Death.
The inescapable finale no one wants to face. That split second where all our hopes, dreams, lives, loves, and broken hearts stop. All of it. We fear death itself, yet we have no choice but to meet The Ferryman, pay our tolls—my eye-coins will most probably be cheap chocolate wrapped in gold foil—and allow the River Styx to take our souls.
Or something like that, but less poetic and a bit more dramatic, especially if your family is anything like mine. They are more dramatic than a turkey named Lazarus on Thanksgiving. Plus, my mom is always late and will most probably be late for her own funeral.
Steam’s Final Cloud Save
My fellow GeForce NOW devotees know this: once you turn into a permanent “we’re currently patching this game,” it’s over.
Literally.
All those Steam games you bought? The special ones, the pretty ones, the games that defined you as a human being? Well, it turns out that not even your fourth cousin, twice removed, can inherit your Steam account when you’re dead.
In fact, no one can.
Steam doesn’t make allowances for legacy accounts, e.g., Facebook, X, etc. No one, and I mean no one, will ever access those beautifully curated games of yours when you kick the bucket one day.
Steam states that all of your games, and all of you, are non-transferable when you die.
Grim AF?
Yes.
Important?
Definitely.
Permadeath
One would believe that at least one’s Steam Library gets passed on when they pass on… But, no. It stays with Steam until the last star in the universe goes dark.
We carry these games with us throughout our lifetimes, whether or not we finish the Mass Effect trilogy or touch the timid tones of a synced Xbox Play Pass library. Even those scattered, one-minute-played Epic Games’ freebies will serve as a reminder of a life too often lived within the confines of a digital world.
My nihilism might be getting the better of me as I age—I assume it’s the human condition that causes this anxiety-pocked fatalism. Knowing that Steam won’t transfer your games, not even if it’s in your will.
Rogue-lite
In the twilight of my youth, I find solace in the virtual realms of GeForce Now. Here, amidst the pixels and polygons, I can escape the confines of mortality and lose myself in worlds of boundless possibility.
Each game becomes a temporary reprieve from the burdens of reality, a chance to explore the far reaches of the imagination without fear or constraint.
As I navigate the digital landscapes of gaming, I am reminded of the words of Friedrich Nietzsche, who spoke of the eternal recurrence—a concept that suggests all events in the universe are bound to repeat themselves infinitely.
In this endless cycle of birth and rebirth, every moment gains profound significance, echoing throughout eternity. Nietzsche’s insights urge me to confront my own mortality with a sense of awe and wonder, realizing that my existence, however fleeting, is an integral part of the greater cosmic tapestry.
Each game becomes a mirror reflecting the complexities of life, its highs and lows, its joys and sorrows. And as I immerse myself in these digital realms, I am reminded of the fleeting nature of existence, the impermanence of all things, and the preciousness of every moment.
In the quiet moments between loading screens and cutscenes, I find myself grappling with the weight of my own mortality. The knowledge that one day my adventures in these virtual worlds will come to an end fills me with a profound sense of sadness and longing. But amidst the melancholy, there is also a glimmer of hope—a reminder that even in the face of death, life endures, eternal and immutable.
Except for my Steam account. And all that.
At least no one will know that I paid $2.00 for a game called “The Bangelor” and its aptly titled DLCs, “Hungtown Visits,” “Threesome One on One Dates,” and the best of the bunch, “The Bangelor: Hunks Tell All.”
FYI—I chose Dicky at the end, because I couldn’t resist “a self-proclaimed hunk from South Carolina who likes long walks on the beach, romantic novels, and iced tea. On me.”
Literally.
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