NIDZUMI+

My name is Sam Giddings, and I have a problem with Gears of War…

On Thursday 23rd November 2006, Gears of War dropped through my letterbox. That day, drowning in chum, the kibbled flesh of an alien menace showering my television, I experienced what Gearheads refer to as a moment of clarity. Cut-scenes would stop me in my tracks; brutal, confined firefights would leave me punching the air in satisfaction. The plot made no sense, but who the hell cares what a Lightmass Bomb is anyway?

Then I took it online.

That was the real epiphany, the real revelation. Once I was blind, but now I could see. Hallelujah!

All the thundering force and intensity of the campaign coalesced into a perfect, unforgiving and utterly thrilling frag-fest. Nade-tagging, chainsawing, and the pop of that headshot – perhaps the most satisfying videogame sound ever created. I poured hours into it. All the tactics, tricks, and manoeuvres of the seasoned veteran slowly revealed themselves to me – for the first time, I was in it from the ground up. The pleasing geometry of the squared-off cover system made sense to me, felt intuitive. I started evolving new moves myself: the shotgun roll became the sideways shotgun roll up a staircase. I found a rhythm for the shotgun strafe – right, fire, left, fire, left, fire. That extra step always caught out opponents. Anyone standing still and trying to use cover would swiftly find themselves without a head and teams holding back on Rooftops would be obliterated by the Hammer of Dawn.

Friends were a perfect compliment to the mix. What we dubbed “the dead room” was the perfect ice-breaker. You had one life per round; your demise instantly relegated you to a role as an observer, unable to communicate with anyone except your fellow corpses. The best bit? Both teams were in there. Anyone dumped into the dead room cursing and blaming others would be mocked by gleeful opponents. All you could do was vow revenge; it kept things civil. And when that sole player, the last line of defence, played the perfect round, single-handedly slaying the entire opposing team… Then, then the cheers and whoops awaiting your return to the lobby were the adrenaline-fuelled perfection of exquisite combat, the lone gladiator besting the odds.

We invented so many amusing little mini-games to keep it fresh: drive-by abusing, smoke-n-saw, the shotgun rush. We even developed little catchphrases to advise poor players: “always check your mirrors”.

I’d play whole evenings, hours on end, without losing a match. I met most of my current online friends through Gears of War. It was sociable, it was fun, and it was a grand old time to be online. I found myself ducking out of the pub at closing time to go home and play; occasionally I’d just stay in and have a few beers. My brother joined the fray, bringing his rusty back-up. There was the time ‘Cyrus’ disappeared after drinking a crate of beer, waking up on his bathroom floor. Laughter and a real sense of camaraderie defined my time with Gears.

Halo 3 was the beginning of the end. Factions of regular players started to splinter off to play as Master Chief; more games came out, people were increasingly reluctant to play Gears. It died a slow, tortuous online death.

Now, the sheen has gone. Gears of War 2 made sure of that. But, Gears of War, we who are about to die salute you.

The Priory is a six part series recalling personal tales of Video Game addiction. Stay tuned every Friday from the 29th of January up until the 5th of March for more fond or regrettable memories that are all too relatable. Click here for the rest of the series.