Brainy Gamer

Call me Brainy. Some years ago - never mind how long precisely - having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on television, I thought I would write a few words about the gaming part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; I account it high time to play a game as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball.

Sadly, my epic tale of high gaming adventure was cut short by a blow to the head from a ricocheting Wiimote. I now find myself a wandering amnesiac, adrift in an ocean of URLs and a homepage bookmark anchoring me to this strange place. So, call me Brainy or what you will, for I know not who I am. There is nothing surprising in this. Almost all games in their degree, some time or other, share very nearly the same condition as me.

There now is your insular city of the Amnesiacs, Sanitarium, belted round by Rune Factory reefs - amnesia surrounds it with her surf. Alone in the Dark, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme down-town is Silent Hill, where that noble mole is washed by amnesia, and cooled by amnesia, which a few hours previous were out of Dragon Quests. Look at the crowds of amnesiacs there.

Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Final Fantasy afternoon. Go from Baten Kaitos and XIII steps from thence, by Prototype northward. What do you see? - Amnesiacs like silent STALKERs all around the town, stand thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in Lost Odyssey. Some leaning against the Metal Gear; some seated upon Red Steel; some looking Tormented over the Planescape as if striving to catch a Second Sight. But these are all amnesiacs; of week days pent up in amnesia - tied to counters, nailed to benches, clinched to desks. How then is this? Are the original plots gone? What do they here?

But look! here come more amnesiacs, spinning Tales of the Abyss, and seemingly bound for Shining Tears. Strange! Nothing will content them but the extremest limit of amnesia; loitering under the shady lee of KOTOR will not suffice. No. They must get just as nigh The Witcher as they possibly can without remembering.

And there they stand - miles of them - leagues. Amnesiacs all, they come from lanes and alleys, streets and avenues, - north, east, south, and west of Xenogears. Yet here they all unite. Can you tell me, my memory-addled shipmates, if The World Ends With You?