Chris Motola

The Internet. My Internet. A web of id so thick you can’t stretch your arms without getting tied up in someone’s Freudian nightmare. Congratulations, kid, you’ve just taken a swan dive into my own sticky little neighborhood, might as well make yourself comfortable. The name’s Chris, “Chris Motola” to my landlord.


Let’s talk about The Game. Not the one you lose by thinking about The Game–by the way, you just lost that one–but the big one. The system, kid. The one you experiment with every day, the big sausage factory. You put in the ingredients, something strange, terrible and wonderful happens, and out comes dinner. Or a seven-headed lizard dog with a taste for irony and the human pancreas. We know only a fraction of what’s going on inside that factory. It didn’t come with a tutorial so we’ve spent the last few millenia trying to reverse engineer the instruction manual. It’s a big job and it ain’t gonna be finished in our day.


That’s why we make our own systems and call it “play” when we fire them up. We like knowing the rules. The Bishop ain’t gonna step sideways and excommunicate your Rook. M. Bison never learned the shoryuken. A 20 hits anything, even the dragon king. We don’t just play lip service to meritocracy, we can give everyone the same resources, even the same luck. A game’s got stakes. A game lets you know if you’re doing it right or wrong. Games make sense of things we couldn’t experience in real life.


So I play games. I make games. I write about games. I talk about people who play games. I invite games back to my place for a drink. I’m happy to be aboard Pretty Sneaky, Sis and look forward to meeting the members of our growing community.

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