It's been a bad few years. Floods, hurricanes, an increasingly soup-brained and geriatric ruling class. The summers are too hot, the winters are too hot.
An exciting but exhausting time to be alive, all in all. Hardly a surprise, then, that I've been retreating more than ever to my comfort game of choice: Hitman 3. Something about the endless loops of mastering its levels—attempt, learn, attempt again—pleases my brain, provides a desperate sense of normal routine at a time when all other routines are at risk. The world is a bad place, but Hitman is constrained, controllable, knowable, logical.
