The Paradoxical Universe of Video Games

Video games are a bit like the universe: full of mystery, unfathomable depth, and highly questionable design choices. These are digital worlds where a character can sprint for three days straight, hurl entire dumpsters with one hand, yet succumb immediately to a puddle that’s slightly too deep. It is a realm rich in paradoxes, forged by creators who were perhaps a little too enthusiastic with the “logic-off” switch.

The Health Potion Dilemma

In real life, if you’re tired, you might take a nap or at least have a cup of tea. In games, your health is often restored by eating mysterious glowing meat found in the damp recesses of a monster’s lair. Imagine finding a half-eaten sandwich in a subway tunnel and thinking, “This is precisely what I need to perk up!” Games glorify this reckless abandon for basic food safety, turning players into walking stomachs with complete disregard for expiration dates.

Not to mention the logical conundrum of health potions. You could be standing in the middle of a pitched battle, armor cracked and morale shattered, but one swig of that delicious purple elixir and you’re ready to take on an army. Imagine if real life worked that way: boxing matches would simply be endless bouts punctuated by periodic “potion” breaks where each fighter glugs down an energy drink and bounces back up, spry as ever. Highly impractical, yet strangely satisfying.

NPCs: The Philosophers of Infinite Patience

Non-Player Characters (NPCs) are the true unsung heroes of the video game world, enduring countless indignities with the stoicism of a philosopher and the patience of a particularly stubborn cactus. These are beings who can repeat the same phrase for hours on end without going mad, who offer directions to the same lost traveler (i.e., you) a hundred times without so much as a sigh.

Imagine, if you will, walking into a shop and bombarding the shopkeeper with the same three questions over and over again, until eventually you “buy” a banana with currency you found behind their house. And yet, they never turn you away or even question the cosmic improbability of a customer asking the exact same question 15 times in a row. Such is the noble NPC—blissfully trapped in their loops, perhaps wondering if there is indeed more to life than the endless cycle of their pre-recorded existence.

The Inventory Black Hole

Video game characters live in worlds where backpacks have properties that would make Newton cry. You can carry three swords, two shields, 15 healing potions, four different types of animal pelts, a small piano, and, if you’re lucky, an entire log cabin. Not only do these items fit seamlessly into your inventory, but they have no effect on your character’s agility whatsoever. Sprinting, somersaulting, and swordplay are entirely unhindered by the small hardware store strapped to your back.

Now imagine this in real life. You’re heading to the grocery store, casually carrying a fridge, a couple of dumbbells, and your entire wardrobe, while occasionally pulling an apple from thin air for a quick snack. The paradox here is not only the sheer volume of items one can carry but also that they always seem to find the “special item” immediately, as if their inventory is perfectly organized instead of resembling a digital dumpster fire.

The Quest for… Anything Really

Every game has “quests,” though the tasks themselves often seem to be exercises in abstract absurdity. You, a warrior chosen to save the kingdom, are stopped on your noble journey by a villager who desperately needs someone to find their lost chicken. But not just any chicken—this one is likely armed and hiding behind a puzzle that only a Master’s degree in cryptography could solve.

Then there’s the Questing Paradox: while you’re busy rescuing chickens, your main objective is supposedly urgent—something involving a fire-breathing tyrant and the fate of the world. But not to worry, that dragon will politely wait while you harvest rare herbs or fix a fence for an NPC named Bert. It’s a peculiar universe where apocalypses are willing to pause, just so you can earn some extra gold by exterminating 10 overly aggressive squirrels.

The Enemy Amnesia Principle

In most games, enemies have the memory span of a goldfish. You can approach them, whack them on the head, then simply duck behind a bush while they “lose sight of you,” instantly forgetting the strange, armor-clad person who tried to decapitate them seconds earlier. Apparently, hiding behind a shrub is the equivalent of a mind-wipe spell. If only real life were this convenient—parking tickets would be obsolete, and creditors would forget your existence if you simply crouched behind a sofa for a few moments.

The Enemy Amnesia Principle raises existential questions: do these characters ponder what happened to them in the moments after you disappear? Do they sit by a fire at night, wondering about the fleeting glimpses of violence that periodically disrupt their peaceful patrols? Perhaps it’s better not to ask. After all, they have faces only a mother could love, and little time to ponder the mysteries of shrubbery.