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I swear, every few months the gaming industry coughs up something so weird, so beautifully unnecessary, that I can’t tell if it’s a bad idea, a genius move, or a midlife crisis wearing a cartridge slot like a badge of honor. This is one of those moments. So here we are: the creator of Alone in the Dark —yes, that Alone in the Dark , the grandfather of survival horror before we were all emotionally traumatized by limited ammo and door-opening animations—is back. Not with a gritty reboot. Not with a cinematic universe. Not with a battle pass or a live-service roadmap. No. He’s crowdfunding a brand-new game… for the Sega Mega Drive / Genesis. And just when you think that sentence has reached peak absurdity, he adds a unique controller into the mix. Because apparently, simply reviving a 16-bit console era wasn’t strange enough—you also need to reinvent how thumbs suffer. I love this. I hate this. I cannot look away. The Moment I Realized We’ve Time-Traveled (But Sideways) The first ...

There’s something deeply inconvenient about people like Kim Heacox . Not inconvenient for them, obviously—they’re out there living full, purpose-driven lives, stacking decades of meaningful work like cordwood. No, the inconvenience is for the rest of us. Because every time someone like Heacox quietly marks another milestone—35 years writing, 15 books deep—it raises a question we’d all rather not answer: What exactly have you been doing? I don’t mean that in the motivational poster sense, with a sunrise and a quote about chasing dreams. I mean it in the uncomfortable, stare-at-your-own-browser-history sense. Because while most of us have spent the past three decades toggling between distraction and mild existential dread, Heacox has been out here building a body of work that actually holds together. And the worst part? He’s not loud about it. No viral gimmicks. No personal brand engineered for algorithmic affection. No desperate pivots into whatever the internet is currently rewardi...

I didn’t set out to grow as a person. I set out to procrastinate. There’s a difference. Growth implies intention. It suggests discipline, effort, maybe even a journal with soft lighting and a pen that costs more than your monthly streaming subscriptions combined. Procrastination, on the other hand, is what happens when you open your laptop to do something meaningful and instead fall into a wormhole titled something like “105 Weird, Interesting, Or Bizarre Facts.” Which is exactly how my brain—roughly the size and nutritional value of a single pinto bean—ended up expanding like it had just discovered compound interest. Now, I could sit here and pretend I retained all 105 facts in some organized, intellectual framework. I could say I categorized them, cross-referenced them, and reflected deeply on their implications for the human condition. But let’s be honest: I absorbed them the way a raccoon absorbs shiny objects—impulsively, without context, and with a suspicious level of emotio...

I tried to beat a video game with a large language model once. Not metaphorically. Not in some abstract “AI plays chess” sense. I mean I sat there, controller in hand, screen glowing, and fed instructions into a system that supposedly understands language, logic, strategy, and—depending on who you ask—the trajectory of civilization itself. It could explain the entire plot of the game in flawless prose. It could outline optimal strategies like a smug prima donna of Wikipedia entries. It could even tell me which boss I’d struggle with and why. And then, when it came time to actually play ? It moved like a drunk ghost trapped in a Roomba. That was the moment it hit me: large language models—these towering monuments of modern computation—are spectacularly bad at video games. Not just a little clumsy. Not “learning curve” bad. I’m talking walk-into-a-wall-for-thirty-seconds-while-explaining-the-wall’s-historical-significance bad. So naturally, I had to ask the question: why? The Ill...

(A first-person account from seat 32B, somewhere between despair and recycled air) I knew things had gone off the rails when the gate agent said, with a straight face, “We are currently looking for two volunteers to give up their seats on this completely full flight,” and then immediately followed it with, “We are offering a $50 voucher.” Fifty dollars. Not even enough to buy a sandwich in the airport we were trapped in. That’s when I realized something fundamental: air travel hasn’t just declined—it has quietly, methodically, and almost impressively collapsed into a parody of itself. And we’re all still clapping when the plane lands, like survivors of a mildly traumatic group experience. Let me walk you through the modern miracle of flying—because calling it “travel” at this point feels like calling a root canal a spa day. The Illusion of Convenience Air travel markets itself as efficiency. Speed. Seamless connectivity. A triumph of human engineering. In reality, it’s a mult...

There was a time—not long ago, but spiritually somewhere between VHS tapes and dial-up internet—when horse racing lived in a very specific ecosystem. You didn’t scroll it. You didn’t swipe it. You sat down, turned on a television, and let a dedicated network spoon-feed you the thunder of hooves, the drama of jockey silks, and the quiet existential dread of betting your rent money on a horse named Tax Evasion II . That ecosystem just got quietly escorted out back. Because in 2026, FanDuel —the same company that turned sports into a dopamine-fueled casino disguised as a hobby—has decided that television is no longer part of the plan. And not in a gentle, “we’re exploring options” kind of way. No. This is a full-on, slow-motion euthanasia of FanDuel TV . And if you listen closely, you can hear the racing industry whispering the same thing your grandparents said when Netflix arrived: “Wait… how do people watch this now?” The Slow Death of a Channel That Refused to Scroll Let’s get...