In a move that has stunned precisely nobody, the Philippines has banned a video game linked to a recent shooting spree. Yes, because banning pixels has historically solved all of society's ills. The game in question, a first-person shooter of dubious renown, has been declared persona non grata in the archipelago nation.
Meanwhile, Britain's cyber security officials have been spotted 'assessing the risk' from behind a thicket of inscrutable acronyms and lukewarm beverages. One can almost hear the collective sigh of a nation's gaming community, followed by the inevitable scramble to download VPNs and curse the government's name. The British reaction has been predictably measured: a series of press releases so carefully worded they could pass for encrypted messages.
'We are aware of the situation and are monitoring it closely,' they said, in a statement that could be applied equally to a terrorist plot or a clogged toilet. Having covered such stories before, I can report that the actual risk to British gamers is roughly equivalent to being attacked by a rogue badger in a tea shop. But the real question remains: why are we so eager to blame the tools of violence rather than the people who wield them?
Is it because banning a game is easier than banning a feeling? The Philippines, a country with actual, real-world gun problems, has decided to strike a blow against virtual weapons. It's a bit like banning spoons because someone used one to eat too much ice cream.
Still, the cyber security experts are doing what they do best: generating reports that nobody will read, filled with jargon that could make a robot's head spin. They will 'assess' the risk, assign it a colour, and then move on to more important matters, like the colour of their new office curtains. So sit tight, dear reader, and remember: if you hear a loud bang, it's probably just the sound of common sense being shot in the foot.
