One final digression, then I’ll get to my game-making attempt, promise. There are two landmark gaming moments from my childhood/teenage years. There was “The Night I Beat Mike Tyson” (Punch-Out!!, NES). And there was “The Night I Killed Dracula” (The Count, VIC-20). Both nights were significant, because gaming–which was something that I typically did alone, apart from the rest of the members of my family–became, at least for a scant few minutes, a family affair.

On “The Night I Beat Mike Tyson,” a feat that had previously seemed so daunting to me that I was certain I’d never accomplish it, I danced my teenaged body into the living room, arms in the air, unable to contain my joy. Then I invited the rest of my family to join me, and to bear witness as I attempted to repeat this formerly impossible feat, and, in the fiction I was forever creating in my mind, giving Mike Tyson the rematch he and his manager Don King were begging me for. (At the fictional press conference before the fight, I wore mirrored aviators and cooly said, “Sure, Mike, we can do this again, if you like.”) Then I knocked him out a second time, dodging left and right during those one-two-three super uppercuts. “See? See?” I said after the fight, with the virtual Mike Tyson in all of his gap-toothed glory sprawled across the virtual ring. Everybody seemed happy for me. Even my dad, wearing the expression of a ham-radio operator receiving a faint signal from a distant land, seemed to vaguely understand the significance of this moment.

Landmark moment number two–“The Night I Killed Dracula”–was equally glorious, if somewhat more measured. I’d been playing a game called The Count on the VIC-20 for several weeks. The Count was a text-based adventure, a type of game that seems so archaic by today’s standards that I sometimes can’t believe these things ever really existed. (Side note: Someone should port a few of these adventures to the iPhone and iPad. I can’t be the only person who’d gladly part with a buck or two for the chance to experience them again.) This might be difficult for current gamers to comprehend, but these experiences featured absolutely no visuals or “graphics” as gamers tend to call them. Instead, all the action took place on the best high-definition television screen in the world: your brain.

I’d tap two-word commands into the VIC-20 keyboard–“Go West,” “Grab torch,” “Enter tomb,” etc.–all in the name of eventually finding, and killing, Dracula. The game took place over the course of three nights, with the most dangerous sections of the game being whenever the sun went down. I eventually sussed out the proper order of events via weeks of trial and error. My mother and my brother, who must have sensed that something exciting was happening in the house, joined me in The Count’s final moments. (While my father would tolerate games about boxing, he would have no truck with Dracula or monsters of any sort.)

The three of us sat together in the dark, staring at the blinking cursor onscreen. They gave me advice as to what I should do and where I should go next. I wasn’t alone on this adventure anymore. Now, I had my people with me. Finally, the three of us figured out the necessary order of events. Dracula was dead. The sun was coming up. The game was over. The word, “CONGRATULATIONS!” rendered in the VIC-20’s gangly font stretched across the screen.

There was a brief, collective moment of “We did it!”-type elation. After that, the mirage that the game had evoked began to dissipate. Dracula’s castle began to fade. Instead of  computer and videogames being “Scott’s things,” they were, for a few glorious minutes anyway, things that we could all appreciate together. The three of us sat there in silence watching the onscreen cursor blink once, twice, three times. Then my mother and brother got up and left me alone with the computer again.

And now, stage 7-10. Is it just me or do all of the Donkey Kong stages lately seem to be of the three-tiered variety? Today’s stage consists of–you guessed it–three tiers, with Mario starting out on the bottom tier and the key and the door on the top tier. In between: some very tricky terrain. How tricky exactly? Tricky enough to require your best gaming “skillz.” Let’s begin.

The key to today’s level: falling icicles. The space between you and your first platform is too far for Mario to jump across. So, what you must do is this: you need to time your jump so that you land on the back of the falling icicle, then quickly jump again to reach the platform. This initially will seem utterly impossible. I’m here to tell you that it’s not impossible. You can do this. Also: know up front that you’ll have to repeat this near-miraculous feat no less than three more times before the day is out.

The platform you’ve just landed on is made of slippery ice. Be careful that your momentum from your jump doesn’t carry you straight off the platform and down into the water, where the world’s most hideous 8-bit fish is waiting to eat you. The next jump is also too far for Mario to make, so you’ll have to use the falling icicle–which conveniently falls halfway between you and your destination–as a stopover again. Pro tip: Don’t get frustrated if you miss these jumps. Try again, and you’ll eventually get the timing down.

Welcome back to solid ground. Note the icicle which falls directly in the path of the ladder you need to use. Don’t let that thing kill you. That’s a really stupid way to die. Instead, once the icicle falls, notice how it remains plugged into the ground for a few seconds before disappearing. Climb onto its back before it disappears and quickly scamper up the ladder.

It’s official: we’re on the middle tier. Your next objective: the platform to your left. Wait for a falling icicle to bury itself into the small bed of sharpangles, then hop onto it’s back, then onto the platform. This platform is also made of ice, so watch your momentum. The next part is, by far, the trickiest part of today’s already very tricky stage. What you want to do is reach the half ladder that hangs down from the top tier of the stage. First, use the pair of falling icicles to reach the platform on the far left. Then wait here until a fresh pair of icicles emerges from the ceiling above. When they finally do fall, jump onto the back of nearest icicle and quickly press up on the directional pad. If your timing is right, you should connect with the ladder. If your timing is not right, jump back to the platform to the left, wait for a new pair of icicles, and try again.

Hang in there. You’ll get it.

Once you’re up here, relish your “Top of the world, ma!” moment. Also, before grabbing the key and heading out the exit door, consider making a play for Pauline’s handbag-sunhat-umbrella trifecta to the right of the door. The hat and umbrella are positioned on top of “vanishers,” those ice blocks that disintegrate beneath your feet. If you don’t make haste when claiming Pauline’s lost belongings, you’ll wind up in the bed of sharpangles below, which means starting this whole damn thing all over again.

Anyway, when you’re ready, grab the key and head out. Also: feel confident that you put on quite a performance out there today. Next up: Day 75.