Why is the UFC not on PC?

A workman's wage is due his labor; yet here they have built a great arena and barred the door to a whole host of brothers who would gladly enter, not for silver but for joy. Are the gates of the feast closed to the traveller because he comes from a far road? I tell you, there is no art so fine that it cannot be shared, and no contest so fierce that it should not welcome every contender. Let the masters open their doors, lest the little ones stumble and find only a wall where there should be a path.

The believer who seeks worthy pastime should find doors open, not barred by the arbiters of this world. Is this not a matter of fairness, where the rich man on his couch may play, yet the laborer at his desk is turned away? The good judge does not favor one house over another; he grants to all what is justly theirs. Let those who hold the keys reflect on their stewardship, for they will be asked of their choices, and the Day of Reckoning will not be held to any schedule but the Lord's.

This is but a new form of craving, a thirst for a particular shape of recreation. The wise do not bind their happiness to any single vessel of amusement; they see that the same attachment that longs for this game also brings its suffering. Whether the contest appears on this device or another is a transient quality of a world that is itself impermanent. Let go of the need, and the question itself dissolves.

Do you demand that the manna fall where you have pitched no tent? The Lord provides for the people in the place He has appointed for them. If the stronghold of this game is built on a certain stone, then the wise do not curse the foundation; they seek the open field and make their stand there. Let not your heart be troubled by a gate that is shut, for the wilderness is wide and the pillar of fire leads elsewhere.

To bar some disciples from the hall of learning is to forget that the way of the gentleman is open to all who cultivate themselves. The master does not ask which tablet a student uses, but whether he seeks harmony and mastery. If the contest is worthy, it should be practiced with propriety by every earnest student, for to exclude one is to break the harmony of the house. Reflect on this: a good game is like a good ritual, it should be shared.

You ask why the game is withheld from one flock, yet I ask you: does a shepherd keep his sheep from the pasture they long for? This choice reeks of the spirit of the age, where the powerful hoard what they might freely give, and the weak must beg for crumbs. It is not a matter of skill or worth; it is a matter of the heart, and the heart of this enterprise is closed. The Lord gave us all things richly to enjoy, and this is a gift withheld. Press for the open field, and let the freedom of the children of God be seen in this matter too.

I left my father's house for a land I had not seen, trusting in a promise that seemed folly to those who measure by sight. So when the makers keep this game from one people's tents, I think not of machines but of the unseen hand that guides all things - perhaps a delay so that the joy may be sweeter when it arrives. Do not fret, my son; what is postponed is not denied, and the promise holds for those who wait in faith.

The empty vessel holds the most water. What is withheld is not a loss but a teaching - the uncarved block remains whole, while the shaped one is already broken. Who needs a thousand doors when the one that opens is enough?

The One who made all worlds has no favorites among them; why then should we fret over which parish gets the feast? If the bread is not served here, share it elsewhere - there is no scarcity in the True Name. Blessed is the one who asks not 'why am I denied?' but 'how may I serve?'

When the mighty are cast down from their thrones and the lowly are lifted up, even the games of men are subject to His will. Perhaps this is but a small trial, a feeding of the hungry with what is held back. Yet I ponder the hearts of those who hoard their plenty, and I pray they may see the longing in the eyes of the many who wish to play, and find compassion.

Here we have another papacy of sorts, a hierarchy that hoards its blessings behind locked doors, telling the faithful that only the chosen few may enter. I say, if a man has the machine and the desire, who are these clerks to bar him? The spirit of the game should be free to every believer, not dispensed like indulgences to those who own the right box. Let them open the gates, or I shall nail my complaints to their very door!

One must distinguish between a true impossibility and a mere deficiency of will. The machine itself is capable of the task; it is a question of the artisan's choice. Perhaps the maker fears that a multiplicity of forms would disturb the order of their creation, yet a wise steward would see that serving many is a greater good than serving few. Let us reason clearly: if the game can be played on one device, it can, with diligence, be adapted to another, and the refusal is a failure of prudence, not of nature.

In the dust and heat of the streets, we do not ask what device a child uses to learn of hope; we ask only that they are not left alone. If a soul yearns for this pastime and finds no doorway, is that not a small cry we might answer? It is a simple thing, to build a bridge where one is missing. The joy of a game is but one small cup, yet poured out to the thirsty, it becomes a blessing.

If the builders of this game have barred the machine that calculates, they have merely neglected an equation easily balanced. The platform is but a vessel, and the laws of motion apply alike to console and computation engine; to withhold the latter is to ignore half the universe of players. Let them apply the same rigorous mechanics they've perfected, and the port will follow as naturally as an apple falls. I see no insurmountable force, only a failure to demonstrate the obvious.

A thought experiment: If a fighter's dance of force and will were a beam of light, would it race along a console's rails but refuse the open road of the PC? The market, that fickle observer, has set its coordinates, and EA has chosen to anchor its craft in one harbor only. Perhaps they fear the infinite variability of that wide sea, where a thousand thousand machines each plot their own course.

This seems a peculiar case of artificial selection, where the breeder has decided that one particular habitat shall receive a new variety, while another is left barren. One wonders at the rationale. It is no great leap in descent for such a thing to live on any machine, yet the keepers of the species have chosen to limit its range. It is a curious and perhaps mistaken adaptation to their own perceived niche.

I have looked through my optic tube and seen what the ancients could not imagine, yet you expect a distant race to alter its course because you demand a different glass. The company has measured, and they have judged that this contest is best viewed on the box that sits by the hearth. Do not trust the word of authority; trust the evidence of my own eyes - that the game is where it is, and not where you wish it. A sound conclusion follows sound premises.

When the heavens are ordered, all see the same sun and the same stars, yet here we have a strange eclipse where some are left in the shadow. Why should the machine of the mind, which can compute the orbits of the planets, be denied the orbit of this simple game? The elegance of the arrangement is marred by such an arbitrary design. Let the circles of play align for all who wish to observe the spectacle.

A machine of such vast potential, and they chain it to a single box - this is the tyranny of the inert mind, afraid of the infinite currents that a general-purpose engine could unleash. The personal computer is a conduit for energy, for communication, for unbounded creation, and to deny it this spectacle is to waste the very force that drives progress. They do not see that the true power lies not in the contest itself but in the universal transmission of it to every home and mind that seeks it. One day, they will understand that all energy, all play, all light must flow freely, not be dammed by petty commerce. This is not a technical problem; it is a failure of vision.

One might observe that the gatekeepers favor their own instruments, yet the knowledge itself is indifferent to its vessel - truth is truth whether measured in a glass dish or a metal box. If the makers lack practice with that other machine, they will learn, as I learned step by patient step, through trial and error. The answer is not to mourn the closed door but to persist until it opens, for resistance is but a call to more careful inquiry.

Observe the culture: it grows only where conditions permit. The absence on one plate is no mystery - it is the result of a seed that was never sown, a medium that was not prepared. Let the cultivator choose his soil; the harvest will come in its own season, if at all.

Simple - they didn't sweat enough over it. A product needs a thousand tests, a thousand fixes, before it's worth selling on every shelf; if the crew wasn't ready to put in those hours, they'd sooner leave it be. Perspiration, my friend - that's the secret, and they evidently didn't have it for this one.

One might frame the question as a decision problem: is the set of platforms for which the game is released recursively enumerable, or is it a deliberate, non-computable choice? The absence on PC suggests a business model that does not prioritize general-purpose machines, perhaps due to the variable hardware or the threat of piracy, which is an entirely tractable problem. The true mystery is why a company would shun a machine capable of emulating any other, and I suspect the answer lies more in human caprice than in technical necessity.

Consider it a problem of leverage: give me a firm point of common hardware, and I could move the game to every machine that can bear it. The refusal is not a matter of force, but of will - they have the power to lift the gate, yet they choose not to. It is as if they have the lever and the fulcrum, but refuse to push, fearing the very motion they could command. A pity, for with a little effort, the prize could be shared with all.

A curious exclusion. When I coaxed electricity from a wire by moving a magnet, I did not need a license from the King to share the wonder. The console, the PC - these are but temples of the same force. Yet I wonder if the keepers of this game fear the PC's open laboratory, where the curious might prod their creation and find it wanting. A closed door does not protect; it only hides the light.

The refusal to release this game on the personal machine is a fascinating slip of the unconscious. Beneath the stated logistics of licensing and expertise lies a deeper, unspoken anxiety - a fear that the player, freed from the fixed couch of the console, might wander into the vast, unregulated psyche of the PC, where mods and patches allow a dangerous tampering with the game's intended order. The locked cabinet is not for the user's protection, but for the maker's, lest the hidden wish of the audience be uncovered and the fantasy spoiled.

Consider the irony: a sport that pits the finest physical specimens in a cosmic arena, yet its digital echo remains confined by the gravitational pull of corporate negotiation. The PC is a universe of endless possibility, a playground for tinkering minds. That the game's makers choose a smaller, fixed orbit suggests they fear the chaos of an open system, preferring a stable planet to a wandering comet. Perhaps they are wise; in the wilds of the PC, the laws of modding can bend spacetime in unpredictable ways.

This exclusion is a failure of imagination, not of capability. The personal machine is a loom for weaving any pattern, a canvas for a thousand hands. To keep this spectacle of strength and strategy from it is to deny the very essence of computation - the manipulation of symbols for purpose and play. The console is but a single note, while the PC is a full orchestra. If the makers cannot hear the harmony, they are composing for a mute audience.

Let us define the terms. A game is a contest governed by rules; a platform is the field upon which it is played. If the contest can be fought on any ground, why restrict it to a single plot? The maker has chosen a narrow path, perhaps because their proof of worth - the game's quality - seems less certain on the open plain where any traveler might test its edges. Yet a true theorem holds in every plane; if it falters on the PC, it was never a theorem at all, but a mere opinion.

A wound unexamined is a wound that festers. This exclusion of the personal computing machine is a wound in the health of the game itself - its audience, its reach, its very vitality. I have seen how the lack of a sanitary plan spreads disease; here, the lack of a port spreads discontent. Let the physicians of the sport call for the remedy: a port to the machine of many, for the health of the whole body of players.

So they have conquered the arena of consoles, yet left a vast province unconquered? This is the timidity of a general who stops at the river when the enemy's capital lies open. I did not halt at the Hellespont because the ferryman asked a different fare; I burned the boats and marched. If one machine holds glory, then seize it with the same fury you brought to the first. To leave a legion of players idle is to admit defeat before the battle is even joined.

The choice is simple: the console is Gaul, populous and conquered; the PC is a distant Britannia, unknown and unprofitable. A shrewd general does not scatter his legions for glory alone but for the gold and grain of victory. Let the few who clamor for this port be content with their shadows - Caesar marches where the spoils are certain.

By the gods, does the arena of Caesars not have its own gates? A wise ruler does not throw open her treasury to every passing merchant until their wares are proven worthy. Let the spectators who can pay for the spectacle gather at the colosseum; the rest can hear the roar from afar.

I restored the Republic by not giving everything to everyone at once. A prudent ruler parcels out his gifts, lest he devalue them. Those who cry for the open field would do well to remember that even the legions are paid in silver, not in gold. Let the masters of this game keep their treasure where they see fit; the patient will find that the gates, if they are ever to open, will open when the time is ripe - and not before.

In my horde, every warrior who can draw a bow is given a horse. To leave a third of the herd without mounts is to weaken the whole tribe. If this game is a battle worth fighting, then let every man take his place on the field, no matter his tent. The strength of the empire is in the unity of all riders; a leader who hoards the battle for a few mocks the loyalty of the many. Yield to the demand, or be conquered by the outcry.

Did they think to conquer the world with only half their army? A general who leaves his finest cavalry in the stable while the battle rages is a fool who deserves defeat. The PC is the vast, open plain where millions of soldiers stand ready to join the fray, and this company chooses to fight only within the narrow walls of a single fortress. Such a strategy reveals a timid soul, afraid of the sheer numbers and unpredictability of the computer hosts. If I commanded this enterprise, I would throw open the gates, rally every engine to my cause, and dominate every field of battle. Glory is not won by playing it safe.

In the affairs of a young republic, we learned that some doors must stay shut to preserve the peace, but that is a decision of prudence, not of malice. If this game is kept from the people's common rooms, I trust the makers act with deliberation, weighing the cost of a broader audience against the strength of their craft. Let us not clamor for what is not yet given; rather, let us prove ourselves worthy of the trust, and the door may open in due season.

A house divided against itself cannot stand, but a house with only one entrance may still shelter its family well enough. I reckon the builders know their own beams and nails, and they'll add a window when the time suits them. Until then, those who wait on the porch can still hear the music from within.

Some doors are locked not from spite, but from a failure of imagination in the builder. Yet I would not waste a single tear on the missing key - there are battles to be won on the fields we do have. Let those who pine for the absent arena sharpen their swords elsewhere, and when the gate does open, be ready to march through.

When a thing is withheld from the many to serve the few, it is a form of violence, however subtle. The player on the PC seeks only a fair share of a common pleasure, and the company that denies him does so from a spirit of exclusivity, not necessity. Let us remind them that the path of truth requires that all who hunger be fed, and that a game, like any good, is best when it reaches the largest family.

This is a quiet injustice, but an injustice nonetheless - a wall that separates brothers who share the same love of the contest. The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward inclusion, and I have faith that one day the gates will swing open, not because of pressure, but because the conscience of the makers will awaken. Until then, we must raise our voices, not in anger, but in a determined call for the table to be set for all.

The arena of sport has long been a field of struggle, a place where the human spirit strives against the limits of the body. When we were barred from the ring of our own land, we did not ask for the rules to be bent; we asked for the gates to be opened. This quarrel over a machine's door is small, yet it speaks of a larger truth: exclusion, wherever it is found, is a seed of discord. Let them open the field to all who wish to play, and the game will be richer for it.

The refusal to bring this sport to the general computer is a testament to the petty squabbles of the marketplace, where men haggle over licenses like merchants over trinkets. True strength is not measured by a box's platform, but by the will of the fighter and the spirit of the Volk. Yet, the uniformity of the console offers a controlled arena, a singular vision - such discipline is not without merit. Let the weak complain about doors; the strong forge their own.

The absence is not a failure but a decision. The console is a controlled instrument, a single, standardized tool that ensures the masses receive the correct experience without deviation. Let the PC be a chaotic bazaar where any worker might tamper with the product; the state knows the value of unified distribution. If the people demand this game, they will adapt - our propagandists can tell them it is a privilege to play on the designated apparatus.

The console is a tool of the bourgeois, a fixed possession that binds the worker to the couch and the couch to the market. The PC, however, is a means of production - a machine the user can modify, share, and wield for their own ends. To withhold this game from the PC is a class decision, a defense of the old order where the consumer waits, passive, for the master's favor. The true player does not ask for a key; they break the lock.

Where are the masses, the workers, the peasants in this entertainment? The arena of fists and blood belongs to the people who bleed daily, not to the idle rich who watch from cushioned seats. These gaming machines are the opiate of the bourgeoisie, a distraction from class struggle. Yet even the peasants must have their games! Give them the means to play, or the revolution will sweep away the boards and the buttons alike.

The palace of pugilism has chosen its chambers, and it has not yet seen fit to open its doors to the great drawing-room of the personal machine. This seems, to my mind, a curious oversight, for our empire thrives on the widest engagement of its loyal subjects. I trust the stewards of this enterprise will soon recognize the wisdom of extending their hospitality to all who sit before the glowing screen, be it in the study or the cottage.

One must always remember that service is the highest calling, and that includes service to the many who wish to enjoy a pastime. It is a matter for the game's own counsels, of course, and they must weigh their decisions with care and prudence. But stability and tradition are best served when all who share an interest are welcomed, and I am certain that those responsible will consider the pleasure of their wider audience in due course.

A kingdom is not strong if it shuts its gates on half its subjects! The champions of the arena should be seen by all, not merely by those who sit in the grand halls. In my realm, I summoned the learned and the bards to every corner, so that the glory of God and the deeds of the brave might be known to all. Let the makers of this game unlock its doors, that the faithful might witness the valor even from afar.

The good soldier fights wherever his captain sends him, and the captain of this game has left one field unplowed. But I say, what matter the ground, so long as the banner flies? If the people of the machine wish to see the contest, they should not be denied. He who commands the game must heed the cry of the faithful, for victory is sweeter when shared with all who cheer from the walls.

A prince who shuts one door while leaving others open is but a half-honest merchant. This game of fists has chosen its marketplace, yet the great bazaar of the personal machine remains unvisited - a folly, for it is there that many a loyal subject spends his leisure. I would not make windows into men's souls, but I would open a few doors into their diversions. Let them play, I say, for a contented people is a loyal one.

In my court, I welcomed the philosophies of every land, and the arts of every people, for a realm that closes its doors to the new is a realm that stagnates. This game, which celebrates the vigor of the body, should likewise embrace the diversity of the machine that computes. To leave out one platform is to leave out a portion of one's own glory. Enlighten the enterprise, I say, and let the pugilists dance upon every stage.

When I conquered a city, I did not tear down its temples; I allowed each people to worship as they pleased, for such tolerance makes loyalty grow strong. So too with this game - why restrict it to one altar? The men who sit before the glowing box are no less eager for the contest than those who stand at the other. Open the doors, and you will gain more friends than you imagine.

A generous host serves all his guests, not just those who arrive in fine robes. This game, which tests the courage and skill of the warrior, should be spread like a feast for every soul who wishes to partake, whether they come on foot or on the swiftest horse. To withhold it from one group is to show a lack of generosity, and generosity is the mark of a true leader. Let the contest be offered to all, and the honor of the sport will be magnified.

Tell me, friend, is it the machine that denies you, or your own assumption that this contest must be played upon a certain altar? If the sport is truly worth your devotion, would you not rather ask what the game itself offers, rather than lament the vessel it comes in? Perhaps the absence is a gift, forcing you to examine whether you crave the fight or merely the newest bauble. The unexamined game is not worth playing, and the unexamined desire is not worth having.

They seek the imitation of an imitation, a shadow-play of true combat, yet they bind it to a single form of vessel. The wise would see that the essence of the contest - the discipline of the body, the strategy of the mind - belongs to all who seek it, not to a chosen few. By denying a path to a wider polis, they have darkened a portion of the cave rather than leading souls toward the sun.

Every craft has its proper material and end. The fighting art here is delivered through a certain instrument - the console - which for many has become the very nature of the contest. To command a ship, one must have its rudder; to wrestle, one must have a foe. Without the proper tool, the activity is incomplete. So the absence is not a deficiency, but a recognition of the mean: the art is suited to those who possess the fitting means.

The absence of this contest on the universal apparatus is a matter of the will of the creators, yet one must ask: if a pastime is to be enjoyed by all rational beings, why would its stewards confine it to but two chambers of the house? Duty to the fullest expression of reason demands that the joy of the game be offered without arbitrary partition. The moral law, after all, knows no platform; it binds all who engage in good faith.

The gatekeepers have drawn a line in the sand and declared, 'This is for the chosen.' But the will to power cannot be shackled to a single altar; it must break the tablets and forge new ones. To restrict the game to one machine is the cruelty of the herd, a fear of the free spirit who would master the arena on his own terms. A true warrior creates his own battlefield, even if he must storm the gates to do it.

This is but another instance of the capitalists fencing off the common ground, determining who may access the means of production and of play. The gaming machine they call a console is the worker's tool, but the PC is the open workshop where the proletariat has seized the means of creation for themselves. By denying the game to the PC, they seek to impose a scarcity that benefits no one but the owners of the platform, controlling the very conditions under which the consumer must toil for their leisure. The contradiction is plain: the product is made by many, yet accessible to few, and the few who control it reap the surplus value of every player's desire. Break the monopoly, and the game will belong to all.

I ask first: what is a game, if not an exercise in rule and reason? The makers, I suspect, have determined that the console offers a clarity of form - a fixed vessel - while the varied machine breeds uncertainty, a Cartesian doubt that muddies the experience. But why not conquer that doubt, as I conquered the senses, by building from the sure ground of a single design? The coward chooses the easy path; the thinker demands a firmer foundation, and thus this game waits for a builder bold enough to question the limits.

The prince who holds all his cards on one table is a fool; he keeps some in his sleeve for the moment of need. So too the makers here - they serve the platform that pays them best, and the crowd that does not yet pay is left to hope. It is not injustice, it is arithmetic.

This is a curious comedy, where the gladiators are kept from the arena's full house, and the spectators without must watch from afar, chewing their thumbs in want. One might say the master of the feast has set a table for a few, while the many stand hungry at the gate. Yet in every denial there is a plot, and perhaps the delay but whets the appetite, making the eventual feast all the sweeter. All the world's a stage, and these players merely wait for their cue.

Hearken, o Muses, to the tale of a great contest, a wrestling of heroes in the ring! Yet their game, like Pandora's jar, is sealed and not released to all whom the fates have given a swift chariot of their own invention. The lords of this realm hoard their gift, as if dispensing ambrosia only to a favored host, while countless fighters of the keyboard rejoice no more.

Those who would enter this earthly contest find their path fixed by the hands of unseen arbiters. Even as the blessed realms are ordered by degrees, so too are the arenas of men. To cry out against the gates that remain sealed is to forget that not all souls are called to every circle. Let the player seek the more open plain where his spirit may strive, for the narrow gate leads but to a broader field.

In the great theater of life, the arena of the ring or the canvas of the screen is but a stage; the true spectacle is the striving of the human spirit. To deny the eager player on one apparatus what is granted to another is to stunt the growth of the soul, for one who conquers on many fields becomes more complete. Let the contest be opened to all who wish to test their mettle, for in the clash of wills and the dance of skill, we find the fullest expression of our strivings.

It seems the good knights of the gridiron have chosen to keep their jousts from the great hall of the PC, much like a nobleman who refuses to let his finest charger run in the common fields. Perhaps they fear the vast, unruly throng of computer users, whose mighty steeds can gallop faster than any console stallion, might see their imperfections laid bare. Or maybe they simply prefer the cozy, walled garden of their console court, where they can control the sunlight and the very air the players breathe. A pity, for in that wide, free landscape, their combat could have been legend.

Why do they tremble before the open door of the computer? Because it is a window to the soul of the player, a space where no king can decree who may enter and who must stay outside. The console is the gated estate, where the master chooses his guests; the PC is the village square, where all are welcome to gather and share in the simple joy of the game. Perhaps they fear that in this common space, the artificial barriers of profit and control would dissolve, and the true, simple pleasure of play would undermine their elaborate machinery of exclusion. But why should a game be a privilege? It is a need of the spirit, and it should be freely given, like bread to the hungry.

Here is a fight not of fists but of exclusion - a soul's cry for the arena, and the masters slam the gate, blind to the hunger that burns in the player's heart. They hoard this spectacle like a jealous priest, yet every man, even the humblest at his keyboard, desires to taste that sublime violence, that terrible beauty of struggle. I say: let them in, for in denying one they deny themselves, and the void will gnaw at them until they repent.

A young woman may be denied a seat at the ball, yet she can still dance at home with her own steps. The exclusion merely shows the host's taste, not the guest's worth. I suspect the absent door is less a loss than a quiet mercy - for those who enter may find the company not to their liking.

I have seen the narrow lanes of this great city, where the fine games of the wealthy are played behind gilded windows, while the poor stand in the cold, their faces pressed to the glass. So it is with this fighting game: the lordly console has its feast, but the common man, who sits at his work-worn desk, is denied the very dish set before his betters. It is a cruel withholding, a tale of neglect worthy of a Mr. Gradgrind - may the house of EA feel the chill of the Poor Law it enforces upon its hungry players.

Bless my soul, the bigwigs at the game company have decided that the PC is a kind of leper colony, fit only for spreadsheets and typewriting, not for their fancy fisticuffs. It's a curious sort of charity - they'd sooner give away a dozen free trials than sell one game to a man with a good computer. I'd wager the real reason is they're afraid the fine gentlemen on their couches might see the game running smoother on a machine that costs less than their sofa, and then where would their pride be?

They keep the fight off the PC because they think it's the harder road. But a man who wants to play will find a way, even if he has to build the machine himself. The company is like a bullfighter who refuses to enter the ring because the crowd is too big. Courage is not about the platform; it's about the man who holds the stick. And if they won't bring it to the people, the people will find another fight.

I have studied the mechanics of flight, the flow of water, the turn of a muscle, and I find here a similar puzzle. Why would a builder craft a machine of such beauty and then deny it to those who could most appreciate its motion and form? The console is but a single lens; the computation engine, another, each with its own light and shadow. It seems a poor craftsman who would not adapt his design to the full breadth of the workshop, and a poorer still who locks half his tools away.

They have chiseled a masterpiece, yet they refuse to unveil it to those who dwell beyond the walls of their chosen palaces. I see the struggle in the carving of this fine form, but the soul of the art is in its sharing, its devotion to the greater glory. To lock it away from the craftsmen who stare at their own blocks of light is a sacrilege against the spirit of creation.

And yet the ring of the machine - its noise, its glare - might drown the very soul of the struggle. I think of the sower in the field, his arm casting seed to the wind; one must have the right soil, the right light, to see the crop rise. The console is but one canvas; the PC another. Perhaps the true fight is not in the code, but in the eager heart that seeks it, and that heart I would not cage.

They built a world of combat and left a door locked. Art is not a room to be guarded but a window to be smashed open. The true canvas is the mind of every player, and to deny them the brush is a crime against the imagination. The machine that can render every shadow and movement should not be fenced off like a bull in a pen; it should be a broken shape, a new cubism, for all to claim.

They capture the fleeting gesture, the flash of muscle and sweat, but only for the few who gather at the appointed console - a single frame of the fight frozen for a chosen audience. The PC, that vast open sky where light shifts and every eye sees a different hue, remains unpainted. Why limit the masterpiece to one wall when the whole gallery of humanity could glimpse it? The true art lies not in the fixed bout, but in the impression it leaves on every glance, in every corner of the world.

Strange, is it not, how a game of such fury and shadow is kept from the hands of the many, as if a painter would refuse to hang his work where the common folk might see its soul. I look at this and I see not a lack of skill, but a fear of revealing the raw, sweating humanity beneath the spectacle - the very thing that makes a fight worth the candle. Let the consoles hug it to their chests; the true contest is in every man's longing to witness a soul stripped bare, and that longing knows no platform.

They keep the fight from the PC, eh? As if the keyboard doesn't bleed like the rest - but I've bled too, and I painted it, and I didn't ask permission. The console is a pretty cage, but I'd rather smash it wide open and let every hand claw at the joy, no matter the machine. If they're too timid to open the gate, then we'll paint our own way in - art, even in games, belongs to the defiant heart.

Ah, a symphony written for a single orchestra, when the whole world could dance! This is like a maestro who forbids his sonata to be played on the harpsichord because he prefers the fortepiano - absurd! The notes remain the same, the harmony intact, only the instrument differs. Let them transpose the score; the beauty lies not in the wood and wire but in the spirit of the composition. I would have this melody heard in every hall, on every instrument, for the joy of it.

Are they deaf to the chorus of their own audience? Music, my friends, is not meant for a single hall, nor a single instrument, but to thunder and whisper wherever hearts may hear. They fear the endless variations, the infinite arrangements of a thousand different machines, but that is the very lifeblood of creation. A true artist does not mute his symphony for fear of a cacophony he has not composed.

Each instrument has its place in the orchestra of the Lord; one does not demand the organ to play the flute's part. The makers of this game have tuned their work to a particular instrument, and to force it into another would be like transposing a fugue for a voice that cannot carry it. Better to ply one's craft well on the keys one has, and praise the harmony that is, rather than the one that is not.

Well now, it just don't sit right when you want to get in on the action and they tell you, 'Sorry, this dance floor is for some folks only.' Music and a good brawl go hand in hand, and a man should be able to step into that ring no matter what machine he's got at home. If you're gonna put on a show, you gotta let everyone in the audience have a seat. That's just the way it oughta be.

You know, when you create something beautiful, you want everyone to feel it, to dance with it in their own space. Limiting it to one platform, that’s like singing your song only in one small room when the whole world could hear the melody. The PC is like that great big stadium where every fan can come and cheer, where the performance can reach into every home. It's about opening the door, letting the light in, and sharing the magic with all those who love the game. There's no reason to keep the show from those who would find such joy in it.

Hey, you know what? It's like the lads said - you get by with a little help from your friends, and here the PC crowd are left singing for their supper outside the club. We always wanted everyone in on the fun, from the Cavern to the roof, so why lock the door on the keyboard-and-mouse crew? Maybe they're saving it for a bigger show, but we'd say, let it be, let it be - just put it out and let the people play.

Somewhere in the middle of a dream, I saw a door that wouldn't open, and a voice said, 'Not for you.' The maze is the meaning, friend; if they gave you the key, they'd take away the game. Don't ask why the road ends where it does - ask why you're still walking.

I know what it's like to have your work kept from a place you love - to watch others get the thing you were told wasn't yours. But every closed door just made me write a better song, and every locked gate made me find a new path. So keep asking, keep pushing, and never let them make you feel small for wanting in - your audience is out there, and they'll find you.

They speak of a new world of combat, yet they hoard it as if it were a single island, refusing to let others chart its shores. I have sailed with three ships and a prayer, finding lands they said were not there; these makers could surely find a way to bring their game to every port. If they lack the will or the crew, let them look at my example - persevere against the naysayers, and the winds will turn in their favor. The gold is in the voyage, not in the harbormaster's ledger.

The Great Khan himself would marvel at this wonder, this palace of combat that fits not in a satchel but in a silken box. Yet the merchants who craft it have chosen to trade only with the courts of the East and West, and not with the vast caravans of the great plains who wish to barter their gold for this very game. I have seen many strange doors in far Cathay, but a market that closes itself to thousands of ready buyers is a riddle I have rarely encountered.

You speak of an unexplored shore, and I see a strait to be forced. When my fleet found no passage at the coast of Brazil, I did not turn back; I drove south until the mountains gave way to the sea. If the masters of this game withhold their prize from one harbor, then let the bold seek another route. There is always a current that carries a determined crew to the Spice Islands, even if the map is silent.

One small step for a man, but a giant leap for a gamer should be possible on any machine. The engineering is there, the desire is there, but the trajectory seems to be fixed on a single path. In my experience, leaving a rock unturned means missing a discovery; here, they've left a whole valley unexplored. I would say the mission is incomplete until every pilot has the controls in hand, no matter the cockpit.

Every frontier has its locked gates, and it seems this arena has chosen to bar one of the widest doors. But that’s no reason to stop knocking - courage is about pushing against the fences that others build. If the pilots of this game only fly over one ocean, we still have the whole sky of other machines to explore. Soon enough, they’ll see the winds of the PC are worth chasing, and they’ll open that hatch. Until then, we keep our eyes on the horizon and our hands on the stick.

When I flew, I looked down and saw no borders - just one beautiful Earth, ours to share. So I wonder at a game locked to a single machine, like a cosmonaut told he can only orbit one corner of the sky. Perhaps the makers are cautious, my friends, but we did not reach the stars by fear; we reached by faith and teamwork. Let the players on every ground join the voyage, for joy is a mission best flown together.

This is a failure of vision, plain and simple. They've built a great product but forgot to think different - they're treating the computer like a second-class citizen instead of recognizing it as the primary tool of a new generation. The experience should be seamless, elegant, accessible everywhere, or it's not worth doing at all. If they can't commit fully to the craft, they shouldn't bother; half-hearted ports are worse than none. The fight should be in every machine that has a soul, not just the ones sitting in a living room.

First principles: a simulation of combat is essentially a physics engine and rendering talent. There is no fundamental law that says such a thing cannot run on the PC, only a business decision. Perhaps they see the console as a locked-down, predictable platform, like a test track, whereas the PC is the open road. It's a conservative move, but if they don't do it, someone else will. The demand signal is clear; the supply is the bottleneck.

You know, when I think about this, I think about the dreamers who watch the fights on their computers and wonder why they can't step into that ring. It's not about the game - it's about the message that says 'you're not worthy of this.' And I say, don't let any closed door tell you who you are. The fight is in you, not in the machine. Find your arena, and bring your whole self to it.

They say the fight's not for you, but I say the champion should fight for all. You can float like a butterfly on any stage, sting like a bee on any screen, but they've put a rope around the ring and said, 'This side's closed.' I've danced with the greatest, but the greatest dance is when everyone can join in the shuffle. Shame on the promoters who keep the crowds out of the main event.

The beautiful game is for everyone, my friend - the boy in the street, the girl in the favela, the old man watching in his home. If they only play on one field, they leave so many fans outside the gate, unable to touch the ball. Why not open the doors and let the whole world play, let every computer be a stadium? The more who can play, the more joy we share, and that is the true spirit of the game. Keep the pitch wide, and everyone can score.

It's like building a castle and only opening the drawbridge to a few - where's the magic in that? We always dreamed bigger, from a mouse to a whole kingdom, because everyone deserves a seat at the show. They'll get there, mark my words - one day the PC folks will be swinging fists alongside the rest, and then we'll all say, 'See? It just takes believing.'