Here's a concept I don't get
One thing I know is that I suck at blogging. Not just the writing part, but it looks like the "frequency" may be a problem too. Month of May? Nope. You get nothing.
But I'll try to make up for it in June.
Anyhow...on to the topic at hand. And as usual, let's ruminate on something I'm not sure I understand: Escape Rooms.
I'm starting to hear more and more chatter about this Escape Room phenomenon and it goes something like this. You show up at a given time, you're given a quick orientation, they take you to a confined space and close you in uncomfortably, and what happens next is that you use all the creativity and wisdom you can muster to escape from the place as quickly as possible (and before everyone else).
Wait. Isn't that: "What I've Done at Work for the Last 23 Years"? I don't get how that's fun.
But, then when I started reading about a new twist on the Escape Room, one form of confusion morphed into another. This version was:
"You are an elite CIA agent tasked with gathering evidence from the multi-million dollar bachelor pad of international socialite, Mr. Dufresne. Our intelligence team could only get you into the bachelor pad for 60 minutes. You must get out before Mr. Dufresne's swimsuit model girlfriend returns from her tanning and Brazilian wax appointments and your case is blown! Collect evidence, solve the puzzle, and escape from the room before you're caught!"
Let me see if I have this straight. I'm locked in a simulated million-dollar bachelor pad and what I'm worried about is getting out of there?!? And before a freshly-waxed swimsuit model joins me?
Whoo boy. This has to be the world's worst motivation to escape a place ever.
Yeah, let me jump right on figuring out those clues so I can leave Valhalla early, hop in my rusting minivan and rush right back to my suburban split-level.
Where do I sign up for the "Don't Escape Room"?
If they really wanted to motivate people to try to escape something, I'll volunteer my cubicle, email account, and the kids' activities calendar for the week.
To each his own, I guess.