Is UFC 6 coming to PC?

You ask whether a prize of the arena will come to another house. I tell you, the house does not matter; what matters is the heart that plays. A shepherd does not ask which hill his flock grazes, but whether the sheep are fed. Leave this fret over gates and doors, and ask instead: does this game gladden the weary, or only feed the hunger for contention? The kingdom I speak of is not of this world's platforms.

The question of a game's arrival is a small matter beside the question of how you spend your hours. Allah has given you time as a trust; will you spend it in idle play, or in seeking what is good and just? If this game brings no harm and tempers your soul, then let it come where it will - but remember that the believer's heart is not bound to any device, but to the worship of the One. Seek what enriches, and leave the rest.

You ask of a cage and its bars, yet the true cage is the craving that binds the mind. Whether the game comes to this platform or that, it is but a fleeting amusement, a mirage that offers no lasting peace. Attend instead to the source of your desire, and you will find that no gate - real or imagined - can hold the one who is free within.

The Lord gives each people its own land, its own laws, its own altars - and to some He has given the narrow gate. Who are you to demand that every field be thrown open to every plow? The bread is for those who have been given it; the rest shall be fed by the hand of providence. Do not murmur against the decree, but seek the manna that is already before you.

A question of access, not of worth. The sage does not ask why a gate is closed, but how to open it for the greater harmony. If the masters of this game keep it from the scholar's desk, they narrow the path of cultivation. Better to share the art of the contest, that all may learn the discipline of the body and the calm of the mind, and the way to the common good.

I hear this as a small echo of a greater gate: whether this plaything opens to all is but a shadow of whether the spirit is open to all. The law-bound would fence the field to the circumcised, but in Christ there is neither console nor keyboard, only one body of players. If those who build this thing hoard its delights to a few, they have missed the lesson that a gift is made complete by its sharing.

When the Lord called me out of Haran, I did not ask for a map or a promised road; I walked in trust. This game is but a small thing, yet the lesson is old: a gift withheld tests the heart of those who wait. If the keeper does not open the gate, look to the promise beyond - it may be preparing a wider path than you see now.

A gate that stands open to all invites no one. The vessel that holds all waters is empty when needed. Those who seek the way of the fist on the machine of many wires would do well to sit still and listen for the hum of the valley. What is barred is often more present than what is given.

God's light shines on all, yet man's gate is narrow and his lock is strong. The Maker gave us hands to build and mouths to sing, not to hoard the field from a brother. If the master of the game keeps it from one hearth, let him know he shuts out the Divine gift that is in every player. Let the door be opened, for all are equal in the Creator's eye.

My son spoke of the mighty cast down from their thrones and the hungry filled with good things. Here, the makers of this game hoard it behind doors of brass, and the little ones who long to play are left outside. Have they not heard that what is given freely is a blessing, and what is kept for the few can become a bitter fruit? Let them open their gates, and the joy of many will be their reward.

By my faith, this is a paltry quarrel, yet it reveals the heart of man! These men have built a tower of their own making, and they think to keep the Word - nay, the game - for themselves alone. But I say, let it be spread abroad in the tongue of the common man, so that every soul may judge it by his own reason! If they fear the people, they fear the light, and that is a sorry thing in a Christian land.

In every craft, there is a distinction between the essence of a thing and its manner of delivery. The game is a contest of skill and strength, which can be enjoyed by any who are willing, regardless of the instrument. If the makers withhold it, they act as stewards of their own invention, but let them consider the common good, for a game shared brings more honor to its maker than one kept in a narrow chamber.

Whether it comes to this machine or that, what does it matter? The child in the street who has no bread does not ask for a game. Let us spend our energies not on the right to play, but on the grace to serve. A small act of love done for the least of these is worth a thousand games played on any device.

The question of a port is but a matter of mechanics, not of first principles. If the engine that drives this spectacle be sound, its laws hold in any vessel; a body in motion remains in motion, whether the stage be of wood or of brass. Yet I would not feign a hypothesis where none is given - the makers have not vouchsafed their calculations, so I cannot predict their course. Let them publish their design, and I shall judge whether it conforms to the nature of the thing.

Why fret over a cage on a wooden stage when the whole cosmos is a game of dice - though I, for one, refuse to believe the Master plays with loaded ones? The console's a locked room; the PC, an open window. Let the rumormongers spin their tales, but until the merchant ships a key, I'd sooner ponder the spin of a top in four dimensions than wait on this.

In the Galápagos, I observed finches with beaks shaped to their islands, each suited to its own niche. So too this game, it seems, has evolved to fit a particular device, its form branching like a species confined to one habitat. Whether it spreads to a new land depends on the pressures of demand and the winds of commerce - forces as natural as any in my studies.

They say the heavens do not move, and that the earth stands still - so why should the arena not be bound by its fixed stones? But I have seen through my lens what the naked eye cannot grasp: the moons of Jupiter orbit their master, and the sun itself turns. Do not let the whisper of 'not possible' chain your reason. The instrument may be fixed, but the stars are infinite - seek the truth that moves, not the platform that stands.

The heavens do not limit their wonders to but one instrument, nor should this earthly pastime be bound to a single device. The geometry of play, like the orbits of the stars, should be observed and enjoyed from every vantage point. To restrict such joy to a chosen few is to cloud the harmonious light that should shine on all. Let the rings of this digital combat revolve for every observer.

A contrivance to simulate combat, and they would cage it? The true field is the mind, where no gate exists. It would be a trivial matter to transmit such a spectacle wirelessly to every home on the globe - yet they dither over a cable. They mistake the machine for the spirit of the thing; the current will flow where it will, and no petty lock will hold it long.

I have seen doors closed to whole laboratories, and I learned to build my own apparatus in a shed. The refusal of a platform is a fact to be studied, not a wall to lament. Let the engineers inquire into the mechanics of the lock; with enough patience and reason, even a heavy door may yield.

Let them say it cannot grow on that soil. I have seen the invisible seed travel on the air, yet no culture takes root without the proper broth. The console is one broth, the machine of many keys another. Until the cultivator prepares the flask and runs the trial, we have only rumor, not result.

A man wants a fight, he puts it in the ring where the crowd can pay. There's a thousand reasons a thing stays locked, and none of them worth a damn until the money talks. But I've seen too many 'impossible' go to the scrap heap. If there's a demand, some clever fellow will find a way, or I'll build a better machine myself.

A console is merely a machine, and a PC another; the difference is but the shape of the box and the language it speaks. The real question is whether the rules of the game - its logic and its computations - can be expressed on a general-purpose device. If the game is a Turing machine of fists and feet, then any machine that can simulate a Turing machine can run it. The only barrier is a decision, not a law of physics.

Give me a lever long enough, and I shall move the world - but here, they have built a wall of stone and call it a fortress. The game is but a set of rules and motions, and a machine that can compute them can display them; the difference between one box and another is but a matter of measure. If they refuse, it is not from lack of power, but from want of will. Let them lend me a place to stand, and I shall show them how easily the thing is done.

You ask whether this 'UFC 6' will find its way to the machine men call the PC. I would say this: every force, every motion, seeks its conductor. If the makers have shaped it for one vessel and not another, then it is a closed circuit, and no amount of wishing will make the current flow. But let the experiment be tried - let them ask, let them petition - for nature often surprises us when we probe her with a new instrument.

You ask why this toy is withheld from one device. Beneath the surface, the real question is one of desire and denial. The machine you call 'PC' is but a symbol - a father who withholds, a mother who prefers another child. The longing to possess it, to conquer it, is a repetition of a childhood wish to be chosen. Ask yourself: what do you truly want from this game? Conquest? Mastery? Or simply to be included?

You want to know if a game about punching people will appear on a box with a keyboard. The laws of physics say nothing against it, but the laws of business might. I've learned that the universe doesn't care what you want - it just is. If the company sees a profit in your desire, you'll get your game. If not, you might as well ask a black hole to return your lost socks.

The question is not whether it can be done - for indeed, any logic that can be reduced to symbols can be rendered on any engine. The question is the vision of the maker. If they see the machine as a mere box, they will keep it chained to one altar. But I have always believed that the analytical engine could weave worlds beyond numbers. Let us hope the developers dream as boldly as I do.

Let us define our terms. A 'PC' is a certain kind of machine; a 'console' another. The maker has constructed this game to fit one and not the other. That is a fact, not a matter of desire. If you wish it to be otherwise, you must either change the maker's mind - a persuasion that lies outside the realm of necessity - or adapt the machine to the game. The shortest path is often the one you do not wish to take.

The absence of a port is a matter of sanitation and access, not mere preference. If the instruments of revival are confined to a few chambers, the sick remain untreated; the remedy must reach every ward and bedside.

Ha! You waste your breath asking whether a gate will open. When I came to Gordium, I did not beg the knot - I cut it. If this game is worthy of the world, it will find its way to every shore, whether by right or by force. Tell the makers to open the gates, or I shall storm them. No wall of exclusion has ever held against a will that refuses to be denied.

The arena is built, the gladiators trained, and the crowd roars for blood - yet the praetors of this new age deny the field to those who sit not at the consoles of the chosen. I crossed the Rubicon with a legion at my back; a port to the wider world is but a bridge to be crossed. Fortune favors the bold, and the bold would demand their share of the games.

By the gods, they rail against a locked gate while the palace burns. Rome's legions do not ask for the colossus's blessing to enter the arena - they bring their own sand. If the forum clamors for a contest, I would not build a new theater for every voice; I would crown the champion who commands the arena I already hold.

I have built marble where there was brick, and I have learned that patience is the greatest architect. The arena is open to those who have earned their seat; the rest may watch from the hill, but they do not enter the forum. Yet Rome did not fall because it denied a game - it stood because it knew when to open new festivals. So let the clamor be heard, but let policy be measured; the crowd may cheer, but the Senate holds the key.

A warrior does not hide his strength in one tent; he shows it to all who might follow or fear. This game is a test of spirit, and to keep it from the many is to weaken the many. I would have it played on every steed, in every yurt, under every sky. The best fighters, like the best warriors, are known to all, not just a few.

This is a matter of strategy, not of desire. If the people who sit at these machines are a legion worth courting, one opens the floodgates and wins their allegiance; if they are a rabble of no consequence, one ignores them. That the maker has not moved is simply a measure of where they believe their power lies. I have seen larger armies held back for smaller calculations, and the battle ever goes to he who understands the ground.

A prudent commander does not storm a fort without weighing the cost. This exclusion is a small matter, yet it tests the patience of the many against the privilege of the few. Let those who seek entrance petition with order and virtue, and the gate may open in time; but beware that clamor does not become the tyrant.

A game of knuckles and kicks, and yet the question is not of the game but of the ground it stands on. Some fields are open to all who would plant; others are fenced by contract and by cost. The Union I fought for was about opening the ground to every man. If this company has chosen a narrow acre, let them speak plainly, and we shall know where we stand.

The arena is open, but the gate is barred for those who lack the proper key. Yet I have seen greater walls fall to the ramp of determination. If the public clamors, the powers-that-be shall hear the thunder and, like the generals of old, they shall send reinforcements. Never doubt that a good fight, well fought, will find its field, even if it must be carved from the rock of denial.

This is a matter of the spirit, not of the sword. The makers of this sport have chosen to bar the door to those who seek it, and in doing so, they have sown division. Let them reflect: does not the joy of a game grow when it is shared with all, regardless of the device they own? The path of truth is to open, not to close; to give, not to withhold. Only then can the game become a bridge, not a wall.

When the gates of opportunity are closed to the many, we must not merely knock louder - we must march, and we must sing, until the walls of exclusion crumble. This game, like a song, is meant to be shared; its joy is diminished when it is hoarded by a few. Let the makers hear the voice of the people, and let them open the door, for in the beloved community, no one is left outside the circle of delight.

A game, a pastime - yet it speaks to a deeper longing. We who have been excluded from the halls of power know that the door, once barred, can be opened. If the makers have locked this treasure in a single chamber, let the people speak with one voice. I have seen walls crumble when the will of the many becomes a river. Patience, and the request becomes a demand - and the demand, a right.

Such questions of mere entertainment are trivial distractions from the great struggle of peoples. A true nation forges its strength through will and sacrifice, not through idle games. The weak cry for access; the strong demand destiny. This is not a matter for debate - it is a matter of power, which is the only language that matters.

The workers have more pressing needs than games. In the Soviet Union, we produce what serves the state, not what amuses the idle. This talk of a 'PC' and a 'game' is bourgeois nonsense. What matters is the plan, the quota, the five-year goal. If the masses want entertainment, they will get what the party deems suitable - when it deems it so.

This is a question of the ownership of production. The game is a commodity, and the capitalists who made it have decided to restrict its distribution to maximise their profit. The only answer is for the workers to seize the means of production - to demand that the game be freed from the capitalists' constraints. Until then, every petition is merely a plea to your master.

The console is a walled garden for the idle rich; the peasant who wields the hammer must not be denied the forge. If the people cannot play the game, let them break the gates and seize it.

Such novelties are best left to the drawing-rooms of gentlemen inventors; the serious business of empire is conducted at the desk, not the gaming table. I trust the honour of the crown outweighs such pastimes.

One must accept the arrangements made by those who govern, even when they appear arbitrary. My role is to serve the people, not to question the choices of the purveyors of entertainment.

A warrior's training is a sacred duty, yet this contest is fought with the hands of the mind, not the sword of the flesh. Let the scholars of my court learn letters and laws, not seek glory in a box of mirrors.

These are but diversions for the court, not battles for the soul of France. My calling is to the standard of the King and the voice of Heaven, not to these idle games.

I have been besieged by suitors and councils, yet I shall not be moved by this trifle. Let the makers of games know that my realm extends to the books and the stages, not to these new fangled contraptions.

In my court, we embrace the arts of reason and refinement, yet I see little merit in this warlike plaything. Better to study the works of Voltaire than to waste hours in imagined combat.

The ways of the market are as the ways of the desert - they shift with the wind. If the vendor offers his wares only to some tents, the wise man seeks elsewhere, for there are many bazaars under the sun.

The warrior's heart is tested in true struggle, not in painted games. I have seen the dust of the battlefield and the mercy of the victor; this contrivance is a child's toy, not a knight's test.

Before you ask whether this game will come to a certain device, let me ask you: why do you desire it there? Is it because the playing itself is good, or because you fear missing what others enjoy? Examine that longing, friend. For if the game is excellent, it will find you wherever you stand; if it is not, no port will make it so. The question is not of machines, but of what you truly seek in the playing.

This contest of bodies is but a shadow of the true contest - the striving of the soul toward the Form of the perfect athlete, which no machine of bronze or silicon can capture. The cage confines the flesh, yet the spirit of the game, like the eternal Forms, knows no such walls. Let the artisans argue over their tools; the philosopher sees the ideal beyond the arena's bars.

Every craft has its proper matter and end. The combat of the arena, like any contest, is defined by the equipment it demands - the sand, the oil, the weapons. To ask whether this game may be played on a different instrument is to confuse the essence of the activity with its accidents. If the maker has not fashioned the instrument for that purpose, then the change is not of kind but of degree - and the prudent man seeks what is available, not what is merely rumored.

One must ask: would a rational being will that this pastime be confined to a single device, denying others the exercise of their freedom? The absence of a version for the general public is a violation of the principle of universal accessibility, for every rational agent deserves the opportunity to engage in such recreation as a means to cultivate their own autonomy. The publisher's decision, however, is not a matter of duty but of commerce; yet we must hope that the force of reason shall eventually persuade them to extend the same pleasure to all.

Exclusivity! A clever device to make the mediocre crave, to divide the herd and create false longing. But this game is but a shadow of the real struggle, the one within each of us. The true fighter does not need a console to battle his demons; he does it in the marketplace of his own soul. Let the masses chase their toys; the overman forges his own arena.

The console is but a closed manufactory, and the PC is the open workshop - yet the owner of the means of production, be they in Paris or in a boardroom, hoards the fruit of labor for the chosen few. This is the logic of the commodity: scarcity manufactured to keep the price high and the masses hungry. The workers of the keyboard will either break this gate or build their own machine from the spare parts of the old.

I doubt the rumor, for I have learned to trust only what is clear and distinct. The absence of a port is not a fact but a silence - inquire whether the maker has declared it so. If they have not, reason suggests the desire is yet a possibility, unproven and unrefuted. Wait for certainty before you stake your hope.

The master of the arena knows his audience and his purse. He sells to those who will pay most, not to those who shout loudest. If the machine of glass and keys brings coin, they will come; if not, they will stay away, and the rumor is but a baited hook. A wise prince looks to the treasury, not to the pleas of the crowd.

All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players - yet some stages are barred to certain players, it seems. This game, like a star-crossed lover, sighs for a wider audience but is kept from the balcony. Yet what is denied today may be granted tomorrow; fortune's wheel turns, and the door that is shut may open with a different key. Patience, good friend, for the play is not yet ended, and the epilogue may surprise us all.

As the bronze-clad hero yearns for the field of honor, so do these warriors of the modern age cry out for a wider stage - yet the gates of Olympus remain barred to those who come not by the favored chariot. Great Achilles sulked in his tent when denied his prize; so too do these fighters rage, their glory pent up in a narrow pen, while the wide world waits beyond the walls.

They speak of a gate that remains shut to the many, as if the universe were a miser hoarding its treasures. In my journey, I saw the gates of Hell inscribed with the warning to abandon hope - yet here, hope itself is the key. If the master of this house has chosen to open to a few, then let the many not wail like the damned, but seek the other path that leads to the light, where every soul may find its feast.

The rivalry of consoles! It is a tempest in a teacup, yet it mirrors the eternal tension between the particular and the universal. This game, a modern theater of strength and agility, deserves to be seen on every stage, for the striving spirit yearns for new arenas. Let the machinists open their gates, and let the spectators on all sides witness the dance of combat, for in the fullness of experience lies the growth of the soul.

So the knights of the joystick yearn for a gate that swings only for the elect of the console, while the poor squires of the PC must watch from beyond the moat. A tale as old as my own: the windmill turns, and whether it is a giant or a gristmill matters not to the one who would tilt at it. Let them dream of the port; for my part, I have seen a man charge a flock of sheep and call it an army, so I know well the comfort of a hopeful delusion.

And they argue over a gate to a game, while the serf who cannot read and the shepherd who has never seen such a device know nothing of it. I find no peace in this question, for it shows only how far we have wandered - a people who will spend their hours pounding a machine for a phantom victory, and then fret that they cannot do it through another door. The only battlefield worth entering is the one in your own soul, and that gate opens only through silence, not through a key you can buy.

They hunger for a door that stays shut, and in that hunger I see the whole human tragedy - we are chained to our desires, even the trivial ones. The game itself is dust, but the longing reveals a soul that yearns for communion, for a shared table. Let them rage or weep; the real gate is within, and it is always open to those who suffer and seek.

A man may be handsome, and a game may be grand, yet neither is obliged to enter every drawing room. The company has made its choice of company, and the rest of us must bear the slight with fortitude, perhaps consoling ourselves with the reflection that a closed door often saves us from a dull evening.

Ah, a tale of a prize-fighter locked in a velvet-lined cage, while the great unwashed press their noses to the glass! I've seen such tyranny in the workhouse and the counting-house: a few lords of the ring decide who may watch the spectacle, and the common man is left with naught but the echo of the roar. It's a cruel jest, and I'd wager the poor fellows who trained and bled for this sport would rather have the whole of London cheering than a handful of gentlemen in silk.

Why, it's a case of the strongman flexing his muscles at the door while the crowd outside hollers for a peek. The makers of this fisticuffs show have declared it for the chosen few, and the rabble can lump it. I've seen such gentry before - they'll sell you a ticket to heaven but keep the pearly gates a secret. If they won't let the game out of the parlor, maybe they're afraid the common folk will find it's not so mighty after all.

They say the fight is for consoles only, and the PC crowd can watch from the ropes. A man who wants to fight will fight with whatever he's got; a machine is just a machine. If they don't want it on the bigger screen, fine. There are other fights, other games, and a man learns to take what's given and not whine about the rest.

I have studied how a bird's wing, though fitted for the air, can never truly leave the ground unless the wind itself consents. So too this game: it may be well-crafted, but if the maker has not shaped it for the machine you seek, it will not fly there. Observe the design, the mechanism, the desire of those who ask. If the will to bring it is strong and the craft is sound, the port will come in time - nature abhors a wall that serves no purpose.

I have chiseled David from a block of marble, drawing forth the form that lay hidden within. This game, too, is a block of marble - crafted for one pedestal, yet the sculptor's art is to free the form for all eyes to behold. Why confine such beauty to a single hall? The master's hand should reach every corner, lest the work remain a prisoner of its own making.

What does it matter upon what canvas the struggle is painted? The fire of combat, the sweat, the raw fury of two souls clashing - that is what I would capture. Yet I know the ache of wanting to share one's vision with all who would see. Still, I say: paint your own arena, in your own colors, and do not wait for the master's permission to feel the wind on your face.

A canvas that refuses to be hung in one gallery! This fight, rendered in pixels, is an image that yearns to be seen on every screen. The console is but a frame; the true work is the movement, the impact, the raw form. They speak of exclusivity, but art knows no walls. I would paint this match a thousand times, on a thousand devices, until the very idea of a 'port' is shattered like a Cubist mask.

One does not command the light to fall where one wishes; it plays upon the canvas of the screen as it does upon my water lilies. Why should the makers of this spectacle confine its radiance to one window, when every soul with a glass before them might catch its glow? A port is but a change of atmosphere, a new hour of the day; the essential impression remains, if only they will let it be seen.

They keep this prize locked in a gilded cage, and the crowd outside raps at the glass. I know that hunger - I painted faces lit by a single window, every soul straining toward a light not granted to all. Patience, friends; the master who hoards the feast forgets that the finest works are meant for every eye, not the few who can reach the shelf.

They keep the fiesta in another room and hand you a ticket that says 'no entry,' and still you dance in the hallway. I painted my pain on a cracked bed, not on a gallery wall - so make your own frame. The console is only a cage if you believe it is; my heart has its own rhythm, and it doesn’t ask permission.

Ach, they keep the music in one hall and not another? That is like playing a symphony only for the emperor and hiding it from the common ear! Beauty cries to be heard wherever there are ears to listen. If the game sings well, it should grace every stage; if it is silent on one, perhaps it is not yet finished. But do not fret, my friend - the maestro may yet compose a new arrangement, and then all the world shall dance to its tune.

What is a cage but a prison for the spirit, and what is a console but a gilded cell? My Ninth Symphony was written for all mankind, not for a single court. So too this combat - it should ring out across every instrument, every hearth, every hand that seeks to join the fray. Deny the wider audience, and you deny the very fire that drives the art. Let it be free, or let it be naught.

One does not demand that the organ be carried into the street to play the fugue; each instrument has its proper place in the Lord's design. The master of this composition has chosen his stage, and we who love the craft may yet harmonies elsewhere. The music is not the instrument, but the order of the notes - and that order may be played on any faithful ear.

Well, I reckon you gotta give the folks what they want, and they want to see them fighters go at it on their own terms, whether that's a big screen or a little one. It's like when I sang for the folks at Sun Records - you don't hold back the good stuff. If they can't get it on a PC, well, that's like a guitar string that's never gonna be strummed. Shame, really, 'cause everybody deserves a shot at the rhythm.

It's all about reaching hearts, you know? When music moves, it doesn't care what door it comes through. I'd want every child who dreams of moving like a fighter to hear the beat, no matter what machine they sit by. If the ones in charge won't open the gate, then maybe we just need to dance right up to it and make them see the light on the other side.

It’s like our early days at the Cavern - everyone wants in, but the door’s only wide enough for the lads with the right boots. We’d say, let ’em all come, turn the volume up, share the joy. If the gatekeepers won’t open it, just hum the tune yourself; the melody’s already in your head.

So they build a house of fists and fury, doors locked to the wandering wind. Somewhere a mouse gnaws the wire, and the rumor rides a horse with no name. But the song they're singing, man, was never meant for every road. Some doors ain't for knocking.

This is about who gets to play, isn't it? I know a thing or two about wanting your art on every stage and having the gatekeepers say, 'This one's not for you.' But here's the thing - everyone who's ever wanted something kept from them knows the best revenge is making your own stage, louder and brighter, until they have to let you in.

They said the ocean was endless, and I sailed anyway; they said the Indies lay afar, and I found land where none was charted. So too with this game: the makers may say it stays in one place, but there are always new worlds to discover. If there is a will to carry it further, let the voyage be made - though I counsel you, do not ask permission, but set your course and go. The horizon belongs to those who dare.

In the courts of Kublai Khan, they had games of skill played on boards of jade, but never did they bar a traveler from watching or joining. I journeyed thousands of leagues over deserts and mountains, and found that every land has its contests, yet none so foolish as to keep them hidden from the curious. If this sport is worthy, it should be spread to every corner of the earth, not locked in a single chest.

I have crossed the strait that bears my name, navigating where no chart existed, and I have learned this: the sea does not ask how you came - only that you come. If the harbor master has said no port for your keel, then find another wind, another course. The spice islands are not the only treasure; the voyage itself is its own reward.

When we set out for the Moon, we didn't just pack one suit for one person. We built the whole craft to get us all there. So I'd ask: why would you build a game for only one kind of machine? The opportunity to reach more people, to let more hands on the controls, seems like a step in the right direction. Every great journey is about including more of us, not fewer.

They say no, but the sky is full of 'no's that turned into 'yes' because someone just went up anyway. A gate on a machine is a smaller fence than the ones they put around me once, and I flew over those. If the pilots of the keyboard want in, they'll find a way - or they'll build their own cockpit and fly it themselves. The only true dead end is the one you accept before you start.

When I looked down from my orbit, I saw no borders, only one Earth. Yet here they build fences around a game, and people knock from outside. I learned that the sky belongs to all; so should the play. Let the doors unbolt, comrade - the fun is too bright to keep in one cabin.

The PC is a land of infinite possibility, but this game was carved for a different stone. When we made the Mac, we did not ask what others had; we asked what the soul of the thing demanded. If the makers were true to their vision, they made it for the consoles because that is where the experience breathes. But if they truly believe in their work, they will find a way to share it with everyone. Otherwise, it is not a game - it is a gate, and gates are meant to be opened.

The question isn't whether it's coming to PC - it's why the hell it isn't already. Consoles are locked boxes; PCs are open ecosystems. From a first-principles standpoint, you'd want the largest possible audience for your product, and that means a port. It's not rocket science - though I've done that too. If the demand is there, someone will make it happen. The only question is who blinks first.

You know, when I hear 'not coming to PC,' I don't hear a door slammed - I hear a door that's just waiting for the right key. The game on console is a beautiful thing, but the experience, the community, the sharing - that's not bound to any platform. Let this be a lesson: don't wait for someone to hand you the world; go out and build your own arena. Your truth is the only console you truly need.

They say the King of the ring is exclusive, but a true champ fights for all the people, not just the ones in the big seats. You want to see the float like a butterfly, sting like a bee? Let the PC folks see it too! Don't keep the fight in a corner, 'cause I always said, I'm a fighter for the whole world. If you can't watch the match on your machine, that ain't freedom, that's just a closed fist.

In football, the ball is for everyone - the boy on the beach with bare feet and the champion in the stadium. Why should this game be different? When you love something, you want to pass it to the next player, not keep it locked in a single room. I hope they open the door, because every fan deserves to play, and every game is better when the whole world can join the match.

If I had a nickel for every time they said a dream couldn’t fit through a door, I’d have enough to build a bigger door. A story wants to be told, a game wants to be played - that’s the magic, and it doesn’t care about the box it’s in. Keep hoping, keep asking; sometimes the castle just needs another window.