The People Interested In Playing My Game Can Be Categorised Into Two Groups

Ah, the modern game industry in a nutshell! While graphics get the champagne shower celebration, actual gameplay mechanics are standing in line like they're waiting for the world's most disappointing theme park ride. This is basically every AAA game studio meeting: "How's the ray tracing coming along?" *pops champagne* "What about the story?" "Yeah Bob's working on it... I think." The same energy as when your PM asks about code quality while frantically pushing that shiny new feature to production. Who needs proper error handling when you've got lens flares, am I right?

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.

Look at that high-end Bugatti with no wheels—just like those fancy Unreal Engine 5 games that look incredible in trailers but run at 12 FPS on actual hardware. Sure, the graphics are mind-blowing, but what good is a sports car (or game engine) when it can't actually move? Six months after launch: "We're optimizing the experience with our latest 50GB patch." Meanwhile your GPU is sweating harder than a junior dev during a code review.

Ah, retirement anxiety solved by the next GTA release. While some worry about filling their golden years with purpose, developers know the truth—we'll be grinding side quests and debugging our own mod projects until arthritis claims our mechanical keyboards. The ten-year gap between GTA releases isn't a development timeline, it's Rockstar's contribution to retirement planning. Who needs a 401k when you've got 400GB of open-world escapism waiting to consume what remains of your life?

When your resume isn't getting any callbacks so you code it as a class implementation. This guy's living in 2077 while the rest of us are still using Word templates. The best part? He's somehow managed to code his future experience at a job starting in September 2024. Nothing says "hire me" like a time paradox and some premature optimization of your career path. That 1.7K thumbs up isn't just social validation—it's a compile-time assertion that this approach works. Meanwhile, recruiters are still trying to figure out if they should run this resume or read it.

The gaming industry's version of "it works on my machine." Bethesda's approach to game engines is like that senior dev who refuses to update their 15-year-old codebase because "it still compiles." They built Morrowind and Oblivion in a metaphorical cave with a box of scraps, and now they're stuck with that legacy code forever. Meanwhile, gamers waiting for Elder Scrolls 6 are like junior devs begging for a rewrite while management keeps saying "I'm sorry, but I'm not" approving that request. The Creation Engine is basically the PHP of game development—somehow still powering everything despite everyone complaining about it.