Video games are a powerful form of escapism because (assuming you aren't someone who studied car thievery or Contra-ing in college) the lives of the main characters are just more exciting than yours. But I think there's a whole unexplored aspect of this escapism. There are millions of people just off the edges of the screen with no student loan debt and making decent money at jobs that will never be downsized. It would be great to be Uncharted's Nathan Drake, but I'd settle for being his travel agent, because he will never stop paying her. So if you're looking for stable employment and have figured out how to fit inside your Xbox, start drafting your resume and prepare yourself for a thrilling career as a ...
Engineers already have a fairly strong position in society. A master's in civil engineering will get you solid career prospects, a decent starting salary, and a whole mess of romantic comedies written explicitly about you and your architect brethren. But really, how many bridge engineers do we need? Most of our bridges last for decades, if not centuries.
In video games, however, rarely will a bridge go a day without being bombed or lit on fire or demolished by some shroomed-up plumber chasing a princess who's clearly out of his league. Bridge collapse is a trope that shows up frequently in every type of game because it taps into our natural fear of falling from high places, or at the very least, our natural fear of careening into the side of a cliff and turning into paste (depending on the type of bridge).
Maybe next time hire some engineering students from the Mushroom Kingdom's DeVry University.
But that's also what makes being a bridge engineer such a lucrative job in games. You don't have to be particularly skilled, because you're essentially building a disposable product. No one expects them to last more than a day, so castle owners and city planners seem willing to hire any asshole to build them, and then rebuild them, and rebuild them. So why shouldn't that asshole be you?
As long as game writers are lazy enough to keep using the trope to force alternate routes in a storyline and gamers keep acting predictably, the bridge engineer's job is safe. That sound of rubble splashing into enchanted rivers and the rapidly fading screams of terror? That's the sound of job security, my friend.
In the real world, the amount of physical currency changing hands is strictly controlled. Even destroying a single bill in the U.S. can be an offense punishable with prison time because it's crucial to the well-being of the economy as a whole that the government knows exactly how much money is in circulation.
But in a video game universe, none of those boring rules apply. Money disappears in every direction all the time, and no one cares. In Zelda games, it's tucked away, presumably for eternity, in abandoned chests in the middle of forests. In platformers like Super Mario Bros. and Sonic the Hedgehog, the cities are littered with errant gold. Not all of it is retrievable, either; each time Sonic takes damage, he throws all his money in every direction like he's being mugged. Those rings fall onto spikes, slip off the edge of bottomless crevasses, or just gradually disappear after sitting still for long enough. To prevent the collapse of their economy, the government would need to print enough currency to keep up with the perpetually disappearing wealth, and that's where you come in.
"Take it all, just don't let me die!"
If your job is making money in these games, there's no such thing as making too much. You could even print your own fortune on the side and not have to worry about the devastating effects of inflation, because in most cases, you're not even spending it. Hell, just accruing coins and rings by the hundreds is very literally extending your life. Not only would you have a stable job, but that job would be affording you immortality.