Let me tell you a story of heroes

Another day arrives, and another evening at the Lion­head office has dragged on into morn­ing. My first Eng­lish sum­mer has seen many a late night, and more than a few sleep­less morn­ings. All with good rea­son; it’s for a good cause. Truth be told, I have no one to blame but myself.

It must be love. No other mad­ness can explain it. None of these col­leagues who share the predawn hours with me can be doing this for money. Or fame, or any­thing like so self­ish. Mak­ing games is too hard, and the results too unpre­dictable, to enter this career with real­is­tic hopes of vast mate­r­ial rewards. And these peo­ple with me are clearly smart enough to know the facts of life.

So, love. No, not of me — I’m too demand­ing, too dif­fi­cult. Love of games? Pos­si­ble. We talk of noth­ing so much as our vir­tual expe­ri­ences and con­quests, and it becomes dif­fi­cult to imag­ine that they are any­thing but real. But on nights such as these, the idea of play­ing games is fond and dis­tant dream. So, then, a love of the game we work on together? More likely. It’s already an old love, a love grown at once overly famil­iar and deter­minedly opti­mistic. We know the blem­ishes and faults, and yet remain always hope­ful of mak­ing the object of our love better.

We joke about being in the trenches, but we are not sol­diers. And yet what’s obvi­ous now is that as much as we may become occa­sion­ally irri­ta­ble or deliri­ous, we strug­gle on because we refuse to dis­ap­point one another.

No Comments

Leave a Reply

Your email is never shared.