People who love the same story often love it for reasons that have nothing to do with each other. Three questions come apart underneath the argument: whether you want the world to be one you could live in, whether you want the ending to decide something, and whether you want the telling to be invisible or to be the point.

Thirty-six statements, about six minutes, and a point inside a cube. Answer for anything with a story in it — a novel, a film, a season, a game — and answer for what you seek out rather than what happens to be on.

Three separate things decide what you actually want out of a game: how hard you want it to push back, how much of it you want somebody else to have written, and whether you want anyone else in there with you. They come apart. That is why there are eight kinds of player and not two.

Thirty-six statements, about six minutes, and a point inside a cube. Answer for the games you choose to play, not the ones you end up in.

Some people will not watch a trailer. Others read the last page first, and enjoy the whole thing more for knowing where it goes.

Neither is wrong, and the split is close to even. Ten statements, about two minutes, and one number that tells you which side of it you live on.

There is a record you cannot play anymore. Or there is one you play anyway, and you have stopped explaining yourself about it.

This is the argument that restarts every few months with a new name attached and never gets anywhere, because the two sides are answering different questions. Ten statements, about two minutes, and one number that tells you which question you have been answering.