The absence of politics--particularly anything even remotely resembling class politics--is more than conspicuous. Bogost claims that we "look down our nose" at Walmart and McDonalds because we mistake familiarity for a "lack of authenticity" (52f). But most of us recognize that something else is at work in these examples; there is virtually no mention of what kind of company Walmart is, what kind of people shop there, or how Walmart shoppers figure in our rhetoric and cultural imagination. Bogost implores us to take things "as they are," "on their own terms," but surely this is easier for him to say than it is for many to pull off. Despite an alleged attention to *things* and an ecology of things, he seems to forget that things cost money, that they come from somewhere.
Watering and cultivating an expensive lawn, buying a home in Atlanta (despite having a healthy salary in the tech industry, he notes, owning property was out of the question in California), taking his daughter shopping. He admires his daughter for finding a playground in the "drudgery of mall transit," but many of us have more to worry about than such drudgery. He scoffs at Katie McLaughlin for trying to cut back on what she perceives as over-indulgence, writing, "Imagine reading [McLaughlin's concern] through the eyes of a family in the Great Depression, or a college student starting her first job, or even an upper-middle class parent with an infant at home. Imagine how outrageous it would sound." How outrageous, indeed! To see him, the upper-middle class parent, group himself with a young college student and a family in the Great Depression is simply astonishing. McLaughlin is worried that she's becoming a Marie Antoinette, and Bogost criticizes her. Surely, he claims, an impoverished family would rather she "live it up," embrace the constraints of the playground she finds herself in. Play the hand you've been dealt, and stop wishing you had different cards! That's well and good if he's only talking to other upper middle class parents, but it's somewhat sinister advice to struggling families and young college students.
All that aside, Play Anything reads like most of Bogost's other books: a strange compromise between academic and mass-market writing. One is initially impressed that Bogost has been able to crank out so many books so quickly; upon reading them, however, it's clear how he's been able to pull it off. How to Talk about Videogames, How to Do Things with Videogames, Play Anything--these read like they were written in a couple weeks, but are presented with so much pomp and pretense that it's hard to get through. The Recipe: meandering anecdotes about watering his lawn, claims to have upset entire fields of study or practice--add anecdotes and repeat claims until you have 200 pages or so. Voilà.