Tuesday, May 21, 2013

One evening, in an era marked by a different job, different economy, different president, I bought an Xbox on a spur of the moment. That’s not entirely true, I suppose, because I had wanted one for a good long while, but resisted the impulse, fortifying my mental parapets with rationalization after rationalization. And here, six years, untold dollars, and countless hours later, I’m positively giddy with excitement after the unveiling of the next Xbox.

But it’s not for any of the reasons you might suspect. The press blitz today was designed to pump up prospective buyers about the next generation of gaming hardware. Instead of looking for sizzle reels, however, I eagery scanned coverage for two features: whether the new Xbox would require an online connection, and how it would treat secondhand media. The answers–“yes” and “poorly”–were precisely what I wanted, because these would be bonafide nonstarters for me.

When I drop $60 on a game, I expect to exert complete ownership over a shiny disc. I want the right to jam it into the machine, see what story it has to tell, and then decide what to do with it afterward. Perhaps I’ll sell it on eBay. Keep it as a family heirloom. Use it as a coaster. Set it on fire. With the new Xbox, I’d relinquish this ownership. Discs are mere formalities–install the content onto your hard drive, then eject them permanently–and the kicker is they’re non-transferrable. If I give a game to a buddy, he’s going to have to shell out another $60 for a license to play it, basically. On top of this, the hardware will apparently need to communicate with the mothership at least once every 24 hours.

It’s iTunes without the iTunes pricing, which is patently offensive. Am I letting an old-school mindset bar me from digital delights I couldn’t possibly fathom? Perhaps. But that ancient copy of Super Mario Bros. still works to this day, and it’s really and truly mine. I’ve also got a veritable stockpile of games to tide me over, well into retirement. It’s a relief to be able to opt out of the next decade of gaming–to step off the train and into an embarrassment of reclaimed time and disposable income. I have gazed upon the face of obsolescence, and I am made free.