QUOTE(Lisa Petrillo @ UNION-TRIBUNE)
POWAY – As dawn breaks over a church-quiet Sunday, father and son Jim and Josh Ellington are sitting side by side in a black-ceilinged room digitally decimating the enemy.
Around them, everyone in the black leatherette chairs has launched into cyberspace, playing video games for seven hours straight.
“Oh dude, you're so dead,” another gamer, Ron Castle, 14, says to his two best friends as he wipes them out in “Warcraft III.”
This is a marathon of extreme computer gaming. It is also a rare view into what usually goes on behind closed doors in the $33 billion-a-year gaming industry.
On a recent Saturday night, 20 guys and one gal spent $40 apiece to be locked in overnight at an Internet cafe called Computing 101. Way past freckle-faced sixth-grader Dan Mink's bedtime.
From 11 p.m. until 7 a.m., the mostly adolescent gamers munch on pizza and doughnuts while they kill imaginary enemies and occasionally laugh about it.
Because the all-nighter was such a big deal to Ron, he spent some gift money on the event. Dan voluntarily mowed the lawn, cleaned his room and performed extra chores – in addition to begging relentlessly.
In geek speak, these marathons are LAN parties. LANs, or local area networks, link multiple computers in the same space, such as an Internet cafe.
Participants can play the same game, like “Halo” or “Warcraft III: Reign of Chaos,” at the same time, but on their own screens. The Ellington family males did just that with a realistic multiplayer action game, “Battlefield 2,” dodging in and out of a virtual Jalalabad and taking turns serving as commando leader.
“I'm reloading, Dad,” Josh calls from his PC station behind a 24-inch flat-screen monitor.
One computer away, Jim Ellington is mortally wounded in cyberspace. In reality he sips his coffee calmly, for he knows he will respawn soon.
Yes, respawn. Nobody really dies in the world of computer gaming, where even the most violent simulations can have bloodless, happy endings, like a modern-day “Looney Toons.”
That's the how of all-night gaming. Which leads to the question of why.
Ellington, at 49, is by far the oldest guy in the room. He works a serious day job on a Navy base as an aircraft technician and devotes his Sunday mornings to church with his wife and family. He said he attends these gaming parties simply because if that's what his son likes, he'll come along for the virtual ride.
“We go on a big fishing trip every year in the Sierras and that's our thing, but this is our way of just hanging out,” Ellington says, looking over at his golden-haired son, whose face glows from the reflection of the giant computer screen. “He's 22. He won't be around here for much longer.”
All-night gaming is definitely guy bonding time.
'Modern-day arcade'
Computing 101 owner Jeffrey Miller designed his business as stylishly as a Seattle coffeehouse, with ochre walls offset by purple throne-style chairs and exposed ceiling pipes for an edgy, urban feel.
The cafe is equipped with a high-end espresso machine and salads in the deli case. There's also gaming-culture treats such as freeze-dried ramen noodles and frozen White Castle burgers.
To this crowd, the ambience means less than used chewing gum. This is the kind of place where on any given afternoon, the teenage boys don't even look up when teenage girls walk in.
That's why lone woman, Jessica Staton, 18, likes to break up the testosterone vibe, her participation at the all-nighter striking a small blow for feminism.
“A lot of girls don't try to break the stereotype, you know?” says Staton, whirling her characters away from mortal danger on her computer screen.
Miller surveys the scene and smiles. He has packed his cafe full of happy campers. He laughs as he relates his reassurances to parents, whose written permissions are needed for minors to attend these monthly lock-ins: No, your kids won't need to bring sleeping bags, he tells them, because they ain't gonna sleep.
Miller learned about computers while serving in the Army and then worked in the dot-com industry. He returned home to San Diego County to launch a computer business in an old motorcycle shop on Poway Road three years ago. He noticed it was the gamers who loved his machines more than the business clientele he expected, so he revamped the business.
“We are the modern-day arcade,” Miller says.
The difference now is that the majority of homes in the affluent North County boast computers and Internet access – unlike during the video arcade heyday of the 1980s, a time before a new generation of home computers and sophisticated video game consoles.
Miller makes sure his machines and Web pipelines are bigger, better and faster, with one key arcadelike component: other humans.
Much has been written about gaming being too solitary an activity. Technology is offering a way to change that.
The past decade has seen the rise of multiplayer games, such as “Battlefield” and “Halo,” which gamers can play alone or with others via the Web. “World of Warcraft” alone claims 9 million registered users worldwide.
Multiplayer games gave rise to public LAN parties. They started underground, just guys carting their computers to friends' houses, said Mark Nielsen, executive director of iGames, a national consortium of 500 gaming-oriented Internet cafes, including Computing 101 and a half-dozen others in the county. One on Convoy Street in San Diego goes by the name Lost Sleep Club.
“It's the difference between drinking beer at home or going to bars to drink it,” Nielsen said of gaming cafes.
All-nighter survivors
By daybreak at the Poway cafe, only one gamer has sacked out on the velvet couch. Middle schooler Allon Rossner proudly proclaims that he made it all the way through this time, after crashing at 3 a.m. his last night out. Near the glass-block walls, Ron Castle and friends call to each other: “That's tight, dude,” and “That's sick.”
Most of the gamers have racked up a collection of empty blue bottles – the remains of super-caffeinated energy drinks called Bawls. Its makers claim the drink contains extract of the South American guarana berry, giving gamers the energy to “pound the keyboard with the passion and ferocity of a Persian tiger and moving your mouse at speeds that you only thought fighter jets could achieve.”
By 6:45 a.m., a knot of boys edges toward the locked front door and starts begging to be released. At the stroke of 7, as Miller has promised the parents, the doors unlock and the kids drift into waiting cars.
Thirteen-year-old Dan Mink finds his eager mother in her sedan.
“I didn't sleep a wink last night, I was so worried,” Cindy Mink says. “But he wanted it so much, and he worked hard to earn it.”
Dan grins, the gray color of exhaustion clearing from his freckled face. He has taken a major step toward independence – a night spent on his own doing what he wanted.
Mother and son head for their Ramona home, the cyberenemies vanquished, the LAN party over, to get some well-earned rest.
Around them, everyone in the black leatherette chairs has launched into cyberspace, playing video games for seven hours straight.
“Oh dude, you're so dead,” another gamer, Ron Castle, 14, says to his two best friends as he wipes them out in “Warcraft III.”
This is a marathon of extreme computer gaming. It is also a rare view into what usually goes on behind closed doors in the $33 billion-a-year gaming industry.
On a recent Saturday night, 20 guys and one gal spent $40 apiece to be locked in overnight at an Internet cafe called Computing 101. Way past freckle-faced sixth-grader Dan Mink's bedtime.
From 11 p.m. until 7 a.m., the mostly adolescent gamers munch on pizza and doughnuts while they kill imaginary enemies and occasionally laugh about it.
Because the all-nighter was such a big deal to Ron, he spent some gift money on the event. Dan voluntarily mowed the lawn, cleaned his room and performed extra chores – in addition to begging relentlessly.
In geek speak, these marathons are LAN parties. LANs, or local area networks, link multiple computers in the same space, such as an Internet cafe.
Participants can play the same game, like “Halo” or “Warcraft III: Reign of Chaos,” at the same time, but on their own screens. The Ellington family males did just that with a realistic multiplayer action game, “Battlefield 2,” dodging in and out of a virtual Jalalabad and taking turns serving as commando leader.
“I'm reloading, Dad,” Josh calls from his PC station behind a 24-inch flat-screen monitor.
One computer away, Jim Ellington is mortally wounded in cyberspace. In reality he sips his coffee calmly, for he knows he will respawn soon.
Yes, respawn. Nobody really dies in the world of computer gaming, where even the most violent simulations can have bloodless, happy endings, like a modern-day “Looney Toons.”
That's the how of all-night gaming. Which leads to the question of why.
Ellington, at 49, is by far the oldest guy in the room. He works a serious day job on a Navy base as an aircraft technician and devotes his Sunday mornings to church with his wife and family. He said he attends these gaming parties simply because if that's what his son likes, he'll come along for the virtual ride.
“We go on a big fishing trip every year in the Sierras and that's our thing, but this is our way of just hanging out,” Ellington says, looking over at his golden-haired son, whose face glows from the reflection of the giant computer screen. “He's 22. He won't be around here for much longer.”
All-night gaming is definitely guy bonding time.
'Modern-day arcade'
Computing 101 owner Jeffrey Miller designed his business as stylishly as a Seattle coffeehouse, with ochre walls offset by purple throne-style chairs and exposed ceiling pipes for an edgy, urban feel.
The cafe is equipped with a high-end espresso machine and salads in the deli case. There's also gaming-culture treats such as freeze-dried ramen noodles and frozen White Castle burgers.
To this crowd, the ambience means less than used chewing gum. This is the kind of place where on any given afternoon, the teenage boys don't even look up when teenage girls walk in.
That's why lone woman, Jessica Staton, 18, likes to break up the testosterone vibe, her participation at the all-nighter striking a small blow for feminism.
“A lot of girls don't try to break the stereotype, you know?” says Staton, whirling her characters away from mortal danger on her computer screen.
Miller surveys the scene and smiles. He has packed his cafe full of happy campers. He laughs as he relates his reassurances to parents, whose written permissions are needed for minors to attend these monthly lock-ins: No, your kids won't need to bring sleeping bags, he tells them, because they ain't gonna sleep.
Miller learned about computers while serving in the Army and then worked in the dot-com industry. He returned home to San Diego County to launch a computer business in an old motorcycle shop on Poway Road three years ago. He noticed it was the gamers who loved his machines more than the business clientele he expected, so he revamped the business.
“We are the modern-day arcade,” Miller says.
The difference now is that the majority of homes in the affluent North County boast computers and Internet access – unlike during the video arcade heyday of the 1980s, a time before a new generation of home computers and sophisticated video game consoles.
Miller makes sure his machines and Web pipelines are bigger, better and faster, with one key arcadelike component: other humans.
Much has been written about gaming being too solitary an activity. Technology is offering a way to change that.
The past decade has seen the rise of multiplayer games, such as “Battlefield” and “Halo,” which gamers can play alone or with others via the Web. “World of Warcraft” alone claims 9 million registered users worldwide.
Multiplayer games gave rise to public LAN parties. They started underground, just guys carting their computers to friends' houses, said Mark Nielsen, executive director of iGames, a national consortium of 500 gaming-oriented Internet cafes, including Computing 101 and a half-dozen others in the county. One on Convoy Street in San Diego goes by the name Lost Sleep Club.
“It's the difference between drinking beer at home or going to bars to drink it,” Nielsen said of gaming cafes.
All-nighter survivors
By daybreak at the Poway cafe, only one gamer has sacked out on the velvet couch. Middle schooler Allon Rossner proudly proclaims that he made it all the way through this time, after crashing at 3 a.m. his last night out. Near the glass-block walls, Ron Castle and friends call to each other: “That's tight, dude,” and “That's sick.”
Most of the gamers have racked up a collection of empty blue bottles – the remains of super-caffeinated energy drinks called Bawls. Its makers claim the drink contains extract of the South American guarana berry, giving gamers the energy to “pound the keyboard with the passion and ferocity of a Persian tiger and moving your mouse at speeds that you only thought fighter jets could achieve.”
By 6:45 a.m., a knot of boys edges toward the locked front door and starts begging to be released. At the stroke of 7, as Miller has promised the parents, the doors unlock and the kids drift into waiting cars.
Thirteen-year-old Dan Mink finds his eager mother in her sedan.
“I didn't sleep a wink last night, I was so worried,” Cindy Mink says. “But he wanted it so much, and he worked hard to earn it.”
Dan grins, the gray color of exhaustion clearing from his freckled face. He has taken a major step toward independence – a night spent on his own doing what he wanted.
Mother and son head for their Ramona home, the cyberenemies vanquished, the LAN party over, to get some well-earned rest.