Hey family! I hope you all are good! This issue of THE GAME is locked and loaded with some really powerful pieces. Thinking about how we heal in these very difficult times? Well there is a beautiful piece by Malia Lazu about healing as a movement. Malia is one of the most visionary leaders we have in this century, and someone who has done everything from work with the late, great Harry Belafonte, to being a bank president. Like for real.

Then there are brilliantly personal pieces, from .CHISARAOKWU. and Esmé Zodrow-MacDonald, about the game of life, from two completely different angles. One is reflecting, one year later, on America’s most recent presidential election, and how art is a metaphor for how we navigate this game called life. The other is a deep dive into a childhood game that brings back joy, and some very thoughtful, adult reflections.

Meanwhile, Johanna Schultz-Herman and Erin Ashley Simon boldly discuss gaming and technology from their respective spaces: Johanna as a mom of a young child who loves gaming; Erin as a resident expert in that world who weighs in on how music and gaming have intersected in ways I did not even know.

Finally, reg e gaines, my brother and friend and Tony Award-winner, gives his bottom dollar on what the word game means to him. Because reg is simply cool like that

This is what makes THE GAME special, and different week to week. The people and their unique voices. Enjoy!

Kevin Powell, The Game Editorial Director, is a GRAMMY-nominated poet, humanitarian, author of 16 books, filmmaker, and writer of forthcoming biography of Tupac Shakur.

When the impending Y2K “millenium bug” scare loomed large in 1999, threatening to upend computer systems responsible for everything from the power grid to transportation and banking, I literally headed for the hills to live off-the-grid in hopes of avoiding the chaos of the societal breakdown that was sure to occur. Thankfully, nothing happened, but my wariness toward all things technology has yet to subside. I observe every new technological advancement with skepticism, concerned about willfully forfeiting yet another human skill to the gods of tech. 

I’m old enough to remember life before the internet, which means I’m old enough to remember life before social media. I’m old enough to remember when narcissism was looked upon with disdain, and now entire markets are built around it.  Selfie sticks and filter apps, anyone?  My freshman year of college (1995), a professor told us getting an email address would be a class requirement. Many students scoffed at the idea. And here we are… 

Though I knew becoming a mother would challenge me in all kinds of unexpected ways, I didn’t expect that my outlook on technology would be one of those things. During COVID, after we had built all the blanket forts, marble runs, and two books worth of art and science projects, my then 5-year old son discovered YouTube gamers, something I was blissfully unaware of.  Here were these young men playing video games with their friends, sharing “hacks” about specific games, and had actually become millionaires by doing so!  My son didn’t even play video games yet, but was enthralled watching these cool older kids be, well…cool older kids.

My mother-in-law gave him his first tablet a year later, where he discovered Minecraft. Initially resistant, I quickly learned he enjoyed playing in “creative mode,” where he could construct his own worlds within the game. I understood his fascination, but couldn’t he experience the same satisfaction with Legos?  Apparently, Minecraft appears to be the Star Wars of his generation, a cultural touchstone among his peers. Surely, I could wrap my mind around that, couldn’t I?

My son and his friends used to stay after school to play together on the playground. Now, they all rush home to “game” (which is a verb now, apparently), and talk to each other via video chat from the comfort of each of their homes. Separated, but together. While I am thankful my son enjoys connecting with his friends this way, where does this new digital playground lead this generation in the future?

Our internet-dependent culture has so readily given away our knowledge of self-reliance. We’ve uploaded and downloaded all that information into some mystical cloud somewhere, but in the event of a solar flare or terrorist attack targeting communication and infrastructure, will these kids know how to grow food or purify water if public services were disrupted somehow? Perhaps they’ll walk around in a daze, zombie-like, as they recalibrate what is actually reality. Maybe someone should make a game about it.

I realize that this isn’t the world in which I grew up. I think of my grandparents, who saw the advent of automobiles, airplanes, and space travel become commonplace. Were they as bewildered by these developments as I am by today’s technology?  I wish they were here to have that conversation. Perhaps this kind of progress is just what makes one generation distinct from the next. With that awareness, I take a step back from projecting my concerns onto my son, knowing his future is going to look incredibly different from what mine looked like at his age. It’s my parenting that is going to ensure he doesn’t lose his humanity along the way.

Johanna Schultz-Herman is a mother, freelance copywriter, grant writer, fiber artist, and serves on her community government’s Environmental Commission.

The year 2025 arrived, and with it, the gutting of my DEI business. As I stared at the dwindling client list, panic set in. My mind raced at night, desperate for a pivot, yet my heart wasn't in the corporate world anymore. But the bills loomed, the hamster wheel demanded to turn. Then, a whisper: What if my next step was a life-centered in joy? 

I revisited Adrienne Maree Brown’s Pleasure Activism, and started following the radical rest movement. This pause became a mirror, reflecting how deeply my work was tied to my own narrative. The thought of radical change for my life felt daunting, yet exhilarating.

Years of therapy, ceremony, and honest conversations with friends had already been spent grappling with self-love. What was it, really? Sometimes, it felt capitalist—the ability to buy myself things I liked. Then, philosophical—accepting all parts of myself. Finally, humanity-centered—extending love to others. It was a delicate balance of all three, yet still abstract. But just asking those questions, driven by a yearning for happiness, was the first, vital step.

Being liked, nurturing relationships, and considering others' feelings—these were admirable traits. But I realized they were also gifts I needed to extend to myself. I turned that love and light inward. What did it mean for me to like me? How did I cultivate a nurturing relationship with myself? And, how often did I inadvertently hurt my own feelings?

Rebuilding all we have lost  demands healing, joy, and a commitment to one another. Our history offered models for social justice movements and policy.  Perhaps our generation's duty is to introduce models of self-love and authentic joy. What would this next movement season look like if we chose to heal, truly heal? The question hangs in the air, a beacon towards a new, more joyful path.

This year, through conversations with over 300 women and my own journey, I founded SunflowerSpa.Love, a sanctuary dedicated to holding women as they explore their purpose, power, and pleasure. For me, building what's next is tied to helping women heal, creating a restorative pathway toward a truly liberatory future. We build on an internal freedom, unscared of the consequence, knowing with certainty we will not go back.

Malia Lazu is an organizer and entrepreneur whose work has taken her from Harry Belafonte political director  to serving as a bank president. She is currently a lecturer at MIT Sloan and the founder of SunflowerSpa.Love. She is the author of Intention to Impact. 

My 76-year-old grandmother has no idea how Fortnite works. She doesn’t understand esports, and she once asked why anyone would watch strangers play video games on Twitch. But when she heard the Halo theme song for the first time, she went quiet.

“Eso suena hermoso,” she calmly said.

And in that small, gentle moment, something clicked for me.

We usually talk about video games in terms of graphics, mechanics, or how big the world building is. But none of that explains why gaming connects across generations so easily. The real bridge is something far simpler, and much deeper.

Music.

Even if someone has never held a controller, they understand what a melody can do to the body. A song can tug at an old memory, soften a room, or spark a feeling before the mind has time to name it. Music reaches people before any story ever does.

That’s why it connects players and non-players alike.

Think about it. A 12-year-old and a 40-year-old can both light up when the opening of Kingdom Hearts plays. A little girl who has never seen Star Wars still recognizes Darth Vader’s theme because of Fortnite. Lo-fi Pokémon tracks fill study playlists, drifting through bedrooms, cafes and libraries. Old soundtracks find a new life through TikTok edits. And streamers casually send songs into the charts without ever calling themselves tastemakers.

Music makes virtual worlds feel human. It turns characters into memories and gives quiet scenes their weight while loud scenes earn their courage. For people who don’t “get” gaming, the soundtrack is often the first part that makes sense.

And this crossover isn’t slowing down.

League of Legends creates music videos that reach millions.

Game studios hire film composers to score titles with blockbuster scale.

And even entire genres— hyperpop, hip-hop and K-pop—carry the fingerprints of video games.

Gaming isn’t just using music anymore. It’s shaping what modern music sounds like. It’s helping to define the emotional palette of a new generation.

So, maybe the best way to help someone understand video games isn’t walking them through the mechanics or the lore. Maybe it's simply letting them listen.

Because music will always travel further than any explanation can. It reaches people who think gaming isn’t “for them,” crossing different ages, identities, and backgrounds without hesitation.

So, when words fall short, music always steps in.

And right now, gaming has never sounded more alive. 

Erin Ashley Simon is a multimedia host, producer and creative strategist shaping the future of gaming, and entertainment. Her work with brands like Nike, PUMA, AT&T, Columbia Records, and The Wall Street Journal reflects her mission to bridge these worlds together to push the culture forward.

In the vast selection of monster-catching games, Cassette Beasts emerges as a refreshingly unique addition that caters to fans seeking a deeper experience than traditional Pokémon or other monster-catching games. Developed as a new IP (Intellectual Property), this open-world, turn-based RPG (Role-Playing Game) allows players to explore a mysterious island known as New Wirral, utilizing innovative mechanics that make the gameplay feel less simple.

At the heart of Cassette Beasts is the ability to record the forms of various creatures through special cassette tapes rather than just catching them, allowing players to transform into them instead of sending the monsters into combat. This mechanic is not only original but also unlocks a vast array of movement abilities, from catching certain monsters, such as climbing, dashing, and flying, to aid in exploration. The game emphasizes a compelling gameplay loop of recording monsters and engaging in battles, with a very interesting approach to combat that revolves around sticker-based moves, which can be stacked for varied effects. This complexity appeals to those who have grown tired of basic mechanics found in similar games.

Controls in Cassette Beasts are impressively responsive, contributing to an engaging experience. The movement mechanics are fun, allowing for seamless transitions that enhance the overall fluidity of gameplay. Players will find themselves easily navigating the island, making backtracking and getting from place to place straightforward due to its manageable size.

Narratively, the game centers on the protagonist’s quest to find a way home, interwoven with intriguing storylines about companion characters and the otherworldly “Archangels” who inhabit the island. This depth adds an emotional layer to the otherwise mechanics-driven gameplay, keeping players engaged in both story and action.

Visually, while the pixel art style is very nice to see during this age, despite the limitations, the animations are very charming. Players might encounter minor bugs and area skips tied to the physics engine, but these issues do not significantly detract from the overall experience.

In essence, Cassette Beasts is an excellent choice for Pokémon enthusiasts looking for a more interesting and rewarding gameplay experience. It successfully marries nostalgia with innovation, making it a challenging entry in the monster-catching genre that's available across various platforms, including Steam, Xbox Game Pass, and Nintendo Switch. Whether you’re an RPG player or someone searching for an engaging new adventure, Cassette Beasts is well worth your time.

Patrick Martin is a 13-year-old 7th grader with a big imagination, kind heart, and a love for video games, drawing, and art. He brings passion and personality to everything he does.

The neighborhood I grew up in was a veritable circulatory system of alleyways. My house, and the houses of everyone I knew, backed up against these overgrown thoroughfares like boats docked at a marina. If you were a kid with a wild imagination, which I was, it felt like a sort of teleportation magic to duck into an alley and pop out at another point of the neighborhood. You could bop down the sprawling veinwork of alleys all the way out onto Alberta Street, if you knew the way, or down to David’s (officially a corner store by the name of “Food King”) for a cream soda and a cowtail. But on hot summer nights, a state of being that back then was only “in season” for a brief snatch of time in Portland, Oregon, the alleys had another purpose; it was there, watched over by our parents far closer than we kids realized, that the intricate tactical warfare of “Kick The Can” unfolded.

To start a game of Kick The Can, all you need is a handful of neighborhood kids and an empty coke can filled with gravel. But once you have those needed elements, the real challenge begins. There in the dark alley, dented can sat up at the ready, the troops separate and prepare. The master of ceremonies (I suggest using your best friend's mom in this role) raises her voice to give the call of war and our combatants, none of whom are over the age of 10, begin the intricate art of absolutely decimating the competition. There are any number of variations on the game, but the basics are thus: someone, or a few someones, has the honor of being “it.” In this honored role, you are to guard the aforementioned Can, yes, but you also have to hunt and capture the devious grade-schoolers set on kicking the can over. In our games, my best friend’s mom usually had the honor of being “it,” a role she took to with a verve and pageantry seen only in those with the sort of energy people like to call “young at heart.” All of those not designated “it” had to approach their task with equal parts fearlessness, speed, and stealth. In Kick The Can, you are both hunter and hunted, creeping through overgrown passages on the alert for your pursuer, or for an opening to take home the glory. There were battlescars, too, in this summer-night theater of war. At least once, a game ended early due to an incident with a running kid, an eyeball, and a twig. But then you were back the next night with a dented to hell can and a smile. 

A vivid memory, now, of one particular game of Kick The Can; my friend Claire and I crouched in her carport, whispering and giggling and waiting for an opening to dart out and make for glory. Crouched down next to a jar of rusty nails and electric with the thrill of the game, we were invincible, and summer seemed liable to last forever. Summer did, of course, always come to an end, and with it went the exquisite freedom of those warm nights. But there was always next year. Indeed, if I  had to put a word to the feeling of a game of Kick The Can, it would be freedom. The night is no longer forbidden to you and there’s no school in the morning. When I played, I wasn’t a kid anymore. I was some fierce alleyway beast soaring through the night with a mad elation. Racing down the alley, feet pounding against the dirt, blood pumping from the excitement of pursuit and strategy, a particular kind of wild freedom takes shape. 

I was about eight in the land of these recollections, a skinny-legged pixie cut sporting kid with messed up teeth and a wellspring of joy that hadn’t yet taken any hits. I’m twenty-eight now, which puts us at a solid two decades on from the recollections at hand. In those two decades  my neighborhood has changed past the point of recognition. Those houses backed up to the alleyways now go for more money than I imagine I’ll ever have, and David sold the store. It’s a funny thing to miss a place that technically still exists. But the alleys are still there, I’ll tell you that much. And I’d bet you ten bucks (more than enough, back in the day, to come back from David’s rich in candy and soda) that I’d know my way through them blind.

So put me in the alley behind NE 28th on a hot summer night and baby watch me go. Who knows, if I run fast enough I might teleport back through time and, for a brief moment, pop out on a different summer night two decades back to see a snaggle-toothed kid run by with the gleam of war in her eyes.

Esmé Zodrow-MacDonald is a historian and writer living in North Kingstown, Rhode Island.

Wednesday, November 6, 2024. Ucross, Wyoming. I’m sitting at my desk watching a crisp-clear, fall morning rise above the Bighorn Mountains. With the previous night’s election results, however, I concede that night has fallen in America. It will be a long while before we get a hint of daybreak.

Minutes later, I reach for a pencil and ruler and begin to draw lines on sheets of white coventry paper. Some lines intersect; others do not. Some disappear in the margins; others curve, avoiding the edge. After a few minutes of this, the lines take a familiar shape—like a classic game of pinball. I cut dots of various sizes—mostly black, then red, then blue—and scatter them on the page. I call the finished work "Game Theory,” to name the underpinning, and the aftermath of (or maybe the precursor to) the election. Like, we are all players in a consequential game of survival and the rule-makers are doing their best to conceal their mischief. 

I take the finished work and rotate it 90 degrees, then repeat until it’s back to its intended orientation. (I urge you to do the same.) With each turn, a new dimensionality of Blackness intersecting with American civic and social life appears. Each black dot approaching a line exposing the boundaries, the inescapable and (unfair) rules of the game. Each impassable opening a reminder of the “almost there but not quite” sense that many of us Americans continue to feel even a year after. This leads to a second observation: not one dot on the page is immune to the game. The red and blue dots—even the white page—are caught between the lines, the simulation.

The game is advertised as absolutely winnable. (We like to call it "achieving the American dream.”) But not for everyone. Some play as if with unlimited lives. Others desperately cling to the only one they have left. Others manipulate and cajole lives from those most vulnerable hoping to score… what exactly? An extra life? Fleeting flashes of power?

What happens if we exit the game, though? En masse. Turn off the TV like Kendrick Lamar says. Do something different, something human(e)? It’s possible. It’s why I etched these lines with pencil, not pen. To be reminded that no condition is permanent. We can say, “Game Over,” and mean it.

.CHISARAOKWU. is a transdisciplinary poet-artist, physician, and former senior advisor on health policy for the federal government during the Obama years. She grew up on Laker basketball.