But its outline didn't coalesce, and what I have to tell is disconcertingly difficult to me because even though it has no name, no face, and no shape, there is no doubt that it has an identity. It screams it at me in a myriad of tongues and paints it on illusionary surfaces in milky, wisp-like trails. What it is showing me I cannot say to you. I cannot repeat this in the language of dreams. What I write now hasn't that ability.
This isn't about video games, but rather one of their more charming characteristics. They are concrete. I see their parts, but the best of them speak to me in ways that I cannot explain. Of course, you're thinking that I am wrong, and if I were talking about distinct characteristic of the game and not emotional turns, subtle nuances, and a bunch of other vague pretentious shit that I felt while wasting away my free time, you'd have me dead to rights. You don't though.
At any given moment I can get lost in a game, whether it is through concentrating on game play or simply disconnecting from my real world surroundings, and then I am there. I am on that mountaintop, spyglass in hand, staring in the distance at the unknowable. I'm yelling back to you that I see it. I see something beautiful, but the hollow wind that whips above that surreal watchpost will drown out my words until they are inaudible and my mouthing of them merely looks as though I am gasping for breath. It's joy to be in this place, but I can't take you there, and I'll never be able to show you what I've seen.
LOOK WHO CAME: