In all seriousness, I was astonished by how well Modern Warfare 2 holds up. One 7.47GB download later and I’m back in Skidrow for the first time in 12 years, legging it around dilapidated libraries and uncanny playgrounds with an UMP45 and dangerously sticky Semtex. But I had already sat there waiting for it to install, excited about Highrise cross-snipes and 1v1s on Rust, so I went to Xbox support, requested a refund (which I’m not sure if I’ll get, but hey, fingers crossed), and spent another 30 quid on the correct version. It was late at night and I’d had a couple of cans, so I soon realized that I’d actually bought Modern Warfare Remastered, which does not, in fact, include multiplayer. I cut my teeth on shooters growing up, flitting between Infection lobbies in Halo 3 and high-octane bouts of Call of Duty’s Demolition, so an invitation to return to that world of voguish quickscopes and rogue rocket-propelled grenades was enticing, to say the very least. Last night, a couple of my friends asked me if I wanted to play Modern Warfare 2’s multiplayer.
