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To game, or not to game,
That is the question.
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The taunts and proddings of accomplished allies
Or take up controllers against a sea of high-scores
And by aiming correctly, end them.
To pause: to sleep.
No More! And by to sleep, to forego those
Precious morning hours and the thousand mass-kill bonuses
That nOObs are heir to.
'Tis an insomnia devoutly to be wished.
To pause: to sleep.
To sleep, perchance to regain some feeling in my thumbs.
Ay, there's the rub; for in that loss of HP
What dreams may come, when we have quaffed all
Red potions must give us pause.
There's the respect that makes fat purses to give such long life.
For who should bear the frags and pwnage of afar?
The sniper's aim, the leading teams indignations,
The pangs of flags yet claimed, of bosses slain
By insolent kill-stealers, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his level gain
On a solo quest?
Who would a Big Goron Sword bear,
To grunt and slave under a heavy blade,
But for the want of an increased threat-range?
The undiscovered country, from whence dice
No RPer botches, puzzles the dungeon master
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than roll for others we do not know.
Thus the 'start' button doth make cowards of us all,
And thus the native nature of honesty
Is sicklied over with the pale cast of game-sharks.
From the very height of our experience points,
With this regard admirers turn away,
And we lose the name of "Champion".