The Gift of Being an Incompentent Surgeon

I don’t remember the name of the computer game. It was a medical simulation where I played a surgeon, given a steady stream of emergency patients to operate on. Most of the time, I botched the surgeries. My hand-eye coordination wasn’t great, the timing mechanics were stressful, and I rarely even knew what I was supposed to be doing.

But strangely, I found it comforting.

At the start of the game, a nurse would greet me. The program even knew the real day and time, so she’d acknowledge it before sending me off to the doctor’s lounge to wait. I could wander, chat lightly with staff, and then eventually be paged into surgery.

It wasn’t a great game. It wasn’t even that fun. But something about it drew me in for a while. The same way I loved simply roaming around Serenia in King’s Quest II as a kid—despite the fact that I had no idea what I was doing, often locked myself out of winning, and likely didn’t even realize there was a “winning” at all.

I didn't fire up these games for potential victory. It was slipping into a world where I wasn’t myself. A world where interactions were scripted, predictable, and safe. Where I could poke around in a hospital or a forest without worrying about consequences or being told I was doing it wrong.

In those games, I was a respected surgeon (a terrible one, sure, but still respected). I was a king who ruled a kingdom. I had the chance to move freely, to make choices, and—most importantly—to feel competent. That was a stark contrast to real life, where teachers grew frustrated with my lack of focus, and classmates teased me for being different.

That small taste of autonomy and control kept pulling me back to games like SimCity or Where in the World Is Carmen Sandiego? They gave me respect, even if it was just from NPCs. They let me try things my own way. And with a little imagination, they encouraged me to push beyond the rigid limits that so often felt suffocating in the real world.

At the time, I had no idea why these virtual spaces felt so important. I wouldn’t learn until this past November, with my diagnosis of ADHD and autism. Now I can look back and recognize what those games gave me: confidence, creativity, and a sense of belonging I didn’t often find anywhere else.

(Note: Apparently, the game was called Life and Death.)