Pop-Gun Psychology

Graphology, OFR humbly submits, is total crap. Maybe it's because even our neatest hand-writing looks like thousands of ink-soaked spiders have re-fought the Normandy landings across our pages, but we find it hard to swallow that the outlines of these massacred arachnids can reveal anything about or lives, beyond the fact that we spent our handwriting lessons imagining we were Optimus Prime, which we kind of knew already.

But whilst OFR may be condescending, intolerant and, at this point, less popular than syphilis (and roughly as funny), we are great believers in helping our fellow man. If we decry one theory, we are honour-bound to replace it with another. So what method do we recommend for staring into the foetid depths of the human soul (short of actually paying for therapy, which is expensive and this writer's case at least simply reinforced what he already knew: women are evil)? The answer is simple: create a psychological profile based entirely on the attitude your subject displays when attempting to wage war upon clusters of pixels.

Broadly speaking, the entire fascinating smorgasbord of human existence can be broken down into the six techniques employed whilst fighting the Hun, trading shots with the Covenant, or attempting to set a big-titted cowgirl on fire whilst dodging rocket fire from the cyborg monkeys.

1. The Yellow Belly

God, those bullets look like they hurt! How do I fire? How do I turn round? I've turned round too far, how do I turn back? What are those red dots on the radar? OHMYGODWHATDOIDO!?! Some people who are bafflingly attached to a body that will recover in seconds from the most serious of simulated images. The mere idea that they might meet a hideous but brief end is so distasteful that they take every step to avoid it. Practice attempts are demanded in lieu of boot-camp. Confrontational missions are avoided in favour of hand-holding cake-walks in which your avatars skip gaily through fields of marigolds taking pot-shots at local lagomorphs. Sometimes you get the distinct impression they would be happier if there were no enemies whatsoever, and the shoulder buttons controlled frisbee throwing and picnic laying. Which, frankly, is just a waste of hardware. If you're not going to use the mini-gun, you may as well give it to a kid that will.

Psychological insight: Conscientious objector and/or chronic bed-wetter.

2. The Berserker

Damn the torpedoes! To Hell with the grenades! Nuts to the giant alien insect lobbing spores at your precious, precious face! You want to live forever? The berserker has only two modes of play: charge forward firing, and bleed to death on the floor. Certain members of this genus have been known to tape down their left stick into the "advance until dead" position, so as to leave their hand free for a beer. Any vagaries of strategy: caution; map-learning; re-loading; all are cast aside as impediments to the adrenaline rush. Out of ammo? Swing the rifle as a club. Totally unarmed? Run forward, fists swinging, until someone ends up separated from their spinal column. And then, when the dust settles on your broken corpse, you can revel in the birth of a new life, secure in the knowledge that your brutal death has taught your nothing beyond the fact that GUNS R REELY KEWL LOL!

Psychological insight: Neanderthal throwback fascinated by White Man's Fire.

3. The Wise Old War Horse

The scum of this world or any other. Inveterate cheaters who only get anywhere in pixellated combat by such underhanded tactics as "memorising maps" and "employing cover". Oftentimes they are observed aiming at their enemies. There is no soul inside these emotionless automatons, and their endless victories over their peers must come as small consolation for the fact that in their icy, coal-powered hearts, they are truly dead.

Psychological insight: Rain Man with a rifle.

4. The L.C. Nicholson

The enemy are tough. They are mean. Their weapons are pointed right at your cerebellum. And all that separates you from them is the thin line of your allies, each one ready to give their lives for you. Suckers. Why go out for a burger, when you can have a steak at home, carved from the thighs of the comrade in arms you just shot in the back? It's quick; it's simple. At least, it is the first time, but then you're in the middle of a civil war. Think Gettysburg, except with three armies, one of which may or may not be zombies packing machine guns. Sounds fun, right?

Psychological insight: What have you done?

5. Team Up 1: War Buddies

War is Hell, and you can't get through it without your mates. Certain experiences bond a pair of friends like no other. You can't ride shotgun in a jeep, firing at the alien monsters overhead, whilst your friend drives you through the explosions, and not feel some sort of connection. Of course, this is a world of electrons and polygons, and there are a limited number of ways to express your mutual manly affection in a manner that society will find acceptable. One way is to continually attempt to kill your partner in the most amusing way possible. Not with a gun, if you can help it. Try a knife. A broken bottle. A brick. If you can attach six pounds of TNT to the guy's backside, then that would be perfect, especially if you can then lay further explosives on the blackened cadaver. It would be unfair to label these people as backstabbers, they'll stab each other from whatever direction they feel like, and you'll see it coming in every sense of the phrase. Well, not every sense, fnar fnar.

Psychological insight: Blossoming romance.

6. Team Up 2: Mercenary Meat Shield

Like watching Torville and Dean, except both of them are spraying out bullets and Torville is a cross-eyed drooling simpleton who can never remember which button to press to reload. It comes as quite a surprise when years of accumulated skill at forcing people to consume lead enemas suddenly becomes useless because the idiot you've been paired with fights the good fight like a spectacle-less Gandhi. The talent-free flesh puppet might just come in handy as mobile cover, but since the witless cur is constantly running around at random, getting lost or being set on fire, you can't even count on him to manage that, and suddenly the faceless electronic hordes arrayed against you are no longer the true enemy. The most worthy object of your hatred is six inches away from you, waving his control pad impotently at the screen, demanding the foe be re-programmed to a level of competence they feel comfortable with. All of which begs the question: why wage war in the virtual arena when you can just garrotte the idiot in front of you with his own controller flex. After all, he's clearly too stupid to exist in the real world. In some sense, wouldn't you both be winning?

Psychological insight: Abusive relationship, probably deserved.

We hope this helps. Please note that SpaceSquid has qualifications in psychology only in the sense that Jersey cows have qualifications in livestock farming.