There was a time when video games took up a pretty healthy chunk of my free hours. It started innocently enough with the old Nintendo and Tecmo Super Bowl, a game I could lose myself in for entire afternoons. Back then, it wasn’t just button-mashing—it felt strategic, competitive, almost immersive in a way that made time disappear. As technology improved, that habit carried forward into EA Sports titles, especially Madden, eventually landing on the Wii. The graphics got better, the gameplay more realistic, and the seasons longer.
And then, without any big decision or dramatic turning point, I just stopped.
I didn’t rage-quit. I didn’t declare that video games were a waste of time. One day I simply realized the console hadn’t been turned on in months, and I didn’t really miss it. That surprised me. For something that once held my attention so completely, its absence barely registered.
I’d love to say I immediately replaced that time with noble pursuits—reading classic literature, writing daily, exercising with monk-like discipline—but that wouldn’t be honest. For a while, the reclaimed time mostly went to television. Comfort shows. Background noise. Easy entertainment that asked very little of me. It was less engaging than gaming, but also less demanding.
Only later did something more meaningful start to take its place.
Writing slowly filled that gap—not all at once, and not always efficiently—but in a way that felt more satisfying. Unlike a video game season that resets every year, writing leaves something behind. Even the imperfect drafts serve a purpose. I also found myself gravitating toward brain games on my phone—not for escapism, but for the small challenge they offer, a way to keep the mind moving without disappearing into it.
Every now and then, there’s a flicker of nostalgia. I’ll see a clip of an old sports game or remember how familiar the controls once felt. But the truth is, I don’t miss it enough to go back. That season of life had its place, and it was enjoyable while it lasted. I didn’t outgrow it because it was bad—I outgrew it because something else eventually mattered more.
And I think that’s how most hobbies fade. Not with regret, but with gratitude—and a quiet understanding that making room for new interests is part of growing up, even when “growing up” happens later than expected.
Copyright © 2026 Doug DeBolt.
