Digital Initiative

I did not expect, this past Thursday, to be on the phone with authorities two thousand miles away trying to convince them to take the need for a wellness check seriously. I did not expect to hear from someone I only occasionally spoke to (but still think warmly of) asking to check in on a close friend. I did not expect peaceful quiet to become worry, then anxiety, then panic, then the hollowness of loss. I did not expect to spend the next day and a half reaching out to as many places and as many people as I could to let them know what happened, hoping that I could reach far enough and to enough people that the news would start spreading itself and everyone who should know did know. I did not expect to lose one of my closest friends of 22 years, a person I have known longer in my life than not, suddenly and unexpectedly. I did not expect to be saying good-bye to Belghast.

I did not expect to post in my blog, this blog, possibly ever again. I’m not really writing this for anyone to read. I don’t even know where it syndicates anymore, if anywhere. I’m not really writing it for myself, if I’m honest. I am not as open or talkative a person as Bel was, it was always something he would chide me about. He, I think, always wished I would write as prolifically as he did, or as regularly, but I am not much for sharing outside of closely controlled spaces. It is one of many ways Bel and I differed, and one we would joke about a lot.

I’m writing this for Bel, because a blog post seems fitting.

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I met Bel in 2004, as a persona I had no idea was so far from his default. He was Lodin, a Hunter in WoW, and the only thing about that character that even slightly reflected the real Bel was that Lodin was a Dwarf. He was mostly quiet, he was friends with the raid leader, and he was competent. Other than “skilled, not annoying, not conflicting with my loot drops” for the first few months we knew each other we barely talked. What he did, the thing that really caused me to sit up and take notice, was set up the website and forum for our little group, the Late Night Raiders.

He could have co-lead the raid, if he’d wanted. It was me who wound up co-leading instead. What he did instead was use his IT skills to make sure everything we needed to run the raid was smooth and functional, and community-building to boot. He took innumerable screenshots, I came to realize, recording everything over months and years of raiding together.

When I got it into my head to go after a frankly stupid endeavor– trying to build a Scepter of Ahn’Qiraj ahead of the Gates event in WoW, I found myself desperately trying to scrape together mostly disinterested people to do some difficult and deeply unrewarding challenges in the game, including the frankly horrific process of farming bug shells in Silithus for literal weeks on end. We were not a top-tier raid group, we weren’t even sure if we could manage the requirements, so most of it was me going it alone. I had one regular companion though all of it, and it was Bel. At the time I didn’t really understand why he was content to slay thousands of elite bugs in Silithus or die repeatedly to hydras in quests that we should have had 40 people for and not 5-10, but I never second-guessed the company, and we talked and told stories about Everquest and other MMOs we had played. It turned out we had been just missing one another basically since Ultima Online, each game a near miss where but for one random quirk or another we had simply not been in the same places at the same times.

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In 2007, Burning Crusade shattered our raid group. Beyond the mess of going from 40-person to 25-person raids, the wide reset meant that we never really got anything off the ground again; there were too many different interests and too many different playstyles that had worked together in Vanilla but didn’t survive TBC. When the group broke, I inherited things, and at the same time I was about to graduate college. I simply didn’t have the capacity to try to keep everything together and keep it all functioning, and I disappointed a lot of people by openly saying that and leaving. Amid all of that, Bel was the person who reached out and told me it was okay, and that people would find a place. I later found out that he had built that place himself. It was a community vacuum, and Bel always abhorred those. He had seen a need for community infrastructure in LNR and saw it again when LNR fell apart, and stepped into the gap himself. He turned House Stalwart into a home for many who had been in LNR and ultimately resurrected the teams.

When I’d gotten over my WoW burnout, started fresh on a new server, and started collecting people who I wanted to stay in touch with, I had set up an AOL Instant Messenger chatroom, plugging people into it. When, on a whim, I logged into my old WoW main, Bel quickly reached out, and soon after I’d added him to the chatgroup. The group was maybe five or six of us, variously keeping up, rarely playing games together but slowly converging. AIM eventually killed their chatroom functionality, but this was the original Aggrochat. It wasn’t until we moved to another platform — after Bel had started his blog– that we actually called it that, but that AOL chatroom was the seed.

I will always remember that Bel HATED that chatroom. He could think of twenty better ways to facilitate chat and he probably suggested we move to IRC, or MSN, or Gchat, or one of several different homebrew tools, but we would chat while at work and several people couldn’t access those other chat programs, so AIM it was, until years later when this thing called Slack came out and Bel jumped on it with glee, especially as the AIM chatroom had been so deprecated that it barely worked at that point– we couldn’t access any admin controls, and I’m not even sure if we could add new members.

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It was about when Bel joined that AIM chatroom that I realized he’d started blogging regularly, and he slowly got the rest of us to at least dip a toe in. For a variety of reasons, we wound up moving with the Cataclysm expansion back over to where Bel was, joining up with House Stalwart. We were on voice chat regularly, often nightly, just talking about whatever while we raided. Bel immediately made me a raid leader, and while it didn’t last, I remember his strong vote of confidence. It was also when we started playing other games together, trying out Guild Wars 2, City of Heroes, SWTOR, and other things. This was the point where Bel really started to come into his element. He brought people together and shepherded people between games and into groups, and would reach out to people on various social media who seemed to be looking for a home. It was a time when we operated very much as a team– Bel would find people and I would help organize and lead them. Not so much in WoW, but as I jumped from game to game and he built communities in each one, we would leapfrog each other and built a kind of odd team.

It’s also where we fought, for the one and only time we ever disagreed so intensely that we stopped talking to each other for a while. I remember that we had had some kind of guild resourcing issue, people wanting help or resources from the guild and not feeling like they were available, or that people in the guild would ignore them. Bel responded in his classic determinedly idealistic way– he updated the guild charter to effectively insist that people provide help when asked. It led to a number of people coming to me with concerns, and ultimately Bel and I clashed over it. It led to a guild split, where he and I led different guilds, and I had to set up the infrastructure we needed, while Bel had to manage and lead people the way I had been. In the course of less than a month, we went from at each other’s throats to trading tips via backchannels as we both ran our own guilds. When the next MMO came around, we wordlessly returned to a single guild.

In 2013, lightning struck with Final Fantasy XIV. We had been puttering around in different games, none of them fully satisfying, and often just sitting around in voice chat talking about nothing in particular, or going on about the games we’d been playing. Bel confided in me that he missed the LNR days of talking games and game design, and wanted to get that kind of feeling back. He had always been around and hanging out when I, an aspiring game dev, would go on and on about whatever I was thinking and riffing off of him and other people. He floated the idea of a podcast, something I didn’t feel comfortable with at the time (working on an MMO myself and being very touchy about losing my job). It was also the point at which we finally kicked that old AIM chatroom to the curb, and started to build Aggrochat properly. Bel and Ash were eager to move to something better, where we could bring in more people, and while we’ve always kept our group small and tight-knit, it’s been my home online for over a decade now.

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In all of this, Bel was a constant voice in my life pushing back against my own insecurity and people who would try to cut me down. He would love to say that were were essentially the same person, just from different starting positions, and we would often find places we disagreed and trace back our thought processes until we found what he liked to call the “divergence point”, where he had zigged and I zagged from the same point. We found hundreds of such things, and it was why despite Bel’s searing distaste for both “finger-wigglers” (i.e. wizards) and “sneaky types” (i.e. rogues), which were my two primary class choices, he still would talk about how much he and I saw eye to eye from different mountaintops, in games and in life.

When I actually, finally released a game in 2014, Bel was there from the beta through launch and squeezed out every drop. He played more of that game than I did myself. He smiled through the bugs and told me about all of the stuff he’d seen that he loved, and got me through one of the hardest periods of my life, as “dream job” and “burnout” collided and I left the games industry. He understood, he got it, and he was pulling for me the whole time. He was the first person to clock that I was severely depressed and needed a change, and despite him being one of the most stable, unchanging people I had ever known, he helped me think through what needed to happen and what I needed to do. It is not exaggerating to say that Bel saved my life, helping me step outside myself before the spiral of depression became inescapable, and encouraging me to make moves and changes that strengthened my bonds with other people and helped me build a life outside of my work.

The Aggrochat podcast has been a fixture of my life for 12 years now, and Bel quietly hounded me to join it every single show from the beginning until I finally got past my worries and jumped in. Games have come and gone, and the games we have played separately now far outnumber the games we played together, but through over 500 episodes we have come together to talk about what we’re playing and what we’re thinking about, and every so often, when lightning strikes, we’re all in the same game together and feeling great about our time together.

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There is a lot that could be said about the last year. Most of it Bel has said himself. Most of the rest, the parts only I can really say, aren’t super relevant right now, except that when Bel had his colonoscopy and discovered the cancer, one of the first things he did was reach out to me and tell me to get one. It was emblematic of his mindset– help others avoid what I’ve struggled with, let me tank for my friends. I almost didn’t want to tell him that mine had come back clean, not even polyps to remove, but when I did he was genuinely happy in a way that shattered me.

Losing Bel is not something I can encapsulate in a metaphor. It would be easier if I could. What I am put in mind of is him tanking through raids, and how when he went down in a fight he would immediately cheer the rest of the team on in his absence. He built communities intended to outlast him, and spent nearly two full decades being successful at it. When stress would spike for him, he would “turtle up” as he called it, going quiet for a while while he recharged. He understood, at some level, that he would not always be able to be around so he built things that could function without him, could move forward and grow in his absence.

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I have had to sit with this thought for the last few days, struggling to articulate it beyond the simplest of forms, but where I’m landing is here: if there is anything I know of Bel, it’s that he would have been furious about all of this, that he left so much unfinished, that there are pieces for other people to pick up, that he hadn’t had the chance to get all of his ducks in a row and do his damndest to ensure that he could fade away without any disruption and, ideally, without anyone noticing. It was never going to happen, but it’s what he would have tried in vain to do. He would have wanted the things he’d had a hand in building to continue in his absence, to keep going without him and to grow beyond him. He would have wanted people to find each other, to come together, and to forget about him.

I will disrespect one of those wishes: I will not forget about Bel, and his passing will not go unmourned, even if I can hear “Ta-am, you don’t gotta DO that” in his voice in my head. The ache I will carry forward with me will remind me of the love I have for a person who was without equal, but it will be carried forward. The best way I can honor his memory is to continue with the things he had a hand in building, and to build more things in the way he would have.

Goodbye, Bel. I will make things in your memory.

It’s a game that’s struck me enough to write about, how about that. I am gifted/cursed with perception. It’s almost certainly a function of low-grade ADHD, where my brain gets bored of whatever I’m directly looking at or listening to (or smelling, or feeling, or even tasting) and starts pulling in other sensory information to occupy itself. If I’m walking down the street talking to a friend, I can’t help but notice the smell from a nearby restaurant, the couple arguing in a car at the stoplight, the person doing their makeup in the car behind them, the person trying to stop their dog from dashing into the crosswalk, the book the person on that bench is reading, the whispered gossip from the pair crossing the other way, the irregular cracks in the sidewalk, the gentle plants sticking out from the gaps in the pavement, the places where water has pooled in the street instead of running to the drains, the seagulls fighting overhead… You can see why I link it to semi-diagnosed neurodivergence. The same perception is in effect when I’m playing a game (or doing anything, really), because I can’t turn it off. I can generally no more shut out the sounds of my office or the rain outside as I can ignore the feeling of each article of clothing I’m wearing on my skin, the omnipresent feeling of my wedding band on my finger, or the physical sensation of blinking. It means a lot of games simply aren’t engaging enough for me to get really immersed. I’ve had an ongoing conversation with friends (and on our podcast) where I don’t really get games that are about “turning your brain off” because they’re low-impact. For me those games are Ikaruga, bullet hell shooters, or extremely high intensity games like Nerts. If I overload my sensory input, I can relax. It’s true outside of games, too. A theme park, a loud dance floor or concert with bright lights and a ton of people, or a big outdoor event (though usually not protests, those have an undercurrent of anxiety that I can never shake) all give me a kind of peace and clarity. I crossed the street at the Shibuya Crossing while vacationing in Tokyo, and it was such a sublime, calming experience I did it several more times for no reason other than to get lost in the scramble. So, Indiana Jones. It’s a stealth game, in theory. Stealth games are games about perception, about paying attention. You’re keeping track of your surroundings in order to move through a space, both determining where you should be at any given moment (usually to avoid detection) and where you need to go, and then working out a path based on what you can observe to get from one to the other. You take risks in order to observe better, peeking around a blind corner or popping up to get a better vantage point. Guards walk in the places normal people walk — streets, sidewalks, inside buildings, so you can get an advantage if you can notice paths normal people wouldn’t walk — rooftops, treetops, underground. A good stealth game is not about hiding and sneaking; it’s about the environment, and having an environment that both offers enough for you to notice and find satisfying and is, itself, satisfying to overcome. Thief is a game about light, shadow, and sound, remaining unseen and in turn finding small, valuable things to take with you along the way, taking risks to reach them. Dishonored is similar, remain unseen, remove cogs in the machine that is the way guards move until it shuts down without collapsing and you can navigate the machine with impunity. Hitman is rarely about actually hiding and is more often about context, ensuring that you fit in and match what people expect. Indiana Jones is about clonking Nazis and solving ancient puzzles, also often via clonking. It is a stealth game, in that the environment is rich, full of interesting things to find and see and do, and you are rewarded for noticing things. For example, you’re rewarded for noticing the bottle of wine on the table near the fascist who’s attacking you by suddenly having an improvised weapon to turn the tide of that fight. You’re rewarded for noticing the layout and high cliffs of an area when you push a Nazi over a railing. You’re rewarded for sneaking up on that Nazi because now you can have a good laugh at his Wilhelm Scream as he falls instead of fistfighting him. You’re rewarded for noticing the windup of the blackshirt you’re fighting so you can parry his attack, and you’re rewarded for noticing the pistol in the hand of the SS officer so you can whip it out and turn a gunfight into a fistfight. There’s only really as much sneaking as you’d expect from Indiana Jones, which is both a non-zero amount but also not the crux of the experience. You’re still a pulp action hero, not a superspy.
Unlike games like Dishonored or Metal Gear Solid, where detection by an enemy is heralded by loud, abrasive, alarming sounds and a feeling of failure, in Indiana Jones being detected often results in a quip from Indy — “uh, hey guys!” — and a feeling of inevitability. This was always going to go loud, or at least non-quiet, because you’re Indiana Jones, not Jason Bourne. It leads to the kind of play that makes the game feel even more like the movies it’s based on — sneak in, shoot out, or punch a guy because it’s more annoying to slip around him than not. Maybe you miscalculate — Indy has bad plans sometimes, and maybe so do you. The game largely isn’t going to punish you for going a little bit loud. It pulls this off by adding a thing that stealth games have had for a long time, but rarely used for much. Most stealth games appear to have two and a half stealth states: hidden, detected, and about-to-be-detected. They often actually have three, where there’s a third “detected but not enough to raise an alarm” which generally exists to give you a split second to react to being seen without everything going to hell. It’s the moment where the guard has seen you and before they shout for help, because every guard will shout for help almost immediately and cause the whole house of cards to crash down around you. The first thing I noticed when I was seen in Indiana Jones was that the fascist who noticed me decided to handle the problem himself. I wrote it off as tutorialization, but when I later had my mouse disconnect after punching (but not knocking out) another fascist later, I saw him step away from me, and shout for help — AFTER having already tried fistfighting me. Indiana Jones revels in that layer that in most stealth games lasts for a split second. Really loud noises can alert everyone in an area — whistles, horns, alarms, gunshots — but often the one or two enemies you see will start by trying to deal with you themselves. It means you can be seen and still win, still keep things under control and not have to either die and reload or leave a giant pile of bodies behind you. It means that if you take the “easy” way out and just start shooting people, it gets very loud very fast, and notably it means your enemies will escalate as well. An enemy with a gun does not always immediately resort to shooting you, but contextually you can guess whether they will or not, and often the thing that will cause them to start shooting is if you do it first. It all adds up into an experience that FEELS like an Indiana Jones movie. It’s amplified by how much MachineGames feels like they get Indy, from every great dialogue bark to the feeling of chaos and overall pacing control they have. The first few areas are more slow and thoughtful, potentially plodding if you’re a completionist, and then it picks up at very high speed into the kind of action thrill ride you expect from Indiana Jones. I haven’t quite beaten it as of this writing, but I’m expecting a final, slower area, smaller than the first few but more intense, as a kind of culmination, just because it’s what I would expect from the movies. I won’t spoil it, but there are moments in the game that mirror classic scenes in the movies, and do so in actual play, giving you just a moment to notice what you’re looking at and how you can resolve it and doing so in classic Indiana Jones style. When I’m out of breath from an intense run and I see a guy block my path with a sword, weaving it through the air menacingly, I have a moment as I watch him to go “wait, I know how this goes” and do the scene properly. It’s very satisfying, and totally optional. It’s just a little reward for noticing. As I’ve been playing, I’ve been deeply immersed because there are so many things for my brain to notice and pick up on. It would be a fun ride even if I didn’t, but for me it’s giving me everything I love in a stealth game without actually really being a stealth game. It’s a rollicking action movie of a game, but it’s not simple about it. The backgrounds are more than just set dressing, the spaces are crafted and thoughtful, not just where I fight the next encounter. It satisfies my perception, because it’s not just picking out nice textures or cute background details, it’s walking into a room and noticing everything I can use as a weapon or tool. I haven’t been this into a game in years. I’m going to be sad when it’s over, and there’s a decent chance I go and try to 100% it. Easy call for Game of the Year.

I’ve been working on a project lately. (CW: suicide, grief)

In early September, my brother in law Sam lost his battle with mental illness. It was… hard to watch happen, as he descended into a spiral of paranoid delusions, which led him to see hidden assailants that didn’t exist and physically assault people, both in public and in healthcare facilities and ultimately resulted in him taking his own life by jumping in front of a train, an option he specifically took because it meant he wouldn’t be found by his family. It’s been hard to process my thoughts, especially because I’d only met him a few years ago when I met my wife, and he’d already had the edges of his fraying mental state then. His friends and family talk about him prior to his struggles, and it’s a person I don’t know and never met. The Sam I knew was an artist and musician who felt haunted by internal demons, whose creative works and whose devotion to helping communities and especially working in libraries and with people who most needed help reflected a person trying to do good, possibly because they were afraid of themselves.\ I’d talked with Sam a couple of times about painting miniatures, and he’d expressed interest. I never got a chance to teach him, but we’d talk about painting and he had been interested enough before things went severely downhill that I’d been eyeing a army to pick up for him as a starting point.

Near the end of September, a friend of mine sent me a starter pack of Blood Angels, part of a longstanding back and forth and a semi-joke gift he sent me intentionally to hit my buttons, because for decades I’ve made fun of Blood Angels, all the way back to the original Angels of Death codex where I played the cool Dark Angels and made fun of my friend who played the lame vampires. The gift came with the book Dante which I promised I’d read before deciding what to do with the army, and something clicked for me when I read it.

The Blood Angels are a faction of superhuman space marines, instilled with genetic code to push them well past human capability. They’re notable for their continuing struggle with being, well, vampires. To some extent they’re a meditation on the monster within, and they stave off their internal monster via art, creativity, and about as much community service as exists within the dark setting of Warhammer 40k. They all struggle with “the Flaw”, an affliction that both causes them to hunger for blood but also to see visions of an old battle, one in which their progenitor was killed and whose death haunts the entire group. Some of them get lost in the visions, seeing enemies where there are none or mistaking friends or innocents for foes. They are often beyond saving, and are given special armor and treatment and transferred to a unit called the Death Company. They’re sent to places where their delusions can be turned against real enemies, where they can meet their end in honorable combat, which the Blood Angels value highly. They are remembered for who they were when they were lucid, and their loss of connection to reality is considered a reminder of how even the best of the Blood Angels are vulnerable.

It’s not… hard to make the connection. Sam was a musician, an artist, and a servant of the community. While when we’d talked about what he might play, Blood Angels weren’t on my list, but as a memorial they seemed apt.
I’ve got a handful of minis left for this project, most notably a Captain and a Death Company Dreadnought. The Captain, with some effort, has a look that’s roughly analogous to Sam’s curly hair, and I want to deck him out in ornate, gorgeous armor. The Dreadnought is a large mech, according to the lore a sort of walking casket for mortally wounded or even technically slain space marines. It’s fairly common in miniatures games to have a particular character represented in more than one way, reflecting different aspects of them or simply different points in time. I’m planning to represent Sam in both of these, golden armor and a halo in one, and a walking memorial to the dead in the other.

I’m sort of hoping it can be a way to keep a bit of Sam around for me. He can be there for the games I never got to teach him and play. My fondest wish when I eventually die is to be, somehow, made into dice so that I can continue to be a part of people’s games, their stories, joys, and memories with their friends, and that I can continue to play even past the end of my body’s limit.

I do a lot of processing my feelings through my creative work– miniatures and tabletop campaigns generally, and this is the third time I’ve done a project like this as a reflection of grief. I wish I’d gotten to get Sam into minis, and see the kinds of things he’d chosen and how he would have expressed himself through the medium. Maybe it would’ve been Warhammer, maybe Infinity or Battletech, maybe historical ship battles or Star Wars, I don’t know, but I would’ve liked to help him get started.
This is not the army I would’ve gotten him, no.
This is just a tribute.

I’ve been working on a project lately. (CW: suicide, grief)

In early September, my brother in law Sam lost his battle with mental illness. It was… hard to watch happen, as he descended into a spiral of paranoid delusions, which led him to see hidden assailants that didn’t exist and physically assault people, both in public and in healthcare facilities and ultimately resulted in him taking his own life by jumping in front of a train, an option he specifically took because it meant he wouldn’t be found by his family. It’s been hard to process my thoughts, especially because I’d only met him a few years ago when I met my wife, and he’d already had the edges of his fraying mental state then. His friends and family talk about him prior to his struggles, and it’s a person I don’t know and never met. The Sam I knew was an artist and musician who felt haunted by internal demons, whose creative works and whose devotion to helping communities and especially working in libraries and with people who most needed help reflected a person trying to do good, possibly because they were afraid of themselves.\ I’d talked with Sam a couple of times about painting miniatures, and he’d expressed interest. I never got a chance to teach him, but we’d talk about painting and he had been interested enough before things went severely downhill that I’d been eyeing a army to pick up for him as a starting point.

Near the end of September, a friend of mine sent me a starter pack of Blood Angels, part of a longstanding back and forth and a semi-joke gift he sent me intentionally to hit my buttons, because for decades I’ve made fun of Blood Angels, all the way back to the original Angels of Death codex where I played the cool Dark Angels and made fun of my friend who played the lame vampires. The gift came with the book Dante which I promised I’d read before deciding what to do with the army, and something clicked for me when I read it.

The Blood Angels are a faction of superhuman space marines, instilled with genetic code to push them well past human capability. They’re notable for their continuing struggle with being, well, vampires. To some extent they’re a meditation on the monster within, and they stave off their internal monster via art, creativity, and about as much community service as exists within the dark setting of Warhammer 40k. They all struggle with “the Flaw”, an affliction that both causes them to hunger for blood but also to see visions of an old battle, one in which their progenitor was killed and whose death haunts the entire group. Some of them get lost in the visions, seeing enemies where there are none or mistaking friends or innocents for foes. They are often beyond saving, and are given special armor and treatment and transferred to a unit called the Death Company. They’re sent to places where their delusions can be turned against real enemies, where they can meet their end in honorable combat, which the Blood Angels value highly. They are remembered for who they were when they were lucid, and their loss of connection to reality is considered a reminder of how even the best of the Blood Angels are vulnerable.

It’s not… hard to make the connection. Sam was a musician, an artist, and a servant of the community. While when we’d talked about what he might play, Blood Angels weren’t on my list, but as a memorial they seemed apt.
I’ve got a handful of minis left for this project, most notably a Captain and a Death Company Dreadnought. The Captain, with some effort, has a look that’s roughly analogous to Sam’s curly hair, and I want to deck him out in ornate, gorgeous armor. The Dreadnought is a large mech, according to the lore a sort of walking casket for mortally wounded or even technically slain space marines. It’s fairly common in miniatures games to have a particular character represented in more than one way, reflecting different aspects of them or simply different points in time. I’m planning to represent Sam in both of these, golden armor and a halo in one, and a walking memorial to the dead in the other.

I’m sort of hoping it can be a way to keep a bit of Sam around for me. He can be there for the games I never got to teach him and play. My fondest wish when I eventually die is to be, somehow, made into dice so that I can continue to be a part of people’s games, their stories, joys, and memories with their friends, and that I can continue to play even past the end of my body’s limit.

I do a lot of processing my feelings through my creative work– miniatures and tabletop campaigns generally, and this is the third time I’ve done a project like this as a reflection of grief. I wish I’d gotten to get Sam into minis, and see the kinds of things he’d chosen and how he would have expressed himself through the medium. Maybe it would’ve been Warhammer, maybe Infinity or Battletech, maybe historical ship battles or Star Wars, I don’t know, but I would’ve liked to help him get started.
This is not the army I would’ve gotten him, no.
This is just a tribute.