Home Improvement

urh urh urh urh urh urh urh urh urh urh urh urh urh urh urh urh urh urh urh urh urh urh urh urh urh urh urh urh
urh urh urh urh urh urh urh urh urh urh urh urh urh urh urh urh urh urh urh urh urh urh urh urh urh urh urh urh

This game reeks of desperation.

I don’t know what I would do if someone came to me and said, “Hey, you need to come up with a game idea for the Home Improvement license.”  I like to think that I wouldn’t make a game where Tim’s new power tools are stolen, and he must pursue the thief through the various contrived stages where all sorts of fantastical shows are being filmed, which mysteriously come to life in horribly hazardous ways.

I’d like to think that.  I really would.

But who am I to claim that I could do better ? I can’t help but imagine a brilliant designer, bursting with ideas, ready to take on his first big break.  He receives the news.  There is a sinking feeling.  He begins to sweat immediately, especially on the lower back, a problem that has plagued him since adolescence.  He goes home and writes, but nothing is any good.  He can’t implement his great ideas; they don’t fit into the schema of Home Improvement.  The Tool Man’s laugh haunts him, like the whuffling snarl of a carnivorous ape loping behind him through the shattered apocalyptic landscape of his dreams.

Weeks of creative drought drive this writer to the edge of madness.  There are bloody marks left on his walls from the steady banging of his forehead.  His family and colleagues begin to worry.

Finally, three days past deadline, he staggers into the office, with nothing to show for his efforts.  The execs ask him what he’s got for them, and he breaks down, weeping helplessly, great body-wracking sobs that make your skull hurt to listen to.  The execs shift uncomfortably and remain silent until he regains his composure.

“I…I don’t know,” he says.  “Maybe, like…his tools get stolen, and he has to go through some…other stages where they’re filming some crazy shit?  Maybe with dinosaurs? I’m sorry.  I’m sorry.  I don’t know.  I’m sorry.  I can’t.”

And he walks out.

The execs look at each other and shrug, approve the idea, and send it off to the code monkeys and graphic artists.  They patch together a shitty piece of licensed shovelware and sell it for almost $100 a cartridge.

The writer, however, has seen the face of oblivion.  When he returns home, he drinks a 24 pack of fruit-punch-flavoured Gatorade, and drowns himself in a bucket of his own urine.

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