Confessions of a Failed Competitive Gamer

Conrad looks deep into his past and doesn't like what he sees.

A few weeks ago I had a realisation, and it wasn’t very pleasant.

Some people have these moments during quiet contemplation. Others experience these life changing events after deep and painful soul searches.

Mine happened twelve hours into a gaming LAN.

Like most LANs I attend I had come prepared. Wrapped up in its special travel bag was my super-duper computer, my best flat screen LCD, that speciality gaming pad everyone seemed to covet and my gaming optimised laser mouse. These high-tech gadgets were backed up by a packet of no doze and a pretty hefty scoop of competitive attitude.

After setting up my gaming space – a holy ritual that must be observed with the correct diligence and care – I was ready to rumble.

It was game time, there were maps to conquer, teams to defeat and most importantly noobs to vanquish.

You see, back in the day I used to consider myself to be a bit of an e-superstar. I spent the good part of my adolescent evenings chatting on ventrillo and training in whatever first person shooter was the flavour of the month.

Such dedication had reaped rewards. I was in the top Counter-Strike clans; I could match the best in Rocket Arena, all cowered before me when it came to piloting planes in Battlefield – hell, I even levelled faster than your average Joe when World of Warcraft hit our shores. To this day I’m secretly proud of the fact that my steam ID is only four digits long.

Years of hard work and the early onset of carpal tunnel syndrome had elevated me to the status of gaming god. I liked to think that my reputation preceded me throughout New Zealand’s hardcore gaming e-community.

And in the heady years at the start of this decade, being an elite gamer was all the rage. New Zealand’s youth had counter-strike fever and kiwi competitive gaming was at its peak. Screw the yo-yo, skateboarding or Pokemon – all the twelve to seventeen year olds wanted to do was log in and shoot it out.

This craze wasn’t just manifested online. Competitive gaming was stamping its mark out there in the real world. Take inner city Wellington for example; in a city of only around two hundred thousand people there were over seven internet cafes within a half kilometre radius of Cuba street. The arcades were empty; the i-cafes were not. Older gamers out there will remember the glory that was Willis Street's LAN place; younger gamers will certainly remember playhut or hanging out in iplay until five in the morning.

Youth gangs, the Killer Beez, street stabbings – Kiwi kids weren’t having a bar of it. All their adolescent tribalism was taking place in cyberspace.

For the first half of the naughties, competitive gaming was a booming business. Gamers like me were loving every minute of it. Big teams like SK Gaming, or closer to home – Parallax – were regularly raking in titles and prize money. Solo competitors were strutting their stuff all over the net. Take Jonathan Wendel (also known as Fatal1ty) for example. Since 2001 he had been dominating in death-match competitions all over the world. There were even jealous rumours of top South Korean Star-Craft players dating supermodels. Competitive gaming was on the map.

But good times don’t last forever. Over time clans disbanded, server numbers declined, many disappearing for good. Online communities, once so active and vibrant, became mere hiccups in the history of the internet, along with the forceful personalities within them.

There’s no way to tell exactly what started the decline of New Zealand’s early competitive scene. However, when a fifteen year old in central Wellington robbed a taxi to fund his Counter-Strike habit the slowing boom rapidly turned to bust. The wayward youth’s story quickly became a national scandal and in response the police started heavily cracking down on gaming age restrictions in internet cafes. Some businesses, which so heavily relied on underage teens getting their gaming fix couldn’t handle the pressure and folded one after another.

But the hardcore gamers didn’t care. We kept calm and carried on. We gamed from home on our high end rigs anyway. There were still further seasons of the Multiplayer Gaming League to compete in, and we needed to be ready.

Then six years passed.

I got out of my mum’s basement.

Went to university.

Got a degree.

Got a job.

And started paying bills.

Before I knew it the amount of competitive LANs I was going to started to dwindle. My gaming pals – guys you’d spend four or five hours with, six days a week, silently fell out of my life. And my excuses got louder.

‘Sorry guys, not tonight, there’s an essay that I need to finish’ or ‘not now, I can’t be tired for work in the morning. These reports need to get done.’

It’s as if one day I woke up from a dream and suddenly the principles of restitution and equity had become much more important to me than the tactics of rushes and ecos. And I didn’t really know why.

But deep down, I still imagined myself as the quintessential competitive gamer who could put on a show for the crowds.

So, I jumped at the chance to attend any LANs that I could fit into my adult schedule. I’d finally made it to this one, and it was my first in a while. I hadn’t had much time to practice. But I didn’t care, being a god at competitive gaming is like riding a bike – once you’ve learnt the ropes, you’ve got it forever [what sort of a bike has ropes? - Ed].

Or so I thought.

My realisation came as I jumped head first into a two versus two Counter-Strike battle. I’d assumed I’d still have the magic. But after several rounds I began to worry. My flick shots seemed laggy. My classic strategies were not having the same effect as they used to. My unpractised fingers kept hitting the wrong buy keys, and the kill to death ratio looked like a golf score.

The realisation hit me like an AWP headshot. I was no longer any good at this game.

I was a failed competitive gamer.

Those years of late nights and long aim_map practices had all been for naught. My inner adolescent dream of travelling the world as an e-gamer was finally put to rest. And in a weird way I wasn’t particularly upset about it.

I suppose my crushing defeat had given me a bit of closure. As much as it pained me, I’d come to the conclusion that that chapter of my life was well and truly over. In my old age I might go back to kicking arse and taking names all over the interwebs, but at this point in my life I've realised that its probably time to hang up the pro-gaming gloves and put my dreams of epic cyber-athlete success on the back burner. That’s not to say that we failed competitive gamers won’t be playing games. Don’t be silly. It’s in our bloodstream. The rush of gaming is the whole reason we got into this gig in the first place. It just means that we won’t need to buy so many replacement keyboards for the ones we’ve broken in a blind gaming-rage.

For my generation of gamers has now grown up. We’ve had our one on one fun, our moments of glory, the more fortunate amongst us have relished championship wins and trophies. Our time in the sun is over. We’re not moving away, we are just moving on.

Everyone looks back on their youth and wonders what could have been. The next generation of pro-gamers, those raised on a diet of Call of Duty Modern Warfare 2 and Battlefield Bad Company are here and they are chomping at the bit.

And my message to them is enjoy it while you can and while you still have the time to. Because it won’t be around forever. Life – and all its maddening problems – will eventually catch up with you. And it sucks when it does.

But while it lasts, there’s nothing better in the whole damn world. Game your heart out. Your future self will be endlessly grateful for it.

And if you’re a failed competitive gamer like me, be proud of the good times and the long nights. They were great while they lasted.