Sleep, it’s such a valuable commodity. A human resource frequently mismanaged by a society intent on utilising every sliver of available time at the expense of necessary slumber. Boy do I miss it. Never underestimate the rejuvenating properties of extended convalescence. It’s like concealing yourself behind conveniently situated crates and barrels for a short period in an FPS after a gunshot wound, in an attempt to heal yourself. The screen stops flashing, you’re vision is no longer impaired by a blood splatter that looks as though someone has thrown a used sanitary towel at you’re face and you can proceed to inflict severe retaliation on you’re aggressors. Sleep deprivation is a naturally occurring malady for most gamers who don’t know when to quite, with the immediate task taking precedence over any deteriorating concentration and mental fragility, both considerations being an affliction reserved for the morning stupor. Trouble is that same adolescent fervour that drives you to succeed dictates you’re actions, with the inhibiting fatigue very much a regrettable afterthought that you’re repeat again. There’s a conflicted sense of reasoning that goes into ignoring bedtime. Rationally I know that if I go to bed at a reasonable hour I’ll get a good nights sleep and feel fresh and invigorated, prepared for the complexities the day may bring. But on the other hand why waste valuable free time not doing anything when I could be finishing Ratchet and clank? (Which is ironically developed by Insomniac. Coincidence?)
I can’t condone or even rationalise such a detrimental ideology, but for me not sleeping for the recommended amount of time is an appropriate sacrifice, certainly a congenial one that affords special dispensation to the extension of time. Sleep merely detracts from the marginal interim I get to play games, allowing the following work day to recur that much more imminently. By the time I arrive home from work I’m obligated to perform further labour intensive jobs in a domestic setting. Cutting the grass, washing up, changing the baby, cooking on occasion, perhaps driving around at 3 am in an attempt to coerce my 1 month old daughter to sleep. If I don’t take the time to relax, even for an hour I’m liable to drive through next doors living room naked, going “cluck cluck, I’m a chicken” and defecate a brown egg their new carpet. I associate sleep as a negative contribution, negating the spurious time I have and would rather resent it’s absence in the morning. You anticipate just how tired you’ll feel come morning, but you’re living in the moment, fixated on getting to the next stage, with rest becoming the annoying sibling that persists in kicking you in the back.
This flagrant regard for sleep has endured for a number of years, from a time when I’d reach 2 am playing my PS1 and think “I’ll just do that next little bit, then stop” but don’t. Nowadays I have little control over my interspersed gaming, where time to do so is subject to availability. It’s not until around 10 pm that I’m finally able to gain a redeeming, solitary hour to play games. And if the sacrifice is irritable lethargy in the morning then game on!
Does gaming prevent you from sleeping? What’s the longest night you’ve gone playing a game? Let me know in the comments below. Cheers.
Everything portrayed here is false, including accounts related to companies, people, products and especially concerning comparable similarities between Nathan Drake and myself. All instances depicted are strictly fictitious and under no circumstances reflect any real life endeavours. These statements our purely fabricated for entertainment purposes and in no reflect anyone attending this event. Any similarities with anyone living or dead is strictly coincidental, but I’d be open to discuss any narrative comparisons to determine just how the hell that happened. All rights reserved. Suitable for vegetarians. May contain traces of nuts. If allergic please consult a mortician. Your responses maybe recorded and used for training purposes, or so I can cackle inexplicably for hours.
Due to financial irregularities, i.e. I’m as poor as a Greek banker, I was prevented from attending this year’s EGX despite obtaining press passes for all 4 days. Instead my prophetic powers of deduction will accurately intuit what I believed would have transpired if I had attended. I thereby conducted my own randomized perception with candid lucidity, conferred with creative if fabricated accounts concerning the atmospheric resonance of the arena and the civility of the congested residents perusing various items of interest. So gather round, make yourselves comfortable as I recite a tale brimming with narrative and continuity errors so profound that even Rupert Murdoch would be reticent to publish it. *Clears throat* It was a cold and frigid morn. I had left home the night before, eager to settle into my extravagant apartment that had been temporarily conferred to me by my good friend Shuhei Yoshida. After a comfortable nights sleep reclined in a surprisingly spacious coffin I conducted some idle preparations for the days exultant appraisals. Patricia (my pet dragon) and myself swooped into the prestigious NEC arena at roughly 9:30, amidst throngs of spectators queuing, incinerating a few careless Xbox fans on our descent. Patricia doesn’t care for them I’m afraid.
Upon our humble arrival I was greeted by two robust security guards and escorted to a secure facility on site before being formally detained for being awesome. Before I could be charged with such a fraudulent crime, the perennial jester that is Troy Baker entered the room, cackling like a drunk witch. You may remember Troy from such games as The Last of us and such. “You got me again!” I bellowed. Me and Troy go way back you see. I recall our first encounter in a bar in Tuscany and the formative discussions we shared. “Hello” I greeted. “Hi” he responded. Ah, such good times. Anyway, having been absolved from any wrong doing and after claiming my requisitioned gear I hastily began my search for this year’s most anticipated games. Of course social etiquette dictates that I acknowledge the rapturous adulation of my entourage of devoted followers, keen to submit their own praise for my extensive talent. Once the pageantries of cordial salutations had been displayed however I coordinated a full throng attack on Sony’s spacious segments on the show floor. Of course I couldn’t neglect my sworn professional duties and could only indulge in such endeavours once I’d concluded a few interviews with Mario and Sonic, who recently announced their engagement. Once necessary congratulations had been submitted then I was free to explore the shrill hue of exotic titles on display.
After discussing future plans with the heads of Xbox, Nintendo and Sony, all of whom had flown in specially to converse with me personally, I conducted an interview with beautifully cadence voice of Elena Fisher, whose actual name escapes me. Her persistent infatuation and continual enquiries into my marital availability was becoming rather aggressive though, with her amorous insinuations and infatuation into my purported resemblance to Nathan Drake were indeed flattering, but I had to inform her of my betrothal to another. With succinct sensitivity I was able to diminish the hindrance of such a disappointment and allow her to continue her life without me. These are the crosses I must bare. But once my mandatory work had concluded at it was time to see what this year’s must own titles are. Entering the bloated swell of communicative patrons eager to be coerced by the vibrant fervour of blighted commercialism was certainly a desultory start. I was less susceptible to such weak-minded coercion though, as I sipped a cool refreshing Heineken, brewed from only the richest domestically sourced hops and barley’s, swooning as the bubbles pirouetted on my tongue like graceful ballerinas, I gazed at my next destination. I tested the impressive VR hardware from Sony, formerly project Morpheus. I also participated with the likes of Ratchet and Clank, Fifa 16, Assassins Creed Syndicate, the latter of which featured a curious representation of myself as a wealthy civilian, garbed in the most exquisite Victorian suit. But then I was suddenly accosted by a gentleman of rather substantial repute, claiming to be the best Battlefront player in world, who deemed me a worthy opponent. I Dutifully complied to his challenge, prescient in the way he regarded his own reputed abilities, bowing like a priest at sermon in response to the fleeting glances of reverence. After initially decimating his forces, seemingly motivated by his damaged pride he challenged me to a rematch citing some fortuitous positioning of my chair that contributed to my precipitous situation. My opponent, now thoroughly deprived of any cordial subtlety once again cursed my fluke as the crowd reacted to another sublime victory with rapturous adulation……when the power was conveniently severed by this irritated oaf.
Once the unpleasantness had keeled I tarried for a moment, pivoting on the heels of my feet determining my next course of action and decided on a trip to the toilet. Upon my exit from the remarkably hygienic latrines I encountered Dave, the unicorn. Who upon inspection of my person, seemingly aroused by my musk judging by the size of the conical protrusion on its forehead reared it’s front legs with vigorous purpose (some gestural greeting or custom that I was unfamiliar with) and bolted behind a PS4 partition like a fart in a hurricane, especially when you consider it did a little poo as it left (very colourful turd though). The rather pungent stench of acrid emanations it left in its absence continued to generate, circulating through the ventilation like a snake on a greasy slide, but rather appropriately nestling its foul odour amongst much of Activision’s repertoire. Now with the scented aroma of faeces settling amongst a more visual representation of crap I decided that now would be an opportune time to take my leave. I of course visited the thrift stores and concessions stands on my way out. My perusing commerce resulted in the purchase of a Lego Rome set, which I proceeded to finish in a day (a thank you). I also encountered a charming fellow called Foetus face, which as you’ve probably derived from his name is in reference to his job as a plumber. I began to make my exit just as the herded masses began to drift towards the centre of the arena, drawn by some ethereal clemency, to which they exerted an interpretive performance of Will Smiths “Boom boom boom shake the room”. The interpretive choreography was resplendent as it was errant of any cordial necessity, but I respected the sudden whimsy of such a performance.
As I began straddling Patricia (which we established is a dragon), observing the throng of happy gamers departing, content in their complicit deviation from the stagnation of life I pondered whether next year’s EGX could possibly be any batter? I guess we’ll have to wait and see. In the interim it’s time to get some food. I think I’ll have rump of Minotaur, maturely aged of cause, accompanied by a moistened Dodo egg fertilised by the nourishing tears of a unicorn. Hmm? I wonder where Dave trotted off too?
Did you attend this years EGX? If so what was your favourite part and how accurate was I? Leave a comment and let me know. Cheers.