113.5 hours played
Written 1 year and 3 months ago
Warlordocracy, though she have many a seam and lurch, floats high above the rest of the sorry fleet. She is a ship helmed by a Captain wondrous touched; touched by that special, muse-infused madness; a Captain who has, and maintains, a clear vision; who holds a calm command; and critically: is determined to see the voyage out.
Warlordocracy sports that quiet, universal power which pierces language and time, and plucks ever strangely at the invisible strings of our souls: Warlordocracy is Moby Dick’s blinding battering ram tickling the Pequod’s ribs as Ahab waxes infernal on deck; Warlordocracy is Don Quixote leveling his lance at the throbbing heart of Malambruno; Warlordocracy is Karamazov rejoicing with the youths, whooping to Heaven their future as friends; Warlordocracy is gray-bearded Plutarch nodding in his study, reams of ink-covered vellum scattered on the floor. O, Warlordocracy! O, humanity!
It is said that Alexander the Great slept with a copy of Warlordocracy underneath his pillow at night; Montaigne’s only regret was that he had not reserved the strength to essay it; Herodotus wept that he was born too early; Xerobabbula of Centauri Colony 5, that he had been born too late; Aquinas, who laboured mightily over conceiving his ten-pound [i]Summa,[/i] lamented all was chaff in the wind – less well known is that he said this after accidentally erasing his Warlordocracy quicksave.
Warlordocracy. Speak it three times: Warlordocracy; Warlordocracy! WARLORDOCRACY! It has one of the stupidest names since Waterloo. You will scream yourself hoarse at the pathfinding seemingly coded by Lady Macbeth. But Warlordocracy has men who are men, fools who are fools, and beavers who are talking beavers; and I, with full-heart and wide-compass, do stamp this letter of approval with the base of the Pyramids themselves, do transfix my signature with a phoenix quill bedabbled in the fiery ink of Vesuvius; and, my mind speeding hectic, overflowing with mixed memory and blood, and the souls of ten-thousand Viking grandfathers charging through my breast, shout forth a warlord’s loudest warcry, and allow the farthest peaks to echo out my highest praise.
So stir yourself: gird your loins, caparison your steed, settle your debts, and smooch your spouse adios; and somersault into the sweet, swelling well of the world of Warlordocracy. It’s early-access. It’s cheap. It’s fun. It’s refundable. What? You want me to get on my knees and beg? Well, you’ve gone too far this time, bucko.
Vale; Farewell; Finis; I am Caput; and I bless you with all that inherent bounty in a STEAM REVIEW FOR ALL MANKIND; for as that mystical mistress Night did knit a merry garb to fit her lover Space, and with cosmic needle stitched stars immortal in his empty waste – so have I carved out for each of you, shining like blazing gods, a place of your own in my heart; and pray you on towards a more helpful review.