My mom didn't let me play video games growing up, so now I do.

Host: The arcade was a cathedral of light — rows of neon machines glowing like altars to forgotten gods of play. The air hummed with pixelated explosions, the rhythmic clatter of buttons, and the low, constant thrum of synthetic music looping through a dozen speakers.

Outside, the night pressed its face to the glass — dark, silent, and distant. Inside, time didn’t move so much as pulse.

Jack sat in front of an old fighting game cabinet, his sleeves rolled up, eyes locked on the screen. His fingers moved with cold precision, his jaw tense, illuminated in flashes of red and blue. Across from him, Jeeny leaned casually against the machine, a soda in her hand, watching him battle some digital beast from another world.

Behind them, the Host observed like a quiet lens, his voice low and cinematic.

Host: The lights painted their faces in a feverish glow. The world outside was muted, but in here — everything was loud, bright, and beautifully unreal.

Jeeny: “Wayne Brady once said, ‘My mom didn’t let me play video games growing up, so now I do. Gaming gives me a chance to just let go, blow somebody up and fight somebody from another dimension. It’s all escapism.’”

Jack: smirks without looking away from the screen “Smart man. Escapism is the only honest hobby left.”

Jeeny: arches a brow “Honest? You mean hiding from reality is now a form of truth?”

Jack: shrugs “Sure. At least in here, the rules make sense. You get hit, you lose health. You fight, you get stronger. Cause and effect. No politics. No pretending.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Except everything in here is pretending.”

Jack: finally looks at her, smirk fading “Yeah, but it’s consistent pretending. Real life’s the one full of bugs.”

Host: The machine’s glow flickered against their faces, blue then green, like underwater light. Somewhere deeper in the arcade, a machine played the distorted sound of an 8-bit fanfare — hollow victory for invisible players.

Jeeny: “So that’s what this is for you — escape?”

Jack: “Yeah. Escape from the endless loop of bills, bad news, and existential dread. In here, I get to win sometimes.”

Jeeny: softly “Or you get to forget that you’re losing.”

Jack: pauses, glances at her “Same difference.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Escapism isn’t victory. It’s vacation. You can’t live in another dimension and call it peace.”

Jack: grinning bitterly “Peace is overrated. I’ll settle for distraction.”

Jeeny: “And when distraction becomes dependency?”

Jack: leans back, eyes narrowing “Then at least I’m depending on something that doesn’t lie to me.”

Host: The lights above them buzzed faintly, one flickering out — a small, rhythmic stutter that made the moment feel like an unintentional confession.

Jeeny: “You know, Wayne Brady wasn’t wrong. Gaming is escapism. But it’s also expression. It’s the modern campfire — a place where people tell stories, wrestle demons, become something bigger than themselves.”

Jack: snorts “You sound like a motivational poster for a game developer.”

Jeeny: ignoring him “Maybe we play because the real world doesn’t give us enough space to fail safely. In games, you can restart. In life, you just replay your regrets.”

Jack: after a pause “That’s the most poetic justification for blowing someone up I’ve ever heard.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “You mock it, but you know I’m right.”

Jack: quietly “Maybe. But that doesn’t make it noble.”

Host: The screen flared — a victory animation, a burst of light and sound. Jack’s character stood triumphant over a vanquished alien enemy, sword raised.

Jack didn’t smile. He just stared at the pixelated figure — a tiny god of temporary glory.

Jack: low voice “You know what I envy about this? The clarity. You fight, you win, you lose. No gray areas. Out there—” gestures toward the door “—out there, you never even know which level you’re on.”

Jeeny: softly “Because out there, you don’t get checkpoints.”

Jack: nods slowly “Exactly. You die for real.”

Jeeny: steps closer, tone gentler now “But that’s what makes it real, Jack. Pain isn’t the enemy. It’s proof that you’re alive.”

Jack: looks at her sharply “You call that proof? Then life’s just one long difficulty setting no one asked for.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But you can’t call yourself a player if you never stop pausing.”

Host: The arcade lights dimmed slightly — a closing-hour hush that wrapped the room in nostalgic melancholy. The machines kept humming, like tired soldiers still dreaming of battles.

Jeeny walked toward the counter, her hand brushing over the edge of another console, her reflection caught in the glossy surface of a racing game.

Jeeny: “You ever think escapism isn’t cowardice? That it’s rehearsal?”

Jack: raises a brow “Rehearsal for what?”

Jeeny: “For facing life again. Every time you play, you remember that you can lose and still start over. Maybe that’s what Wayne Brady meant. He’s not hiding — he’s practicing.”

Jack: quietly “Practicing how to live?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You can’t fight monsters on-screen without learning a little about the ones inside.”

Jack: smiling faintly “So you’re saying my alien-slaying hobby is spiritual growth?”

Jeeny: smirking “Call it digital therapy.”

Jack: pauses, thoughtful “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the point isn’t to escape forever — just long enough to remember that reality isn’t the only map.”

Host: The music from a nearby machine changed — soft, nostalgic, almost tender. The room felt smaller now, as if the world had exhaled.

The screen before them went dark, reflecting only their faces — Jack’s marked by tired defiance, Jeeny’s illuminated by quiet belief.

Jeeny: “You know, when Wayne said his mom didn’t let him play games, it wasn’t really about games. It was about freedom. About the rebellion of joy. When he plays now, he’s reclaiming what was denied — the right to escape, to imagine, to be unproductive.”

Jack: nodding slowly “Yeah... maybe escape isn’t always running away. Sometimes it’s just coming home to yourself.”

Jeeny: smiling softly “Exactly. You can lose yourself here, but maybe that’s how you find the part of you that the world kept quiet.”

Jack: after a moment “You know what’s strange? For all the killing and chaos, I’ve never felt calmer than when I’m playing.”

Jeeny: “Because you’re in control. You set the rules. The real world doesn’t offer that — it just hands you the controller and tells you to improvise.”

Jack: chuckling “No tutorials. No respawns.”

Jeeny: grinning “Just consequences.”

Host: The arcade fell quiet, one machine at a time powering down. The neon lights dimmed, leaving the world bathed in the fading afterglow of color.

They stood there in the half-light — two figures framed against a wall of blinking screens, ghosts in a temple of temporary gods.

Host: And in that soft, cinematic silence, Wayne Brady’s words resonated — not as a confession, but as a truth dressed in laughter:

Escapism is not surrender.
It is the soul’s rehearsal for freedom.

We all need a place to forget —
not to abandon the world,
but to return to it lighter,
less afraid,
more ourselves.

Even pixel worlds have lessons —
about resilience,
about joy,
about the courage to keep pressing “start”
after every fall.

Host: The lights went out completely now,
leaving only the faint glow of the exit sign —
a soft, red beacon in the dark.

Jack and Jeeny stepped toward it slowly,
their reflections fading into the glass doors,
leaving behind the hum of machines
and the warmth of unreality.

And as they disappeared into the night,
the world outside flickered on again —
harsh, beautiful,
and undeniably real.