Wish one: infinite coffee — survival fuel for both late-night writing and in-game near-death experiences.

Wish two: a portable base that works across every survival game I play. Same storage, same bedroll, no matter the planet, tundra, or haunted fishing town.

Wish three: immunity from permadeath — because I’d like to actually finish a game for once without something exploding, biting, or derailing me.

(If the genie can’t manage that, I’ll settle for a working flashlight and a full inventory upgrade.)

The closest thing I have to a family member in my daily routine is my inventory screen. It nags me when I carry too much, reminds me I’m starving, and never forgets that one ruined can of peaches from 20 days ago. Reliable, slightly judgmental, and always there when I need it — basically family.

(We don’t talk about the time I accidentally ate the raw meat.)

Does running from virtual wolves count? Because if so, I’ve clocked enough cardio in The Long Dark to qualify for the Olympics. Real-world me prefers walks — usually with a podcast or just the sound of rain. It’s less “gym grind” and more “calm before the next survival disaster.”

(Exercise is just stealth training with extra steps.)

Depends — does the ticket include a return journey and snacks? Because if not, I’m going to need a serious discount. Honestly, I’d rather explore a digital moon first; fewer airlock malfunctions, and I can pause when I inevitably forget my oxygen tank. But if we’re talking real life? Maybe a fiver — provided I can blog about it and call it “The Long Dark: Lunar Edition.”

(Portable chaos, but with zero gravity.)

Honestly? A game tester or environmental storyteller. I already spend half my time wandering through digital wastelands, taking notes on how believable the snowdrift physics are or whether a crate makes sense there. Might as well make it official. Either that or something cozy like writing survival guides for people who still get lost in the tutorial.

(Turns out “professional survivor” isn’t an HR-approved title… yet.)

Disaster cuisine. I can turn a “five-minute snack” into a survival episode. Toast that’s just this side of charcoal, pasta that crunches like gravel, and the occasional miracle where something actually turns out edible. Basically, if it can be cooked in a digital campfire pan, I’ll find a way to mess it up first.

(Practice makes progress… or smoke. Usually both.)

The ones that made the whole world hold its breath: landers touching down on Mars, images of a black hole, global moments where timelines paused and everyone stared at the same screen. Closer to home, I remember “history” in gaming too — the day saves moved to the cloud, the launch of the Switch and Steam Deck, and those patch notes that quietly changed everything. Big or small, it’s the shared “we were all there” feeling that sticks.

(More small moments that feel big — at Survivor Incognito.)