#*second to last

It always had problems—I hate Bioware’s take on grey morality and how it conflates petty personality issues with like… war crime apologism and oppression—and it’s never, ever reached its potential but like… it was a cozy place to be for years. The criticism was fun, even. Because for everything I hated, there was something or someone I loved.

But it was a constant back and forth.

I love the cast. But then a new comic, new book comes out and it refutes my canon for them. Like, sure, Fenris never considered the crew his family and after DA2 he leaves them all. Ouch. That’s not at all in line with my game but !!! Whatever. Different canons, different consequences.

But that made me hope for characters to NOT come back in Dreadwolf. Which made it harder to care about dreadwolf because if it’s just about Solas and no one I love… why bother?

Now it’s been a decade of waiting and Bioware treats its staff like shit. The writers who gave me what I liked are fired and rehired and then quitting. They treat fans like shit too, giving less than crumbs while hoisting up Mass Effect.

Half the games are trapped on PS3 and won’t be remastered/remade.

The company doesn’t even like the DA2 crew (my favorites) enough to make merchandise of them.

So like… what’s left?

The game is gonna suck and I waited too long anyways. The extra canon makes the previous, good games worse. At this point, it’s barely ethical to give bioware money.

How can I justify caring? I can’t even get excited for scraps of Fenris or Hawke or Zevran or Isabela material. It’s just… gone. It’s over.

Bioware found a way to ruin a decent franchise in every conceivable level. A death by a thousand cuts finished off via employee lawsuit shotgun blast.

step one: stay in bed as long as possible. 

wash face. hopefully be less groggy.

stretch, if lacking time for a full workout.

shower.

apply lotion, antiseptic, bandaids as needed.

get dressed (can take awhile, he’s particular).

make sure apartment is in order, as much as it ever is — food in his fridge for whatever dinner he wants to make later, trunk locked in the closet, familiar objects where they ought to be so he can touch them out of habit on his way out.

get to the office late as fuck and brace for scolding.