Beating ADHD with Lessons from Ready Player One

Growing up engrossed in video games such as Ragnarok Online and Perfect World, the virtual world has always felt like a second home to me. Despite the immense concentration and dedication I applied to gaming, leveling up avatars, and conquering missions, I found it incredibly difficult to channel that same commitment into other aspects of my life, notably reading. The challenges of living with ADHD made the seemingly simple task of reading a book an almost insurmountable hurdle. My thoughts would dart around erratically, like an overexcited gamer navigating through multiple screens, tabs, and functions. The result? I never managed to finish a single book. But everything changed when I picked up Ready Player One.

Ready Player One is a story that navigates the life of a young gamer, Wade Watts, who finds solace and purpose in a virtual universe called the OASIS. At its core, this book serves as an agile tour through the iconic imagery of the 1980s, the complexities of video game culture, and the dual-edged sword of a life saturated in the digital realm. While the superficial observer might categorize this as mere escapism, akin to a cleverly written subroutine in the vast literature program, the book compiled a transformative experience in the source code of my life.

As I dove into the adventures of Wade Watts, I found myself completely absorbed. Maybe it was the intricate narrative, perhaps the relatability of a protagonist living a significant part of his life in a digital universe, just like me. For the first time ever, my ADHD didn't force my eyes to wander off the page every few seconds. I was hooked, and the reason was simple: I saw myself in Wade. His relentless pursuit to be the best in the OASIS mirrored my own determination in games like Ragnarok Online and Perfect World.

As I read, the realization struck me: if Wade Watts could focus on his quest within the OASIS with such fervor, why couldn't I muster the same level of focus in the real world? The narrative became a self-reflecting pool. It was as though the character of Wade had reached out from the pages and flipped a switch in my brain. If he could focus on finding the Easter egg, then I could focus on completing the book. And so I did.

The moment I finished the last page of Ready Player One, I felt a euphoria similar to dropping an MVP Card with a 0.01% chance in Ragnarok. For the first time, I had completed a book from start to finish, absorbing every detail and remembering every plot twist. More importantly, it made me reconsider the limitations I had placed on myself because of my ADHD.

The lessons from Ready Player One didn't stop at the final chapter. The strategies I employed in games—the planning, the focus, the tenacity—all of that could be transferred to my daily life. Tasks were no longer impossible quests that were too daunting to begin. Instead, they became challenges waiting to be mastered, not unlike a difficult dungeon in Perfect World. I started to channel my attention into my studies and work and even managed to read other books.

While some folks might say, this book isn't exactly high literature, who cares? A book's value isn't just about fancy words or winning awards; it's all about how much it connects with you. This book did way more than just kill time; it was the kickstart I needed to tap into abilities I didn't even know I had, thanks to the ADHD getting in the way.

Looking back, before Ready Player One, I was basically all over the place, lost in my own head. But now? It's like I've really turned things around. I'm not just a player in the game of life; I'm actively vying to be Player Number One, just like Wade Watts. And for the first time, that feels like an achievable quest.