SATURDAY MORNING, MY THIRD cup of coffee, nobody home but our 11-year-old son, Lucas, and me. I’d walked by him earlier in the family room, and he’d barely noticed me, his eyes fixed on the TV, his hands on the controller. He was deep in some cyber cave, for all I could tell, mining for gold with a pickax or dodging some enemy who would vaporize him, a primal scream emanating from the TV.
I say “for all I could tell” because I was pretty much clueless as to what went on in the video game Minecraft, only that it captured all of Lucas’s attention on Saturday mornings. I think if a tornado hit us, he wouldn’t even blink unless the power went dead or the roof went flying, and…