The Long Haul: A Middle-Aged Man's Journey Into Truck Simulators

It started innocently enough. Like many people in middle age, I have been in a long-term gaming drought. Time and distractions have conspired to rob me of the pastime that saw me through my youth.

My bulging Steam library sits there like an untouched buffet: half-finished RPGs, shooters that make my aging reflexes feel like arthritic twigs, and indie darlings so quirky (and borderline-unplayable) they make my eyes water.

I needed something different. Something... peaceful.

That's when I discovered the sublime art of virtual trucking.

American Truck Simulator, the best-known entry in the genre, was my gateway drug.

At the time of purchase it cost around $15 for the privilege of hauling refrigerated goods across a good chunk of the USA at a steady 65 mph. I couldn't wait to tell people about my discovery.

"You're paying money to just drive around?" they scoffed - as if they hadn't spent their weekends building elaborate farms in Minecraft or managing fictional football teams with the intensity of actual managers.

They didn't understand. There's something deeply therapeutic about the gentle hum of an eighteen-wheeler cruising down Interstate 80, the desert stretching endlessly ahead like a pixelated meditation. No explosions. No quick-time events. No achievement popups screaming "HEADSHOT KING!" every five minutes.

Just me, my Peterbilt 579, and a cargo of virtual washing machines that absolutely, positively have to reach Reno by Tuesday.

The beauty of truck simulation is its mundane authenticity. Nothing happens for miles and miles, if at all, and that's the point. You're just making a (virtual) living.

Life itself isn't a constant barrage of boss battles and collectible hunting. Life is mostly the bit in between: the quiet stretches where your mind wanders, where you notice the way the light hits the mountains, where you realize you've been humming along to the in-cab radio for the past half an hour.

The mighty Algorithm that controls us all, in its infinite wisdom, began serving me YouTube videos of other players showing off their elaborate simulator setups.

I mean, will you just look at this:

No, that is not reality. That is truck simulator gameplay.

These are not casual players. These are devotees with quadruple monitor arrays, force-feedback steering wheels that cost more than my monthly salary, and gear shifters that look like they'd been salvaged from actual monster trucks.

The Net Tightens

I found myself bookmarking steering wheel listings on Amazon. I know that this is me being moved down a funnel, and letting the Algorithm win again. But this battle was lost a long time ago.

I'm just looking, mind you. Just... researching. The Logitech G29 seems reasonable. The Thrustmaster T300RS looks professional. The Fanatec setups enter mortgage-threatening territory - but imagine the immersion! Imagine feeling every bump in the virtual road through haptic feedback!

This is it, isn't it? This is my model train moment.

Every middle-aged man apparently needs one. A hobby that makes him disappear into the garage for hours, emerging only to show bewildered family members the intricate detail work on his latest acquisition. I have discovered the zen of long-haul freight simulation.

The many mobile clones only fed the addiction. Truck Simulator: Ultimate on my phone during lunch breaks. Dozens of knockoffs with suspiciously similar names, each promising the authentic trucking experience on a five-inch screen.

I've begun to recognize the subtle differences: which ones have realistic fuel consumption, which the most satisfying horn sounds, which the perfect balance between simulation and arcade accessibility.

My boss found me in the break room after lunch once, carefully maneuvering a double trailer through the streets of a virtual city, muttering about jackknife angles and turning radiuses.

"Are you having fun?" she asked, sarcastically at first, and then with the gentle caution of someone watching a mental patient assemble a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle of beige carpet.

"I'm delivering time-sensitive pharmaceuticals," I replied, as if this explained everything.

The Thing I Didn't Know I Needed

The truth is, truck simulation fills a gap in my soul that I didn't know existed.

In an age of instant gratification and dopamine-hit gaming, there's something profoundly satisfying about earning your rewards through patience and competence.

That moment when you finally back your trailer perfectly into the loading dock after seven attempts... That's pure, distilled accomplishment. No one handed you an achievement for participating. You simply got better at a thing that required practice.

And what comes after the steering wheel?

I see it stretching ahead like a highway to the horizon. The gear shifter upgrade. The proper trucker's seat. Maybe a CB radio setup for online multiplayer convoys. Racing pedals with realistic brake feel. Eventually, probably: a full enclosed cabin simulator in the spare bedroom, complete with air horn and diesel engine smells.

My teenage self, dreaming of space marines and dragon slaying, would be horrified.

My middle-aged self finds profound peace in maintaining a stately 60 km/h through the Swiss Alps while Johnny Cash plays on the virtual radio, my cargo of luxury goods safe and secure behind me, my delivery schedule comfortably on track.

Perhaps this is what wisdom looks like: learning to find adventure in the ordinary, excitement in the methodical, joy in the journey rather than just the destination.

Or perhaps I've simply discovered that the best games mirror life itself—long stretches of pleasant routine punctuated by moments that require your full attention, where success comes not from reflexes or violence, but from patience, planning, and the quiet satisfaction of a job well done.

Either way, I've got a load of virtual timber that needs to reach Manchester, and these pixels won't haul themselves.

The open road awaits, the diesel engine purrs its digital contentment, and do you want to know the funniest thing?

In real life... I don't even drive.