Strafe wants you to go fast. I felt it pushing me to blaze through its levels as quickly as I used to race through the original Quake in 1996, and I’d love nothing more than to oblige. And yet here I am, three stages in, carefully and methodically picking off charging Gluttons and waist-high robots who aim annoyingly well. I know now that death in Strafe comes far more easily than it ever did in id’s landmark first-person shooter, and this is the first time in hours I’ve made it so far without taking much damage. I’m feeling good. And that’s why I howl in rage when I take an elevator down and get instantly slaughtered by swarms of enemies from both behind and in front when I arrive at the bottom. I had no chance. Game over. Back to the beginning.