Teaching My 4-Year-Old to Game: Genius Move or Horrible Mistake?

Part 2: My Kid, the Button-Mashing Philosopher

 

So picture this: my four-year-old, eyes shimmering with that wild “I’ve discovered fire” look, just hit me with, “Can I get my own Nintendo?”

Honestly, I froze. You know in movies when the hero gets that thousand-yard stare, the orchestra swells, and you can practically see them doing existential math in their head? That was me—stuck mid-game, clutching a controller that’s probably seen more pizza grease than any actual cleaning product.

I mean, on the one hand, this kid just figured out how to jump over a pit in Mario without instantly face-planting. On the other, he now acts like gaming is a constitutional right. I made this monster. I handed him the keys to the Mushroom Kingdom, and now he wants the deed to the castle.

So, naturally, I panicked. Pulled the classic parent stall: “Let’s talk about that later.” Which, let’s be real, is code for “I gotta Google if letting you play Mario at age four will melt your brain.”

But here’s the kicker—he didn’t whine, didn’t flop on the floor, nothing. Just plopped down, grabbed the controller, and goes, “Let’s beat the turtle guy.”

It hit me right then—he wasn’t fiending for screen time. He was hooked on the vibe, the hanging out, the tag-teaming the chaos with me. This was less about pixels, more about partnership.

We dove back in, full turbo. He’d take Mario for a spin through the easy bits, I’d bail him out when things got spicy. We were an absolute unit—father and son, united by questionable plumbing skills and a mutual disregard for Goombas.

Cue plot twist: I fired up Contra. The old-school bullet bonanza that scarred a generation. Handed him the second controller and, in a low-key sacred moment, whispered the Konami Code. “Up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, B, A, start. Magic words, buddy. 30 lives. Boom.”

He looked at me like I’d just handed him the keys to the Matrix. And you know what? He held his own. Was he good? Absolutely not. The kid still thinks grenades are “spicy meatballs.” But he didn’t rage, didn’t sulk—just kept grinning, hitting continue, yelling, “Do it again!” after every digital demise.

That’s when it clicked. This wasn’t about the hardware. Or even the games. It was the play. The mayhem. The giggles. The weird, sacred ritual of passing down the controller—just like my dad did for me, letting me lose to Bowser until I could taste defeat in my sleep.

Eventually, we hit pause. He looks up, eyes still on fire, and says, “Dad, I don’t need my own Nintendo.”

I swear, I almost melted right there.

“I just wanna play with you.”

Cue emotional KO. I’m done. Wrecked.

So yeah, teaching a four-year-old to game? Galaxy-brain decision. Zero regrets.

Will I cap his screen time? Duh.
Will I lose it if he asks to stream on Twitch? You bet.
But right now?

We’re a co-op squad.
We’re storming castles.
We’ve got lives to burn.

Game on, little dude. 

Teaching My 4-Year-Old to Game: Genius Move or Horrible Mistake?

Part 1: Press Start to Cry (and Maybe Laugh a Lot)

 

 Alright, so picture this: I’m just chilling, trying to relive my childhood glory days with some classic Contra, and here comes my four-year-old. He’s got those big puppy-dog eyes, probably sticky hands, and that look like he’s about to ask for something.

“Can I try?”

Now, any sensible parent might’ve said, “Sorry, bud, this is one of those hard-as-nails games where even a pixel of a bullet sends you packing. You’re just not ready.” But nope—couldn’t help myself. Handed him the controller like I was passing on the family sword.

 Honestly, I was weirdly proud.

 

Let’s be clear: I wasn’t about to traumatize him with some modern nightmare like Elden Ring. I went with Mario and Contra, thinking “hey, these are old-school, they’ll be a breeze.” Ha! Yeah, no.

Mario? My kid ran straight into the first Goomba. Not once. Not twice. Four times. Like he was on a mission to hug the thing.  
Contra? Apparently, enemy bullets are collectibles now, because he jumped right into every single one. I’m over here, like, “No, bud, dodge the bullets!” And he’s all, “Why are they shooting me? I didn’t even do anything!” You know what? Fair point, kid. Welcome to the ‘80s, where games don’t care about your feelings—just pure chaos.

Then came the questions. So many questions.

    “Why isn’t that guy wearing a shirt?”
    “Why do mushrooms make you big?”
    “Can I shoot Luigi?”

(Luigi’s not even here, but sure, dream big, kid.)

Trying to explain “lives” in a video game to a four-year-old? Good luck. He’d lose one and look at me like I’d told him Santa moved to Mars. Then, out of nowhere:

“If Mario can come back, why can’t Grandma?”

Yeah. I almost unplugged everything and told him we were switching to board games forever.

But honestly? Watching him play was hilarious. He’d run, jump way too early, fall in a pit, and still shout, “I ALMOST MADE IT!” with this huge grin. I mean, the confidence is inspiring. Contra turned into a one-kid demolition derby—he mostly blew up himself, but he loved every second. He laughed so hard, I started laughing too. No one was winning, but it didn’t even matter.

We laughed, high-fived, and trash-talked pixel bosses like we were in some buddy cop movie. It was messy, chaotic, and just pure fun.

Then it happened. He hit me with the big one:

“Can I get my own Nintendo?”

So, did I just start him on the path to gaming greatness? Or am I raising a future sleep-deprived little gremlin who’ll call me “noob” before breakfast? Guess we’ll find out.

Stick around for part two—screen-time debates, existential questions, and how my four-year-old somehow finished Contra’s first level before I’d even had my coffee. This parenting thing is wild, man.