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Dominic

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56 Leaf Clover

300 XP

i need a lobotomy

“…how selfish soever man may be supposed, there are evidently some principles in his nature, which interest him in the fortune of others, and render their happiness necessary to him, though he derives nothing from it, except the pleasure of seeing it.”

— Adam Smith, Theory of Moral Sentiments

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RimWorld

Đã chơi 1.150 giờ

Will Smith saves the day?

First playthrough: Crashlanded with three survivors; two guys and an unlucky gal. Stuck with the traits of being irresistible (Beautiful trait) but uninterested in men (Gay trait), this was gonna be a bumpy ride for her--She knew it, the guys knew it, just about all the wildlife that had gathered at the sight of the crashlanding knew it, but most importantly... I knew it.

By the end of the first day, both of the guys were already getting rebuffed by the poor misses just trying to lay the roofing down to the absolute atrocity that one of the guys (we'll call him Aaron) with a construction skill of 2 had thrown together as a pathetic excuse for a makeshift home. All my pawns were at a minor risk of a mental breakdown, and once again--so was I. Her life was looking to be a constant hellish stream of corny pick-up lines followed by backbreaking work for the advancement of this colony.

A week goes by and Aaron has already entered the state of wandering the map in a daze, his heart having been broken time and time again by the girl he knew he wanted but could never have, things were looking pretty bleak for my only pawn who was medically capable.

It definitely didn't help when Randy (Storyteller) thought it would be funny to send a pack of mahunting Muffalos at my already mentally broken pawns. Down goes Aaron, still wandering the outskirts of my colony like the pitiful slob of sadness he was. It wasn't very long until my misses (we'll call her Bianca) and my remaining gentleman (who we'll call Atlas) had followed in reaching the state of needing to be rescued. I sat patiently in anticipation of a miracle. Muttering words to myself like "Where's my red bull" and "Get me another red bull you lazy slack of ♥♥♥♥", which thinking back now was probably directed towards my poor, poor roommate rather than to myself.

Just as I was about ready to give in and cry myself to sleep, there it was. A miracle--in all its beaming glory.

The man in black--but not really...

I've never seen anything like it before. A man in black here to save the day. I was so glad I didn't even bother to check his stats or bio page. He rescued Aaron first, and there I sat as I watched the man in black walk his way back to my house with Aaron who was just 4 hours away from bleeding to death. After liberating Aaron from certain death, he made his way back out to rescue Atlas and Bianca, they too were knocking on Death's door. As he patched the colonists back up, I considered lowering the volume on my Logitech Z213 Compact Speaker System so my roommate can finally get some sleep. I, of course, rejected such a foolish proposition. Instead, I shuffled deeper into my seat and watched the man in black display his complete incompetence in the medical field.

Looking back now, I probably should have just increased the game speed. But that would make me a sensible man; of which I am not.

As he was wrapping it up and just about done tending my last colonist I noticed he had come with the traits of Nudist (receives a mood debuff when wearing clothes), Brawler (receives a mood debuff if equipped with a ranged weapon and much more likely to get into fights) and Pyromaniac (enters a mental state every few days where she/he starts setting things on fire). I didn't think much of it at that instant and just noted that I ought to keep an eye on him until this whole charade has passed.

Happily Ever After?

Things were starting to look promising, I was gonna get my colony back on track and before long we'll sleep among the stars once again! By break of dawn, Atlas was no longer incapable of getting up and Bianca was no longer incapacitated. Aaron seemed like he was gonna be out for the long haul but I couldn't care less about that miserable little bastard.

The man in black made himself at home by stripping himself of all his black clothes leading me to believe he wasn't really the man in black and rather a pale, eye-blinding white. I asked politely if he could get himself a suntan and found it was quite rude that he didn't respond at all and instead continued stripping off his clothes.

Before long, Atlas had gotten up but... almost immediately the man in black had gone to beat him back down into shock. And then did the same thing with Bianca not too long later as she tried to get up. He even put the colonists back into their beds after they went into shock. The guy then used the remainder of my medicine to patch up on Atlas and Bianca. When I'd completely run out of medicine, he had a mental breakdown and went over to Aaron to beat him to death, and proceeded to light the whole house on fire. Once the house was sufficiently on fire his mental break wore off, where he then immediately had another minor break that was “lock in room” he sat in his room as the entire house burned down and killed everyone.

10/10 would play again. God I love this ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ game.

TL;DR

RimWorld is a scifi colony management sim that seems to effortlessly weave dynamic stories around the player’s attempts to survive on an often harsh alien world. It's a life simulator, and as such it isn't about creating the perfect colony and rather it's about handling drama. Things are meant to go wrong and they WILL absolutely go wrong. It's up to you to cut your losses and place the survival of your colony over the well being of any individual. It's a game with infinite replayability and one that deserves every bit of praise that it receives. If you don't already own the game, buy it at full price. It's well worth every penny spent.

If you enjoyed this review, feel free to check out my curator profile for more.

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Disquiet

If I have no other virtue at least there exists in me the unending novelty of liberated sensation.

Today, while walking down the street of Sainte-Catherine, I abruptly noticed the back of the man walking ahead of me: the ordinary back of an ordinary man. He was carrying an old bookbag under his left arm and with each step he took, he tapped the pavement with the point of the rolled umbrella he carried in his right hand. And suddenly I felt something approaching tenderness for that man. I felt in him the tenderness one feels for human ordinariness, for the sad and joyous pleasures that no doubt make up his life, for the innocence of living in the absence of reflection, for the animal naturalness of that clothed back.

Looking again at that man's back; the window through which I saw these thoughts. It was exactly the same feeling that comes over you in the presence of someone sleeping. When someone sleeps they become a child again, perhaps because in sleep one can do no evil and one is unaware even of one's own existence. By some natural magic, the worst criminal, the most inveterate egotist is made sacred by sleep. I can see no perceptible difference between killing a child and killing someone while they sleep. That man's back sleeps. Every part of that man walking ahead of me, at the same speed as me, is asleep. He moves unconsciously. He lives unconsciously. He sleeps just as we all sleep. All of life is a dream.

We sleep our lives away, we the eternal children of Fate. That's why, if I think with that feeling, I experience a boundless tenderness for all of infantile humanity. What sweeps over me in such moments is a pure humanitarianism that draws no conclusions and knows no ulterior motives. I'm overwhelmed by tenderness as if I saw all this with the eyes of a god. I see everyone with the compassion of the only conscious being alive. What are we all doing here? From the simple rise and fall of our lungs to the building of cities and the drawing up of imperial frontiers, I consider every movement and motivating force in life to be a form of sleep, to be dreams or intervals that occur involuntarily in the pauses between one reality and the next. And at night, like some abstractly maternal figure, I bend over the beds of both the good and the bad, made equal in the sleep that makes them mine.

It sometimes occurs to me, with sad delight, that if one day (in a future I won't be a part of) the sentences that I write are read and admired, then at last I'll have my own kin, people who 'understand' me, my true family in which to be born and loved. But far from being born into it, I'll have already died long ago. I'll be understood only in effigy, when affection can no longer compensate for the indifference that was the dead man's lot in life.

Perhaps one day they'll understand I fulfilled--like no one else--my instinctive duty to interpret a portion of our century; and when they've understood that, they'll write that in my time I was misunderstood, that the people around me were unfortunately indifferent and insensitive to my work, and that it was a pity this happened to me. And whoever writes this will fail to understand my literary counterpart in that future time, just as my contemporaries don't understand me. Because men learn only what would be of use to their great-grandparents. The right way to live is something we can teach only to the dead.

Today, I reached an absurd but unerring conclusion. In a moment of enlightenment, I realized that I had robbed myself of any possibility of having existed before the world. I am the outskirts of some non-existent town, the long-winded prologue to an unwritten book. I sometimes wonder if my apparently negligible voice might not embody the essence of thousands of voices. The patience and longing for self expression of millions of souls, resigned like my own to their daily lot in life; their useless dreams and their hopeless hopes.

I can see her from a future perspective as clearly as I see her here today— with her particular limitations and affections. With her deliberate but energetic features. I’m troubled if I displease her and my soul is gladdened by her smile—warm as the applause of a large crowd. Perhaps the reason the ordinary figure of her so often tangles with my intelligence and distracts me from myself is simply because there’s no one else in my life of greater stature. I believe, or almost believe, that somewhere in a distant life this girl was something more to me than she is today

These are my confessions and if in them I say nothing it's because I have nothing to say. What is there to confess that is worthwhile or useful? What has happened to us has happened to either everyone or only to us. If to everyone; then it's no novelty and if only to us then it won't be understood. If I write what I feel it's to reduce the fever of feeling. What I confess is unimportant because everything is unimportant.

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