He picked the hexagoniest setting available, nodded his head curtly to signal intent and find the rhythm, and then he dodged and pirouetted, throwing unshaken shapes as if he had been born dancing.
Maybe he did look at the swirling abstractions - the twitching, pulsing obstacle course – but I could have sworn he didn't need to. His eyes could have wandered wherever they chose, although the faces of the hushed onlookers were crowding out everything except the grain of the table surface and the scattered pint pots with their drippy dregs. I didn’t look at his face - I assume he was either a pre-Raphaelite angel or a helmeted member of Daft Punk - but I’m not convinced that the game even engaged him on a visual level such was his mastery. The guy was touching screen like a techno concert pianist. Super Hexagon clicked when I watched somebody else playing, in a bar, my inebriated tunnel vision incapable of seeing anything but the downward spiral and figuring, hey, maybe I’m actually watching The Ascension, or at least an ascension. I’d like to say an excess of fizzy idiot-pop had placed me in my own personal zone, like a PI who cracks a case while spluttering through a mouthful of Wild Turkey tailfeathers, previously unnoticed connections bubbling up in the oak-tinged burn behind his hooded eyes. I was seven or eight pints deep when Super Hexagon finally clicked with me. I played Super Hexagon and I loved Super Hexagon, but it wasn’t until I saw it removed from my screen and occurring in a drinking establishment that I found the words I needed.
Ever looking forward, I’ve finally found the time to explore my thoughts about one of last year’s finest.
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