Since Minecraft‘s free weekend, I’ve had to maintain strict self-discipline to not end up like the other sleep-starved addicts I know. I mean, yeah, collecting blocks is cute, and I managed to whittle away many hours digging directly downwards into the earth with my crudely-made shovel. I had even started a veggie patch (I hoped that was what it would turn into, anyway – the seedlings never reached the germination phase before I gave the game up).
I had a real life to get on with, though. Log cabins and potential home-grown foods weren’t going to help get my assignments done. Giving up Minecraft was something I spoke of constantly and proudly, as if I didn’t miss being able to mindlessly carve into the earth for hours on end. I didn’t even know I was capable of exerting this much self-control, and I vaguely pondered whether I was forging a new life for myself, one in which I stuck with my resolutions and lived productively.
And then I saw this video.
I found myself mesmerised, eyes fixed on that vanishing point as the world and the cycles of day and night washed past me. If you got a Zen vibe from watching this, imagine building it. It must’ve felt like a life’s labour, the continuous creation of a masterpiece.
Katieland – of which I’d explored maybe two square kilometres during my entire experience with Minecraft – suddenly feels quite puny, so much so that I’m strongly tempted to reinstall the game. I’m dreaming of glass cities and a public transport system made of mine carts. I’m sure I could find some other time to catch up on my decidedly more prosaic “real life”.