Okay, okay, I beat Xananeko this weekend. Total time: something around 5 hours. This is yet another tick in the “I’m the man” column.
I’m the man.
Actually, given the trouble I had getting out of that goddamn dungeon, I think I’m probably more the young man. Maybe the teenage boy.
Either way. I’m out, and I have my prize. Double w00t.
There’s a sequel to this stupid Shockwave game, and I haven’t cracked the seal on it. But I will – I can feel it coming, like the breeze in the early morning off the ocean that foreshadows the demonic invasion and subjugation of the world. I can tell: scene 2 will be played.
I love this game! Have I mentioned I love this game? I love it! I love it, because as I mentioned previously, it’s not really a game – it’s like the summary of of a game.
It’s the Cliff Notes to Zelda. It doesn’t really convey the whole experience, but it gives you enough data to write a report and sound like you did.
Why would I love such an abominable thing? I’m glad you asked. I know you are bristling inside, desperate to understand my internal gaming motivations. Why else would you be here, really.
I love it because I adore experiences that reveal the “deep structure” of gaming, and this is one of those. I experience something akin to glory when I perceive that when you take all the bells and whistles off of a complex, wonderful game, that there is a simple, wonderful game underneath it.
Confirming that the deep structure rules makes me less worried about all the other crap that is often loaded on top of the games I play.
I realize that this notion will be controversial with some of my (younger, less experienced, more reactionary) readers. I accept these terms. And then I mock you with them. Thtphtphtptphtphtphtpt.
After spending Sunday day at the ballpark, I’m at home today, baking. I’m letting my skin heal. I’m soothing my angry blistered flesh. Yes, you heard me – I went to a baseball game.
I didn’t bring sunblock, which was an oversight. When I got to the stadium, and realized our seats were in the sun, I didn’t do anything about it. That was the dumb part.
Now, I suffer. I stare at my angry knees, tops-of-hands, and forehead (I don’t stare at my forehead, actually), and I weep for their suffering.
It’s not really that bad. But I enjoy employing hyperbole. It makes my days more attention-getting, which is the goal.