Sul Sul! Coming Home To The Sims 4

(and artistic frustrations, and joy in the time of existential capitalist dread)

There’s a world in which I live in a sprawling modern home with an infinity pool, two decks, a floating loft and more square footage than I know what to do with, and that world is The Sims 4. In this world, I can also access tens of thousands in made-up currency through a keyboard shortcut, adopt a baby online and die in a fire because I didn’t follow a command to move out of the way, but the subject of this month’s letter is the appeal of the process of building virtual homes.

I’ve played iterations of The Sims periodically since I was teenager, and while I may not be as well-versed in the mechanics of the game as some others are, I’m aware of the phenomenal cultural impact it’s had. Simmers have written about how playing the game helped them understand their gender and sexual identities, and the wealth of speed-build content on YouTube and elsewhere showcases the talent, creativity and community the franchise has helped foster. It’s hard not to get deep about it, really.

And actually, returning to the game as an adult has added a new layer of depth to the experience for me. A pursuit once unsullied by capitalist ideals of productivity and perfectionism has now become fraught with them. So quickly, the fun of building an approximation of my own home alchemises into existential despair. I can’t create anything as beautiful as I’ve seen online, so what’s the point? Besides, if I’m not going to stream the build or share my results, does the process hold any value? Is this just a waste of time, and if it is, is the same true of all creative hobbies?

Building in The Sims 4 is in some ways akin to writing for me. It taps into those same feelings of creative inspiration and single-minded focus, while often being hampered by the frustration of not immediately and flawlessly being able to render ideas, with the grim reaper (if you know, you know) of external validation skulking about nearby. It’s hard to see the hours I spent building a house on The Sims 4 as time well-spent, and I emerged from my recent return to the game feeling off-kilter in a way I only feel after long spells immersed in virtual worlds. This, of course, is where the similarities between writing and simming diverge: where one has an end-result ostensibly perceived as worthwhile by capitalist standards, the other absolutely does not (benefit of free marketing for EA via the creative expression of gamers notwithstanding). 

This is all to say that I spent last week in a right funk, because too much of my time (which, despite not having been employed for two years, I still feel is owed to some non-existent boss) was spent constructing a home I’ll never inhabit. I felt out of routine, frustrated by my own artistic limitations, generally just not good enough. I didn’t feel at home: not in the mod-heavy, jargony but perfectly nice simmer community online; not in the Swedish villa or forest lodge I’d thrown hundreds of thousands of Simoleons at; not in my own real-world residence. And isn’t that all I’d been trying to do in the first place? What is building in The Sims if not an attempt to replicate one’s innermost desire for a home in which to feel like you belong?

I get so much joy from building and decorating homes in The Sims. From finding the perfect rug for a reading nook, or creating a laundry room full of well-placed storage and clutter. It is this joy–in all its ultimately pointless, childlike wonder–that causes anxiety like an itch that can only be scratched by abandoning it. Am I allowed to feel joy? Am I allowed to indulge in joy with no money-value output? Of course I am, and so are you. But I’m learning that claiming that right is an ongoing process of resisting and rebelling against capitalist notions of how my time here on Earth should be spent.

A pivotal moment in the Disney/Pixar movie Soul sees the protagonist coming home, feeling deflated after a dream gig with a revered musician doesn’t give him the sense of joy and accomplishment he’d expected it to. He doesn’t understand why he still feels empty, but then he pulls from his pocket, among other things, a seed pod that had drifted down towards him from a tree. It reminds him that joy and satisfaction can be derived from the simplest of things, that watching a seed pod descend through the air can hold the same meaning as realising one’s creative ambitions or life goals. This scene returns to me often; when I devalue myself for not generating an income right now, when I fret that my time has been squandered. Sometimes, The Sims 4 is like dozens of seed pods blanketing the ground in front of me, offering me a home to curl up in if just for a few stolen hours. And sometimes, that’s perfectly OK.

Since I started writing this month’s issue of Home Comforts, I’ve completed one of my favourite ever builds, watched hours of speed build footage on YouTube, and generally felt much calmer and better about having fun with The Sims 4 again.

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