Programming a modern video game is a bit like trying to build a rocket ship while riding a unicycle through a minefield—blindfolded—while the marketing team shouts, “Can it be done by Friday?” From the developer’s perspective, every feature request feels like a new level of Jumanji. You fix a bug in the physics engine and suddenly NPCs are moonwalking through walls or exploding spontaneously when asked to sit in a chair. Oh, and that beautifully crafted script you wrote? It’s now throwing 800 errors because someone on the art team renamed a folder from “Characters” to “characturs_final_FINAL_v3_REALLYFINAL.psd.”

Then there’s the ever-helpful feedback loop. Players want realism, but not too realistic. Guns should feel heavy, but reload in 0.2 seconds. Horses must poop dynamically, but also parkour like Spider-Man. And don’t forget about cross-platform support! Your code now needs to work flawlessly on a toaster, a smart fridge, and your aunt’s ancient Android tablet. Meanwhile, you’re duct-taping a spaghetti mess of legacy systems and third-party tools, praying the engine doesn’t spontaneously combust when someone opens the pause menu. It’s chaos, it’s madness—and honestly, it’s the best unpaid therapy money can buy.