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.

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