Dear Loved Ones,
It’s been a week since our last correspondence, yet I find myself in roughly the same situation I was in when we last spoke. The wastelands of Pandora are sprawling and not easily left behind, particularly when there are so many people who require so much from me. Don’t they see that I am just one man? How can I be expected to pursue my goals when there’s just so much these helpless souls ask of me?
I feel like I’m walking in circles. Fighting the same fights over and over again. It’s like that Bill Murray movie. Ghostbusters. Except the ghosts keep coming back again and again. It’s annoying, but oddly satisfying. And I usually walk away a better person — or at least a few experience points closer to being a better person. And just look at all the loot!
If I hear that one more time, I might snap. You may think that it would be nice to go someplace where everybody knows your name. It’s not nice. It’s a pain in the ass. Cliff just wants you to deliver his mail, and Norm wants you to beat Vera to death with her own limb so he can steal back the wedding ring. When people know your name, they think they can just stop and talk to you whenever they like. Or worse. They stick an exclamation point on their head and expect you to come running.
While the tasks may be menial, they always give me a chance to shoot stuff. Lots of stuff. Right in the face. “Pow!” And as the guts and gore go flying, so does the treasure. Most of it is just meaningless variations on all the crap I’m already lugging around with me, but there’s always the chance I’ll find that one awesome upgrade that will make it all worth while.
That’s what keeps me going: That chance of some minor improvement to my gear, and the constant drive to level up.
At least Pandora is a funny place. The people are all backwards hicks with a bent toward psychopathy, but their meaningless existence is humorous and pathetic. They make me feel better about myself. Even with my unnatural attraction to my inanimate Sabre turrets, I’m the most normal one here.
Well, it’s time to dust off these old boots and head back out. There’s more work to do, but mostly I just want to get out of here before the weirdo in the corner calls me a ‘bonerfart’ again.
See ya soon,
-Axton.Posted in Op Ed by Steve R Gibson on October 4, 2012