When something is so great an experience that it robs you of previous experiences that you thought were good, it ought to have a warning label. I can think of a few things in life that have been this way:
The first video game system I ever owned was the Sega Master system. It was fine… decent… okay for its time. And then, one of my friends got an NES. And it was way awesomer. There was a gun controller. There was Mario. It was the greatest thing of all time. And my Sega Master System was, all of the sudden, not as awesome. That Christmas, we got an NES. And the master system, well, I don’t even remember it being connected to the TV after that.
Ender’s Game did that for books, but in a good way. After I read it, it felt like many of the other books I was reading were hollow… no where near as good (even the sequels to Ender’s Game). It was a good thing — it made me chase good reading experiences. Every great book I’ve read since has caused the same chase.
Most recently (and prompting this post), I received a French Press coffee maker for Christmas. I’ve had coffee from other people’s french presses before, and it’s always been wonderful. But, I’ve assumed that there was some special magic in their kitchen that made it different than what would happen in my kitchen.
For better or worse, I was wrong. I can make really great coffee in my kitchen. Using the same coffee, even, that I put in my drip machine. And it’s ruined (well, not ruined, but cheapened) the regular coffee experience. I look at my mug and think, I could be having this rich experience, and instead I’m drinking swill.
A week ago, I was proud of the coffee that I made in my standard coffee machine. It was the right blend of not too bitter, but not weak. This French Press should’ve come with a warning label!