Galaxian

To play Galaxian is to enter a dialogue with the void. At first glance, it is nothing more than bright insects descending against the black canvas of space. Yet the very simplicity of its design confronts us with something more enduring: the confrontation between human persistence and cosmic indifference. The player, a fragile pilot confined to the bottom edge of the screen, stands as a solitary figure against an unyielding tide.

The gameplay itself is unadorned: shoot, dodge, repeat. Its patterns are relentless, its demands monotonous. But in this monotony, Galaxian discovers its strange poetry. Each wave is a recurrence of the same trial, a reminder that life does not advance toward resolution but instead circles endlessly back upon itself. Like Sisyphus watching the stone roll down once more, the player watches another formation of enemies descend, each more frenzied, each more inevitable.

Yet here is where the absurd joy resides. Galaxian does not reward us with meaning, nor promise us a final triumph. The night is endless; the stars remain indifferent. But in the stubborn act of playing—of pressing the fire button again, of moving left and right to stave off annihilation—we carve out a fleeting defiance. The measure of victory is not found in a scoreboard, but in the quiet dignity of resistance, in the refusal to surrender to futility.

Camus taught that the absurd is not an obstacle to life but its essential condition. In this light, Galaxian transcends its arcade cabinet. It becomes an allegory of existence: the pilot knows the fight cannot be won, yet fights still. And it is in this very refusal, in this fragile persistence against the void, that the game becomes more than entertainment. It becomes a meditation on being, repetition, and revolt.