This isn't just a "game." It's an event that divides life into "before" and "after."
You know, there's Hans Zimmer's music in Interstellar—the organ chords that permeate space, making you feel the infinity of time and the fragility of human existence. Well, this game sounds exactly like that. Only instead of notes, there's your choice, your fear, and your hope.
It gave me a new life. Not figuratively, but literally—I had to be reborn. I looked at the pixels, the laws of the universe. I pressed the button, and felt the gravity of the past pulling me down, and the light of the future beckoning me forward.
This rethinking of everything in the world isn't needed through pompous monologues. It came through the silence between actions. You understand: we're all just grains of sand here, but your grain of sand can move a galaxy.
I suddenly realized that time isn't a line, but a spiral. That loneliness isn't a curse, but a cosmic privilege that allows one to hear oneself. That love, death, heroism, and sacrifice aren't just plot tropes, but a single definition of measure in this chaos.
This is a perfect game. Not because it's bug-free or its graphics are photorealistic. But because it gave me optics. Now I look at the morning rain and see particles of distant stars in it. I look at people and see their inner quests. I live and know that every action echoes beyond the event horizon.
Thank you for existing. I returned from this journey a different person. Now I am that same astronaut who emerged from the wormhole and saw Earth from the heights of eternity. You know what? It's beautiful.