The last few nights have found me trapped in the cruel arena of Robotron 2084, batting away lumbering machinations, brilliant psychic brainbots and the ricocheting gun blasts of the beep-bop-boop world’s most sinister denizens; all the while rescuing the hapless humans doomed to wander these hellish cages.
Let’s not sugar-coat the experience, though, Robotron is a game that was designed by huge assholes. The only thing it’s missing is a tinny, robotic laugh sound effect for whenever you die. Actually, forget it, that might end up being the insular metallic tubing that breaks the cargo-transport’s back.
What purpose does all of this will-shattering work serve? Who has ordered me into the very depths of our future’s cybernetic hades? The “score board” to which I am a slave leads me to believe in something much more sinister than the fate of the human race. It’s like Running Man mixed with 300, but you’re all alone; Gerard Butler in a really gay futuristic dance club outfit.
But even more sinister than this twisted world is the futility of mastering it. After all, this is the King of Robotron to which I must bow down and never usurp: