I’m a reclusive cat by nature, which can be problematic, especially when it comes to experiencing some of gaming’s more joyous social experiences. I’m lucky enough to have roommates who also enjoy the interactive media, but, as a result, I know them too well as gamers. I know what I’m in for when I sit down with them for a Rock Band session, Street Fighter match, or shoot-out in Halo. No alarms and no surprises, as I’m wont to say. But a man can’t survive in solitude for long without going bonkers so I’ve been making moves to spend more time with other folk. Just this past night, one of my roommates invited a few people over for some good company, cold beverages, and Soulcalibur. Two of our illustrious guests, a young woman we’ll call Anna and a fella we’ll call Brian, were complete non-gamers. Not even “casual” gamers if you will; Brian’s never owned a console and barely touched a game in his twenty-six years, and the same was true of Anna. They were mystified by the rest of the group’s fascination with Soulcalibur IV, put-off by the apparent competitive streak the game brought out in us and the game’s improbable take on anatomy. But, with a little help from Messrs. Killian I. Red and Miller G. Draft, we eventually convinced Anna and Brian to take up the controllers for a round.
They didn’t stop playing for an hour.
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