The Katonian Press: Gamer Wonders If He’ll Ever Get In A Match

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Gamer Wonders If He’ll Ever Get In A Match

Cincinnati, Ohio – Brady Anderson settled in for an evening of online gaming Friday, hoping to “get in a few good games” before hitting the hay.  Craving the visceral satisfaction of taking on other human opponents, Brady popped in his recent diversion of choice, Red Faction: Guerrilla, and grabbed a controller.  He cracked open a delicious Mountain Dew: Live Wire and readied himself.

“Let’s do this,” he said to no-one in particular.  His cat sauntered over and rubbed against his owner’s legs.

Navigating the menus, he prepared to enter his favorite gametype. “How about a little Capture the Flag, bitches?” he queried of, again, no-one in the room.  His cat seemed to agree with him, though.

His hopes were soon dashed.

Brady, an avid Quake and Unreal Tournament player of days past, reveled in the strategic back-and-forthery of the flag capturing genre.  He had enjoyed numerous excursions in previous weeks into Red Faction’s take on the gaming classic.  “I like prox mines,” he has been quoted as saying.  But all he could muster on this night was, “What the crud?”  His usual fare had disappeared, and he quickly scanned the short list of match types in the “hopper” hoping to find its replacement.  Eventually, he settled on one that offered up a random variety of different team-oriented game types.

“I’ll just veto until CTF comes up,” said Brady to his cat.  Mr. Whiskers didn’t particularly agree with this tactic, ultimately believing that joining a playlist with the express intent of steering it toward one particular map or game was kind of a dick move.  He was normally quite vocal on this topic but was enjoying having his belly rubbed and could only mutter a half-hearted “meowr” in protest.

He entered the game lobby and waited for others to join, his thumb hovering over the veto button just in case.  The list of gamers filled with placeholders, informing him that he was “Waiting For Players”.  A bead of condensation rolled down his Mountain Dew can, threatening to collect on the surface of his pressboard coffee table.  “Let’s roll,” he uttered, slowly depleting his reserve of clichés.

He waited.

The only indications that any attempt was being made to match him with a game were an animated progress bar in the corner of his screen and the sound of his Xbox spinning the disc madly, as if preparing to hurl it out of the tray at some ridiculous speed and decapitate nearby bystanders and statues, Oddjob style.  He mused to himself that perhaps time was standing still, like bullet-time, but without the bullets or Max Payne’s constipated expression.

Bubbles welled to the surface of his Mountain Dew and popped, their tiny explosions echoing in an aluminum tunnel, counting off the milliseconds.

Suddenly, a gamertag appeared in the list. “Finally!” he exclaimed, with enough gusto to jostle his cat, who had taken to snoozing during the wait.  He read the first name aloud: “BuddahLovah420”.  His eyes rolled, but at least he figured he was in for a cakewalk if this terribly unimaginative stoner ended up on the other team.  But as quickly as the name had appeared, it disappeared.  “Must have knocked over his bong,” Brady announced, really wishing someone else had been in the lobby to hear that.

Mr. Whiskers contemplated how one day he would probably have to murder his owner, but for now his need for a nap was more pressing and found a quiet corner of the couch to stretch out upon.

After waiting a few more minutes, a frustrated Brady exited the game and ran the network diagnostic, convinced that perhaps his router “needed to be bumped” or that the Xbox Live service was “fubarred” again.  When all came back clear, he rebooted his box and tried again.  “Probably just a momentary matchmaking glitch,” he muttered returning to the online lobby.

The progress bar mocked him silently.

Time slowed to a crawl. Brady occupied himself by attempting to drink just enough of his beverage to allow him to tilt the can and still have it stand upright.  When this got old, he paid a few bills, updated his Facebook status (twice), checked out that latest cosplay pictures on Kotaku, wrote a haiku about teabagging (“You bested me, sir / My penance is your nutsack / Thrust upon my face”), and organized the bills in his wallet from smallest to largest denomination, sorted by serial numbers.  Finally, his screen began to show activity, with placeholder text filling in with gamertags.  He pounded on the veto button to reject whatever crappy non-capture the flag variant they were trying to force upon him.  In his haste, he almost didn’t realize that his controller had long since shut off.

His veto took, but much to his dismay he was saddled with a game variant lacking completely in flags.  Not that it really mattered, as the game only lasted a minute before the server stopped responding and he found his character an impotent immortal, impervious to damage but unable to inflict any, roaming the map like an opaque ghost.  This pattern of disappointment would continue for quite some time, with Brady being denied his gaming craving.  “Everyone must be playing the new DLC,” he grumbled.  “Whose leg does a guy have to hump to get some Capture the Flag around here?!” he exclaimed in frustration.

Just then, as if the Gaming Gods had heard his willful bastardization of a Family Guy quote and decided to take pity upon him, he found himself in a full lobby with his beloved flag capturing game queuing up.  His excitement was palpable, and he chugged the rest of his Dew in preparation.  But the Gaming Gods are often cruel and they revel in trickery, often manifesting our desires with a sadistic bent.  Brady had been matched against a party of gamers who had long ago reached the experience cap.  As if fleeing in terror at the mere sight of their rank badges, Brady’s teammates bailed from the game one by one until only he was left to protect his flag from their ever-grasping claws.

He was handily defeated.

The last sight he beheld before the match ended was that of a sea of Ostrich Hammers crashing over him, an avian nightmare of beaks and feathers.  Dejected, he exited the game completely.

“Christ,” sighed Brady, setting his controller down and resigning himself.  “I get it. I’ll buy Halo, already.  Jeeze.”

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