It had been a while since any of my friends had spent significant time together online in Call of Duty or Madden or World of Warcraft or any of the big-budget experiences we knew as multiplayer gaming. Things like deadlines, dinner parties and changing diapers were taking up all of our time. But suddenly, here we were, playing and competing with one another just like the old days.
The game was Letterpress, a lovely word game for the iPhone. Imagine if Boggle and Chess birthed a brilliantly gifted child who'd been raised by Steve Jobs. Beautifully simple at first, the game is deviously layered and complex and, even better, is played one-on-one in an asynchronous manner. When one player completes a turn he must wait for the other player to go before it's his turn again. This allows the player to take a turn anywhere, anytime.
Letterpress Games like this had come and gone. Words With Friends and Draw Something were both national phenomena. But for some reason, neither had grabbed us like Letterpress.
The game took over our lives this year. We made multiple moves an hour, with several games going at once. We played back and forth during any free time we had, rekindling old friendships and rivalries we hadn't exercised since the freeloading days of college.
Then, it all changed with a simple question: “Did you go yet?â€
The first time I heard that, it was a friend at work as we passed by each other in the hall. I looked at him, confused at first, unsure of what he was asking. He reiterated, “In Letterpress. Did you go yet?â€
“Oh, no. But I will.†I said, surprised to hear about this offline.
“Good,†he responded. “You always take so long to play.â€
I take so long to play? Well, guess what, dude, I'm busy. I put in long days at work. I have to buy things from time to time. I eat. I have a family. And I was just told by my own children to put the iPhone down. So, yes, I take my time.
The interchange gnawed at me. This was an entirely new development. Guilt. Anger. Betrayal. All because I wouldn't play this dumb little iPhone game. Looking back, my friend probably did care about what was happening in my life at the time but he was blinded himself. He just wanted to play his turn.
I slowed way down, stopped opening the game. Other things took over my free time. The games began to pile up. Friends started coming out of the woodwork, trying to get me to play my turns. I got texts from some, e-mails from others. One guy even took the time to put a Post-it note on my computer. These people - who I work with and love - were suddenly on my back, all the tim e. I started to actively avoid places I knew I'd see them, turned corners more quickly, closed my door more.
It was in one of these moments, holed up in my office, wondering exactly how many people out there were waiting on me to just take my turn, that I decided to end it all. I pulled out my iPhone, held down the little icon, and deleted Letterpress. I took a deep breath and a wave of relief washed over me. I was out. Free.
At first, no one believed my departure would last. I assured them it was real. They scoffed, told me what I was missing out on, and would try to talk about the game to make me feel guilty. I didn't care. In less than a week, my life was back to normal and my friends went back to being friends.
They say 2012 was the year of the social game. Don't believe them. This was actually the year of the antisocial game and the smartest thing I did was get out.
At least until the next invitation shows up in my inbox in 2013.
Gavin Purc ell is the producer of “Late Night With Jimmy Fallon†and has clearly surpassed Anders Ericsson's 10,000-hours rule when it comes to video games but with little positive effect.
