Everybody possess “that” friend, or social acquaintance in my case. The extroverted one that’s not consigned by the fundamental principles of common banality readily capitulated by many, but regulated by the provocation of others regardless of the passive intent. Some are more direct with their correspondence, others literate (hello!), while others seek the sanctity of subversion to ventilate their beliefs, but one common denominator is the unifying candour of their exerted stipulations. Their notions–affable or notably contracted–are often cordial, with no underlining altercation intended. Their non-complicit in feeling abashed for their declarations, eager to disperse honest salient views, even if inquiries were never affirmed, and prepared for any vocal derision firmly directed at them with suitably intuitive contingencies, which is ordinarily the profanity equivalent of go away! Projecting arrogant approximations when imparting philosophical appraisals on my concerted habitation, with all the subtle acumen of a Christopher Nolan Movie, such as berating my perceived, attenuating masculinity due to my current domestic duties (“Wait, hold on. Shouldn’t your missus be cooking for you?!”) “Yeah. Sure. Right before I club her and drag her unconscious body back to my cave.” But also they are courageous enough to declare their admiration for a typically regarded chick flick like Pitch Perfect, which makes his judicial rebuke of my meek furtive virility rather muted. Despite the often divisive interactions between ourselves, the similar opinionated stances admitted with implicit impassioned credulity, much to the grievance of respective our betrothals, startlingly the conflicting disparaging consolidates our friendship, as does our mutual enmity for sobriety. That is until First Person Shooters are mentioned.

Much like the 99% consensus of the gaming community, he loves FPS’s. Where as I fall comfortably into the minor 1% bracket. I’m not opposed to the genre, I’m generally an advocate of simplicity which is a common malady with the first person perspective. Outlast for instance demonstrated an abdication from artillery could be just as emotionally jarring as any misogynistic conflict. But why should I care about a character who’s only distinguishing feature are his hands that are constantly extruded outwards, as though he spends every waking hour anticipating retaliation and likely subjected to massive artery failure due to the lack of blood flow to his outstretched limbs? But I’ve discussed this bleated lamentation enough in laborious detail before. Last week during a modest gathering of friends that quickly accelerated into a resistance against sobriety, “the” acquaintance and myself decided to abscond from the prohibitory of subjugated femininity and demonstrate the capacity of the PS4. Killzone: Shadow Fall was the immediate title that cajoled him, and being the distinguished host that I was duly obliged. Adopting the role of surrogate tutor, briefly describing the button configuration and their corresponding actions, there was a discernible look of affinity from him. But my hesitant tuition was abruptly severed as he began to govern me, directing the reticle in synergistic accordance to his vocal exactions.

“Killzone: Shadow Fall. Currently being used a coaster for my alcoholic beverage. See, It has its uses.”

His garish gestures chastised my proficiency, and my capitulation to every enemy combatant only fortified my diminished resilience. So prior to conceding to numerous defeat’s and allowed him to commandeer. Despite the lack of intimacy with Killzone, he was instantly able to intuit the precise button structure: shooting, reloading, alternating ballistics, even inverting and altering the sensitivity to accommodate his intimate specifications. “It’s just like Call of Duty really” was his retort to his intuitive efficiency. And he was right. Despite the robotic sentries that generate pockets of resilient shielding for protective purposes and the differing weaponry appellation, there’s no real distinguishing feature that differentiates itself from other FPS’s. Generic assailants, arbitrary environments with a penchant for desolation and all as provocative as a baboon in a negligee. But that’s the point. He doesn’t enjoy them because it perfectly represents sculptured realism, or because it demonstrates poignant or salient cultural observations that perpetuates the growing anonymity of morality in society (if that’s a thing?). But the sense of familiarity is comforting and when competing against on of the most popular and lucrative games of its genre, should it really differ?

Should FPS’s really differ? Let me know what you think. Cheers.