Pre-order

Gaming is an expensive hobby. One that isn’t getting anymore affordable. I’m not just talking about the broad state of the global economy, but the intimate considerations. The domestic responsibilities: food, clothing, utility bills, my daughters numerable hobbies that require some monetary investment. Not to mention those delightful household catastrophies that results in an impromptu swimming pool forming in the kitchen and a hefty surcharge from the plumber. Along with other notable issues and financial variables, there’s sparsely anything left. Once those precious funds have all but been exhausted, there’s very little room for frivolity. And quite honestly time simply doesn’t permit the opportunities it used to to engage with them consistently. With the imminent arrival of the next gen consoles, which only further compounds the issue, the mature thing would be to accept the naturally occurring shackles of senility and forget this juvenile recreation. But I can’t. The idea of getting a new games console still invigorates me. Especially if I’m one of the first to own it.

I’ve only ever done this once, with the PS4. Though quality content was noticeably absent in it’s infancy, to own one still felt distinct. I don’t regret it. Gaming is my vice, if it can even be considered a fallible human trait. I don’t do drugs. I don’t smoke. I drink infrequently and never excessively. I’m boring and I’m fine with that. This may very well be the last games console I’ll ever get. Whether that’s informed by the ever changing landscape of gaming media or my own domestic circumstances. I want to experience that sensation one last time. It may in fact be the last generation of consoles period! The way in which we play and consume games is fundamentally changing, and not necessarily in a way that is in my best interests. Of course technology evolves, progressing at such an exponential rate. But the reliance on the Internet to even allow some games to function is an alarming dependancy. Certainly there will be advocates that support this shift from physical to digital media, but the purist in me just can’t endorse it implicitly.

The PlayStation offering a digital only alternative seems like a sensible business strategy, one that enables those that exclusively buy digitally a console that suites their specific needs. Now that’s fine, but if there is another generation of games console would they extend the same courtesy to those that want physical? Probably not.

In 7-8 years from now, during the theoretical release of the fictional PS6, I will be in my early 40s. Chubbier around the gut. Greyer around the temples. And even more jaded than I am now. Chances are that my presumably arthritic joints would swell in contempt at the very notion. Realistically the PS5 is my last chance at experiencing that same sense of adolescent fervour I felt as a kid. What’s so wrong about that?

Pre-ordering future investments as a means of acquisition I have always found to be a rather impersonal form of ownership. There’s certain purity, an intimacy about purchasing games on somewhat of a whim. Of course Pre-ordering has the desirable benefit of guaranteeing a purchase, eliminating the risk of being deprived of a desirable game often associated with such flippant disregard for its safe procurement. But its these moments of chance, the uncertainty of a particularly games viability that I relish most, with only the suggestion of procurement that implies furtive promise of ownership. Cordially entering a store with clandestine intent, expectant with batted breath that the last copy wasn’t purchased by the rude individual who had barged past you earlier with hasty resentment for your existence, with an all to evanescent stride that suggests that they received precisely what they were inquiring about, accompanied by a distinctly jovial whistle, robust stance and glancing derision for your brazen appearance.

You search, perspiration beginning to glistening across your brow as your eyes dart erratically at the vacant shelf that should house your required title. In a gasp of desperation you begin shuffling through the surrounding areas, furtively tracing every cover trying to distinguish which one is the desired title you’ve been perusing. Suddenly it dawns on you that your too late. Your extended slumber has replenished you stamina, but verdantly accost you the opportunity to own the exclusive rights on day of release. With a restrained intake of oxygen, followed by a sharp expulsion of breath you begin the pensive ascent to the counter, currently frequented by exasperated attendant, aloof or simply disinterested by your concerned presence. You attempt to attract the young, cosmetically endowed assistance scrutiny, frugally manicuring her excessive elongated nails, protruding intently from her finger tips, with a look that suggests solemn resentment to the impending enquiry not yet posed as you awkwardly attempt to convey your dismay at the quantitative inferiority of your pursued title, before your confronted by a visage of total confusion. After some intense, I would presume internal deliberation, an awkward protracted silence and conversing with a superior representative of the establishment, any lingering expectancy was absolved after finally being presented with the answer you feared “sorry, we’ve sold out”.

“G…T…A…5? I don’t know what that is? Let me consult my supervisor. Keith! Do we have GPA 5?”

It may seem narcissistic to receive pleasure from such a contemptuous situation, but there’s something exhilarating about the oddity of losing a game I haven’t yet obtained. Yes the intolerable disappointment of receding home without your precious acquisition is a foreboding formality; striding home with concentrated antagonism that contort’s your glum exterior, with every step more pronounced with forlorn resentment for your ignorant posture to pre-ordering, as the elements conspire to embellish your dejected deficit by saturating you with a cleansing downpour. Your progress stifles a whimper of masochistic rage, that someone in the proximate area is gleefully inserting their new disc into their respective console, one that by your twisted perception of pre-ordained rights belongs in your hands. Why would you incur so much heart ache when it could have been simply resolved by lucidly guaranteeing your acquisition with a simple click of a button, delivered to your door with minimum of fuss? So why? Simple, for the elementary connectivity that justifies a games presence in your life. If your initial reaction of disappointment subsides as the day culminates, until your left with apathetic dissonant, then it probably wasn’t what you truly desired. Or perhaps my contorted perception is a measure of my convoluted life?

Do you pre-order your games? Or take a chance that they will still be available? Let me know your thoughts. Cheers.