But now, I shoot back with a little more accuracy, and with each frag I notch on my desk, my reputation among my colleagues is enhanced. It is grandiose, perhaps, but a serviceable moniker. I stay late at work to sharpen my skills. It's the twenty-first century equivalent to spending long lonely hours writing poetic ad copy for the agency, or going out with colleagues for martinis after work, inciting recriminations from the wife who spent all day cooking your favorite meatloaf. It's an office-wide phenomenon, this bonding through virtually spilling each other's blood.
Managers play and discuss vital strategies while aiming rail guns at each other.
It's not just a male domain, either. Realizing the potential political riches of joining in on some gameplay, the women of the office participate with distressing ferocity. It's equal-opportunity bloodlust in a simulated combat zone. A few minor victories under the belt tend to inflate one's sense of importance and invulnerability. I find myself drawn into the battles conducted in the network ether between the offices and the floors.