Learning to Love Zelda

By Claudia Wallis

If you don't turn that thing off right now, I'm turning it off for you."

"Mom! I'm about to beat this level. I just need another...Don't touch that! Mom! Now look what you did. Now I died!"

That was a fairly typical exchange between my 12-year-old son Nat and me back in January, at the height of his obsession with the Nintendo 64 game Legend of Zelda. We followed that script most nights. And it typically ended in his death--or rather that of his sword-wielding surrogate, the great man-boy hero Link.

We were getting nowhere. My son's game habit was resisting all the negative reinforcement I could dish out. In fact, the habit was awesome to behold. Nat would arrive home from school and be drawn, as if by some tractor beam, straight to the den. When his friends were present, there was a nearly indecipherable babble: "Hit Bongo Bongo with the ice arrows." "Switch to the Biggoron sword." "Use the Lens of Truth."

I'd seen some of this behavior before, first with Mario, then Donkey Kong and Banjo-Kazooie. But the games, it seemed, were becoming more hypnotic, more of a nonnutritious substitute for real life. Frankly, it scared me.

What scared me more, though, was listening to myself grow hysterical. I was convinced that most video and computer games were a waste. And besides, why wasn't he reading? As I grew more shrill, my son grew more sullen. I was rejecting something he loved. And he recognized my prejudice as uninformed. I was also violating a basic rule of parenting: take an interest in what your kid is doing--especially when his tastes diverge from yours. Every parent in America got a refresher course on that rule April 20.

O.K., I said one day, show me Zelda. Nat grinned. And like a giddy tour guide, he showed me Princess Zelda's kingdom. "You gotta see this. Look what happens when you go to the Temple of Time. Check out the graphics when you use the light arrows." The game, as it turned out, was a synthesis of Arthurian legend, Tolkien mythology and Marvel comic books. It was devilishly difficult. Besides mastering arcane weapons (no blood, though), he had to memorize different sequences of tones--magic songs that transported the hero. There were puzzles to solve, strategies to plot.

I now understood the pride my son took in his expertise. He was a Zelda master, respected by his friends. Sure, I'd prefer him to work on his chess game or fastball. But do those games really prepare him for his future better than this one?

As the cloud of my contempt lifted, I could think rationally about setting some limits:

Rule 1 Know what your kid is playing. If possible, rent and test a game before you buy it. We made the mistake of buying GoldenEye 007, not realizing that the whole game is played peering over a revolver.

Rule 2 Remember, a new game is like a fever. It must run its course. Allow generous playtime when the game is new, preferably during a school vacation.

Rule 3 Then set strict time limits.

Rule 4 If you can stand it, play the game with your child.

Rule 5 Worry if the fever doesn't let go. Then you are dealing with an illness that will obliterate other activities. As for my own child, he's over Zelda and into playing HoverRace on the Internet. And playing a whole lot of soccer.

Wallis is managing editor of TIME FOR KIDS