Touch Grass: Mario Kart World, Wheel World, and the Real World
There’s a bike that has sat unused in the corner of my living room for longer than I care to admit and every glimpse of it is a reminder of a person I used to be—a person with whom I’ve lost touch and would love a reunion with. That’s because I used to be someone who, for lack of a better phrase, touched grass more often than I currently do. As a kid, I was far sportier than I sometimes let myself believe. I aspired to be a professional soccer player, for one, and joined flag football the second I got to middle school. I did karate throughout elementary, skated in high school, and once relished the burning feeling in my lungs after a hard run. Removed even from the world of sports, I used to feel like a more well-rounded person with a tangible sense of community and a healthy relationship to the outdoors before I grew more anxious of people, colder to the world around me, and increasingly insular. As a result, I huddled in place—that place being my bed or couch—and devoted myself to one of my other loves instead: games.
And I don’t regret it. Games have let me live a thousand lives, all the meanwhile saving my own time and time again. I’ve been legendary heroes, roguish adventurers, god-killing teenagers, and everything in between. But I do feel like my relationship to games has always hinged on some sort of sacrifice (an entirely unnecessary one) that I made long ago, one which has estranged me from the wonderful world I once felt more closely aligned with. And while I’m pleased with the person I’ve become, I can’t say I don’t miss who I used to be and the passions I once made the time for. Fortunately, a run of killer games this year has reminded me of my great love for the outdoors and how crucial it might be for me to get back out there.
Take Wheel World, for example. The latest Annapurna-published joint revolves around the act of cycling through an idyllic island, jumping off of ramps, challenging others to races, and swapping out parts to make the best bike. Playing it feels like reuniting with a long-lost friend. Its chill, open-ended structure allows you to go in practically any direction you want with little deterrence, which feels reminiscent of the whole reason I fell in love with biking in the first place. As one character succinctly puts it, “The point is the ride! You gotta make it last. Party pace.”
As a kid, I cherished my bike more than most of my possessions. I used to relish just taking it for several spins around the block and remember once being so enamored with a girl that I lapped the neighborhood every other day on my bike just to potentially bump into her like I was farming a rare shiny Pokemon encounter. I didn’t even mind the sweat and exhaustion, and as a matter of fact I think I loved it, even if the effort was largely for naught. Eventually, I began pushing myself further, and though my parents would disapprove now, I’d go behind their backs and take my bike a neighborhood or two over, which felt like stepping into a whole new world as a relatively land-locked kid. Every drop, scrape, and/or instance of going over the handlebars felt worth it for the thrill of bombing a hill and the promise of uncharted waters at the end of my tiring journey.
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