A year alone in the Tower of Stuff

Look in any room in my spacious but poorly-engineered Brooklyn apartment, and you'll find towering pile of stuff. The form changes, as does the length, breadth, and structural integrity of the literal and metaphorical towers. Some are bookshelves, tall as "real" towers, full of every kind of wonder: every printed RPG designed by Jason Morningstar, each of which I'd kill to play, in the good company of D. Vincent Baker and any other dude or lady who was able to sell me on some crazy high concept indie RPG nonsense; no fewer than five shelves of old World of Darkness stuff, a teenager's love affair rekindled by the touch of leatherbound 20th anniversary editions, books I keep around to appreciate as texts qua texts, though I harbor a secret desire that one lonely night, I will be visited by a dark stranger who initiates me into the actual play of unliving, undying Gothic Punk creatures of the night; lots of Shadowrun from every edition, barring the first, each of which has its charms, none of which are playable as written. A full tower of trade paperbacks, brimming with comics I love and comics that I... well, at least I read them. Two sleek (if not sturdy) IKEA bookshelves, bought in haste when I was moving and they were discontinuing the model, stacked top to bottom with board games: party games, some economic stuff, some "dudes on a map" numbers, and more wargames than I'll ever play in a lifetime. I love them all, even though I'm constantly cycling out the old and bringing in the new, sometimes without ever playing them. They, too, sit in a pile, getting ready for sale or collapse, whichever comes first. The computer, which looks tidy enough, until you realize there are literally one thousand Steam games on there, at least a hundred completely unplayed: the episodic Kentucky Route Zero; The Masterplan, my game of the year, which I never quite got around to finishing; Undertale, which feels like homework because I have no soul. And then there are the big ones. The Witcher 3. Any given Paradox Interactive or Total War game, where scratching the surface is a 50+ hour requirement.

courtesy cottonvalent
on deviantart

All the other rooms are the same. The old favorite records, the LEGO sets in the closet, my grandfather's bookshelf half full of my grandfather's books. The  bedroom bookshelf with a whole different set of White Wolf and indie RPGs. 

Let's not even talk about the freeform LARPs. I wasn't even into that stuff a year ago, but my tower would fool you!

All I ever wanted to do was play good games and maybe talk about them. Now, despite my best efforts to cycle things out, I'm drowning in games. My life is exploding with games. My towers require The Tower, the card of upheaval and sudden change. 

I need to hit the brakes. 

I enjoy these games I play, when I'm not surrounded by boxes and books and bits representing endless possibility. They make me feel centered. They make me feel smart, social, and creative. I love gaming. But I've let the acquisition of gaming ephemera take the place of gaming. That will not do.

I'm making a pledge to myself to use the stuff I have, to review it, or at least meditate on it, without acquiring a bunch of new stuff. Sure, I have some outs. Pending Kickstarters. GMT P500 orders. Humble Monthly Bundles. A Steam budget in the form of gift cards. Limited stuff, so that I can truly ride the wave of excitement should one roll past, but not enough to distract me from my task: I'm going to play these games, and read these books, and then use those books to play awesome games. In the process, I'll strengthen existing friendships, try to make new ones, fight off the fear, and make something worthwhile and creative out of my free time.

I don't know what form it'll take. I'll take at least a stab at podcasting, blogging, reviewing, designing, meditating. Something like that. Anything other than joylessly consuming. 

This is not my homework. This is not my job. This is Remarkable Fun. Let me tell you about it. 

Let the music play, let the games begin, and let the bards write epics about the times we've had.