When I was a kid, everyone around me was obsessed with something. For some it was football, for others — cars, video games or some martial art like karate. And I was jealous. I couldn’t get obsessed, I was trying to, but couldn’t.

I didn’t have doubts that I’ll become obsessed with video games as soon as I get a gaming console. My parents got me a NES (actually, a Chinese NES clone called “Dendy” that were extremely popular in exUSSR in the 90-s), but instead of a real obsession I got obsessed with the idea of obsession.

I didn’t finish a single game, I didn’t play much in general, but diligently filled thick notebooks with cheat codes, maps of levels and best paths to clear them. I spent hours exploring the cartridges at all gaming stores in the town, compiling tables of comparison to help me decide what to buy. I guess, I was obsessed with something — the infrastructure, the things that surrounded the games. I was simulating the video games obsession.

In high school I was jealous with football fans. They always had something to fill their time: they discussed endless games and championships, played football-related computer games, exchanged cards and posters, read newspapers and magazines. I was jealous just like I was before. I forced myself into watching football games, simulated emotions, got myself into senseless arguments, bought newspapers and read the news. Of course, it didn’t work, I got upset and carried on being jealous.

I am unable to be obsessed. And it took more than 20 years to realize I actually am very lucky.