I go upstairs and from Sam’s room I can hear the familiar sound of a joy pad in use, the little plasticky button clicks echoing down the hall. Surprisingly, I can also hear piano music – delicate, slow, slightly maudlin, coming from whatever he’s playing. At least it’s definitely not Call of Duty... Inside, Sam is sitting cross-legged on his bed, a small LCD screen and the Xbox 360 jammed on a little Ikea desk opposite...
“Hey, Sam, what are you playing?” I say, realising I have the fundamentals of a Casablanca joke here, that would be utterly wasted on an eight-year-old child.
“Minecraft, Minecraft,” he says, without looking away from the television...
There’s a long silence as Sam keeps playing, chopping at trees and running around. I fiddle with the door handle, half in the room, half out, utterly unsure of how to communicate...
“Sam, I’ve got to get back.”
“No! Watch, Daddy, I can build things.”
But what’s the point, I ask myself. When was a kid these games had baddies to shoot at and high scores to beat. There were considerably fewer cardboard-box-shaped pigs to herd up.
“It’s not for grown-ups,” I mumble at last. Daddies don’t play computer games.”