Life Is Pointless explains everything there is to know about it in its title, and I am struck repeatedly as I go about my day with how poignantly I feel about it. It is a simple premise: Leave the game running and it will assign points to every key press you make on your keyboard. The points don't do anything, there is no progression. But somehow, I care about it. It is a beautiful and cyclical irony that keeps me from closing the program, and a self-fulfilling prophecy.

The game is a brilliant thesis of a desk job. It is both true in its discussion of the modern employee as a machine, and so patently false about what that means that I can't help but think about it. A lot. Yes, it's true that many people sit and type and sit and type and miss days and weeks and years of their lives. Yes, that person might be me. But what does that mean? This game is forcing me to ask myself what value my job has for me. Its name presses against me as I sit and type and sit and type. Life Is Pointless. This job is pointless. I should leave. Enrich myself. Will Demanbey is telling me that this is the case, and there is a part of me that believes him. But I like my job. I like what I do. It doesn't feel pointless. Until it does. At any moment in my day I can look to the little grayscale window running in the background of my computer and feel validated by its assertion that the way I feel is correct, or empowered to challenge it by inserting meaning into my day. In both cases, it moves me forward. It is so much more than it knows and its creator knows. It is its own antithesis.