Videogame worlds feel real. Our efforts are acknowledged in a way that is explicitly designed to make those efforts, and the resulting consequences, feel legitimate to us.

The dance between computer and player is like any other fantasy: an open imagination basks in the warm glow of a work of art, and one’s sense of self expands, embodies something in the paracosm.

You embody Link, but the game isn’t a real place that you or anyone or anything can inhabit. You’re also the Wind Fish; your dreaming’s necromancy sustains the very world you play at living in.

That’s play.