Imagination

When I was younger I had a very active imagination, like most young children do. I would dream up grand worlds and scenarios; all I needed to have fun was inside my head. Walking around my backyard, I would be transported to different universes where anything I wanted could happen. As I grew older however this tendency waned. I started reading, and instead of dreaming up amazing circumstances myself I would instead imagine being in the world that the author had conjured up with words. I still sometimes would adventure in realms of my own creation, but my decline had started.

            I was absorbed by a few different book series. The first I can remember was Harry Potter. I remember finishing the entire series in a few months, but that can’t be right. Maybe I paid little attention to the other aspects of life so it felt faster. I would say I became addicted. I soon moved on to Fablehaven, which was significantly different but also had many aspects from Harry Potter. These took me longer to finish, and I’m not quite certain whether I ever completed the entire series. But I was just as involved; my teacher would get irritated with me in class because I was reluctant to stop reading when class started.

            Books captured my attention so much I think in part because they allowed me to bring imagination anywhere. When I relied solely on my mind, I had to be in just the right place to really get into it. Outside of my backyard or house it was hard to ‘get in the zone.’ But with a book to jump start everything, anywhere could be the place for exploration. It was also easier to imagine what someone else invented rather than coming up with original material. I could just float along with the story, enjoying the scenery as I passed by instead of working for every bit.

            Of course, imagination didn’t feel like work. It was great fun. Reading, however, was more fun. The loss of freedom of exactly what was happening was made up by the ability to determine how it was happening. I could picture the scenes in my mind much more vividly when there was a storyteller to guide me. I didn’t have to spend all of energy deciding where to go. On top of all of that was the cohesion. With a book, you can stop reading at any time and pick right back up where you left off. The experiences were fully developed from beginning to end, rather than being haphazard mixes of cool ideas every time. All the benefits of books had me yearning for more, though.

            Videogames were what I was looking for. The right kind of videogame can be the perfect balance between reading a book and raw imagination. You can have a large degree of freedom. Although in many cases still limited by what the game designer had in mind, you’re no longer stuck to the beaten path. Almost all videogames allow you some choice in the matter, and the best ones in my opinion give you a huge amount of control. What they lack in portability they make up for in appearance. Instead of having a murky idea of what the subject of your imagination looks like, it’s clearly presented to you. You can also stop and start as you please. They’re even easier than books.

            Despite all their benefits though, you undoubtedly lose something when playing videogames. There isn’t the purity of just imagining or even reading a book. Almost everything is presented to you at face value, very little left up to fantasy. This makes them easier to experience but also removes the magic I felt when I was younger. Maybe it’s nostalgia, but I wish I could still have fun just walking around in my backyard yet in my own world. My mind has been adulterated by books and videogames. Imagining is hard work, and now that I know there’s a shortcut I always gravitate towards it. There’s no longer a spark. It feels as though everything I can think of I’ve thought of before. Before there were unlimited possibilities. Now I can’t seem to enjoy myself without someone else to tell the story, something I haven’t heard before.