can be contacted at smarshall212@gmail.com.

A long time ago in a land far, far away, I knew a stranger who played a certain video game eight hours a day, at the least. It did not bother him. His life was stable otherwise, if unhappy. Many were too wrapped in social anxiety to breach the subject directly, and even those who played with him referred to him, with equal parts honesty and insult, as "our most dedicated player". He lived in a shoddy apartment and cleaned it infrequently. I'm either insensitive or noble – whichever it was, I decided to ask him directly about the matter.

"What do you want to do in life?"
"I don't know. Video games are fun."
"What did you want to do before, you know, video games?"
"Oh… I don't know."
I had no interest in abiding the deflections. I was, somewhat cruelly, bent on finding out what had happened to him. Through honest coercion and that chameleon-like ability to convince people that I am very much like them, he opened ever so slightly. He wanted to fly planes for the air force.
"Why don't you do that now?"
"Can't. Don't have the eyes."

This is true – to be a fighter pilot, there is a certain threshold for natural, unaided eyesight. Beyond a certain point, the options dwindle and the dream is effectively lost.

I knew a stranger who played a certain video game eight hours a day, at the least. It did not bother him. His life was stable otherwise, if unhappy.

I tried to ask more on the matter, but the tacit limit had been reached. He was not interested in talking about the subject anymore. I relented, apologized for being rude, and went on my way, feeling equal parts of curiosity and pity. He was otherwise perfectly capable. It seemed to me as if he had flat-out given up before exploring other options of interest. But who knew, really – I had only a few sentences to rely on, and my imagination was quick to remind that there might be a greater context. Even with a whole book of words, motivations are often ambiguous. I did not know his past. I did not know, precisely, what kind of future he had in mind.

It was a few months later, having fallen out of contact with the man, that I noticed he no-longer haunted his niche. The skeletons of his labor were still apparent, still jingling around the pockets of the guild, but he had simply up and left. When I called, I learned that he had moved out, split off, and mentioned nothing to no-one. I had my hopes that he had gone off to something better, but had at this point come to expect only what happened.

I like to credit our little scratch at intimacy as being the reason he did what he did – it tends to give old stories a better sense of personal control, of being able to positively influence other people. More honestly, though, I had no idea. All the talk in the world won't move some, and for others, just the slightest nudge in the right direction will send them rolling.

Some years later I was traveling in New York, visiting another friend, when I noticed him. He was well-dressed and visibly chipper, like some bizzaro-world version of his previous, slovenly self. I had no chance to talk to him – by the time I tried to catch up, he was in a taxi and gone. Looking through the directories, he was apparently only visiting New York. I was disappointed that I didn't get to learn his story, but coincidence would have it otherwise. I was no longer playing the game at this point – I visited the forum every few months, the ghost of a habit tickling my brain before I was quite cognizant of where I was headed. That night I went to it, his new appearance still fresh in my mind. And there, lo and behold, was a single, massive post from "our most dedicated player", the first anyone had seen of his old account in years.

He was well-dressed and visibly chipper, like some bizzaro-world version of his previous, slovenly self.

It is too long to quote here directly: his story was wide and deep, and meant to convey the sort of emotional turmoil that follows such a change. I gave him credit for honesty.  Even if he was fairly bad at writing, even if his sentences didn't follow or his reasoning lacked rigor, he let nothing hide. Specific and curious events were meticulously explained. Watershed moments in his life, as he saw them, were practically exalted. Now, he said, he was happy and felt as if the world was open before him. While the man did not transform into anything he could not be – a fighter pilot, for instance – he had done something which comes hand-in-hand with every tale of breaking old habits. He had become honest with himself, with what he was capable of and what he wanted.

Just about everyone is familiar with the hackneyed phrase, "honesty is the best policy". And no-doubt everyone has formed of themselves a compelling number of reasons as to why honesty is not the best policy (emotional injury being kind of a big deal). This is an overused phrase: that any phrase is overused, obvious, or seems to have serious flaws does not mean it is without merit. In fact, these kind of banal phrases can turn out to be incredibly important (if you want more on that subject and have a bit of time, I recommend reading the Kenyon Commencement Speech by David Foster Wallace).

Honesty is not exactly the easiest thing to adhere to. Everyone has a built-in ego and sense of self that wants to protect and coddle, even at the expense of objective self-report. And not many people end up being able to differentiate, in the end – to do so requires an honest admittance of personal faults, some of which fall in direct conflict with the self-image people construct. This creates, in psychology terms, cognitive dissonance – when the honesty conflicts with the ego, which wins? To be perfectly honest, the ego wins in all cases. It comes down, instead, to the points in which the ego is willing to concede a little ground.

I was disappointed that I didn't get to learn his story, but coincidence would have it otherwise.

To continue on this idea and its implications would require a full book at the least. If you are interested in the matter, there are a number of relevant cognitive psychology texts available on the great wide intertubes – which will very quickly reveal that my explanation is far from complete for the sake of brevity. Additionally, there is no magical switch to honesty. Personal growth requires effort and should be approached with the expectation that it will be uncomfortable – a far cry from the easy time-sink of a game.  The rewards, however (as "our most dedicated player" would certainly attest), are some of the best around.