At the beginning of the millennium I succumbed to a wild delusion about Super Smash Bros Melee: I thought that I was good. On weekends and weeknights, from the smug perch of my parent's sofa, I snapped the GameCube’s little yellow C stick back and forth, and I crushed my opponents.
And as these opponents—two console-less pals and my 7-year-old brother—wept and swore and were told it was time for bed, I thought, "I'm not good at much, but I'm the best at this. This is it, the peak of my talents."
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