Blogsplosion2011: Worst. Gaming. Session. EVER.

I’ll let this blogger deliver his own introduction: “iTZKooPA is a Co-Founder of LoreHound.com and has a personal gaming blog at his namesake, iTZKooPA.com. He is the North American Community Manager for Shakes & Fidget and SoccerStar.”  Got that?  Good.  His assignment was to write about his worst gaming session ever.

Most gamers launch their preferred digital delight to enjoy what little free time they have. But too many of us have horror stories, something causing that fragment of hoped-for enjoyment to degrade into a controller spiking, keyboard smashing, curse laden experience. It’s a rare trifecta. Not always, but often these episodes emanate from the connection to other people. They are seldom unique experiences. Each genre has its own oft-repeated, highly-relateble archetype, from corpse camping in MMOG to teabagging brats in FPS.

This is not one of those stories.

My brother and I grew up in a single-computer household. The blazing fast 266 MHz machine was purchased with money from my 8th grade graduation. Despite paying for a large chunk, if not all, of the computer, we treated it as a time share. I guess that’s what I get for being 23 months younger. An hour for him, an hour for me, with bartering allowed (“You can have my hour if you get me a glass of milk from upstairs.”).

Those with siblings can see how this could get hairy. Iit worked beautifully for us. We used the computer for the same purpose, video games. Not just flavors of the month, but the exact same games. At 18 and 16 our shared narcotic was an RTS by Westwood, Command & Conquer: Red Alert. Between the pair, the stunningly fast computer would be home to V3-Rashowdown for hours on end. One would play, the other would help keep track of engineering rushes, tesla pushes, critic Qing (a method of using tank formations to attack while moving), gem mining and countless other game factors.

We were engrossed, in the zone, captivated. Together.

It was common for us to ignore telephone calls, knocks on the door or irate parents. Especially irate parents. To delay trips upstairs for sustenance or neglect particular parts of schoolwork was commonplace. In extreme cases, we sacrificed for each other, tackling a chore so the other could complete the heated, albeit ultimately meaningless, match.

The day was like an other. The computer hummed away displaying the 32-bit age graphics on a bulky CRT monitor. The glow lit up our faces, eyes glazed, brains absorbing and responding to countless bits of information. The game had progressed past the setup phase, the boring opening gameplay where players performed nearly perfect mirror match base layouts. Tanks were rolling, coils were sizzling and MIGs were making their bombing runs. A loud rap rang out on the front door.

Meaningless to us. Anyone of interest would walk in and announce themselves. The noise came again, but it barely registered. Attention returned to the game for the finale.

I’ve no idea how it ended or even who was the victor in the 2v2 match. Or which of the core group of Kali.net players were participating. That information became irrelevant to the day’s events. You see, that day happened to have some importance. My brother was given extra PC time by me. Me giving away computer time was unheard of, but it was his birthday. His 18th birthday. Gotta do something special.

After the match I went upstairs to grab the oft-delayed sustenance. On my way back down I recalled that strange fist-on-wood noise resonating from the front door. I opened it to investigate, assuming it was the mailman with a package, or something to that effect.

There was indeed a package. It was not from any mailman you’ve ever meet. It was from a gentleman’s club. Shockingly, my parents had decided to vacate the premise and welcome my brother to adulthood in, um, style. A stripper had been knocking at our door, awaiting our adolescent ooglin’.

We hadn’t answered.

To us, a pair of hormone-filled male teenagers, this was the ultimate lamer move (epic fail for you kids). All we had to do was answer the door to get an experience we’d only encountered on the Internet. Well, the 56k v.90 modem variety. Hardly comparable.

Command & Conquer: Red Alert, your incessant distraction cost my adolescent self untold pleasure. You’ll go down in infamy as being the bearer of my worst gaming session evar! A session that neither I or my brother will ever forget. Our friends and family will not let us.

I wonder what her name was…