For me, seeing the progression of video games and consoles -

Host: The city pulsed with neon light — a collage of screens, billboards, and the soft buzz of digital life bleeding through the night. Inside a small retro arcade bar, the world felt slower, bathed in the glow of pixelated ghosts, flashing buttons, and the nostalgic hum of machines that refused to die.

Old posters of ‘90s video games covered the brick walls, their edges curled and yellowed. The scent of cola, dust, and electric circuits filled the air.

Jack sat in front of an old arcade cabinet, his hands moving across the controls with quiet precision. Beside him, Jeeny leaned against the glowing counter, a can of soda in her hand, watching the screen’s reflection ripple across his face.

Jeeny: “Justin Verlander once said, ‘For me, seeing the progression of video games and consoles — whether it be PlayStation, Xbox, or whatever — I think just seeing how good they’ve gotten from the days when I first started playing is just amazing.’”

Jack: (without looking up) “Amazing, huh? Funny how people get emotional over pixels.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “It’s not about the pixels, Jack. It’s about progress. About watching something you loved as a kid grow with you. It’s a kind of shared evolution.”

Jack: (pausing the game) “Shared? You think a console has feelings? It’s just machines getting better at pretending to be alive.”

Host: The arcade lights flickered, casting blue and red shadows across their faces. From a nearby machine, an old 8-bit tune played softly, a fragile memory from another century echoing in synthetic tones.

Jeeny: “You always make things sound mechanical. Maybe it’s not the machine that’s alive — maybe it’s the people behind it. The creativity, the imagination, the endless effort to make something immersive. You don’t see progress, Jack — you see perfectionism. But to me, it’s human.”

Jack: “I see obsession. People chasing realism, losing touch with reality. We’ve gone from playing games for fun to living inside them. Verlander’s amazed at how good games look — I’m amazed at how many people stopped looking outside because of them.”

Jeeny: “That’s unfair. Games didn’t make people blind, Jack. They gave them new ways to see.”

Jack: (turns to her, eyebrow raised) “New ways to escape, you mean.”

Jeeny: “Escape isn’t always bad. Sometimes escape is how people survive.”

Host: The game screen flickered back to life — a digital sunset in 8-bit orange, the blocky silhouette of a character standing alone at the edge of a pixelated cliff. Jack’s eyes softened, reflecting the image — a nostalgia he refused to name.

Jack: “You really think there’s poetry in all this? I see addiction, not art. People locked in screens, pretending to be heroes while the real world burns.”

Jeeny: “And yet, those same people learn courage there first. You call it pretending — I call it practicing. Games teach empathy, teamwork, imagination. Do you think a soldier, a doctor, or a pilot doesn’t use simulation before the real thing? It’s the same impulse — to test ourselves safely.”

Jack: “You’re comparing Mario to medicine now?”

Jeeny: “Don’t mock what you don’t understand, Jack. The worlds we build reflect the worlds we long for. The fact that technology keeps evolving just shows we haven’t stopped dreaming.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his hands still resting on the console. The neon light from the screen painted his face in stripes — half blue, half red — the colors of contradiction. Outside, a group of teenagers laughed as they passed, their phones glowing like small torches against the night.

Jack: “Dreams are fine. But when dreams start replacing life, it’s a problem. We’ve got people building virtual homes while they can’t afford real ones. You can’t eat progress, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “And yet, you can starve without it. Progress isn’t about gadgets, Jack — it’s about imagination taking physical form. From the first Pong to modern games, it’s not just entertainment; it’s art evolving with its audience.”

Jack: “Art requires struggle. A video game is designed to please.”

Jeeny: “That’s where you’re wrong. Art — real art — includes pleasure. It can make you weep or laugh or wonder. Games can do that now. Look at titles like Journey, The Last of Us, Celeste — they deal with grief, morality, resilience. They’re not toys anymore. They’re mirrors.”

Jack: “Mirrors that reflect what we want to see, not what we need to.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s still better than not seeing at all.”

Host: A beat of silence. The machine in front of them let out a small ping, signaling the end of a level. Jack looked at the screen — the tiny digital avatar frozen mid-celebration — then pressed reset. The title screen returned, glowing like an old memory trying to start over.

Jack: “When I was a kid, I played Pac-Man for hours. Didn’t matter if I won — I just liked the noise, the chase. But when I got older, I realized it was all loops. Same maze, same ghosts, just faster. Life’s kind of like that now. Everything repeating, only shinier.”

Jeeny: “You’re missing the point. The loops change us. Maybe the maze stays the same, but we move differently inside it. We grow faster, react better, see more. That’s what progress really means — not escaping the maze, but evolving in it.”

Jack: “So we just keep getting better at chasing dots?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But every time we do, we learn a little more about what we’re really chasing.”

Host: The lights dimmed slightly as the bar owner adjusted the circuit breakers. The sound of old coins dropping into machines echoed faintly — a melody of nostalgia and persistence.

Jack: (sighs) “You really believe all this advancement — consoles, graphics, AI — it’s something to be proud of?”

Jeeny: “Of course I do. It’s proof that humans never stopped creating worlds. Every generation invents its own myths. Before, it was firelight stories. Then books. Then film. Now, it’s games. Different tools — same hunger to tell who we are.”

Jack: “And what if we lose ourselves in those myths?”

Jeeny: “Then at least we’ll have known what it meant to imagine. To believe in something bigger than boredom.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice softened, carrying a faint tremor of emotion. The arcade screen flickered again — a digital sunset, brighter now, as if in response. Jack’s fingers hovered over the buttons, but he didn’t play. He just watched the pixels shimmer like fragments of memory.

Jack: (quietly) “You know… when I was ten, my brother and I stayed up all night playing Super Mario 64. It felt endless — like you could fall into the sky and never land. We didn’t have much else, but for that night, we had a whole world that belonged to us. Maybe that’s what Verlander meant.”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “Exactly. It’s not about the graphics — it’s about how far we’ve come from those nights. About the fact that a game could still give you that feeling again, even now.”

Jack: “A feeling of wonder.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And wonder is rare, Jack. That’s why it matters when something — even a console — can still give it to us.”

Host: The neon lights dimmed to a softer hue. The music slowed, blending with the hum of machines — old and new — standing side by side. Jack looked at Jeeny, a faint smile curving at the corner of his mouth.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe progress isn’t about replacing what was — it’s about remembering it differently.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every upgrade is a thank-you to the past. We don’t move on from where we came from — we build upon it.”

Jack: “You sound like a gamer yourself.”

Jeeny: (grinning) “Maybe I am. Just not the kind who’s trying to win.”

Host: Jack laughed, the sound low and genuine. The screen blinked one last time, displaying the words PRESS START TO CONTINUE. He reached forward, pressed the button — not to play, but just to hear the old familiar click.

Outside, the city buzzed, alive with the hum of both past and future — a symphony of pixels, dreams, and possibility.

And as the lights flickered, Jack and Jeeny sat together in that small, glowing corner of time — where nostalgia met progress, and both were equally, beautifully amazing.