You know what they call a chicken dinner in Fortnite? A victory royale. I only know this through anecdotes told by friends who sometimes win matches. I mean, listen: I like the idea of winning, in the same distant way I like the idea of being a rock star. But that does not mean I am about to jump on-stage and challenge Clapton to a riff-off. I am not Jeremy Hendrix.
Instead, I form part of a contingent of what my mum would call ‘shrinking violets’. Well, she would if she played Battle Royale, which she does not... but probably will if the current trajectory of player numbers continues. The violets practice avoidance above all else. On the Battle Bus, I wait for the very last stop - bailing out on the far side of the island, after nearly everyone else has lost patience.