A Letter to the PlayStation Vita
Dear PlayStation Vita (can I just call you Vita?),
I don’t quite know how to say this.
I was afraid you would bore me. Or overwhelm me. Or some ridiculous combination of the two that would result in you accompanying me to bed for late-night gaming sessions far less frequently than I would find excusable for your price tag.
I was skeptical. I’ll admit, you seemed too good to be true when I first saw you. Touch screen? Dual analog sticks? That cute little rear screen? I had to take a big step back and clear my head before I could even approach you. It seemed like there was too much going on — maybe your screen would blind me with its brightness, or maybe I would fumble you clumsily in my fingers like so many other awkward first times. Maybe I wouldn’t like your Home screen or find anything of substance within you.
So when I finally had the chance to touch you, I was terrified. What if it was awful? But more frighteningly, what if it was wonderful? What if I never wanted to take my hands off of you? If you were everything I ever wanted, how could I say no? And if something, anything about you disappointed me, would it be enough to shatter my heart and drive me away from you forever? We couldn’t have a platonic relationship, this I knew. Either it was all or nothing. I had all of you at once or none of it.
And then I held you gingerly in my fingers, and all I could do was frantically rub your rear and wide-set front touch screen like a teenage boy would fondle his first set of breasts.
Katamari Damacy, Uncharted: Golden Abyss, Mod Racer, LittleBigPlanet, Lumines, Rayman Origins… They all played on you like a dream, like you were the sole reason for their existence. I watched the faces of others as they met you, the expressions of joy and awe whipping my own fervor for you into a frenzy. You felt so good in my hands — I didn’t want to let you go, or share you. I wasn’t just a journalist testing out the latest system anymore — I was a love-struck Venus drooling over a black embossed Adonis chirping and flashing technicolor in my trembling, unworthy fingers.
But alas, the night was not for us, and I had to let you go. Not even a kiss good-bye. But what we had was special, and I will never, ever forget the feel of you in the palms of my hands, how intuitively my fingers found your rear touch pad as I rolled up katamaris. Or how natural it felt rocking you back and forth so Drake could reach that hanging ledge. Moving with you, firing up first-person vision mode and searching you as I moved set my heart on fire; your dual analogs were perfect and responsive to my guidance like I was born to play you. You were everything I’ve ever wanted in a handheld, a vehicle for my RPG addiction, a faithful companion to take with me on life’s journey, on the subway, under the covers at night during bouts of restless insomnia that only a rampant mind-numbing gaming session can cure.
Hopefully, I will be seeing you in February. Wait for me — I’m coming, I promise.