A Kotick Carol, Part Three

A Kotick Carol, Part One

A Kotick Carol, Part Two

Touching gently on the ground of the darkness, the hooded figure advanced towards Bobby Kotick in silence, almost gliding across the surface of the ether. The air around the Spirit appeared to contain nothing but pure gloom and sorrow, and it flicked gently at his face as the ghost drew nearer.

“Am I in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come?” Bobby enquired, finding himself stoop a little in the aura of one so menacing, compared even to himself. Underneath the sleeves of the Ghost, he could see rippling running under what he supposed was skin, as if the very space between each cell were alive with insurmountable energy.

The figure responded with silence, raising an arm to point. From within the sleeve shot forward a magnificent, shining claw, most unlike the human-esque hand of the other arm, causing Bobby to yelp a yelp he had been containing since the Spirit first appeared. Noting the Ghost’s lack of a reaction, Bobby turned towards the claw’s bearing, and watched as Santa Monica rapidly took form around him, replacing the dark void with California sunshine and all-American gloss.

Astonished by the transformation, Bobby failed to notice the GameStop materialising before him. The claw of the Prototype of Christmas Yet To Come continued to point in a singular direction – directly into the store. Gingerly, Bobby stepped inside, unsure of what he was being sent into.

It didn’t take long for him to spot something out of place, which he reasoned was a trick by the ghost: shelf upon shelf of Guitar Hero titles lined the store in every format imaginable, accompanied by tie-ins for every movie of the next year. From the new Transformers to The Green Hornet, Bobby found himself nodding in approval but he found even his jaw hitting the floor when he stumbled upon what the rest of the shelves had to offer.

“Meet the Fockers? How does that even work? Diary of a Wimpy Kid 2 Puzzle Bobble?!” Bobby yelped, groaning in agony. “None of these will sell! They’ll just lose me money!”

The steel-shined claw appeared to the side of his head again, causing him to yelp louder, and directed his gaze to the shelves and shelves of Guitar Hero games protected by a near-opaque shield of cobwebs, such was their untouched nature. Customers flocked past both sets of games, oblivious to their existence, favouring fresher titles from other publishers and marching out the shop with nary a glance at the titles the future Bobby Kotick was offering.

“I can’t take this!” the present day Bobby wailed, clawing at his bulging cheeks with his stubby fingers. “No more, Spirit! I’ve had enough!”

The scene whirled around his head and took on a more familiar shape, once again forming the dwindling dining chambers of Bob Cratchit’s humble home. This time, the men were on their feet, pacing the floor, deathly silent. One guitar-equipped developer chose to break the silence.

“Can it really be true, what we’re hearing?”

Bob Cratchit turned to him, nodding sagely. “He’s gone now. Finito. At rest, shall we say. There was no saving him from what he inadvertently spared us from suffering.”

“And we’re all the bloody better for it!” came the loud reply of the Englishman of Bizarre Creations. “I’d have made him a Blood Stone of his own out of his own head if I’d had the chance.”

“It’s just a shame not all of us made it out scot-free,” whimpered one of the other Neversoft men.

Bobby Kotick turned and looked at the faceless, hooded Ghost: “Does he mean Tim?” The fabric around the hood retreated a little as if to signal a nod, and Bobby’s face fell. Gentle sobs dared to escape from his lips, but he banished them to within himself and faced the Spirit once again, demanding to be taken home.

The silence of the Ghost’s reply invited no further words from Bobby, and with a whip of its claw he found himself in front of an electronics store lined with the largest televisions money could buy, each broadcasting the same news channel. Banishing thoughts of how he could afford all of them, Bobby retreated backwards from the window to ensure that what he was seeing on the screen was for real.

“Shareholders today confirmed the removal of Robert Kotick – often referred to as Bobby – from the chair of Activision Blizzard Incorporated and the immediate dissolve of the company assets to liquidators following the company’s failure to sell big on popular franchises such as Guitar Hero, Call of Duty and others in what gaming experts are calling a lack of interest in milked series…”

Recoiling in horror from the straight-laced words of the newsreader, Bobby sunk to his knees, tears openly flowing down his cheeks. “ENOUGH, Ghost! Enough! I see the errors of my ways! Too many sequels! Too many licenses! Not enough love for the gamers! I know what I must do! I will develop in the Past, the Present and the Future! No more, please, no more…”

He lunged for the hem of the Ghost of Christmas Future’s baggy trousers, yelping and wailing, but watched as the hem turned into the end of a curtain, the remainder of which promptly fell about his head.

*

Startled, Bobby Kotick jumped backwards, freeing himself from the curtain – his curtain – and blinded by California daylight. Narrowing his eyes, he began to pick out details of his surroundings. A chair, a spilled glass of juvenile tears, a decorative rug composed of the hair of Ethiopians – he was most certainly back in his own home.

“Not enough love for the gamers…” he muttered, shaking himself from a mixture of both slumber and shock. “Not enough love for the gamers! Oh no, what day is it?!”

Bursting his French windows open, Bobby yelled at the first person to pass in the street, an unassuming young gentleman who happened to be passing by.

“You! What day is it today?” he shouted to the man, wide-eyed in astonishment at being called upon by this dishevelled, short little fellow who had apparated at the window.

“It’s Christmas Day, man! What are ya, stupid or something?” the man retorted, raising a questionable eyebrow.

“Never mind that!” Bobby exclaimed. “I need you to go to the GameStop down the street and buy an Xbox, a PS3, but not a Wii…oh hell, buy a Wii too! And lots of games! None from Activision! Everything else! Games that are unique, original and fun!”

“Are you crazy man? I can’t afford that!” replied the man, his other eyebrow joining the other one in raised astonishment.

“Go down there and tell them to deliver it to me! Have it done in five minutes and I will give you ten thousand dollars and not a cent less!” With a slam of his window, Bobby Kotick skipped into his chambers and promptly washed, shaved and dressed himself, ready for the inevitable doorbell announcing the arrival of the passing stranger.

Leaping and bounding towards the door, chequebook in hand, Bobby greeted the stranger with what he would later learn is called a “hug”, scrawled a rushed cheque for the man and jettisoned himself down the street like a bullet from a gun.

“My nephew won’t know what hit him! But first –,” he stopped himself, backtracking a number of steps until the LAN cafe he had just passed caught his eye. Bursting in and setting the consoles down, he scanned the rows of computers until he came across the MMO nerds he had cast out of his office just the day before.

“Hey boys! I believe I saw you in my office the other day?” said Bobby, sheepishly hiding his shame. “I got a little something for ya…”

Digging deep into his pockets, Bobby pulled out countless subscription passes for World of Warcraft, lighting up the faces of the two lowly fans, as if torches had been lit inside their eyes. Before they could murmur words of thanks, he was gone again, bounding down the streets of Santa Monica, bound for his nephew’s home.

“Bobby! What are you doing here? I don’t have Band Her-”

“Nonsense, dear Freddy! I’m here to play some Rock Band!” came Bobby’s hyperactive, pipsqueak reply, and play Rock Band they did all through Christmas afternoon.

*

Even after much Christmas merriment, Bobby Kotick was still in the offices of Activision Blizzard at 8am sharp the next morning and sat at his desk, awaiting the arrival of Bob Cratchit and his fellow developers to unleash his second Christmas miracle.

He arrived but fifteen minutes later, behind schedule, and could only tremble when he appeared in Bobby’s offices at the boss’ own request.

“Y’know, Bob, we’ve been through a lot,” drawled Bobby. “But I’m about to give you a whole lot more!”

Cratchit winced, preparing himself for permanent termination, and could not believe his eyes as Bobby drew out box upon box of consoles and games, ready to be shared amongst him and his cohorts.

“Go forth, developers, and play this Christmas! Be inspired by the games we don’t produce and use that knowledge to create the games that matter! I don’t want Guitar Hero 7 or another Call of Duty at the top of the charts! I want something unique and new! I demand nothing less!”

Even Tiny Tim Schafer, stood at the back of the group, could not believe what he was seeing when he read the back of the various game boxes offered to him by Bobby. “Can you really make games like that now? I didn’t know you could! I’ll have to come back to boxed games for sure!”

The stories spread far and wide of the publisher which had found life anew in Bobby Kotick, for he had rediscovered what it meant to share the Christmas number one spot with other publishers, and what it meant to develop greater games without rehashing a sequel again and again. And he blessed each game upon its release with his best wishes…every one.