The first Call of Duty game was released in 2003, and at time of writing, there have been nine main instalments in the series. The first Assassin’s Creed game was released in 2007 and there have been five main instalments with a sixth one inevitably hurtling our way. The third in the series had barely been released for six months before avid anticipaton of another game began. It baffles me that this constant churning out of games from franchises is what people want, and in the following article I’m going to explain why.

In a building deep in a small French suburb, the press room was full to bursting. Hundreds of flash bulbs burst into dazzling light as I stood behind the desk, grinning a genuine and excited grin from ear to ear. ‘He’s finally here’ I thought to myself, and turned to look at my latest signing; the man who I knew would finally deliver us to the Promised Land. But Ronaldinho would not meet my gaze; indeed, throughout our discussions he would not make eye contact with me and as he stood, holding the white and blue number 44 shirt (bit of a theme for me; favourite player gets my lucky number) and smiling dutifully for the cameras, he seemed distant. I should have known then. I should have read the signs, but I didn’t want to believe. Looking back, I should have known that first press conference was the beginning of the end.

I have two strategies when playing Championship Manager; the first and most frequently used is to take a lower league club with a budget of pocket fluff and some Orbit Spearmint gum and drag them, kicking and screaming to the heights of domestic and European glory. The second, for a slightly different type of challenge, is to take over at a dominant club in a mono or duopolistic league like those in Scotland or Russia, and the task would be to make them more than the sum of their parts on the continental stage. I have had fantastic success with the likes of CSKA Moscow and Celtic previously, but the most memorable of all these games was with Olympic Lyonnais, a club to whom I return time and time again across the various game iterations. This particular story however took place in Champ Manager 2006, and is a tale of unrequited love as I chased one man across Europe. I gave him everything but it was not enough, and he left me alone in a club full of French people and one very angry Mexican.

Once again, a picture which has no relation to the article you’re reading. Enjoy it for a moment then carry on.

For those not acquainted with the great man, Ronaldinho was the most iconic footballer of his generation. He did things with a football that left Newton and Einstein quivering wrecks, the laws of physics torn asunder beneath his boots and a flurry of toothy magnificence. The first time I placed the disc into my PC, my only thought was that I would get him to sign for me and be the talismanic focal point of a dynasty of success. Not that I would start with Barcelona of course; that would be crass. Back to trusty Lyon it was, and to create a side worthy of the great man.

First signing was a 16 year old Carlos Vela from Arsenal, years before his real world potential had turned to dust. Second in the door was another 16 year old, this time a centre back by the name of Raikovic who would go on to be the bedrock of my back line for the next twenty years. For those who aren’t familiar with Champ Manager tactics, there’s no need to go all operation yewtree here; it just these players can be signed very cheaply and provide years of success. A dependable Cris (got to love Brazilian names) at the back and Fred up front, I decided that I would chance my arm for my hero. Some astute sales (Sidney Govou for £29 million to Milan – Yoink!) had left me with a healthy £50 million transfer budget, all of which I offered to Barcelona. With a Catalan shrug the response was ‘no dice Frenchy’, so I had to console myself with destroying League Un at a canter and a semi-final loss on penalties to Chelsea. The next summer I was knocked back once more, so killed time with the additions of Theo Walcott, Samir Nasri and Hatem Ben Arfa. I knew though that the real work would come at Christmas; Ronaldinho was only under contract for another year and was unhappy with the sale of Iniesta to Bayern Munich. He probably wouldn’t re-sign and I could snatch him up on huge wages.

Through autumn and winter I waited; barely noticing the dominance of my current players, most notably Carlos Vela who was tearing the league to pieces. Twenty goals by Christmas barely even caught my attention as the slow and agonising wait for January 1^st to arrive. But arrive it did, and I was straight in with an offer of £100,000 a week, Jean Michel Aulas refusing to up the wage cap for this one special case. Rejected. Back I went with the offer of a £5,000 bonus every time he scored and £5 million signing on fee, but again I was knocked back. Curse you Iniesta! What must have been the most outrageous case of tapping up since Harry Redknapp signed his son for Southampton occurred as Ronaldinho loaded his brilliance into the back of a removal van and crossed Europe to Germany to join his buddy at Bayern. I’d forgotten about my team, and neglected to sign anyone else in the transfer window. Fortunately, the 12 point cushion I’d already achieved was enough to see us through to retain the league title, with a disappointing exit in the quarter finals to Galatasaray the prompt to invest in the summer.

Stat-fest!

Following the inevitable “Nein!” in response to a £55 million offer, I turned my attentions away and picked up an unhappy Robinho from Madrid, followed by a young Vincent Kompany and the re-signing of Govou for £10 million following a disastrous time in Italy. The next three seasons brought further glory, my dominance in the French league and cup matched only by the exploits of the Lyon team in real life. This period also brought me Champions League, Super Cup and World Club Cup glories, and a loss on penalties the year after in the final against Madrid the only thing to stop me being the first to retain the Champions League.

Fast forward and it’s the January transfer window in 2012. I had waited for this moment for four years, and I wasn’t going to miss this time. Following complaints to the board I was granted special dispensation to offer £160,000 a week, £10,000 per goal, £6 million up front and £2,500 per assist. Music played and people sang as the ink dried on the contract, and I took a six month holiday from the game until the summer when finally, after six years, Ronaldinho came home to France.

First game up is the now traditional friendly against Chelmsford FC. 24 minutes in, and Ronaldinho is carried off on a stretcher. I fast forward the game to see what the damage is, and I find that the irony fairy has been to visit, and he’s been carted off to hospital carrying his cruciate ligaments in a bucket. A conservative estimate is 18 months out, and I’m forced to watch a season and a half drag by with his name sitting on my team sheet; unavailable for selection. So distracted was I by that red INJ button, a polyp on the face of my team, that I barely noticed the little green UNH next to Carlos Vela’s ever increasingly goal laden name.

Eventually Ronaldinho returns to training and, after an eternity, full match fitness. I had not won anything the previous season and I was trailing a rejuvenated Marseille side by 6 points in February, but I was sure everything would be better now. His first seven games produced six scores of 5 and one of 4, but I dared not criticise; he’d come good, I knew it. The next game we trailed to Bastia, Ronaldinho continuing his new found hobby of throwing banjo’s wildly into the field next to the barn he was aiming at when once again, he was taken off on a stretcher, this time with his leg having acquired an additional knee. Three days passed and I received an email; in light of his most recent injury, Ronaldinho has decided to call time on his career and retire at the end of the season. Oh thanks! You’ve decided that you’ll let me continue to pay you until the end of the season have you! How bloody considerate! In temper, I click through my emails. I suddenly realise that I may have clicked something important, and look back to see what the damage was. Sure enough, Carlos Vela, unhappy with his contract and the feeling of favouritism to other players, had handed in a transfer request and like a chump I had accepted. No amount of throwing money at the problem fixed it and, having had his £35 million release clause met, I lost the man who I had pinned my dreams on and the man who had given me 30 goals a season for the past 4 years in a miserable summer to forget.

This signalled the end of my time with Lyon, and my love for Ronaldinho. He never played for one of my teams again, but I chose in future to build my teams around Carlos Vela; good dependable Carlos, I’m sorry I treated you so badly, please let’s not fight any more.