I love the Fallout game series, almost as much as I love myself. See, my obsession with the apocalypse chiefly stems from the belief that whatever monumental disaster wipes out the rest of humanity will obviously leave me wholly intact. Because I'm me, and you can't spell 'awesome' without 'M-E.' To increase immersion, New Vegas introduces a 'hardcore' mode that adds a bevy of more realistic features to the game: You need to eat, stay hydrated, and get enough sleep to stay alive, there are more lasting consequences to injury, and your companions can die permanent deaths in battle. And this has finally allowed me to combine my two greatest loves - myself and the death of humanity - like never before: I started one of these 'realistic' games, and vowed to play it as if it were really me in there. My traits, my habits, my morals.
Along the way, I learned some things. Horrible, scarring things that I wish I could now deny. People Magazines and cat corpses, is the amount of physical effort involved. Hoarding is just too much work in real life, and to be honest, I'm simply not organized enough. My virtual self, of course, is untroubled by the hellish tribulations of lifting and moving things with his arms, and so I've learned that, when there are no physical requirements to collecting garbage, I will instantly transform into an eighty year old widow whose family doesn't visit so much anymore. In New Vegas my character refuses to throw literally anything away on the off-chance that, somewhere down the line, I might discover a secret formula that lets me combine a coffee pot, two boxes of macaroni and cheese, and a pound of gunpowder into the world's deadliest superweapon.