Of Games and God: A Theological Analysis of Video Games (Part I)

A couple of years ago I was sitting in a coffee shop with a friend of mine who is an avid video gamer, discussing his favorite pastime, and some how or other our conversation took a decidedly theological turn.

I think I asked him what he thought the spiritual significance of gaming was, and from there I wondered out loud what themes he would draw on, if he were to develop a “theology of video gaming.”

My friend was quite a bit younger than I, and had spent far fewer hours reading theology than he had playing video games, so he was a bit at a loss where to begin. I suggested a few starter ideas—the spirituality of play, the theological meaning of technology, the role of community, and so on—and a good hour later we had unearthed enough raw material to write, if not a full-on theological treatise, at the very least a respectable prolegomenon to one.

I’ve thought over that conversation in the coffee shop a number of times since, and have had it in the back of my mind for a while now to write something about the theological meaning of video games. I even started some initial research on the topic, reading Liel Leibovitz’s God in the Machine, and  Craig Detweiler's Halos and Avatars, an anthology of theological essays on the topic. This gave me even more fodder for the theological canon, but somehow I never found the time to sit down and assemble my thoughts into anything cohesive.

And then the world went into Covid-19 lockdown mode in the spring of 2020, all my usual routines were chaotically disrupted, and I suddenly found myself with not only a renewed interest in gaming, but also oodles of time to write about it. Of course, it may be that a series on the theological meaning of video games was waiting for just such a time as this to be written. According to this article by the BBC, gaming numbers have soared since the pandemic started, and across the board the gaming industry is seeing record sales as more and more people are turning to video games to pass the time.

The reasons for this might be obvious—as the world is collectively stuck at home and looking for fresh ways to while away the hours—but the meaning of it, and especially the theological meaning of it, is less so. What, if anything, does our skyrocketing desire to romp in these digital amusement parks tell us about God, and about ourselves in relation to God?

It would be a question worth asking even if the pandemic hadn’t stuck us all inside and glued us to our computer screens. According to this 2018 survey, conducted by the Entertainment Software Association, some 65% of American adults play video games, 75% of American households have at least one gamer in residence, and 79% of these believe that gaming “has a positive impact on their lives.” Nor is gaming mere child’s-play anymore. The average age of an American gamer is 33, and he or she (it’s almost an even gender split) is spending somewhere around 7-8 hours a week playing video games.

Given these stats, perhaps no phenomenon is more ripe for some theological reflection these days than that of the no-longer-nerdy, deceptively facile, and undeniably ubiquitous video game. What is happening to us, from a theological perspective, during all those hours we spend in these magical worlds of our own creation?

It’s a question I propose to explore over the next couple of weeks here at terra incognita, in a blog series I'm calling "Of Games and God." I hope you will join me for the journey.

Of course, if you do, it would only be fair of me to put all my cards on the table. I would describe myself as a consistent-but-not-so-avid gamer. The only games I’ve really played in the last 10 years are Skyrim and Minecraft; but then, I’ve really played them in the last 10 years. I’ve logged more hours than I care to admit questing to become the Dragonborn in the one, and I’ve built entire pixelated kingdoms in the other (Exhibit A: the video walk-through of my latest Minecraft creation, below). So: as I weave together the various threads that together make up my “theology of video gaming,” know that I am speaking as one who—though he is hardly a master of the arcane digital arts—is no untrained initiate, either.

But more on that in blog-posts to come. For today, whether you consider yourself a master or an initiate, let me pose to you the same question that got my friend and I started that day in the coffee shop: what themes would you draw on, if you were to develop a theology of video gaming?

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