The games of others.

It was quite an achievement for me.

I managed to get into jail free, skinned as Santa Claus.

There was a bed and a view of the trees.

It was perfect respite from trying to navigate.

I was officially declared 'rubbish' at Minecraft.

I got stuck in a very large hole that I dug for myself.

"How do you jump?"

"I only seem to able to dig."

I built a carbunkle in glass with no roof and had conversations with a couple of sheep.

They said, "Baa."

Meanwhile, as I was digging aimlessly, my son had built a parquet floored, glass-windowed, fully-furnished bungalow with brick roof and automatic doors, and a multi-level, torch-lit, super-jail with scary molten lava tunnel and skull features.

He added the lava after I was safely locked up in the cell.

He had been inspired by his friends.

He has participatory experience in this world that I don't have.

If only I could spend a few hours, days, weeks, years, developing joystick literacy.

If only I could spend a few hours, days, weeks, years, developing a new friend network.

I fear that it is too late.

Here I am, an immigrant, gazing wide-eyed at sky-scrapers and baroque cathedrals.

My son showed me the creations of others.

He knows where to look on YouTube for help in his town-planning.

I might as well dream of taking up stone-masonry and building York Minister.

It is too late.

I don't have the skill-set.

The architectural schemes in my daughter's bedroom seemed culturally more accessible:

Her world seemed more familiar to me.

It won't last.

I am slow reading (but yet to open) "Participatory Culture in a Networked Era" of Jenkins, Boyd, and Ito.

I am slow to participate in the collaborative reading proposed by my friends.

I am falling behind.

I keep getting side-tracked by the games of others...