My Father and I

Video games became a way to connect for a father who struggled to express himself and a son who desperately wanted to connect.

Photo by Dan Counsell on Unsplash

My father and I never had a good relationship. I wasn't the perfect son for his tastes, and he never was the ideal father for me. He wasn’t really a natural at the whole “father” thing— in fact, he wasn't very good as a husband or as a human being at home, either. During my adolescence, my parents split up, thankfully, allowing me to avoid seeing or talking to him for most of my teenage years.

Nothing much changed until 2021, when I was working for a company that designs and manufactures sim racing hardware. It's an interesting field, even if it wasn’t a personal passion of mine. I’ve never been a fan of racing sims, or races in general. However, someone else in my life was: my dad. 

And that is also what led, unexpectedly, to us reconnecting.

I grew up in 90s Italy. It was me, my older brother, our parents and a beautiful, silly dog. Every Sunday lunch was always the same: news first, then “the races” on TV. If you came to our house such a day, you wouldn’t be able to hear yourself thinking among the sound of the F1 engines, the sportcasters’ commentary and my dad’s screaming. Again, I wasn’t a F1 fan (or a screaming fan), but if I wanted to spend time with my dad, the choice was watching those weird cars or watching 11 men chase a ball. 

At least I could pretend those cars were Transformers in disguise.

In middle school, I remember becoming increasingly anxious every day as the time for him to return home from work approached. And then relief on the days he simply didn't come home. I must admit that I deeply resented him for a long time.

Time passes, you grow up, and start to better understand what was happening then. You understand that there is no manual on parenthood, and that a parent is just a person like any other, with their own personal and mental problems to deal with—and a lot of responsibilities that probably keep them awake at night.

One day, I remember my father coming home with the first PlayStation and a couple of games. Some of these would later become personal favorites of mine. (Resident Evil, Tekken 3, and Final Fantasy VII were among them!)

At the time, my parents decided that I was too young to play video games; the console was quite expensive, and I was only four years old. A child who, at the age of three, managed to lock their father out of the apartment and proceed to wreak havoc within, scattering toys and furniture across the living room. (He had to wait for my mother to return from work before he could finally regain entry, just to discover me perched, precariously but with a stern face, on the top shelf of the bookcase.) 

So yeah, expensive electronics were strictly off-limits.

As far as I can remember, the first video game I ever saw was on television. Italy had a popular TV show where viewers could phone in and control the character on screen through the digits. I never got to play myself—calling in cost money. I was, however, mesmerized and captivated by the TV's glow, as I watched other lucky children playing.

Who can forget endlessly grinding the license tests in Gran Turismo?

One of the games my father brought home was Gran Turismo, and naturally became the new obsession in our household. My father really liked racing games. For him, getting stuck against a wall at every turn of the track was the perfect idea of fun. But even then, my interest would not last: cars, cars, tracks, noises, other cars. Crashes. Screaming.

I wasn't immediately captivated by video games, either. Perhaps I was disappointed by those my family liked to play, or frustrated by the fact that I could not play them myself. Maybe I subconsciously rebelled against something my family seemed to enjoy: sports and video games. 

But… my love for video games started when they became a shared experience between my older brother and me, like when we tried to decipher the story of Final Fantasy VII without knowing a word of English. (Originally, Final Fantasy VII was not localized in Italian). 

We had a solemn pact growing up in our shared room: I was to not tell our parents that he passed the time playing video games instead of studying, and in exchange, he would let me actually play. But playing was never the true point for me: I enjoyed watching him play.

Time, as it does, passed. Fast forward to the 2000s.

My father never demonstrated any particular interest in games again, my brother was away at university, and I was a lonely pre-teen deep inside fantasy novels from Terry Brooks. Then, unexpectedly, my father returned home with a shiny new thing: a PC for his home office. And, surprise! Also a couple of games—none of which involved racing! I was instantly captivated by one of the covers, as it was exactly what I craved: dark, gritty, deeply rooted in fantasy.

Diablo II. 

Few images are as iconic as the box art to Diablo II.

Probably the first video game I truly fell in love with. I was still too young to play, according to my father. (I suspect, though, he was more concerned about the cost of the new PC.). But I could enjoy watching him play, and again—I didn't really care about playing. We were about to embark on a real adventure, just my father and I, exploring an immense world teeming with dungeons, ancient weapons, demons, creatures, and intriguing secondary characters. 

We spent what seemed like weeks (months?) immersed in the game. I was beside him for the entire journey, starting with character creation. He chose the barbarian, a character whose features I sometimes associate with my father more than his actual face. Though in fairness, they did look quite alike. For me, who had always felt distant from my father, this was a shift. 

Suddenly, we had a shared passion that united us. We'd argue about which skills and abilities to choose for his barbarian, or which items to keep. I remember reading the whole manual for him, as he didn't care much for research, while I was eager to become well-versed in the game to best assist him. I still feel the awe and sense of wonder we experienced as we entered the infinitely floating Arcane Sanctuary in the second act, or the frustration in having to deal with the absolutely too many fiends in the Kurast Bazaar later in the game. The game truly felt never-ending while we enjoyed it: enemy after enemy, quest after quest, we would celebrate every small victory until we got the chance to vanquish Diablo itself at the end of the road.

Looking back with 20 years of hindsight, those afternoons and evenings in front of the PC were much more than entertainment. Under the light of a small office lamp, we spent time getting to know each other a little better. Even if the worst days of our relationship were still ahead of us, in that moment Diablo served as a shared language. 

A way for a father, who struggled to express himself, and a son, who desperately wanted to connect. I like to think it was his way of showing me he cared.

In those moments, hunched over the monitor, I felt closest to him.

Now, this brings us full circle. 

It’s 2021, my father and I have again something to talk about thanks to my work. 

I was at work when I discovered that a remaster of Diablo II was about to be released. Once I saw it, I immediately told my father and sent him a trailer. He answered: “It's identical to the original, why are they remaking it?”

I still haven't had the chance to try it; life gets busy these days. But I know that once I do get to it, I'll want to have my first playthrough with my dad: we still have time.