The Walking Dead: Starved for Help Made Me Hate Myself

I have a very large body count on my hands.

I’m 38 years old. I’ve been gaming since my days as a lanky, shy kid at P.S. 244 elementary school mutant, and creature of the night in those 20+ years, but their deaths meant nothing to me. My victims were a collection of exploding pixels and bleeding polygons that eventually faded from view. Notches on the belt, really. Achievements waiting to happen.

Then I played The Walking Dead: Episode II – Starved for Help.

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