The Grief of Growth

Written By Andy Scoles

When I finished my rough draft of my first full-length book, I returned to playing videogames on my computer because I’d fulfilled my yearlong pledge. I enjoyed it for a few gaming sessions. I fought a dragon in Skyrim. I beat up some bad guys in Batman: Arkham City. I swung around New York City and fought crime in Marvel’s Spider-Man.

But something felt…off.

It was fun, but I wasn’t as satisfied by the experience as I had been before. Something in my spirit whispered that playing videogames was no longer the best use of my time or money.

After all, I’m a single man, homeowner, and dog dad who is also a part-time volunteer pastor and a full-time employee of a local organization. I have a reading goal that I’m behind on. I have a lot more creative ideas sitting in my imagination just waiting to be brought into the light of day. I have meals to prep and chores to do. I have professional development courses to complete. And I need to work on the second draft of my book!

Videogames weren’t the problem that kept me from writing my book. But I’ve determined that they can no longer be the significant part of my life they used to be.

I bought my first game system with saved-up pocket money when I was eight. I had several others throughout my childhood. I got into PC gaming in college and continued to play videogames on various devices and consoles into my early adulthood and mid-twenties.

But three things have always been true about videogames, things that make it hard for me to justify gaming as a regular hobby: they usually take far longer to fully complete than a single book, they involve staring at a screen for long periods of time, and they can have an addictive/obsessive quality to them.

If I spent the same amount of time reading as I have spent on playing certain videogames, I could’ve finished reading dozens of books by now. Also, my employment involves sitting at a computer every day, and I’m a bit addicted to my phone. These days, I’m starting to look for ways to not stare at screens.

During my vacation, as I mentioned last week, I spent time on my computer and phone. But I spent more time having amazing conversations with family and doing activities outside that made me feel alive and connected to the world around me.

Also, the Holy Spirit brought to mind a specific passage of Scripture that I didn’t want to think about:

“When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I gave up childish ways.” (1 Corinthians 13:11)

I realized that as I’ve gradually become the man my Heavenly Father wants me to be, I simply no longer have time for certain things I once enjoyed. Can I still enjoy them? Certainly, sometimes.

But I also have only 24 hours in a day to do everything that truly matters to me. I want to show and experience love, but playing videogames doesn’t facilitate that nearly as much as other screenless and less time-consuming activities do.

The decision ultimately comes down to what and how I worship. I can’t afford to live solely for myself, and it’s an active battle to fight my selfish desires; I must live for my Savior and His mission of loving and serving the world. That does include rest, but resting doesn’t necessarily mean “vegging.” I’m also not convinced anymore that scrolling on a phone can truly be considered “rest” given what the experience does to the brain.

Quality resting is an extension of living into my relationship with God. It includes seeking Him and spending quality time doing personally enriching activities, whether that be reading or having a quality conversation with a friend. For me, it can no longer mean seeking more addictive screen time and never-ending, digital, choose-your-own-adventure stories to tickle my brain’s pleasure centers.

A kind of grief comes with this realization.

I truly wish I had the time to go back to spending hours upon hours playing videogames. But doing that would undoubtedly happen at the expense of true rest, creative practice, and pursuing intimacy with God through the mundanity of the ordinary. In the future, it would probably come at the expense of being a quality husband and father.

My priorities have shifted, and playing long-form computer games is no longer at the top.

I’m not cutting myself off from gaming. But, to my selfish nature’s chagrin, I can no longer be the child who played them for hours while forgetting everything else. I grieve that past life. But the life ahead of me will offer so much more meaning and fulfillment!

I must leave behind or deprioritize the old things that were good for a season in order to welcome new things that are far better. That’s the grief of growth.

Andy Scoles
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Rust and Remembrance