Here are the typical first few seconds of a video soccer game between me and my son. Kickoff. His guy steals the ball. Pass, pass, pass. Goal!
Reset and repeat. Over and over.
The score is usually about 9-0 by the end of the first half. If I get one shot that requires his goalkeeper to move, I feel pretty good about myself.
One reason I am such a disaster at these games is that I never play them. Another reason is that I seem to be that rare primate unable to control both thumbs simultaneously. Each time my son talks me into another pathetic beat-down—usually because he has nobody else available—I tell him, "You know, I don't really see how this is fun." To which he responds with hails of cackling laughter, followed quickly by some comment aimed at soothing my aching ego. "You just need more practice, Dad."
Right. More practice.
Maybe I should take this more seriously. Video games have become not only a massive presence in the leisure lives of young people but also an undeniable cultural force that influences storytelling in other mediums. And now research is finding that playing video games rewires the human brain in good ways. For example, a recent study reported that gamers were better at multitasking, assimilating stimuli and making rapid decisions than test subjects who didn't play. And all along I've assumed these games were chipping away at the synapses of the kids who zone out in front of them.
Moreover, video games have entered the realm of the Important. They have been around long enough—50 years, who knew?—that the earliest versions of the games are considered cultural artifacts worth scholarly attention. You can read about Stanford folks' role in the industry's history beginning here.
So how should we assess the evolution of video games? Can we learn something valuable from the technological process that enabled them? Is it necessary to judge them on whether they are good for kids, or simply to evaluate their effects?
Like most parents, I have grudgingly accepted that my son will play video games, if not at my house then at someone else's. I don't allow the worst of the genre—the hyperviolent, narcissistic protagonists of Grand Theft Auto have no redeeming features that I can see. But I did allow Call of Duty, a war game in which your job is to kill as many opposing soldiers as possible. And I have no qualms with the sports games Griffin loves, provided someone who is not me is playing against him.
I also have come to realize that the games are powerful social agents. They connect kids. When Griffin's soccer team came over for a party, his teammates surrounded the TV to watch as they took turns playing the video version of FIFA World Cup. Whooping and laughter and good-natured putdowns ensued. They had a ball.
If these boys were only playing soccer on TV and never on an actual soccer pitch, I might be less lenient, and probably a lot more concerned. But so long as they are also outside sprinting and spinning and diving and filling their lungs with exuberant cheers, well, I'm OK with push-button soccer.
Video games are here to stay, and we might as well know everything we can about their origin and development. At Stanford and elsewhere, they are increasingly seen as subjects for theses and dissertations. I'm eager to see what they reveal.
But first I have to figure out how to make my goalie move a lot faster.
Kevin Cool is the executive editor of Stanford.
