The Great Tragedy of My Simulated Life

The Sims can provide a horrifying look into your future, as I’ve learned.

I made a sim version of myself, and moved him into a very small home. Nice and cozy and quiet. Normally the first step is to look up a career path via newspaper, but instead I got myself to write a book. Typical me. And because it’s the Sims, the book was published, and made a little bit of money. That was the start.

Other than eating, sleeping, pissing, bathing, watching TV, and socializing with anyone who happened to be walking by the house (all just to get my stats bars up), my sim was writing nonstop. Every book he wrote I named after a book I tried to write in reality. How cathartic, watching my dreams come true in virtual life. They grew more and more popular until those royalty checks were coming in too fast to spend. Living the dream!

But sitting around watching my sim write wasn’t all that exciting, so I decided to get a new sim to play with while my sim wrote. As soon as a lady sim came wandering by the house, I got my sim to chat with her, chat with her, joke with her, joke with her, dance with her, flirt with her, kiss her, kiss her, propose to her, and then I had myself a new sim and I set my me-sim back to the writing desk. I got a job for my new wife-sim, and did normal Sims things with her while my me-sim wrote book after book, making mountains of simoleons. Eventually I had the most expensive furniture in the game, funded 90% by book royalties. If only writing worked that way in real life.

One of the expensive items was a “juice bar” for parties. And, well, my wife-sim really, really liked it. When she wasn’t working or doing essential stats-bar-related activities, she was throwing back shots. I wasn’t telling her to–she just… did it.

My wife was an alcoholic.

Why? She wasn’t always. Was it me? Was I just writing too much? Locked away in that room, spending hours at the keyboard. But I was making money, dammit. I was providing for her. Well, what’s a drink now and then? It wasn’t until she started flirting with passers-by, and eventually bringing them home to woohoo while my sim was writing in the other room that I knew my sim had lost her, if he ever had her at all. I considered deleting the bedroom door so my cuckolding wife and once-trusted neighbour Bob would starve to death standing in their own piss and shit, but I resisted. Instead I kicked her out, and watched my sim do all he knew how to do. Write. And write. He published over one hundred books before he died alone.

I’ve never played the Sims again since. I don’t need to see another predictive, Scorsese-esque rise and fall of my ideal self. But at this point I feel like I could write a tragic autobiography of a life I haven’t lived.

Yet.

– H.

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