Doom II can break all cultural barriers. My host worked for a Western accounting firm, one of the advance shock troops of capitalism, discretely camouflaged in a non—descript building just inside the ring road. I droped by the office, pushing past the security guards and the somber man, dressed like he came from an ex—KGB agent casting call, who lurked in the first floor lobby.
Once upstairs, I finally made it down to the closet-like office, only to find my host engaged in a steady flow of paperwork. So I sat down at the computer and fiddled, waiting for work to end, and wishing I could speak the local lingo. I was introduced to his office-mates, but was linguistically helpless, unable to converse with the Russian workers. Until we began to play Doom...
It seemed that as soon as quiting time rolled around the office, the computer screen would filter over to network Doom. And while we couldn't discuss the weather or the latest Yeltsin drinking scandal, the international language of a simple shoot-em-up game broke down the barriers of language and culture.
They kicked my ass, of course.
