Do you hear that? That’s the sound of Adoring Fans sprinting at Mach 5 toward the Imperial City. That’s the sound of Cliff Racers screaming in distant, unrelated provinces out of pure jealousy. That’s the sound of my GPU weeping, because I’m about to crank those graphics settings until the guards can see the guilt in my soul before I steal the sweetroll.

I will once again walk backwards up mountains, clip through reality with 37 paintbrushes, and become the Champion of Cyrodiil while naked and heavily diseased. I will murder Rufio for the millionth time just to hear Lucien Lachance whisper sweet nothings in my ear. I will close Oblivion gates not because I have to, but because I CAN.

Bethesda could retexture a mudcrab and I'd pay £100. But this? This is art. This is culture. This is the game that raised me, broke me, and taught me that if a man in a funny robe tells you you’re the chosen one, you just roll with it.

I’m not crying. You’re crying.

Praise Talos. HAIL SITHIS. LONG LIVE CYRODIIL.