I never really bothered with finishing games—it wasn’t a goal of mine. I was content to muck about within the world the game offered me, enjoy the thrill of cutting enemies to ribbons or besting my own scores on challenges, but to combat the final boss and reach that nebulous frontier of completion…let’s just say it wasn’t my thing.

And then I was playing Media Molecule’s Little Big Planet and realized, quite before I knew it, that I was in the final level of the built-in game play and I kicked the fucking shit out of that snarky Collector and his electric minions. Bubbles popped and fireworks ensued, and as the prim narrator explained my accomplishment I thought to myself, “Holy hamsnacks! I’ve finished my first game ever!”

When I then recalled, suddenly and without warning, that this wasn’t the case.

I got the original Nintendo Gameboy when it first came out, and I thumbed my way through Super Mario Bros. god knows how many times in a dire frenzy to MASTER those little bitches, and I DID IT. In a rush I remembered the glee with which I awaited my reward for conquering that green-on-green, 8-bit universe, and the crushing disappointment I felt when the screen flashed, solely, in devastating monochrome: THE END.

WHAT?!?!



Imagine my 11 year-old heart being ripped from its triumphant chest at this blow to the entire, universal concept of success→reward. It’s a memory I (understandably) repressed, something that apparently kept me from future disappointment by subliminally steering me from the desire to finish a game, any game, in fear of a similar emotional trauma.

Enter Little Big Planet, costumes popping over my head, animations and the glo-o-o-orious feeling of having—single-handedly—erased this festering wound from the tortured confines of my past, all without having to pay an analyst. I WAS FREE!

Enter—present day. I will slay these sunsabitches to the ends of the earth (or my bandwidth) and revel in closing credits. The final song in inFamous is reward enough to finish that baby over and over again, and I’m going to suck the marrow from this Supreme Hunter in [Prototype] if for no other reason than to send this strong message to Nintendo: YOU HAVE NOT BEATEN ME! Your psychotic fans who accepted the scalding blow of betrayal all those years ago shall not deter my Sony-fueled binges of master-destroy-repeat.



Still—err, seriously—some games still don’t provoke me into this frenzy for the finish, either because the story isn’t compelling enough to feel worth the effort or simply due to the fact that it’s more enjoyable to wander aimlessly, picking off events of my choosing. Some games don’t even have endings, and allow one to race/fight/gobble to the heart’s content.

There is also something a bit sad and anti-climactic in reaching a game’s conclusion. As many theorists have stated, in regards to collecting—to finish a collection is to die in some way. The collection must remain open and unfulfilled to instill purpose and drive in the collector. Perhaps this is part of the fuel for franchises—you can beat me, but I’ll keep bringin’ it on.

I now say: bring it. I may suck to epic proportions at nearly every game I touch, but I will endeavor in rushes of self-debasement from one boss battle to the next until that “THE END”—once the blight of my gaming enthusiasm—is not only in sight, but crushed beneath the trembling callous of my thumb.