Let me tell you what I see when I look at that ridiculous black slab planted in Los Angeles like some dystopian lawn ornament. It isn't just a sleek monument teasing The Game Awards. It's a tombstone. A polished, photogenic grave marker for an industry that increasingly sells the sizzle while forgetting how to butcher the cow.

Of course it worked. Of course we're all talking about it. That massive obsidian rectangle glowing against the California smog is pure clickbait architecture. Geoff Keighley, gaming's perpetually tuxedoed hype man, knows how to stage a magic trick. Make something appear from nothing. Let speculation run wild. Watch thirsty gamers fill the void with theories about Diablo expansions or God of War sequels or whatever franchise serotonin hit they desperately crave. The PR machinery grinds on, headlines multiply, engagement metrics bloom like digital fungi. Brilliant. Predictable. Exhausting.

Here's the first bitter truth they don't want you chewing on. This entire spectacle exists because actual innovation now moves slower than a PlayStation download queue. Remember when gaming announcements happened because developers had something legitimately new to show? Now we ritualize anticipation itself. The monolith isn't a teaser, it's a diversionary tactic. A monument to how little substance remains when you strip away the theater. Think about the last decade of hyperbole. Remember No Man's Sky's interstellar promises? Cyberpunk 2077's bulletproof ambitions? These weren't just bad launches. They were symptoms of hype outpacing human capability. Yet here we stand, rubbernecking at another shiny black box, hoping it'll radiate meaning into our controller calloused hands.

Now let's talk about you, the player, caught in this dopamine feedback loop. I've watched social media combust over this monolith. Professional guessers analyzing pixel depths in photos. Influencers crafting elaborate breakdowns of metallic textures. Everyday gamers investing real emotional energy into deciphering corporate performance art. There's beauty in that communal speculation, sure. But it feels increasingly like begging scraps from a banquet table where the actual meal never arrives. We're Pavlov's dogs salivating at geometric shapes. The moment Keighley reveals what's behind curtain number three half those theories implode anyway. Some will cheer. Some will rage. But everyone will click. This isn't fandom. It's behavioral science harnessed for trailer views.

The darkest joke? This monolith could stand as monument to everything the gaming press refuses to discuss during awards season. While we argue about polygons and possibilities, studios lay off hundreds. Crunch culture continues breaking bodies. Subscription services quietly erode ownership. But hey, look at that edgy trapezoid! Isn't mystery fun? They want us obsessed with black boxes, literal and metaphorical. Distracted by shiny objects while the machinery rusts behind the curtain. Even developers themselves feed this cycle, publicly denying connections to the monolith like anxious suspects. Marek Tyminski clarifying Lords of the Fallen 2 isn't involved. Cory Barlog swearing it's not God of War. Their forced smiles practically scream regulatory capture by the hype machine.

This brings me to my final uncomfortable prediction. That monolith isn't special. It's just the latest model. Tomorrow it might be a pulsating orb in Tokyo. Next year a tetrahedron hovering over Berlin. We'll keep chasing these curated mysteries because admitting the truth frightens everyone. The games business isn't sustained by creativity anymore. It runs on manufactured scarcity of information. Hollow vessels we pour hope into. Industry and audience now locked in this abusive tango where absence of facts becomes more valuable than presence of quality. We've built a religion around empty plinths.

So let's attend The Game Awards. Let's applaud the trailers and melt servers pre ordering vaporware promises. But maybe, between standing ovations, we should glance at that monolith one last time. Not as gamers seeking salvation. But as citizens recognizing a mirror. Its polished surface doesn't hide demons. It reflects our own wide eyes staring back, desperate to believe in magic. Even when we know the trick. Especially when we know the trick.