Disclaimer: no wishes are granted or carpets magically flown.

In Helene Wecker’s The Golem and the Jinni, the two title characters represent different approaches to life. The former is created to serve and obey, the latter is born to roam free and unencumbered. Once separated from their masters, those opposing natures fuel an unlikely friendship and drive much of the book’s character and plot development, as two “people” figure out who they are in the world.

Frequently, after one or the other makes a mistake, causes some trouble, hurts someone, or simply isn’t sure what to do with themselves, they give the excuse, “But that’s my nature, that’s just what I am, and I can’t change that.” However, the bulk of the story involves them doing exactly that. We see them learn to accept responsibility for their actions, to control their natures. In short, they learn how to change and grow beyond what they “just are.”

All of us like to think we have free will (which… maybe not?), and that we’re in control of our choices. But who hasn’t decided not to do something “because it’s just not me,” or made an excuse for their behavior because “that’s just who I am.”

What choices you make, or things you do, have you attributed to your unavoidable, essential nature?

How often do you use that as a justification for your behavior?

What does that reasoning say about you, or any of our ability to control our lives?

There is no fire-fighting in this game. Only fire-watching. Respect the restraint.

As an adult male that begrudgingly accepts the label “gamer” — I play them regularly, I follow the latest releases — my favorite movement in games right now is toward shorter, more focused narrative games. Games that steer away from grand adventure and intense action and tell intimate interactive stories. Games that feel like they’re made by adults, and for an adult sensibility; games that don’t require lightning reflexes or hours of dedication to enjoy or excel in. Gone Home, Her Story, SOMA, and The Beginner’s Guide are some of my favorite recent examples, and now currently, Firewatch.

The setup: main character Henry flees a difficult relationship situation to work in a fire lookout tower for the park service in Wyoming. It’s beautiful, isolated, and lonely, but for his boss and eventual friend Delilah on the other end of the handheld radio.

Playing the game consists of exploring your patch of forest, dealing with minor problems (some which later become major ones), and getting to know the woman on the other end of the radio as you do your jobs. There’s some excitement, definitely some mystery and tension, but no fighting, racing, collecting, or puzzle-solving like other games you might play. You can’t die or lose. You can’t even jump.

But it’s moving, it’s human, it’s beautiful both visually (the scenery, lighting and color palettes are spectacular) and emotionally. It feels grown-up, which so few video games manage to do. And at least for me, it made me think about my life and my relationships, which almost no games do. So, based on the big-boy ideas dealt with in Firewatch, two topics for discussion*:

(*saving the others that might spoil surprises in the game)

Henry takes the job as a fire lookout to get away from a tough relationship, needing time to think and sort out his life.

Why do we associate going out into nature with figuring out our lives?
Aside from quiet and lack of distraction, what are we looking for when we “get away from it all”?
Aside from nice landscapes that make good photos, what is the emotional benefit of “natural beauty”?

Henry “meets” Delilah over the radio, and for the rest of the game she’s really your only other point of human contact.

Have you ever become friends with someone you’d never met in person?
How did they become your friend?
How was your friendship with them different than with people you have met?

Playing an instrument is the least interesting answer, but still valid.

In a piece called “Bringing Up Genius”, about a family of chess prodigies whose parents started them young, practiced with them constantly, and produced some of the world’s top players, we hear from some experts who make the argument that any child can be exceptional with the right amount of dedication and guidance. Others say it’s a combination of inborn talents and practice; not all who put in the “Ten Thousand Hours” will become great, not all who become great have to practice nearly that much to achieve that greatness.

But this line of research is only so useful: it’s too late for us adults to put these findings to use on ourselves, really. (Although one example, a man who quit his job to practice golf for 10,000 hours in an attempt to go pro, makes for a fun anecdote.) It is however, fun to imagine what could have gone differently. Our answers, looking back, tell us what we really value now that we wish we had known sooner in life.

If you could change one thing about how you were raised, what would you wish your family had done differently?

How would that make a difference in your life today?

Would you be a “better” person, or just a different one?