I've met a lot of parents dropping their kids off at leagues I managed, whether little league or competitive video games, but I'd never seen a parent introduce their son the way Janet introduced William.

While my team set up the consoles for our competitive video game league, I greeted parents and players as they arrived. The first to arrive looked no different from the kids I coached in little league. Ten-year-old Jason had a tangle of messy brown hair and a Pokemon shirt on. I introduced myself as his mom said, "We've been driving all over town looking for video game tournaments. We're excited Jason can meet some kids his own age." "He'll have fun here," I reassured her, as Jason practically sprinted up to the consoles playing Smash Bros.

Next I met Xander and his dad. Xander was tall for his age, lanky, dressed in black jeans and a JigglyPuff shirt, but his handshake was firm and he looked me in the eye as he introduced himself. His dad, who was clearly very proud of his son said, "Xander's been looking forward to getting some real professional coaching." As he said those words Xander walk/sprinted up to Mikey, our head coach. His father found a table where he could order some nachos and watch his son practice getting better at the game he loved.

I felt good, the league was filling up, and the players and parents seemed happy to be here. When Janet appeared, her son was standing uneasily behind her. She put out her hand and I took it welcoming her and her boy to the league. "I'm glad you're here, thanks for signing up," I said with a smile. She responded in a serious tone, "William is not autistic, I had him tested."

I think I actually blinked. "Excuse me?" I said not quite sure what I had just heard.

"My son. William," She motioned to him. "He is not autistic. We had him tested."

"I," I said. "I see." I didn't see at all. Why on earth had she introduced him like that? I turned to face William and introduce myself. He could not meet my eyes. I slowly extended my hand, not wanting to overwhelm him, it took him a minute to notice, then he sort of grabbed my hand like a limp fish and let me move it up and down a few times. I let go. That was when it hit me. William wasn't excited like the other boys. He scanned the room with a blank expression. Where Xander and Jason had locked in on what interested them most, William looked lost.

"Does he play a lot of video games?" I asked his mother. "Oh, he plays all the time," she explained. "In fact, that's all he does. That's why I signed him up for this league. I want him to make some friends."

Janet's goal was exactly why I had created this video game league. I knew that video games attract a lot of kids on the spectrum.^[1] Video games appeal to these kids because the games are structured, clear, and satisfying.^[2] Video games have one other feature children on the spectrum appreciate. Players control the sound volume. This makes a video game a safe, sensory controlled space to get lost in mental pleasure.

After meeting William, I could see why his mother had him tested. After his initial confusion, he showed a leading indicator of autism, what I call "treating people like things." Children and adults with autism don't know where to focus, especially when it comes to watching other people. They miss social cues, and their eyes dart to what interests them, which is frequently objects, not faces.^[3]

Because video games are inherently iconic, they only present what matters. For both ADHD and autistic kids, games feel reassuringly predictable. Overstimulation is a serious challenge for these kids. Noise or social interaction you and I might hardly notice can cause these kids intense emotional distress.^[4]

That made me think about William. If he wasn't autistic, what was going on for him?

The first day with William as a member of the league passed without incident, but as the weeks rolled on, I began to pick up clues to why his mother had him tested. We had several genuinely autistic children in the league, and their parents were extremely supportive. William blended right in with that group. He did not pick up on social cues, did not like to be touched, and when he focused it was extremely focused.

However, our setup was perfect for this group. Every player had their own Nintendo console, and the large screen TV's around the room played video game matches instead of sports. During each session our coaches taught the players fundamental skills needed to compete in Smash Bros at a high level. In one drill the coaches taught the players how to recover from falling off the stage.^[5]

I felt thrilled to see this program roll out exactly the way I imagined it. We coached the kids in competitive excellence, but using video games instead of sports. You would think a room full of kids and video games would be chaos, but it wasn't. The Coaches established control early. When Mikey said, "Controllers down." Every kid set their controller down. Anyone who didn't listen would have to sit out one minute. That happened once, then everyone got it. The players wanted to be part of something bigger than playing alone.

The first challenge for all of them came when we started to play matches. Some of these kids were going to lose for the first time, and lose with people watching. How would they handle it? I made sure to attend that session and talked to the parents. I wanted to make sure they understood what we taught the kids. Failure isn't final, success isn't permanent. We had them chant before competition started, "You win or you learn!" The kids were into it.

Near the end of the first match, while I was talking to Xander's father, I sensed the commotion. I excused myself and turned to see what was going on. I saw William in the center of it. Mikey had already moved toward him, but my heart dropped. What if I had to ask William to leave? I mean, this was a recreational program, not therapy. Man that would suck asking him to leave. I hastened my pace.

I fully expected to find William in the middle of a melt down. Maybe the room was too loud, or perhaps he'd lost his first match. When I reached his table I could see William definitely was experiencing something intense. His head rolled back, his eyes were wide, but his mouth opened like a frog trying to catch a fly. I flinched expecting a scream, but instead he laughed. I did a double take. My God. William was happy! He had won his match, yet he looked manic. He cackled in an unhinged way that stopped me cold.

I had never seen an autistic kid act like that before. What on earth was going on for him?

After seeing William's reaction to winning, I felt certain he was not autistic, but then why did he present some autistic behaviors?

What caused that? I later learned the answer. It turns out, he spent so much time alone playing video games, day after day, that it disrupted his social emotional development.^[6] Humans have the longest maturation cycle of any mammal. Every other mammal goes from birth to reproductive age as fast as possible. Cats can reproduce at one year old! But people pause for seven years.

Social scientists posit that children absorb their culture during this critical window.^[7] Somewhere between 5 and 12 children appear to absorb social cues. Put simply, humans learn emotional regulation from each other, through social interaction.

I thought about William. Just how much time had he spent staring at a video game screen? Apparently enough to miss these lessons. But it wasn't just the screen time. The interactive games also shaped his behavior. Smart phones, tablets, and video games induce the child to act in ways guided by the software.^[8] William could not see how his behavior affected other people. Screens break that connection. This meant William's internal emotional landscape was like playing hockey on a lake. Without feedback from others to give him boundaries, his feelings could go anywhere, and they did.

It was not so much that William treated people like things. It was more that William lacked the skills and experience to understand how his behavior affected other people. His feedback loop had been cut.

I was not looking at an autistic kid. I was looking at a kid with severely underdeveloped social emotional development.

By the time I reached the table, Mikey stood beside William and calmed him down. A core lesson in our league involved not only helping players deal with losing with resilience, but also winning with grace. You want to be the kind of player that people want to play with again. Thankfully, William responded to Mikey's coaching. I felt some hope.

Over the next few sessions I saw how the coaches' calm, stable presence helped William grow his self control. Gem taught the players "sportsmanship." The boys surrounded him like moths around a flame. He said, "Win or lose, we celebrate a good effort. You can't have a meaningful win until you play someone who really challenges you." He taught the boys respectful ways to celebrate. You honor your opponent. I studied William's reactions during these lessons. Did he get it? Was he able to track? I saw William concentrate on his teammates. He replicated their moves. At first he looked uncomfortable. Then gaining confidence. He wanted this.

"Competitive excellence is being your best when your best is most needed," Gem told the boys before a practice round. "And leaders make more leaders. You do your best, and help each other out."

William was making progress but would it be enough? Would our league deliver what Janet had hoped for? Would he make any friends?

I got my answer on the second to last session. William and Kevin, a small kid a few years younger played a close match with a small crowd around them. William lost. I held my breath. I saw his face redden like a tomato. But he didn't burst. He turned to Kevin, who met his gaze. Kevin took a deep breath. And then William did the same. They let it out together. The boys started to breathe in sync, with Kevin in the lead. Leaders making leaders. In, hold, two, three, four, out, two, three, four. I felt goose bumps watching the two boys.

I doubt anyone else noticed. But I saw it. One kid helped another kid. William wasn't autistic. He was unskilled, but he was learning. Supportive, face to face interaction with other kids was making a difference. Maybe, just maybe, connection could heal boys like William.

Then Janet shared with me, in an offhand way, a piece of news that forever changed how I felt about boys and video games. Janet told me William had been invited to a birthday party. Kevin had invited him. She fought back tears as she said, "That's the first birthday party he's even been invited to." I let that wash over me. William was eleven years old. Knowing that crushed me. I could not imagine that level of loneliness for my sons. I was happy William had made friends, but also I couldn't help but wonder, how many more kids are out there like William? No kid should be that lonely.

1. After running GameTruck for almost 20 years, and entertaining over 14 million players, we have a pretty robust sample set. ↩︎
2. I learned this from my friend Christina Carlson who runs a clinic serving the needs of Arizona's autistic and special needs kids. ↩︎
3. Klin, A., Jones, W., Schultz, R., Volkmar, F., & Cohen, D. (2002). Visual fixation patterns during viewing of naturalistic social situations as predictors of social competence in individuals with autism. Archives of General Psychiatry, 59(9), 809–816. https://doi.org/10.1001/archpsyc.59.9.809 ↩︎
4. In our corporate locations we carry noise canceling earphones for this reason. ↩︎
5. The stage is the in game battle platform inside Smash Bros. Beginning players often lose because they can't stay on the tiny platform and fall off. ↩︎
6. See Scattered Minds by Gabor Mate. ↩︎
7. Minoura, T. (1992). A sensitive period for the incorporation of a cultural context: A study of Japanese children growing up in the United States. Ethos, 20(3), 304–337. ↩︎
8. Eyal, N. (2014). Hooked: How to build habit-forming products. Portfolio/Penguin. ↩︎