The beginning of an A paper.
BE JEALOUS.
Every time I walk into an arcade that has been equipped with a Dance Dance Revolution© contraption, there usually is a large crowd surrounding a sweat-drenched individual moving his or her legs around at warp speed, as if he or she were dodging landmines. Sure enough, as I sat down in the food court right next to the Penny Arcade, there he was, doing a breakneck jig in his own little world, with a cafeteria full of his wide-eyed audience. How did he know where to step? I only could see a horde of chaotic arrows moving up the screen in random places. The game intrigued me as much as it confused me. Little did I know, I soon would be given the opportunity to learn the “art” of Dance Dance Revolution©, commonly known as DDR.
For my seventeenth birthday, my father gave me what I would later discover to be one of the best birthday gifts I ever would receive. There was a strange girl in disco shoes on the CD case and it said “DDRMAX Dance Dance Revolution” in bold letters. The game was rated “E” for everyone. Accordingly, when I laid the enlarged flat Playstation© controller, known as a dance pad (pictured on the right), on the floor and turned the game on, I could definitely tell that this was not the game for me. I had no idea where to step, when to step or how long to step. Distracting colors and messages kept flashing in the background and I everything turned into a blurry mess.
Every time I walk into an arcade that has been equipped with a Dance Dance Revolution© contraption, there usually is a large crowd surrounding a sweat-drenched individual moving his or her legs around at warp speed, as if he or she were dodging landmines. Sure enough, as I sat down in the food court right next to the Penny Arcade, there he was, doing a breakneck jig in his own little world, with a cafeteria full of his wide-eyed audience. How did he know where to step? I only could see a horde of chaotic arrows moving up the screen in random places. The game intrigued me as much as it confused me. Little did I know, I soon would be given the opportunity to learn the “art” of Dance Dance Revolution©, commonly known as DDR.
For my seventeenth birthday, my father gave me what I would later discover to be one of the best birthday gifts I ever would receive. There was a strange girl in disco shoes on the CD case and it said “DDRMAX Dance Dance Revolution” in bold letters. The game was rated “E” for everyone. Accordingly, when I laid the enlarged flat Playstation© controller, known as a dance pad (pictured on the right), on the floor and turned the game on, I could definitely tell that this was not the game for me. I had no idea where to step, when to step or how long to step. Distracting colors and messages kept flashing in the background and I everything turned into a blurry mess.