A Brief Introduction To World of Tanks

Somewhere beneath this mass of jumbled cables, half-eaten bags of crisps, and energy drinks lies a basketball court--not that I noticed at first glace. The baskets, once part of Russia's premier basketball club, are raised up, high and out of sight; the smell of burnt rubber and gym socks replaced with an oddly comforting mixture of freshly fried electronics, and sweaty anticipation. No, this isn't an ordinary sporting event, at least, not one that involves the sort of physical activity usually required to attract a thousand ticketed fans to a desolate, concrete slab in downtown Moscow. This is URAL Steel 2012, a gathering of the greatest tactical gaming minds from around the globe, all competing for slice of $77,000 and a shot at being the all time greatest, World of Tanks champion.

The reality of the situation is far less grand. Inside, the basketball court is filled with combatants from all over the globe, each hunkered down along banks of desks equipped with gently whirring computers and microphone-equipped headsets. The teams, seven people on each, sit largely in silence, their faces bathed in an eerie blue glow cast by the monitors placed mere inches away from their faces. Tech guys swarm under desks, tugging at lengths of cable, while referees parade the room, curiously glancing at each team before furiously scribbling away on their clipboards.

Each of the desks is emblazoned with a team name, which is scrawled onto a piece of A4 paper with thick, black marker and stuck at the head of the table. Most of the names are entirely nonsensical, or--at the very least--completely unpronounceable: Virtus.Pro ACES, RED-Z:GRA, Pqlp, New Star Team 1, The RED: Rush Unity, OM - Whitebeard. Inventive? Perhaps. But catchy? Lord no. They'll need to do better if this thing ever goes mainstream.

"The round had lasted just six minutes, but--even as a simple observer--it felt like an eternity."

The silence is broken by a roar from at the far end of the room. There, one of the Korean teams is on the verge of winning a match. Their coach, a large, surly man with a Drill Sergeant complex hovers around them, whispering pointers to some, and barking orders to others. I gaze over at a monitor to see a group of tanks taking cover behind a mountain, out of the opposition's line of sight. A solitary tank is sent out onto the battlefield, gently luring the enemy towards it. And just like that, as the unsuspecting enemy tanks creep towards the mountain, they circle, and they pounce, and they destroy.

The team leaps up in a flurry of high-fives, brisk hugs, and shattered tension. The round had lasted just six minutes, but--even as a simple observer--it felt like an eternity. That moment was as tense, as dramatic, and as exciting as I could have hoped for, and far more appealing than watching a group of bespeckled, red-eyed teenagers hunkered round a set of keyboards would suggest. And this was just a qualifying round. The real action, and indeed the true insanity wouldn't begin until the arena was filled, the spotlights were on, and two soldiers, armed with accordions and backed by a pulsing techno beat were greeted with rapturous applause.