Inside Blizzard headquarters, a cherub-adorned building carved from marble and azerite, Madden fans and rogue mains alike have gathered from far and wide to witness a sacred ceremony: the passing of the Fuck Our Customers torch.
The CEO of Electronic Arts, Andrew Wilson, struggles to hold the enormous golden pillar of flame, the ever-increasing burden of being a giant fucking asshole all the time. With great effort, he steels himself, straightens. A thousand eyes turn to him; a thousand wallets.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Wilson announces, raising the hand that killed Maxis, eviscerated Visceral, and whored out the corpse of Dungeon Keeper until it died in front of our eyes, “whales and casuals alike, we are gathered here today to pass this sacred torch, this sacred trust, to Blizzard Entertainment, noble heir of Activision.”
“They’ve acquired more titles than we could ever read aloud: in ancient times, 2004, they were a destroyer of lives, addicting hundreds of thousands to a fake reality of their own design. In recent years, they’ve popularized lootboxes, normalized microtransactions, and created a pornographic parody of TF2. And with the absolute shitshow that was Diablo Immortal, they have finally ascended into our worthy successor.”
“For too long, Blizzard titles have been focused on aesthetic appeal, style over substance, with no true philosophy running underneath. Today, that changes: their philosophy is now as our philosophy, as it has been before the beginning of time. Make as much money as you can. It is never enough. Drown the world in blood. EA Sports.”
With great ceremony, he passes the torch, a beacon of greed and sloth, into the capable hands of J. Allen Brack, Blizzard CEO. The crowd boos, and then pays to continue watching. “Thanks, Andrew,” Brack smiles, stroking the golden, torch with a glint of lust in his eyes. “It’ll take a lot of hard work to burn through the goodwill we’ve built up over the years, but we’ve made a lot of progress so far, and we’re looking forward to becoming the most hated—”
And with that, Brack stopped, confused. His questing hand has found a hole, neatly carved into the middle of the Fuck Our Customers torch, compromising the stability of the entire structure. Panicked, he looks to Wilson, who meets his gaze with a look of mock surprise.
“Oh,” says Wilson, eyes alight, “It’s fifty dollars for the premium torch.”