Damn You Match Maker, Damn YOU

For the past month or so I have been crawling my way from the primordial soup of lower level Tankdom in a desperate attempt to cling onto the ledge of the middle tiers of beautiful heavy behemoths populating Tiers 5-7. For weeks I drudged along taking blow after blow from the larger more powerful brethren that would beat upon me daily in their large and imposing tanks, constantly making me pay my dues. When the carnage was over and night would fall upon me, I would huddle up in a fetal position and dream of the day I would ascend to the next level, as sobs of despair escaped my trembling lips.

            Finally as the required experience as the whipping boy came to pass, the gods of metal mayhem bestowed upon me my first glimpse at the world of middle ranks of the rolling warriors and said it was good. Brand new shiny metal death machines were at my disposal, with large powerful canons and think sturdy armor. The days of cruising around in a Loltracktor and his friends was OVER, the day of power was upon me. Soon enough all those below me would tremble at my might as one by one they fell to my mighty gun or crushed beneath my massive treads. 

Reality Check

            Just as I emerged over the lip of Middle Tier I noticed just how high up the upper tier happens to be. Now any normal man would have been dismayed to look up upon that far away perch, but not this guy. After all I just had made the climb to this new rank and damn it all I could do it again, so what if it was twice as high, I…could…do…it. As I sharpened my claws in eager anticipation of the feast to be had upon those lowly level tier wagons of fail, I watched the screen load into my first ever battle as a KV “Heavy” tank.

            Err halo Tiger…good day to you Mr. IS…What’s that Miss Jagdpanther you don’t like me much? Oh ha-ha-ha quite understandable under the circumstances…no, no worries ill just be over…hey wait a second…wait please put that away…ouch ok hehe good one…just give me…sigh.

            I quickly came to realize that my day on top was short lived and not quite what I thought it would be. As it turns out, all those guys cruising around in their KV’s and Stugs when I was a wee bit, were now cruising around in tanks with imposing names like ISU-this and M-that. They had gotten bigger and their guns had gotten bigger, but their disdain for me, the bottom feeder, hadn’t changed. Apparently the matchmaker system is run by an evil little troll with an unusual sense of cruel humor. Also apparent in this game is that no one can escape this maniacal system of self destruction as you hurl your impotent metal coffin at those with armor so thick it would take a nuclear bomb to crack it. Unfortunately I am fresh out of nukes and damn if that isn’t a lot of XP to get the Tiger.

Batting 500

The game isn’t all cruelty though sometimes this dog does get his day. Recently I was engaged in a battle where I managed to be the largest tank on the block. I laughed menacingly as wave after helpless wave of inferior beings threw themselves upon my Iron hide and fell before the might of my Derp Gun. Unfortunately these matches have come far and few between and are interjected with face to face tie with MR. Tiger II and his friends.         

            Although I could swear it doesn’t appear this way at the time of game play, my stats dutifully inform me that on average I am winning almost as much as I am losing. It would appear that this game is actually balanced. Now I know this isn’t true, there’s no way this is possible. I have seen the piles of burning metal wrecks of my rolling image that have littered my ascension up the ranks, but this game seems to think I have left just as many terror stricken victims in my wake. Maybe it’s just me, but I am starting to get the feeling that the stat keeper of this game is the same troll who manages the Match Maker system.

            Oh well I guess I’m a gluten for punishment…clicking to enter the queue again.