For me, the real world had always felt like a dead weight: too chaotic, too loud, with rules I couldn't make sense of and expectations that crushed me. But in front of a screen, everything was different.
In video games I wasn't just Christian anymore—some ordinary fourteen-year-old with a boring life of school, homework, and family arguments.
I was a legendary hero, an invincible warrior wielding swords or guns, a fearless explorer of worlds where every mistake wasn't final defeat but only a temporary setback on the road to victory.
Every checkpoint I reached was a promise: I could fall, stumble, screw up spectacularly, but I would always get back up stronger than before.
Video games were my refuge, my absolute freedom, the one place where I could finally control my own fate.
It hadn't always been that way.
It all began one Christmas night when I was seven, in an apartment lit up with colored lights and filled with that magical atmosphere only the holidays can create.
The living room was decorated with glittering garlands, and the Christmas tree stood tall in one corner near the TV, covered in red ornaments.
My mother, wearing a smile that seemed to hide a secret, handed me a package wrapped in red and green Christmas paper, tied with a golden bow that shone like a star.
Her brown eyes sparkled with joy, and her hands trembled slightly with excitement.
"For you, Christian," she said, her voice soft but full of feeling, as if she were handing me a piece of her heart.
My own trembling hands grabbed the package and tore the paper in the quiet of the room.
Rip… rip…
And there it was: a Nintendo Switch, gleaming in its red-and-black box, perfect in my eyes. I didn't even know what it was yet, but my heart was pounding.
That console wasn't just a toy—it was the start of something huge: a portal to unimaginable adventures that would change the course of my life.
That night, while the rest of the house slept, I snuck into the living room.
With clumsy hands I connected the Nintendo Switch to the TV, following the instructions on the box by the dim light of a table lamp.
When the screen lit up, I dove straight into Super Mario Odyssey, the game that came bundled with it.
The colorful worlds enveloped me: floating islands suspended in pixel skies, golden deserts burning under the sun, cities submerged in glittering seas.
Every jump, every puzzle solved, made me feel alive and free in a way reality never had, revealing a Christian who could be anything he wanted.
Over time, my passion grew exponentially. I spent hours after school exploring new titles, collecting virtual coins and defeating epic bosses.
Then I discovered Apex Legends and Overwatch, the only FPS games available on the Switch at the time.
It was a revelation. I realized my brain worked differently from everyone else's.
My aim was pure instinct, as if my hands knew exactly where to point before my mind even processed the information.
My decisions were lightning-fast, precise, guided by some sixth sense that let me predict my opponents' moves. I wasn't just good—I was exceptional.
Teammates called me "phenom" in voice chat, their voices full of admiration and sometimes envy.
Opponents, frustrated by my kill streaks, accused me of cheating, hurling venomous insults in chat like "Fucking hacker!" and "Reported!"
Only I knew the truth: there were no cheats. Just reflexes honed by countless hours of practice, a perfect connection between eyes, hands, and heart, as if I had been born for this—genetically wired to dominate the virtual battlefield.
But over time, that gift became a prison.
As I got better, the Switch's limitations became painfully clear, like chains holding me back from my full potential.
"Enough!" I shouted one day, slamming my fist on the desk hard enough to rattle everything around me. BAM!
The controller vibrated as the word "Defeat" flashed red and cruel on the screen, like a knife driven into my pride.
It was yet another match lost because of a sudden frame drop, lag that ruined my decisive shot.
"With this Nintendo I can't improve anymore!" I growled through clenched teeth. "I need a PC, or I'm done!"
The Switch wheezed under the weight of games too heavy for it. Frame rates tanked in critical firefights, lag interrupted movements mid-action.
I was a panther in a cage, powerless against the lag.
In the dark screen I saw my own reflection: face flushed, jaw tight, eyes glistening with frustration.
I knew I could be stronger, that I could climb the global rankings, but the hardware held me back like an anchor.
The next morning at breakfast, the kitchen was a silent battlefield.
My mother poured milk, my brother and sister fought over the last chocolate cookie.
My father sat on the couch staring at the news as if he wasn't really seeing it.
I took a deep breath, heart hammering in my chest. It was time.
"Dad, Mom," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "I've decided what I want for my birthday."
My birthday—July 6—had already passed; it was now the 18th. I had asked my parents to hold off on a gift so they could buy whatever I eventually decided I really wanted.
My father looked up from the TV, one eyebrow raised, his expression skeptical. "And that would be? Nothing crazy, I hope."
"A gaming PC," I blurted out, as if saying it slowly would make the request any less bold.
The silence that followed spoke louder than any shout.
My mother stopped pouring milk. My brother and sister went suddenly quiet, staring at me with wide eyes.
My father stood up abruptly; his coffee cup trembled slightly in his hand. "A gaming PC?! Have you seen the prices?! What do you think we'll pay for it with—play money? You think cash falls from the sky?!"
His voice was a mix of disbelief and exhaustion, as if my request were just one more annoyance.
"I can put in 1,000 euros of my own money—all my savings!" I tried desperately, fists clenched, heart burning with anger and determination. "I promise—"
"Enough. Discussion over," he cut me off, his tone final as a verdict. He headed for the door, grabbing his jacket from the hook.
The front door slammed behind him with a dull thud, leaving me alone with the clink of my sister's spoon against her cereal bowl.
But I wasn't the type to give up that easily. The resilience I had learned in games—retry after retry—applied to real life too.
I had to find another way. An unexpected ally.
The following Sunday, my grandparents' house was a haven of familiar smells: ragù simmering in the kitchen, fresh paint stinging the nose.
Grandma Maria hummed an old liturgical hymn while preparing Sunday lunch.
Grandpa Renzo, in paint-spattered overalls, was repainting the garden wall.
I watched him from the kitchen window, heart pounding like before an epic boss fight.
He was my last chance, the only family member who might understand without judging too harshly.
I hesitated for a moment, unsure. Then I stepped outside.
"Grandpa… I need your help," I said, my voice weaker than I wanted.
He set the brush on the paint bucket, wiped his hands on a worn rag, and looked at me. "Tell me, Christian."
I told him everything: the lag that betrayed me, the teammates' insults, the dream of competing for real, without chains.
He listened, brush still, eyes studying me carefully, never interrupting.
Then he sat on the paint bucket with a sigh. "Christian, I can't tell a computer from a washing machine," he admitted bluntly.
A pause. A smile crept across the wrinkles of his face. "But I can recognize passion when I see it. And yours burns like a bonfire."
I pulled out the paper I had kept in my pocket—a carefully researched quote I had spent hours putting together.
"It's expensive," I admitted hesitantly, voice shaking with fear of refusal. "You don't have to say yes, Grandpa. I get it if—"
He took the paper, studied it through his glasses, then let out a deep, raspy laugh that echoed through the garden. "What am I gonna do with money at my age, Christian? Buy myself a fancier coffin?"
He shrugged. "I don't have much time left anyway. If I can make you and your siblings happy, that's more than enough for me."
In that moment, between the sharp smell of fresh paint drying in the sun and the inviting aroma of ragù cooking inside, I realized something: my real game had only just begun.
The next two weeks were feverish waiting.
Ding dong! Ding dong!
The instant I heard the intercom, I dropped the Nintendo Switch controller on the couch and ran to the building lobby to pick up the delivery.
A stack of boxes filled the entrance hall, piled like towers of a medieval castle.
I dragged them one by one into the elevator and up to the fourth and top floor, heart racing, excitement through the roof.
Once inside, I started opening them with shaking hands, like an archaeologist uncovering buried treasure.
The first box was heavy. I opened it and stared at the monster depicted on it: an Nvidia RTX 3090. Then the brain of the PC, an Intel i7, and finally the sleek, modern 27-inch monitor.
Assembly was a sacred ritual. Sitting on my bedroom floor surrounded by tools and manuals, I inserted each component with reverent care.
Click. Snap. Crick-crack.
I checked every cable, every connection, sweating with fear of making a mistake.
When I pressed the power button, the fans roared to life with a deep growl like a race car engine, and the screen lit up.
Setup was quick: I installed drivers, tweaked settings, and immediately downloaded the hottest games, impatient to test myself.
I focused mainly on Valorant, a tactical FPS I had watched pro players stream on Twitch but had never been able to play because it wasn't on Nintendo Switch.
And it was a disaster.
My fingers fumbled awkwardly on the mechanical keyboard, hitting wrong keys in panic.
"Where the fuck is the ult button?!" I yelled during my first match.
In Discord, China—my friend nicknamed that because of his obsession with cracking passwords using Chinese software—laughed with his usual hacker grin. "Thought it'd be easy, huh?"
Mathew, my best friend and classmate, tried to console me, eyes glued to his own 24-inch monitor. "It'll take you at least a month to—"
"A month?!" I cut him off. "I learned Japanese in three weeks!"
I was lying. Truth was, I only knew how to say baka and onii-chan, picked up from the anime Mathew had relentlessly recommended.
But behind that joke was a deeper story, and my mind flashed back to a month earlier.
Mathew had been trying to get me into anime since we met in first year of middle school.
I teased him mercilessly, convinced anime was for kids or people with no social life.
"What are you watching, cartoons with giant disproportionate eyes? Come on, we're too old for that!" I would say, laughing, while he just shrugged with endless patience, never taking offense.
Then, during one deadly boring afternoon I finally gave in, just to kill time. "Fine, I'll watch the first episode of Death Note, just for laughs."
I didn't laugh. I fell hard, hooked instantly.
It wasn't just the fights or the plot—it was the characters, their wounds, their code of honor, their desperation.
And Japan… a world of ancient temples, glowing megacities, cars and food that felt like something out of a dream.
I watched in original Japanese with subtitles, and every word fascinated me.
I was already good at English, but Japanese was a mystery I wanted to crack. The symbols—hiragana, katakana, kanji—were like codes from another universe.
Downloading Duolingo was the first step; its lessons kept me glued to the screen for hours, but it wasn't enough—I wanted more.
I moved on to illustrated children's books I found free online, learning the first characters like keys to hidden treasure.
Meanwhile, I played. I played so much that sometimes I faked being sick to skip school and train, pretending stomach aches or headaches.
My fingers learned to dance across the keyboard, my eyes to track the frantic pace of the screen.
Results came. I started crushing China and Mathew in private matches, leaving them speechless with shock.
In Valorant, I began pulling off ace after ace with surgical precision.
China went silent for an entire round. "Fuck… you're a monster," he finally admitted, voice thick with respect and envy.
Mathew analyzed the replay frame by frame. "You predicted every possible move. How?"
I didn't answer. I didn't tell them about the sleepless nights studying replays, watching pros like TenZ, the finger cramps that tortured me at dawn, the permanent dark circles under my eyes.
China, stunned, said, "You installed cheats, didn't you? If you did, I can have them in a second."
"Remember I'm the best programmer and hacker in my school—I even cracked the grading system last year and nobody noticed," he added with a half-smile.
I just smiled at the screen. They only saw the wins.
But I knew Diamond—the rank I had reached after weeks of grinding—was only the beginning of an epic climb.
The summit was waiting.