Is Mayonnaise A Roguelike?

Remember when we thought these janky polygons were the peak of technology? In 2000, we'd sit there amazed at what was essentially a potato with hair clipping through a horse's neck. Now I'm disappointed when my 4K ray-traced game drops below 120fps. The best part? Those old games actually shipped without needing 50GB day-one patches. They just worked... mostly... if you ignored the nightmare fuel character models.

The AUDACITY of that brain cell suggesting I transform my 3D game into some hand-drawn anime masterpiece! 💀 Like, excuse me?? I'm just a humble dev trying to make cubes move on screen, and suddenly my own brain expects me to become Miyazaki with a shader program?! The sheer TRAUMA of lying there, realizing I'd need approximately 17 new skillsets and possibly a deal with the devil to implement that feature. The silent darkness of the final panels is literally my soul leaving my body as I contemplate the 47 YouTube tutorials I'd need to watch before even attempting this monstrosity. And then—BOOM—enlightenment strikes! Time to update that LinkedIn profile with "actively seeking art and shader wizards who can compensate for my spectacular inadequacies."

The vicious cycle that keeps indie devs trapped in their basements for years. You start with this beautiful vision of your dream game, then reality hits and you're building some janky prototype that looks like it was made in MS Paint. But instead of shipping it, perfectionism kicks in and you spend 6 months tweaking the lighting on a tree nobody will notice. Meanwhile, your bank account is sending you increasingly aggressive notifications, but you can't release it yet because "it's not ready." So you loop back to the dream, convincing yourself this time will be different. The phone screen showing "death in poverty - incoming call" with two answer buttons is chef's kiss. Like you have a choice but you're answering either way. That's the indie gamedev life—you know what's coming but you do it anyway because you're in too deep now.

When your code review gets a perfect score for being absolutely terrifying. That's not a bug report, it's a trauma report. The reviewer gave it seven hearts because they're still alive to write the review, which is more than we can say for their sanity. Legacy codebases should come with this exact warning: "If you're a fan of spaghetti code, give it a shot. If you value your mental health, stay FAR away."

Behold the evolution of PC justification logic: Normal brain: "I need this RTX 4090 for school spreadsheets." Glowing brain: "This 64GB RAM setup is essential for my remote work meetings." Enlightened brain: "My liquid-cooled rig is purely for watching YouTube at 1080p." Transcendent cosmic brain: "I spent $3000 on this battlestation to play Stardew Valley and occasionally open Notepad++."

Meta burned through $80 billion trying to convince everyone that the metaverse was the future, complete with soulless avatars that look like they were rendered on a PlayStation 2. Now they're shutting down Horizon Worlds and pivoting away from their grand vision. The tech industry's most expensive "oops, never mind" moment. The "OH NO! ANYWAY" meme format captures the collective response perfectly—nobody's actually surprised or upset. Turns out spending the GDP of a small country to create uncanny valley avatars with no legs wasn't the revolutionary idea Zuckerberg thought it was. Who could've seen that coming? Oh right, literally everyone except the people writing the checks. The real tragedy here is all those engineers who could've been building something useful instead of debugging why their virtual avatar's eyes looked dead inside. Then again, maybe that was just accurate representation.