So I've been chronicling the stories of my ventures into various games over at my blog, and I realize that there are probably a lot of others who have great stories as well. I personally love games like STALKER, Far Cry 2, and Minecraft for the ridiculous emergent narratives they create.

Anyway, I figure we all have videogame war stories, so why not share them here?
Here's one I wrote up a while ago, from my time playing STALKER:

The hours have not been kind.
My clothes have worn down, my weapons need replacing. Iíve managed to hoard twenty or so grenades by picking them off the dead. I donít think this rifle will hold out for me much longer. Iíve been wandering along this hillside, trying to find a way to the helicopter crash site; no luck. I do find a condemned building, some kind of dam control maybe.
Footsteps. A platoon of men. Bandits, I think. Eight, ten, maybe. A deal is going on. There are weapons. Motivation enough.
I creep out of sight, near the foot of the small hill. My gun is warm in the sunset.
My rifle is jamming. Bullets are low. I take potshots with my pistol, near broken as well. Iím doing what I can to keep them away. Grenades make distance between us, and I add some shotgun shells to the mix in desperation. Itís obvious theyíve some high grade scoped and silenced weapons. Dark is approaching quickly. I can only shoot with my flashlight on, but itís only making it easier for them. Iíll head around the pond welling up in the dam.
Lights off, head for the grates: theyíll make good cover.
I find a ladder inside, and ascend. It leads me right into the building, behind them. One of the them is standing guard, looking in the wrong direction. I take him out with a quick knife swipe and pick off his ammo. Another outside, on the stairs. Heís dead, and I retreat back inside to the pitch black.
I find a few documents and artifacts, but Iíll leave them until Iíve dealt with this. Iím spotted. I quickly empty shells into the offender and head downstairs. I hold my breath behind a support beam as the rest of the crew approach from outside. I take a swig of vodka and bandage my wounds.
I shine my flashlight in their faces and my shotgun catches them unaware. Iím at lethal distance, and so are they. Their bullets tear the armor right off my body, and I duck again behind the beam to hastily perform some first aid. Only a few left.
Grenades. Shells. Pistol. Bloodóbandages.
Theyíre dead. I loot the remains and pick up the documents.
These are heavy guns, worth a good price. Iím not wasting them, but its too much to carry.
I drop my armor. Itís nothing more than a rag now, anyway. Its pitch black out there, and itís started to rain.
I walk back in the rain. The rain is cold on my bandages. The barrel of my gun is still hot.