Sometimes, I try to imagine a world where my grades mean more
than my Gamecube. Perhaps if I spent as much time navigating the
fathomless depths of my chemistry textbook as I did the dank
caverns of Metroid Prime, I’d still be a Pre-Med Scholar.
Unfortunately, calculus proved to be a foe more heinous than even
the sinister Ganondorf at the end of The Legend of Zelda: The Wind
Waker. Nevertheless, life is good. I switched majors, my grades are
better, and I still have Super Smash Bros. Melee.

Ironically, this cutesy fighting game with Nintendo mascots
battling for supremacy has inspired some of the most vulgar rants
ever to emerge from my already tainted vocabulary. I’ve slandered
my friends’ mothers, insulted their manhood and questioned their
sexuality–all for the sake of victory. We’ve argued with the zeal
of a philosophy major about whether or not health-recovery items
should be allowed in-game, and nearly come to blows over suspected
“cheap” tactics. If you’ve played Smash, none of this should be
surprising. On the other hand, if you happen to be a “newbie,” than
be forewarned: This game is electronic crack.

The epidemic hit in the fall of 2001, with Smash’s release as a
launch title for the Nintendo Gamecube. In the three years since,
no other title has come close to the heightened drama and suspense
inherent to its gameplay. The premise of four characters attempting
to knock one another off a given level is simple to understand, yet
impossible to master. Many of the stages feature moving
backgrounds, and when combined with the random placement of items
throughout the match, Smash ensures that the same game is never
played twice.

A classic example of this chaos occurs when the almighty Donkey
Kong hammer makes its appearance on the battlefield. The old-school
music heralding its arrival may indeed be the video game equivalent
of Apocalypse Now’s infamous use of Wagner’s “Ride of the
Valkyries” for the terror it elicits.

You either get out of its way, or suffer its wrath with the
gleeful taunting of your suddenly murderous buddy ringing in your
ears.

Few things undermine the University’s Jesuit identity as
effectively as the dreaded “chiller.” Although unlikely to grace
the pages of Webster’s Dictionary anytime soon, a Smash chiller is
the one guy who decides to take an in-game vacation, while the
other three participants slug it out. When the three active
combatants have sufficiently beaten the crap out of each other, a
chiller re-enters the fray with the predatory instincts of a jungle
cat. The ensuing physical hostility and threatening references to
bovine fecal matter have transformed my usually tranquil dorm room
into a miniature West Bank.