It's the Princess. She's telling me about evil Ganondorf's plans to ruin the peaceable kingdom of Hyrule, and I'm staring wide-eyed at the screen.

My avatar, a young pointy-nosed boy clad in a green tunic, listens intently to the Princess' instructions. Go to Death Mountain. Get the sacred Spiritual Stones. Save the world.

I'm there. English homework can wait.

Other than caffeine, this is my drug of choice these days -- "The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time" for Nintendo 64.

Since my old eight-bit Nintendo bit the dust, I haven't had a decent system. My Mac clone is too slow to play any of the hip "beat your roommate into a virtual bloody pulp" games such as "Quake."

Besides, "Quake" -- and the other killdozer games -- suck. Not because they're too violent, but because there's no challenge. Aim gun. Shoot gun. Open door. Shoot some more. Sure, network games let you riddle your RA with AK-47 fire, but as a single-player game, "Quake's" shallowness means you learn everything about it on the first day. Sort of like SpeechCom 100.

Not so with Zelda, which has reaffirmed my faith in the beauty of virtual worlds. It's not just the gorgeous 3-D-rendered characters, textures and architecture that make the game so lifelike. It's the game's concept that is so stunning: You, Link, start with nothing except your clothes. You don't even have a sword -- you have to find one. You learn everything by interacting with townspeople and other assorted Hyrulians. You grow.

Zelda is wonderfully nonlinear. At any time, you can roam the expansive Hyrule Field, take a jaunt to Link's forest birthplace, visit the Fountain of Fairies (stop laughing) or talk to the lazy farmhands at Lon-Lon Ranch. There are scores of cute little stand-alone games within the larger adventure -- you can try your hand at diving or archery, or challenge Hyrule's jogging champ to a race.

I am not a dork. I am not a dork.

I watched a friend play the fishing module. I plan to spend hours angling for guppies, watching eddies form and listening to water splash as fish break the clear surface plane.

It's a far cry from the old NES games, which had their own charm. "Smells like Teen Spirit" isn't my generation's anthem; instead the Super Mario Bros. theme song is. I'll always remember those loopy stanzas. My friend Thom has named each part: "I Am Underground Now" for the underworld theme, and "I Am Star-Man, I Am Invincible" for the frenetic Luigi-on-amphetamines invincibility music.

It's not just me who waxes poetic about video game nostalgia. At a hall pizza social last semester, we lovingly poked fun at the premises of most titles.

"OK, I've got an idea for a game," said my friend Andy. "There'll be these white pellet things, and this round yellow guy will have to eat them. We'll throw in some color-changing ghosts and random pieces of fruit. We'll call it -- Yellow Eater Guy!"

I don't pretend that "Pac-Man," or other video game hits, have any social significance. But they've still left a lasting impact on me and tons of other kids. Being an adult doesn't mean I have to forget the sublime coolness of super-speed or the sense of discovery at finding a hidden chamber laced with booty. (Booty as in the kind pirates like -- the swashbucklers, not the ballplayers.)

So when I told my friend Aimée I was heading home from the Collegian early to play Zelda, and when she lectured me -- "Fagone, you're 20!" -- I didn't care.

I am not a dork. I am not a dork.

I just postponed reality for a few hours and rode my horse into the Hyrulian sunset.