Whenever you get home, you dump everything in your possession in your “trophy room” and announce “score”, in hopes of determining whether any of the innocuous objects you acquired that day was secretly a TREASURE that increased your rating.
Whenever you see a nightstand at an antique store, you boggle at how the carpenter managed to implement its being a supporter and a container /simultaneously/.
You don’t know what to expect when your player’s time in this cosmic quest is up, but you hope the afterlife includes a list of AMUSING things to try the next time around.
You find traversing an urban landscape supremely frustrating, with so many unuseful, “filler”, sites spacing out the locations where your puzzles are solved and your plot conditions advance.
You never eat any articles of food that come into your possession until it becomes plainly obvious that there’s no other potential application for them.
You baffle your friends and family by insisting on referring to all physical objects in the world around you as “feelies” and praising their true-to-life qualities.
Instead of telling people about experiences you’ve had, you insist they accompany you to the places the events happened and tell them you’re giving them a “walkthrough”.
Someone asks you for directions. “Is it over that way?” he says, pointing off into the distance. You look confused and say, “It’s on the north side of the highway!”
You would leave a key on the ground anywhere, just to free up a hand to pick up a conspicuously discarded piece of garbage, because you’ve already unlocked a door with that key, but you haven’t yet done anything with garbage…
(This is by no means unique to IF; in virtually every computer game that has a geography and a human-scale protagonist, geography gets massively compressed. Nobody wants to spend ten hours of game time hiking from New Vegas to the Hoover Dam.)