Becoming Invincible, I Realized What It Means to Live with Intention

The first Resident Evil had a hidden feature: the infinite rocket launcher. Clear the game within three hours and you get a rocket launcher with unlimited ammo.

But to meet that condition, I replayed the same game over and over. It's a time attack, so of course I did. Before I knew it, the enemy spawn points, the item locations, the way the story unfolded—all of it was in my head.

It was a well-made enough game that you could lose yourself in it and forget reality. That's exactly why I ran it again and again.

Then I finally met the condition and got the infinite rocket launcher. Now I'm invincible, I thought—and the satisfaction I'd expected just wasn't there.

If anything, I was bored out of my mind.

I knew everything, and nothing could beat me. No fear, no surprise. Holding the strongest weapon, in the strongest state, and nothing happens. I never thought that "invincibility" I'd wanted so badly could be this flavorless.

Usually we live thinking, "if only I had that," "if only I had this."

If only I had that qualification. If only I had money. If only I were taller. We convince ourselves that if we could just get the thing we don't have right now, we'd be more fulfilled.

But just like that infinite rocket launcher, maybe having it is boring in its own way once you do. The expectation behind that sense of lack—"getting it will change things"—misses the mark more often than you'd think.

So what was the most fun part of that game.

Looking back, it wasn't the moment I became invincible. It was back when I knew nothing, walking down the hallways on edge. Back when I didn't even know if a zombie would appear, low on ammo, desperately feeling out how to get through.

I was truly immersed in the world inside the screen. That "time I could lose myself in" was itself the greatest reward, I think.

Rather than lamenting what's missing, what am I feeling right now, within the not-having.

That sensation of stepping forward on edge, not knowing what lay ahead down the hallway. Thinking back on it, maybe what I wanted wasn't the rocket launcher—it was that.

When you feel something's missing, you can't help assuming "having it will make this feeling go away." But that's not how it really is. Not wishing, but living with intention. That, I'm starting to feel, fills me up far more.

• Even becoming invincible, there was no satisfaction.

• What was fun was the being-immersed itself.

• Rather than filling in what's missing, living with intention is what fulfills you.