I have spent 600 hours of my life since October creating a fantasy world where Manchester United bagging a Ukrainian midfielder who doesn’t exist is incredibly agonising to me. There is a Portuguese regen – a computer-generated player – to whom I am almost paternally attached because of the ease with which he converted from lively winger to consistent goal-involvement striker over the course of two seasons (I am Papa Wenger, he is Henry). There is a Premier League centre-back I am convinced is due a real-life rally because I have seen a glimpse of how, statistically, he is going to play in five or six years. Over the course of every game load, I am developing a small vision of the future unique to me. This, of course, is why I love it – and will plough hundreds of hours into the game every year. It is less a game and more a part-time job that causes you more anguish than you ever thought possible. The matches you oversee are essentially two spreadsheets fighting. There is a button after every match that gives you the option to throw a water bottle.Īll of this happens in a bruise-purple matrix of words and numbers.
You get to do things such as answer emails and renegotiate the annual contract of your under-18s coach.
A few weeks ago, on a low-rumbling hangover that never threatened to push me into the abyss, something very interesting happened to me (and about 16 other people): I started rigorously documenting my Football Manager experience online.įor those not versed in Football Manager, it is a video game in which you, well, assume the role of a football manager and attempt, very slowly and carefully, to guide the club of your choice to glory.
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