When I confess that this is the first self-help book I’ve read, I’m also confessing to a minor but pointed snobbism. Sadly, I’m self-satisfied (as many snobs are), which perhaps explains my conviction that self-help books don’t help. Worse, I believe Ian Bogost’s The Small Stuff is well-meaning, reasonable and fundamentally right about how to live one’s life. The author is laudably passionate about gratification – or ‘itty-bitty fulfilment’, to borrow his phrase. Unknowingly, I was already following his self-help prescriptions – so to me they’re of no use.

Still, he’s a fine writer and an organised thinker; and if you happen to be looking for permission to allow yourself more gratification, which Bogost defines as ‘the sensory enchantment of everyday life’ and ‘a smaller and less visible flavour of contentment’, his bookis just the ticket. He distinguishes between big-picture happiness and satisfaction (‘pride in accomplishment’) and the more immediate, slighter pleasure of gratification. Too often, he argues, this is under-appreciated, scorned by those who reckon that it detracts from ‘the tough work of pursuing “real” happiness’. He also believes that our bureaucratic modern world, in thrall to progress, makes it hard for us to engage with our surroundings in a pleasurable, sensory way. Automation, efficiency and of course digital technology have ‘dematerialised’ our lives. Too much today is touch-free – just ask Alexa.

To explain our predicament, he enlists thinkers of various stripes, some of whom have made compelling arguments about the way our world has changed. Jeremy Rifkin, an American economic and social theorist, predicted at the turn of the millennium a shift to an economy of paid access, through leases (mobile phones, cars) and services (concierge culture, streaming platforms). The idea that ownership is on the wane worries Bogost, because he fears that we have become alienated from our domestic circumstances. If you own something, you’re likely to take care of it hands on, which opens up many opportunities for enjoyable tactile encounters.

He acknowledges that often people can’t afford to buy, and that no amount of gratification will solve the housing crisis. But he’s not here to fix entrenched (some would say intractable) socio-economic problems. On the contrary, he promotes the small stuff as an alternative to the dispiriting immensity of the challenges humanity faces – climate change, wealth inequality, Donald Trump. At one point Bogost steps in to make sure that we’re not overburdened: ‘Don’t overthink this.’ (Another first: an author who wants less from the reader!)

He gives a brief and somewhat dismaying tour of autonomous sensory meridian response (ASMR), an internet phenomenon of audiovisual clips intended to trigger physically pleasurable ‘tingles’ (‘exactly the kind of thing that raises eyebrows among the instant-gratification critics’, he observes). He interviews a woman who got her start creating ASMR content with a YouTube video of herself folding three towels – for 20 minutes. Bogost hopes this sort of thing will grant us ‘permission’ to pursue everyday tactile experiences that provide a tiny jolt of pleasure.

On another tangent, literally, he explores orthogonality – ‘the art of living your life sideways’. This entails discovering ways to diversify your sensory encounters. His hypothetical examples include the dental office receptionist who might ‘seek the relief of sonic silence’; and the landscape gardener who might ‘pursue the crisp dryness of leatherwork’.

The Small Stuff is rescued from silliness by Bogost’s skill at describing itty-bitty delights. Early on, he takes us into his friend Tom’s gloomy basement. Tom hopes to brighten it up by painting the brick walls white, and Bogost urges him to use a latex masonry product normally sold as waterproofing:

‘I think you’re going to love it,’ I told him, giddy. ‘It goes on so thick, with this great squelching sound.’ I tried to mimic the sound with my mouth: shwak-chlupf, shwak-chlupf.

The gloopy paint is a hit with Tom. He loves slathering it on. Bogost describes the tactile experience with delight and admirable precision. (It’s fabulous, by the way, that someone fixated on the tactile should repeatedly use ‘surface’ as a transitive verb, as in ‘writers and editors need to see and surface the connections between things’.)

A caveat. Gratification is instant, which is part of its charm, but fleeting. The challenge, for small-stuff aficionados, is weaving moments of itty-bitty delight into a broader, sustainable uplift. Bogost counters that aiming for happiness may mean you miss the mark. He warns: ‘While you’re waiting for the bigger, supposedly better, things to happen, all the small stuff passes you by.’