I have an app on my tablet that offers instruction in playing the saxophone, and somehow it wound up on my phone as well. It features an enthusiastic cartoon character who explains various functions and cheers you on.
Sitting in a doctor’s office recently, I decided to check the app on my phone, just for something to do. The little guy gave me a friendly welcome and started jabbering at me, to the point where the other patients looked up from their magazines.
I clicked it off and felt mildly embarrassed. So I tried to excuse myself, by telling the room in general: “I didn’t expect the little man to talk to me.”
There were a few small chuckles and the room went quiet. But the phrase hung in the air. I grew uncomfortable imagining what people were thinking.
I didn’t expect the little man to talk to me?
That sounds like the kind of thing you’d hear in a psychiatrist’s office, not a GP’s. Were they wondering about the nature of my delusion? Were they quietly anxious about what the “little man” might be talking to me about?
So after a few seconds, I felt the need to clarify, in order to allay any concerns that might have been creeping into their minds.
In reassuring fashion, I explained: “He’s teaching me to play the saxophone.”
There were more chuckles. But to my ear, they sounded a little uneasy now. The other patients were still sympathetic, but it seemed to be more for my general plight, than my little social faux pas. Clearly, I’d made things even worse.
I replayed the moment in my mind, from their point of view.
Man looks into his phone which produces a voice and then announces to a bunch of strangers: “I didn’t expect the little man to talk to me.”
And furthermore: “He’s teaching me to play the saxophone.”
There wasn’t much doubt that I’d left the very firm impression I was suffering from some kind of charming but unmistakable mental illness. I reviewed my next options and concluded there weren’t any. So I just shut up and tried to go invisible until my name was called, and I and my little man went in to see the doctor together.
All of which brings me to the subject of “casual gaming” and the B.C. government’s eager endorsement of the kinds of apps and programs that can put relatively normal people into predicaments like this.
In San Francisco today, the government is sponsoring a number of B.C. outfits’ appearances at a convention devoted to the “casual gaming” industry. Hard-core gaming involves the kinds of games where you start shooting people and dodging bullets until it dawns on you that you haven’t eaten or slept in 72 hours.
Casual gaming describes the entire suite of time-killing apps that people play as the mood strikes them. There’s a big appetite for them, and enormous piles of money to be made off them, to the point where 3,000 people are at today’s convention.
They include B.C.’s U.S. trade and investment representative and practically every B.C. trade commissioner in the western U.S.
There are 67 game studios in B.C. employing more than 5,000 people, and the B.C. government is keen to support them.
Considering how ephemeral and non-productive most of the end-products are, it’s remarkable how seriously everyone takes this industry. It has something to do with how cool it is to have 20-somethings writing code and trying to strike it rich.
One B.C. outfit is promoting Happy Flock, a game where you run a border collie around a ranch, tending to sheep.
It’s free, until you start taking it seriously. Then you get to buy add-ons to improve your scores.
Good luck to them and everyone who plays it. My only advice is to play it quietly and don’t talk back to the dog.
I have more thoughts on this industry, but I’m due for an accordion lesson from my smart meter.
