There’s a specific kind of quiet that settles over the house at 11pm. The dishwasher hums. Somebody’s nightlight glows down the hall. And on the screen, a spaceship the size of a small moon is waiting to vaporize me for the thirty-second time.
I’ve been chipping away at Galaxy Siege since the spring — not because it’s the best game I own, but because its final boss does not care about my reflexes, my schedule, or the fact that I have to be up at six.
Phase one — the warm-up that isn’t
The first phase is almost polite. Slow shots, big telegraphs, room to breathe. It lulls you — teaching you to relax right before it stops being kind.
I stopped trying to be good and just started trying to survive. Somewhere in there, the rhythm finally clicked.
Phase two — where I usually die
This is the wall. The screen fills with light, the safe gaps get mean, and my old thumbs start improvising in ways my brain hasn’t approved. Thirty-one times I’ve gone down here.
Attempt thirty-two
When the boss finally went down I did not cheer — the kids were asleep. I just sat there, controller in my lap, grinning at a screen like I was twelve years old again. Some things don’t change, and thank goodness for that.