The update notes were clinical, of course: "stability improvements," "minor fixes," the euphemisms developers use to hide the human hand. But beneath the terse list lay the living furniture of play: the tiny audio cue that made a player grin, the micro-adjustment that stripped a favored trickshot of its certainty. Each tweak opened a conversation about impermanence. How much of our comfort is built on invisible balances, on physics and timing coded by others? How quickly do rituals ossify, only to be rearranged by a download?