Alternate Universes Are Occasionally Fun

They are not always terrifying arid deathscapes with low humidity, hungry fauna and heavy-handed political undertones.

I’ve spent the greater part of the past week consumed entertained by Out of the Park 12, the new baseball simulation computer game by the folks who brought you Out of the Park 11 and ten other quality titles.  Before I send up their meticulous craftsmanship for gentle ridicule, I should disclose that Out of the Park 12 is a really fine game, and I’ve written a review that says as much, in addition to trumpeting my ability to transform the 1977 expansion Seattle Mariners into World Champions.

Obviously, baseball simulators put the power in the gamer’s hands, much in the same way that flight simulators, WOPR, and the Power Glove have in the past.  In my mind, however, one of the most appealing aspects of the genre is that these games tend to create a surreal, shadowy universe where most, but not all, of the usual rules of the baseball world apply.  The experience is almost akin to being thrown into a Bradbury short story where there are still lemonade stands and elementary schools, but the sun only comes out once every seven years.   Only fun!

After all, don’t we all want to visit (but not live in) a universe where the following trade takes place?  (Note: enlargination is vital for appreciating the condensed humor below.  Proceed accordingly.)

In fact, if you happen to organize a small writing group that meets bi-weekly at a local coffee shop, I encourage you to use this picture as a prompt: “write a two page short-short story that takes place on the morning of March 31, 2011, as the city of Chicago lies in rubble.”  Bonus points for including Jim Hendry screaming in anguish at the cloudless sky, a pair of broken eyeglasses in one hand.

If you tend to avoid stiff tragedy for the sake of smirking at the absurd condition of the human soul, there’s also a trade offer for you:

But perhaps my favorite moment of playing the game cam in my first couple of hours, as I took the helm of the 2011 Seattle Mariners.  Sadly, I neglected to take a screenshot of the crucial moment, so you will have to take my word when I say that I somehow traded Chone Figgins to the Tampa Bay Rays in exchange for James Shields.  I can, however, reproduce two images that sum up the situation rather nicely:

What makes the computer baseball simulator so fascinating is that we know that everything in it is an algorithm: everything, including grit and heart and leadership, is quantifiable, determined by die rolls set by predetermined code.  Nothing is supposed to be an accident, and yet in the game’s earnest attempt at authenticity, it creates a reality which is unconsciously funnier, and thus better, than the real one.  It’s all the goodness of Joe Morgan, Art Howe and Ed Wade, mechanically separated and funneled into generic-brand kielbasa.  Tasty generic kielbasa.

Until, of course, this happens.  Then there’s nothing but hurt feelings and unfocused despair.