An eerie wind blows through the treehouse this weekend. The floorboards creak, though no one stands upon them. The fairy lights flicker, though they have not been plugged in since January. The screens in the corner where we all pretend to work lie cracked and cold. Here’s what some of us – those who remain – are clicking on.
James
A chill gale passes, carrying the crispy foil wrapper of an unpackaged graphics card. Was James here once, long ago? It is hard to say.
Ollie
The sound of distant clanking is carried on the same gale. Somewhere, in a faraway bedroom, lie the bones of Ollie, hand clasped in a claw of rigor mortis upon a webbed laptop that once ran Factorio.
Graham:
I’ve been reeled in by Fantasy Life i, against all precedent. It’s a todo list and it’s a grind and it is not best-in-class at any of the millions of things it’s doing, and yet I must mine rocks so I can sell rocks so I can earn dosh so I can build bridges so I can level up the base camp so I can unlock more furniture so I can keep residents happy so they’ll craft me better swords so I can more efficiently defeat bosses so I can loot materials so I can craft a better pickaxe so I can mine rocks.
Nic
The smell of hell itself rises from the ground far beneath the treehouse, where piles of Doom: The Dark Age glow like hot coals. Perhaps Nic is down there now, far beneath the mass, slaying the same demons who drove him so mad in life.
Jeremy
A click. Another click. Where is it coming from? The walls. The ceiling? No, the picture frames, those same canvases that hide 256-colours somewhere beneath a thick film of dust. Another click. Jeremy is here, somewhere.
Edwin
I’m off to see family over the weekend, so won’t have much time for games, but I might pack in some reading for a straggly piece I’m working on about the Amnesia series and Nietzsche, one of Europe’s more monstrous philosophers. If you happen to have read anything decent on Nietzsche and video games, or have made a video game with Nietzschean elements, I’d love to know about it.
Brendan
A figure, hunched sadly in the corner, typing and typing and typing. Approach and feel the air vibrate, the throb of memory. The treehouse is full of loudening ghosts, all at once, noise amid silence, the hideous faces of all those rock paper past, rock paper present, and rock paper future. The figure turns, slowly. A face decaying in the glow of a CRT screen. “Balatro,” he croaks. “We all play Balatro now.”
But you, reader dear, what are you playing this weekend?…