
Inside of the Pacific Pinball Museum in Alameda, California. [source]
What follows is an essay by Mark Silcox. All italicized passages are taken from Stephen Millhauser’s short story “In the Penny Arcade,” first published in The Hudson Review in 1984.
I passed the little men with boxing gloves standing stiffly in their glass case, but I knew better than to try to stir them into sluggish and inept life. A desolation had fallen over the creatures of the penny arcade. Even the real, live people strolling about noisily about had become infected with the general woodenness; their laughter sounded forced, their gestures seemed exaggerated and unconvincing. I felt caught in an atmosphere of decay and disappointment. I felt that if I could not find what I was looking for, my entire life would be harmed.
When we interact with games as artworks, how much to we expect them to charm, seduce, or absorb us, beyond the ordinary amusements of winning and losing? Is the lure of immersion into unreal worlds a fundamental feature of any and all forms of play? Or might there be distinctive appeal to hovering perpetually on the awkward edge of escape?
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