We gamers love to share our past experiences with one another. While employing all of the overbearing, fate-of-the-world-at-stake bravado of a Deckard Cain-like figure, we recount to our friends (or, really, anyone who will stay awhile and listen) the tales of our most unbelievable combos, highest scores, and speediest run-throughs. However, nothing seems to be worn as a greater badge of pride than one's 'veteran' status.

"How long have you been playing?" The question is often posited the same way that prison inmates might share the length and nature of their sentences. When we started gaming is perhaps a more important consideration that what we play or even how good we are at any of it. Not that anybody really cares just how much you dominate your dedicated CS server, but when taking a step back, you might find it odd that something so arbitrary as the passage of time might affect how others view your achievements or preferences in other related areas.

As upside down as it all seems, that's the world of gaming, and the length of time we've spent immersed in that world represents at least one way that we judge each other. Being a 'hardcore' gamer isn't just about 10 hour, energy drink-fueled Modern Warfare 2 and World of Warcraft sessions; quite a bit of it is also defined by what we can lay claim to having done in the past.

As a poignant example, there are few stigmas worse than being exposed as someone who lacks knowledge or experience. The  unceremonious application of the "newb" label will make your average gamer frighteningly insecure, and they'll quickly scramble to gain some modicum of experience and hopefully skill in the hopes of becoming something more desirable, such as a "reg" or the all-coveted "vet." This isn't to say that gaming communities aren't understanding or supportive of their newer members as a rule, but it is a school of tough love.

How far back do you go? NES? SNES? Atari 2600? How about Apple II? If you can remember the fine piece of hardware showcased just to the left, you've really navigated the lanes. Get down and party like it's 1976! Listing our first piece of hardware is how we most commonly denote our precise level of gaming veterancy, organized kind of like graduating classes. Did you grow up with 8-bit? 16? How about 32/64? Or are you, dare I say it, a newb?

These realities qualify gamers as a social group that runs somewhat against the grain in the sense that the older and wiser tend to gain respect over time; In contrast, their counterparts elsewhere might eventually come to be viewed as feeble and obsolete. If this effect is in fact a bell shaped curve for which returns on experience will diminish and eventually regress, we have yet to see the evidence. Of course, people who in old age become physically or mentally unable to contiue gaming would be a different story, but we're working exclusively in the bubble of active gamers, and in that context, the only place to go is seemingly up.

All of this raises an extremely good question: "Is that right?" What is our length of time with gaming really worth in and of itself? Surely, your traditionalists would balk at the notion that this factor has little to no bearing on anything else.  However, is it possible to place a value on having been around to experience first hand the birth of the video game industry? Are you a better gamer if you slid a countless number of quarters into arcade cabinets back when arcades actually existed? How about being among those who bought an NES after hearing about an awesome new game called Super Mario Bros?

It would defy conventional wisdom to say that having such experiences would be entirely meaningless in a broad sense. It can be strongly argued that these are the types of things that serve to define us as gamers. However, it's something else entirely to suggest that they make us better gamers, or somehow of greater merit or value than others who only came into the picture at a later time.

That finally brings us to our central point, to define the concept of "an education in gaming," what that education is worth, and whether or not the way we presently dole out kudos is at all sensible. Put on thinking cap.

For what it's worth, I've been around since the late 8-bit era. My first game ever was Super Mario Bros. 3 on NES. Talk about being spoiled...if I'd have known that all games weren't that awesome, I may not have gotten as interested in them as I eventually did. However, thanks to the portly Italian plumber who drew so many others into the fold, I ended up taking to gaming like a a fish to water and the rest was history.

Literally. Sorry, I couldn't resist.

At any rate, now you know the perspective from which I write as a gamer, and hopefully, it adds some weight to what I'm going to argue--and that's that the experiences of the past, in and of themselves, really aren't worth a whole lot. My own beginnings, set in the early 90s and spent at the arcades or at home on Game Boy, Apple II, NES, and SNES, really don't mean anything in terms of my overall accomplishment as a gamer. I certainly have some wonderful memories to look back upon and I still have many of the friendships that I forged through video games to this day...but you know what? So will the people who are just picking up their controllers for the first time this very moment. The fact that I was around back in "the good old days" doesn't make me unique, or a better gamer. Even if it did matter, my good old days aren't even the oldest ones around.

This is where I feel that I need to clarify a few things, because the above statements on their own almost look like a condemnation of classic gaming. They aren't, by any stretch of the imagination. The point that I'm trying to make is that the actual length of time I've spent gaming, the answer to the question "How long have you been playing?" really carries little meaning. This is relevant because when you think about it, how long ago we arrived on the scene plays an important role in measuring the degree to which we consider ourselves to be video game veterans, as outlined in the beginning of the blog.

But who ought to care how long I've played? What guarantees that I played many decent games in all that time, or made any significant achievements, or reached any respectable level of proficiency? Somebody who boots up a copy of Final Fantasy for NES today can play it just as I was able to back in 1991. The fact that I was there for the IPO is certainly a matter of pride, but it represents little more than that. Even things that are lost to time, such as arcades, have their present day counterparts. (In this particular case in the form of online play). Different experiences, same opportunities for enrichment.

Does any of this mean that we should abandon the games of the past in favor of utter and complete relativism? Allow me to throw down the gauntlet and assert that the answer to this question is an emphatic hell no. While being able to play any given title when it was new isn't necessarily of any consequence, the matter of whether or not you play that title at all just might be. This is where the central question of "What is your gaming education really worth?" comes into play. What we refer to as "the classics" continue to offer gamers many things even today---a solid grounding in fundamental mechanics and other concepts, depth of experience and knowledge, and of course, a really, really good time. For those of us who played them when they were new, you can also add nostalgia onto that list when you visit once again.

An interesting article was published in The Atlantic last month which served as the inspiration for this blog. You may read it here. It briefly outlined a joint effort between a few universities to preserve classic video games, especially those for which no more than a handful of working copies are known to exist. In many cases, it's a race against time to back these titles up before the increasingly ancient disks and cartridges they are stored on fail for good. The article piqued my interest in part because it made me look back on my own experiences with classic games. But what was especially catching was the purpose behind all of their efforts---to preserve the games of the past so that they are there for the enjoyment of those in the future. They aren't saving "Sea Dragon" for Apple II because they want to put a physical copy of it behind some glass and show it off to people as a static and increasingly distant representation of early gaming; they're saving it so we can play it, learn a little about our roots, and have some fun in the process.

And play it we should. This is, in my view, the essence of what makes a truly experienced and well rounded gamer. It isn't a matter of how long we've been playing, but rather what we've played and the degree to which our minds are open in seeking out new experiences. This statement could be generalized for referring to education in most if not all other areas, but I feel safe in concluding with certainty that it specifically applies for gaming. Does this mean that somebody needs to go out there and play everything for some sort of perceived benefit? Surely not. I won't even be so arrogant as to claim that there's anything resembling a consensus on a shortlist of classics that somebody absolutely needs to play. However, the classics, as a general concept, are an important aspect of gaming even today; and they will continue to be important going forward as ever more titles join their perceived ranks.

In short, your gaming education is worth a hell of a lot, and it's never complete. Now I'm going to down some Ibuprofen and lie down. Mental calisthenics of this variety can be enough to make your head explode.