Strange How Every Literal Idea For Stop Killing Games Is Apparently Impossible

OH. MY. GOD. The AUDACITY of these tech giants! 😱 Amazon, Microsoft, Google, and Apple are all like "you will NOT have my data" while we're frantically scribbling our objections like some deranged privacy advocate. But then... BEHOLD! Gaben (aka Gabe Newell, the lord and savior of PC gaming and founder of Valve/Steam) appears, and suddenly we're all "TAKE MY DATA, TAKE MY WALLET, TAKE MY FIRSTBORN CHILD!" The hypocrisy is ASTRONOMICAL! We'll fight tooth and nail to keep our data from big tech, but the second Steam has a sale, we're throwing our credit cards at the screen faster than you can say "my poor bank account." The duality of geek-kind in its natural habitat!

Ah, the classic "let me unmask this villain" meme perfectly captures modern game development! A 2006 game like Oblivion somehow takes up 120GB after being "remastered" (aka slapping on some prettier textures). But pull off that mask and—surprise!—it's actually Unreal Engine 5 bloating everything up like it's getting paid by the gigabyte. Remember when games fit on a single CD? Now you need to clear half your SSD just to install the main menu. The storage requirements are expanding faster than my coffee budget during debugging week.

The evolution of graphics "cards" is the tech equivalent of your friend who said they'd "just have one beer" and ended up ordering the entire menu. Started with that cute little PCI card that could barely render Minesweeper, moved to something resembling an actual card, then suddenly we're installing mini-refrigerators that require their own power supply and structural support. Next GPU generation will come with its own mortgage and custody agreement. Remember when upgrading your PC didn't require reinforcing your desk first?

Ah, the sacred art of "don't touch that code." That external staircase to nowhere isn't just architectural nonsense—it's the perfect metaphor for that mysterious function in your codebase that somehow keeps everything running. Every developer has encountered that one bizarre piece of code with zero documentation that seems completely useless, yet the moment you delete it, everything implodes spectacularly. It's like finding a random semicolon in a 10,000-line file that's somehow holding the entire universe together. The title reference is pure gold—Team Fortress 2 actually has a random JPEG of a coconut in its files, and if you delete it, the game crashes. Nobody knows why. Not even Valve. And they wrote it.

Started with "let's make a simple Pac-Man clone" and ended up building the next Skyrim. The eternal curse of the hobby developer - your brain whispers "just one more feature" until your weekend project needs its own Jira board and development team. The graveyard of GitHub is littered with these ambitious skeletons of what was supposed to be "just a small side project."

Left side: "My code is self-documenting!!" with a sketch of someone looking distressed at the lowest end of the IQ bell curve. Middle: Actual documentation with detailed comments about monster attack algorithms in a game. Right side: Someone who just writes "// this is bridge" next to a drawing of a bridge, sitting at the other low end of the IQ curve. The perfect balance? The 130+ IQ person with comprehensive, helpful comments that actually explain the why behind complex game logic. The eternal developer struggle: write no comments and claim "self-documenting code," write useless comments stating the obvious, or be the rare specimen who documents the intent and reasoning. Most of us oscillate between all three depending on how much coffee we've had.