When it comes to technology, specifically the fundamentals of how they operate, I am as adept at there repair as the Amish. My comprehension of the mechanics of even modest appliances are probably a notch above “Witchcraft”. Having never been blessed with an inherent affinity for understanding the technical logistics, nor especially receptive to their qualities, the idea of repairing a damaged gadget offered no persuasive incentive. However, when the defective implement in question is my 6 month old PS5 controller, repair becomes essential.
The concern for me was the very abrupt severity of the situation. The button in question is the R2, universally recognised as firing trigger for every FPS in the past decade, and accredited as being the most comfortable and ergonomic option. While navigating Anglo-Saxon England as an invading viking in Assassin’s Creed: Valhalla I noticed that, while attempting a heavy attack the R2 button felt malleable. Demonstrating a receding rigidity you’d usually expect after many years of usage. It was apparent from its beleaguered response that something was wrong. Though the trigger still functioned, performing the necessary tasks instructed, the lack of tension made the controller vibrate. What was curious was the absence of any sudden trauma or excessive use that could expedite such a gradual certainty. For my part, I’ve been nothing but attentive to my new, very extravagant accessory.
A quick Google search revealed not only the root cause of the loose trigger, but the extent of the damage. A tiny, curved spring that enables the trigger to respond to specific stimulants the player experiences, like the taughtness of a bow string for example was the culprit. And judging by the dissemination of similar enquiries online, a common defect. Now if the device had been damaged by my own aggressive volition, fine. I’d have no complaints. But to manufacture a product with such an inherent fault, or at least questionable durability, is inexcusable!
Now at this point I had two choices: Either contact Sony directly to arrange for restoration of the device or request a replacement. The latter I had discovered much later was liable to be Sony’s response. Or attempt to remedy the situation myself. Considering the inevitable delay and my personal aversion to phone conversations, I decided the only solution was to replace the defective part myself. What’s the worst that could happen?
So I made all the necessary arrangements. Purchased the requisite components. Studied the process of safely dismantling the device. Assured by multiple videos that the process was simple, provided you were delicate. And with great reluctance began the gruelling 1.5 hour operation to surgically replace the PS5’S broken segment.
Anyone with even a degree of technical proficiency, isn’t likely to squander such an excessive amount time on procrastination and deliberation. But in my defence I was heavily sedated by Beer and pizza that prolonged my convictions. Arrested by an overriding anxiety. As you begin prising things apart, trying desperately not break some tiny, yet crucial mechanism, you become acutely aware that you could inadvertently do something you can’t reverse. But as I made cautious little incisions in the controller’s exterior, pausing the YouTube videos to ensure I was making the right apertures, things began to improve. Until the casually dissected parts strewn across the table like extracted organs began to grow, so did my confidence.
In fact the most difficult part of all, other than reassembling the fragile plastic casing that “slots” in beneath the analogue sticks, was maneuvering the compact spring into position. A process only exacerbated by my fat, clumsy fingers. But the satisfaction of seeing that once slackened trigger responding to actions the way it was intended felt like a tremendous accomplishment. A solution easily resolved if I had just approached Sony, but not nearly as satisfying. Something I achieved. That by my fair, callous riddled hands, I had nurtured this broken controller back from the brink of extinction. And that feels pretty damn good!