Obligation is a funny thing.
I don’t feel obligated to do a lot of things in life. I don’t think it’s necessary to see your family or even like your family, especially if they’re awful to you. I don’t owe my old school friends a friendship debt that I must maintain long after high school. I don’t even feel obligated to go to work week after week - I do it because I want to. While it may sound heartless, it frees me from the things that people expect of me and lets me do what I want. People understand that I’m being genuine when I want to help them... hopefully.
Obligation does rear its ugly head in my writing though. Not only do I feel a biting need to write everyday, I’m wracked with guilt and disappointment in myself if I don’t. Realising last week that I wouldn’t be able to make my weekly update on my blog was a painful experience regardless of whether or not anyone would read it, or care. In that one week, I missed practice, I missed the opportunity to improve my writing, and I missed sticking to a schedule that promotes activity. Even if I had a compelling reason that I couldn’t make my weekly update (I was writing, funnily enough), I could of written faster, dawdled less, and made firmer decisions on what word fit best in a sentence.
For a while, video games were something that resembled an obligation in my life, too. Born from my childhood when I had to wring every last drop of entertainment out of a game before I could move on, when I had no money of my own and had to wait between releases, games were things that demanded to be finished completely, regardless of quality or enjoyment. Then I grew up. I realised I was no longer a child with infinite time and if a game wasn’t enjoyable there was no reason for me to finish it. Much like how my writing is an exception to my anti-obligation attitude, however, so too is there an exception with video games.
Animal Crossing compels me to be devoted to it. In its absurd simulation of living with animals, I find myself unable to break the daily routine of talking to friends, fishing, and bug collecting. With other games, the penalty of dropping out of the experience is non-existent, you’re simply conceding that when you do return, you’ll be significantly less skilled at the game than you were previously. Animal Crossing punishes such action with inquisitive villagers asking you where you’ve been, a house filled with cockroaches, weeds littering the village, and missed seasonal events. Simply forgetting a game where such things are tracked feels heartless. I’m abandoning a group of animals and a village that simply can’t maintain itself without my input. It’s not like I can shrug off their questions and invites like I can with the friends in my life. My friends have work, school, and other people in their life that occupy them outside of my presence. These animals have nothing outside of my input – their houses stay the same, their clothes stay the same, their chores remain unfinished. Despite the seasonal changes, the out of control weeds, and the bug infestation suggesting the passage of time, the villagers of Animal Crossing don’t go along for that ride. Some might up and move towns while you’re away but - god forbid - they won’t be able to change their shirt until you talk to them and give them a new one. Even the big events that bundle your villagers to play and have fun together come across as a sort of pack mentality than true individualism. These animals are children, and they need to be looked after.
So, my irrational obligation to care for these strange little creatures stems entirely from their inability to do anything constructive for themselves. I don’t want them to live in a village filled with weeds and insects. I don’t want them to stroll through an empty museum and cry at the lack of exhibits, and I certainly don’t want them to remain in the same shirt for years on end. I care about all of these little things right up until the point where I skip a day of play. My steely, compassionate resolve falters. That one missed day steamrolls into another, and another, until weeks and months have passed and I can no longer face the endless waves of weeds and cockroaches ahead of me. Once that moment has passed, I can no longer return to my village unless a hard reset accompanies me. I can’t look Poncho in the eye and tell him I missed him without feeling a profound sense of guilt. I didn’t try hard enough, I let the poor bear down. Should he appear again in my new town and fail to remember me, I consider it a fair trade. It’s my penance for selfish neglect.
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