It is a good game. It’s simple, and immediately rewarding, and every time you play it it feels new. And slowly, you come to realize that there is a great deal more to the game than you first suspected, that there are secrets hidden within it, parts you haven’t begun to understand.
And it sticks. You find yourself playing it even when you’re not – patterns form and coalesce in your head. When you shut your eyes, you see it, see potential in imagined shapes, colours, sounds.
You know you can beat it. And you’ll have to, before it beats you.
(Note from the author: I realized as I was writing this story that it had much in common with Neil Gaiman’s poem “Virus,” collected in Smoke and Mirrors, but it’s late and I don’t have another story banging around in my head. So, apologies to Mr. Gaiman, and know that his version is much better.)