This week, I turned off my PlayStation 5.

Actually turned it off.

That probably doesn’t sound particularly noteworthy, but normally when I’m finished playing something, I put the PS5 into Rest Mode. This past Saturday, knowing that the #PSBlackout boycott was scheduled to begin the following day, I selected “Turn Off PS5” instead.

And that’s where it’s staying until the boycott ends.

I’m participating in #PSBlackout, but probably not for the reason someone might assume. I’m not a physical media purist. I’m not surrounded by shelves of pristine Blu-rays while angrily shaking my fist at Netflix. I don’t insist on buying every video game on a disc. In fact, I’ve embraced digital media pretty enthusiastically.

But there’s something increasingly uncomfortable about the way we’ve allowed convenience to replace ownership. And I’m starting to wonder if we’ve given up more than we realized.

I Like Streaming. Really.

Let’s establish this up front: streaming is fantastic. I love being able to decide I want to watch a movie and, within seconds, have it playing on my television. I love having enormous libraries of music available without needing to carry around a binder full of CDs. And I certainly appreciate being able to download a game without driving somewhere and hoping it’s in stock.

Convenience isn’t the enemy here. I can’t even remember the last time I bought a DVD or Blu-ray. It’s probably been close to 20 years since I regularly bought CDs. But I still have them. There’s an extensive collection of DVDs and Blu-rays in my home. Somewhere around here is a giant binder stuffed with CDs I accumulated over the years.

Most of the time, streaming is easier. But those discs belong to me. And I’ve started to appreciate how significant that distinction really is.

“Licensed, Not Sold”

One of the issues surrounding #PSBlackout has been renewed attention on language we’ve all encountered in digital storefronts for years:

The software you’re purchasing is licensed to you, not sold.

I understand that this isn’t some shocking new development. We’ve been clicking “I Agree” on end-user license agreements containing language like this for years.

I’ve clicked the boxes. I’ve agreed to the terms. That doesn’t mean I have to agree with the principle behind them.

Because there’s something fundamentally strange about clicking a button labeled “BUY,” handing over $70, and then being told that I don’t actually own what I just bought. If I’m paying for PlayStation Plus, Netflix, Spotify, or another subscription service, I understand the arrangement. I’m renting access. I pay every month. In return, I get access to a library. Things can enter that library. Things can leave it. If I stop paying, I lose access. That’s the deal.

But “buying” something should mean something different. When a storefront asks me to pay full retail price for an individual game, the reasonable assumption is that I’m purchasing that game. Not indefinitely renting permission to access it.

Maybe This Is Because I Grew Up in the ’80s and ’90s

There was a time when buying a video game was incredibly simple. You went to the store. You handed somebody money. They handed you a game. Transaction complete. When I was growing up, that meant cartridges for systems like the Nintendo Entertainment System and Super Nintendo. Once you bought that cartridge, it was yours. You could play it. You could lend it to a friend. You could trade games with somebody. You could sell it at a flea market when you got tired of it. You could give it to your little brother or cousin. And if you weren’t sure whether you wanted to spend $50 on the latest release, you could head to the video store and rent it for the weekend.

There was an entire ecosystem built around the simple fact that once you bought a copy of a video game, you owned that copy. Nintendo didn’t need to know what you did with it afterward. That’s the part I find fascinating in retrospect. Once I walked out of Toys “R” Us with that cartridge, Nintendo’s involvement in my particular copy was essentially over. If I still have that cartridge today and possess functioning hardware capable of playing it, I don’t need Nintendo’s permission. I don’t need Toys “R” Us to still exist. I don’t need an internet connection. I don’t need a server somewhere to verify that my account has the appropriate license. I put the cartridge in the machine. The game plays. We didn’t think of that as some extraordinary freedom at the time. It was just how buying things worked.

Look at Everything We Lost Along the Way

The transition to digital distribution didn’t simply replace cartridges and discs with downloaded files. It gradually dismantled that entire secondary ecosystem. You can’t lend your downloaded PlayStation game to a friend in the same way you could hand somebody a cartridge. You can’t take it to a flea market. You can’t sell it when you’re finished. You can’t buy somebody else’s used digital copy for $20. And when you’re gone someday, nobody is going to discover your PlayStation account in a box in the attic and spend an afternoon exploring your old game collection.

Those things may seem insignificant individually. Collectively, they represent a dramatic change in our relationship with the entertainment we purchase. We traded ownership for convenience. And, to be fair, convenience made a pretty convincing sales pitch.

My CD Binder Doesn’t Need a Server

This is where that giant binder full of CDs suddenly seems more important than it used to. I almost never use it. If I want to hear an album today, I’m far more likely to pull out my phone and stream it. But the music on those CDs doesn’t require a subscription. It doesn’t require an account. It doesn’t require an internet connection. It doesn’t require the record label to continue maintaining a licensing agreement with Spotify.

Those albums are mine. The same goes for the DVDs and Blu-rays I’ve accumulated. A movie might bounce from Netflix to Hulu to Max to Peacock to Paramount+ and disappear entirely for a while. But if there’s a copy sitting on my shelf, none of that matters. I can walk over, take the disc out of the case, put it in a player, and watch the movie. No negotiation required. There’s something wonderfully reassuring about that.

We’ve Lived Long Enough to Know Better

Maybe there’s a generational element to this, too. Those of us who grew up in the ’80s and ’90s have now lived long enough to watch supposedly permanent things disappear. Toys “R” Us disappeared from most American cities. Circuit City disappeared. Blockbuster disappeared. Online services have shut down. Digital storefronts have closed. Video games have become difficult or impossible to legally purchase. Movies and television series have vanished from streaming platforms because maintaining their availability was no longer considered profitable.

We’ve watched enough of this happen that when a corporation effectively tells us, “Don’t worry. Your purchases will remain available through your account,” I think we’re justified in asking a very simple question. For how long? Because 20 years doesn’t seem like an eternity anymore. I own CDs, DVDs and video games that I’ve had longer than that. Some of them have outlived the stores where I bought them.

I Don’t Want Digital Games to Go Away

And that’s what I think gets lost when conversations like #PSBlackout become framed as physical versus digital. I don’t want digital games to disappear. I like them. I don’t particularly want to drive across town every time I decide to buy something. I don’t need every game I own displayed on a shelf. I enjoy the convenience of downloading something and immediately playing it.

What I don’t want is for that convenience to become the only option. Because once physical media disappears completely, an enormous amount of control shifts permanently to the platform holder. They control the storefront. They control availability. They control authentication. They control the license. They determine whether something can continue to be sold. And eventually, they may determine whether something can continue to be played. That’s a lot of control to surrender simply because downloading something is easier than putting a disc into a machine.

That’s Why My PS5 Is Off

So I participated in #PSBlackout. Last Saturday, instead of putting my PS5 into Rest Mode like I normally would, I turned it completely off. I haven’t logged into PlayStation Network this week. And I intend to keep it that way through the originally scheduled end of the boycott.

Do I think somebody at Sony headquarters noticed that Aaron Peck didn’t log into his PlayStation this week? Of course not. Do I think a gigantic multinational corporation is going to reverse its long-term business strategy because my PS5 spent a week powered down? Probably not. But that’s also how boycotts work. One person withholding participation is insignificant. A large number of people making the same insignificant decision becomes something else. For this little stretch of time, I’m withholding my participation because I want the people making these decisions to understand that this matters.

Not because I’m opposed to digital media. Not because I think everything needs to come in a plastic case. Not because I’m nostalgically demanding that we return to 1992. I just don’t think convenience and ownership have to be enemies. I want Spotify. And I want my old CDs. I want streaming movies. And I want the Blu-rays sitting on my shelf. I want the convenience of downloading a video game at midnight. And I want the option of buying a physical copy that remains mine regardless of what happens to a server, storefront, subscription service, licensing agreement, or corporation.

Maybe physical media eventually disappears no matter what consumers say. Maybe the economics of the entertainment industry have already made that inevitable. But I’m not willing to pretend that nothing meaningful will be lost when it happens. Because there used to be a very simple understanding between a customer and a store. I gave you my money. You gave me the thing. And the thing was mine.

I don’t think that’s an unreasonable concept to want to preserve.