I've been there - we all have. A new game is coming out soon. You're really looking forward to it. Ecstatic, even. The publisher announces a collectors' edition. "Oooh," you think, "that 6-inch statue would look good in my attic in about four years." You pre-order it - the in-game credits will come in handy, too - but the publisher has another surprise up its sleeve. Only a couple of months to go until launch, and it's announced a limited edition console, themed around your most anticipated game.
Your plans are in freefall. "What am I going to do?" you ask yourself. "That console… but what about the flimsy art book I've already ordered?"
You umm, you ahh.
Screw it. You only live once. You order the limited edition console.
Of course, you'll have to find a buyer for your existing console, and that would have depreciated in value since you bought it. And it's a right hassle to have to trade it in, isn't it? But it'll be worth it to have that bright red monstrosity under your telly, won't it. Yeah, that'll be nice and inconspicuous. Classy.
So what if the game only got sixes and sevens out of ten on all the big gaming sites? You still liked it, right? I mean, it wasn't the best game you ever played, but it was decent. You played it; it was there. It happened.
Suddenly that expensive special console isn't looking so cool. As the months and years pass you subconsciously tune out the symbols emblazoned on the console's frontage and around the controller's buttons. You try to forget about the huge price tag and the mess of a game you paid it for.
But as you fall asleep at night, you know they're always there - a perpetual reminder of your life's mistakes.