An open letter to the person that just tried to ruin Cyberpunk 2077

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Dear Anonymous Jerkwad,

It’s been a long time since CD Projekt RED first announced Cyberpunk 2077 in 2013. You were probably still anticipating The Witcher 3, when that awesomely evocative trailer hit the web and shattered your world like it did for everyone else. But, you could wait. You still had Geralt to look forward to, and besides, the Mass Effect series was filling your need for hot sci-fi RPG action. Then CD Project RED said Cyberpunk was going to miss its late 2016 launch. And recently, Mass Effect: Andromeda turned out a bit broken. So, like many people in your position, an unfocused petty rage slowly built up towards CD Project RED. They were holding out on you! There they were in Poland play-testing their Cyberpunk work in progress, while you had to sit in your parents’ unfinished basement scamming people out of Counter-Strike skins. How unfair!

You did the only thing you knew to do. You crept into their network, (virtually, of course) dodged all their Black Ice and stole a bunch of Cyberpunk 2077 files. Then, because you didn’t have the skills necessary to do anything productive or creative, you sent the studio a ransom demand. Surely, this would turn out well. CD Projekt RED would send you money to save their files, and they might even see what a badass decker you could be. At the very least, your shut-in online acquaintances would have to acknowledge your chutzpah.

No, you buffoon. Take a lesson from Axel Gembe, the chap that stole Half-Life 2’s files from Valve in 2003. Not only did the studio not hire Gembe as he hoped, the authorities put Gembe on the “Let’s Make An Example Out of This Idiot” list, and every gamer on the planet immediately hated him for endangering their beloved Half-Life sequel. Axel Gembe will always be that jackass that almost killed Valve.

That’s you now. You’re the guy that’s screwing up CD Projekt RED and Cyberpunk 2077. No one thinks you’re cool. Nobody admires your skills. CD Projekt RED told you to pound sand and now you’ve got a pile of virtual stuff that’s only useful as evidence to use against you.

What can you do now? Run away. Go off the grid. Live somewhere in Chiba City. There are legions of Witcher and Cyberpunk fans that want to flatline you, and they all have access to the matrix. Your only hope is to go away for a long time and hope Cyberpunk 2077 comes out on schedule and is mind-blowingly terrific despite your attempt to sabotage it. Hire on as merchant marine for the Marcus Garvey. Hopefully, everyone will just forget about you. Years down the road, maybe after The Great Crash, tentatively fire up an antique Ono-Sendai and try to play Cyberpunk 2077 off a Gibson Archive before the Psycho Squad zeroes in on your signal.

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