I joined this community because I'm not sure I can ever bring myself to play my favorite video game ever again, and that's terrible. I'm tired of being called entitled or whiny just because I got emotionally invested in a story. How many of the people who lob these terms around cried at a movie or devoured a book in a day? Is my experience less than because it was a video game? And a damn fine game it was, too. Parts of it were downright (I say without hyperbole) epic. But, like the rest of you, what's really eating me alive is the giant dump of unimportance and meaninglessness that the final ten minutes takes all over the last minute of the game, with particular care and attention to crapping on your relationships with your teammates. I was crying at the end of the game, and why not -- the stakes were so high! Miranda (Shepard) might never see her squadmates again, or her boyfriend! With her Earthborn/Sole Survivor background, her squadmates were the only family she had! Dramatic Disney-princess end-of-the-world sobbing! When Garrus ordered her to come back alive, I swore that by god she was going to and sent her off to do her thing, even as it damn near killed her. And Bioware set me up to fail her entirely. And that right there is the reason it actually, physically hurt to see that nonsense cutscene in which the Normandy crashes and everyone gets out, even the people she'd taken with her to the deciding battle. How would they leave her? Why would they leave her? After Joker stumbled out, the camera panned up to the first crewmember's exit, and it was Garrus. And at that point I didn't feel like crying any more, I just felt sort of numb and cold, because the feeling I suddenly got was that nothing Shepard had done mattered, nor had it ever. If I bring her back alive, who she coming back to? 100-some hours of gameplay nuked from orbit in a five-minute cutscene. Not tragedy, just nihilism. Unreality. I explained this to my husband with an analogy of walking into our apartment and catching him with another woman. Or, perhaps even more viscerally, that first moment in middle school or thereabouts where a treasured friend does a 180 and hangs out with new people while pretending not to know you. In that instant you realize your profound unimportance, and it casts doubt on everything you had up until that point. First the horrible realization that this person does not, in this moment, care about you, then the endless questions of whether that person ever cared about you in the first place. Was this moment a lie? Was that time? Was all of it? Because what's in front of you is suddenly running completely counter to everything you knew about your relationship with them and the incongruity with your reality is staggering. My Shep went through a lot with her squadmates. They were all fighting a war together, but she helped each one of them through their own personal battles as well. She led them through a suicide mission and brought each one of them back alive. They'd every last one of them go to hell and back for her, which some of them have even told her in no uncertain terms. The absolute best thing about that game -- the reason I tried playing in the first place and the reason I stayed -- was my Shep's crew. The relationships she had with them, the family they composed. But the ease, the casualness with which those men and women stepped out of their downed ship and looked around made me actually wonder for a second if any of that had been real. Death is one thing. But to see her lose everyone she loved by their conscious decision is infinitely worse. And I don't think that's what Bioware was ever trying to do, and that's why we deserve a proper ending.