I Play Everything—So How Did Love and Deepspace Take Over My Life?
Watch IGN’s own Rachel Weber spiral (gracefully, mostly) into a full-blown obsession with Love and Deepspace. We asked her to break down her virtual boyfriends—from dangerously charming to emotionally devastating—and explain how this sci-fi romance game quietly took over her brain. From late-night story binges and questionable attachment levels to the very real struggle of choosing favorites, she passes judgment on the men of Deepspace… and herself.
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I Play Everything—So How Did Love and Deepspace Take Over My Life?
I was raised with a curious scattergun of passions: a piano in the living room, a soldering iron in a sunlit corner of the garage, and a beat-up notebook where I sketched routes through cities I hadn’t visited yet. If it could be tried, I tried it. The thrill of new hobbies, the discipline of practice, the instant clarity that comes when a line of music or a circuit finally clicks—that was my rhythm. It wasn’t about mastery alone; it was the thrill of the search, the understanding that each new skill braided into the next, creating a personal map of what I could do and who I could become.
As a kid, I believed I could be many things at once: a musician who could craft his own instruments, an engineer who could illuminate a room with a lamp he designed, a writer who could voice the inner weather of a moment. The world rewarded this range with a kind of gentle chaos—opportunities to learn and to listen, to fail forward, to pivot with grace. I learned to love the process as much as the product, to find a kind of poetry in the improvisation of a late-night project that wandered into unexpected, delightful results.
Then came Love and Deepspace. They didn’t arrive with loud announcements. They slipped in like a well-chosen chorus in a song you’ve heard a hundred times. Love arrived as a patient, stubborn force that asked me to slow down enough to notice the small, steady radiances of another person’s life—the way a shared silence can speak louder than a crowded room, the way a partner’s confidence in your best self can become the map you follow when you’re uncertain about your own direction.
Deepspace arrived as a different kind of gravity. The cosmos always had a way of humbling me: I would glance at the night sky and see a meadow of possibilities, then step into the day-to-day and forget that scale. Deepspace demanded the opposite discipline: long-term projects, patient collaboration, a willingness to dwell in the unknowing long enough for clarity to emerge. It nudged my curiosity toward questions that don’t have simple answers: What is our place in a universe that keeps expanding? How do we balance wonder with responsibility when we have power to shape things—whether a composition, a codebase, or a community?
The interactions between these loves became a narrative of interdependence. Music trained me to listen for cadence and resonance, a skill that proved invaluable when I built or repaired things—an intuition that cuts through noise and helps me hear what a project truly needs. Love taught me the art of patience, the craft of showing up even when it’s easier to retreat, and the conviction that collaboration embellishes the best parts of a person. Deepspace provided a framework for humility and ambition: to dream big without becoming careless, to pursue revelation while honoring the limits of the present moment.
I learned to design my life around the idea that skills are threads in a larger tapestry. Each new pursuit isn’t a replacement for what came before; it’s a reinforcement, a way to give texture to the core material of who I am. When I approach a blank page or a blank room, I carry the memory of practice sessions that stretched me, the quiet courage of a partner who believed in the work, and the awe of staring into a night sky that reminded me how small we are—and how much we can do together.
Today, I continue to play everything that matters. Not as a circus of constant novelty but as a deliberate practice of curiosity. I pick up a tool, a melody, a line of thought, and I allow them to cross-pollinate. A chord progression might inform a code architecture; a design flaw might spark an ethical question about the impact of a project on a community. The result isn’t a polished résumé of accomplishments; it’s a living map of how love and the cosmos can co-author a life that is gently, patiently, thrillingly complex.
If you’re reading this and feeling the tug of many interests—the itch to learn, to build, to connect—remember that you don’t need to choose one thing to become a whole person. You can allow each interest to teach you something about others, about the world, and about the way your own potential unfolds. The path isn’t linear, and that’s precisely its beauty. Pursue what speaks to you with integrity, give yourself time to deepen, and for the moment when two courses you never anticipated cross paths, trust that you’re exactly where you were meant to be: in a life where love and deepspace do not compete, but co-create.
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