Arcade

Shall we play a game? The WOPR just asked, and the only winning move is to lag first. Arcade lives inside a neon cabinet in perspective — pink and blue tubes buzzing, pixel ghosts patrolling one screen, an eight-bit invader fleet drifting down another, red CORNOGRAPHIX glowing along the marquee. This is the bag David Lightman would've thrown after he got bored of tic-tac-toe with a supercomputer. It stares your opponent down from the foul line and politely asks if they'd like to play Global Thermonuclear Cornhole.

Flip it and the speckled grey carpet back is pure Galactica hull plating — the block side, the hold side, the toaster-tough stopper that hangs a roll on the lip while the other guy prays. Slick face for the runner, carpet face for the kill shot. So say we all.

Fifteen quarters deep and the cabinet still hasn't beaten you. Put Arcade in your hand, wait for the joystick to click, and take the high score off him. Game over, man.