Homeworld: Deserts of Kharak

Look, [strike]be a normal human being[/strike] forget everything you know about happiness because until you’ve stood on the deck of the [b]Kapisi[/b] while the desert wind scours the paint off your soul [u]you haven’t actually lived a single day of your life[/u]. I used to be a person with a job and a social security number but now I am just a [i]biological component[/i] of the Coalition expeditionary force and I have never been more free because this game didn't just grab my attention it reached into my chest and rewired my nervous system to run on [h2]DIESEL FUEL AND TACTICAL DESPERATION.[/h2] Let’s talk about Her. Let's talk about the Kapisi. [b]My metal mother.[/b] My roving cathedral of destruction. The only thing that matters in a universe of cold indifference. Do you understand what it feels like to shunt power to armor systems just as a Gaalsien cruise missile slams into the hull? It isn’t gameplay, it is a [i]religious experience[/i], it is the closest I will ever get to touching the face of God because when that massive carrier tracks forward crunching over the dunes I feel safe, I feel held, I feel like I would die a thousand deaths just to keep her repair systems online for one more second. I look at my real house and I [b]hate it[/b] because it doesn’t have treads and it can’t launch strike fighters and frankly [strike]it has good resale value[/strike] if my apartment building can’t fabrication-cycle a heavy railgun turret in twelve seconds then [u]what is even the point of architecture?[/u] People talk about Dune like it’s the pinnacle of desert sci-fi but [spoiler]Frank Herbert was a coward[/spoiler] for not giving Paul Atreides a fleet of armored hover-carriers and railguns that sound like thunder cracking inside your skull. This game makes sand look like the [b]most beautiful and terrifying substance[/b] in the universe. I went to the beach last week and tried to deploy a sensor array on a sandcastle because my brain has been completely rewired by Blackbird Interactive to see terrain advantages in every pile of dirt. I don't see hills anymore, I see [i]hull-down positions[/i] for my Battlecruisers. I don't see valleys, I see [b]kill zones[/b] for my artillery. I am hallucinating heat shimmers and listening for the specific mechanical whine of a Baserunner everywhere I go. And the sound design... oh sweet mercy the sound design is better than music, it’s better than silence, it’s better than the sound of my own heartbeat. That visceral [h1]THWACK[/h1] of a railgun round breaking the sound barrier is the only lullaby I need. I am obsessed with the weight of it, the heavy industrial groan of an artillery cruiser deploying its stabilizers makes me want to weep with joy because it feels so real, it feels heavier than my own guilt, heavier than gravity itself. I would follow Rachel S’jet into a volcano, I would follow her into the heart of a sun, she is the [h3]SUPREME LOGIC QUEEN[/h3] of the dunes and her voice over the comms is the only authority I recognize. I don’t want to go to space anymore! Space is for tourists! Give me the [b]grit[/b], give me the [b]grease[/b], give me the relentless grinding forward momentum of the Kapisi until the stars themselves fall out of the sky out of jealousy for how magnificent we look crawling across the sands of Kharak because [spoiler]I am one with the carrier and the carrier is with me.[/spoiler]