By Amy Jessee

We have a new rule in our house. No passing through magical portals unless mom or dad tags along, too. I’m certainly not an expert, nor do I have the mental map for navigating this brave new world of online gaming with my five-year-old, but he is eager to learn. It’s his connection to places and people outside of our house, imagined or real, particularly during the pandemic, when school, play and everything in between can be encapsulated in a computer. He’s a digital native, growing up with technology integrated into everything he does. The computer in his room is for the required video calls with school and a way to do his homework, but it’s got a great graphics card for video games. It might as well be opening a door to a whole other world.

We start out on the same level: complete beginners. Sure, I have a few decades-old experience with the hand-held Disney-themed varieties that played through the classic scenes of the movies we loved as kids. along with the prerequisite original Mario Kart and Duck Hunt of the 90s. I learned the trick of blowing on a game cartridge to make it work again, like a wish on a birthday candle, and now I wanted to wish my son the best on his adventures. 

He starts in Minecraft, of course—a game that basically came preloaded on the school iPad, intended for third-grade competitions, so popular with the primary school set that it’s printed on pajamas and lunchboxes. We start in Sunflower Plains, a pixelated setting of green pastures dotted with flowers, where trees grow to create oak blocks and form the foundation for all we create. He collects fire, ice and water (science in action), adding plants and animals, all spawned from eggs (not quite as scientifically correct). He creates a menagerie of pigs, pandas, mushroom cows, wolves, and llamas, which seem to live peacefully together from day to day. 

In Creative Mode, all of the blocks are activated, allowing for builds of any kind, without the fear of the monsters that come out in Survival Mode, so we have a peaceful world so far. He tries to build more than he destroys. Apparently, all that hands-on training with Legos translates over. He constructs a house, complete with windows, framed art on the walls, chests for treasure, and a place to rest during the night hours in the game. He adds roofs to protect against the rain, builds his fences higher when the animals escape, and makes trap doors that lead to secret science labs deep underground. He quickly learns how to illuminate the world, from torches on the buildings to a giant tower that can be seen from miles. He wants to always be able to find his way home.

As my son carves further into the redstone earth, he’s faced with floods and hot lava. Flames turn into fires. In minutes, the virtual world constructed over hours (which seem like years in our current predicament), is destroyed. The damage might be pretend, but the meltdowns are very real. A flood of tears, unstoppable screams, and not a one-click solution that I know of. I have learned to let the game simmer for a bit. We try to cool the big feelings and find the right configuration of breathing and familiar motions that will bring us back to normal. Like pressing A then B, orange then green, save then home. We’ll return to it later to see what we might salvage and rebuild. 

We check out library books—a complete collection of Minecraft guides. Together we learn how to craft objects, create armor and enchant it, and make potions. He is just learning to read, and these iconic blocks encourage his budding skills even more. He can memorize an object or an image and then learn the word. He can stack letters and sounds and make it mean something. We Google everything. We discover patterns and configurations. He has to stack the bricks again and find the next egg to hatch.

A few days later, he builds a library and can write his name into the books using the keyboard. Day 5 has become the stage of five-year-old enlightenment. 

Then comes the first portal. It’s just a dark doorway at first, but once enchanted it opens to another realm. I’m not sure how he gives it that power. That part isn’t in our books, at least not the pages that we’ve read yet. It’s built from pure imagination and digital determination. He walks through it without fear though. With one push forward and a five-year-old guide, we are suddenly on the other side of the only world we have known in this game, the one we had built together. Once again, I feel as inept at video games as I did as a child, afraid to play any further.

This new dimension is dark, lava-filled, and like the deep-earth underside of where we started. Anything we try to grow or spawn dies immediately. We both want to cry, so we do for a minute, and we debate giving up. But then, we remember it’s just a game, and we are playing it together, so there isn’t a reason to feel alone or scared. We can restart and rebuild, block by block. We could even pick a different game instead. After all, we’re skilled at portals now, but I think we’ll avoid that one for a while.  

That’s when my kid teaches me how to appreciate a different dimension, one where he feels in control and creative, on equal ground with grown-ups. It’s when I realize that he will go through lots of doors that I might not see coming or know what’s waiting on the other side, but with the right tools and confidence he can find his way. The first thing we rebuild though is that tall tower with the light that shines for miles so we can find our way back. 

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Guest essay written by Amy Jessee. Amy is a writer, editor and strategic storyteller, exploring and elevating everyday stories. A communications professional, she’s taught creative nonfiction and composition and works in higher education, with the biggest lessons learned from her two kids. Together, they plan evening and weekend adventures, resulting in stories and pants’ knees in need of being stitched together.