I'm in the end stages of a Fortnite battle royale. The game's lethal storm circle is tightening around the combat zone, a sleepy beach town with a bubblegum-pink ice cream parlor, and the handful of remaining squads are duking it out for survival. My three teammates, who are all children, are taking intense fire. One squares off with an especially ruthless competitor and is promptly dispatched. “Watch out, that kid is sweaty,” he warns. Another falls to a grenade burst with a cry of “I'm knocked!” A third pleads for the Fortnite equivalent of a field medic: “Rez me!”
And then—suddenly, alarmingly—the game is in my hands.
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Then, through the headset, I overhear a deeper, more authoritative voice on someone's audio feed.
“Ollie, that was your last game.”
“Dad! Please one more?”
“No.”
