Think about the last time you lost at a game. What was the process of thought that led to your loss? Now, replicate that moment in the dramatic structure of the story, except the story isn’t about games.
Casual games (especially those available on smartphones/tablets) often employ randomization. The ability to successfully complete a level may be set up to depend on the player giving in and buying one of the micro-transaction items that’s available to make winning easier. If one doesn’t, finishing the level is dependent on blind luck, and may be impossible without giving up and doing something else for a while until one has enough in-game currency to buy whatever item they’re trying to get you to purchase.
For example, in a particular level of Plants Vs. Zombies 2, the boomerang trees need something to block zombies so that they have enough time to fire enough boomerangs to finish them off. The Bonk Choy are more capable, but still need a little delay for some of the tougher zombies. The zombies carried by birds aren’t held up by the Spikeweed, so they wind up chewing through the randomly available defense units - unless one has enough money to buy butter pats to take them down, at 300 coins per shot…
Lachlan tossed and turned in his bunk, not sleeping at all. He kept running through that morning’s encounter, trying to figure a way in which it could have gone better. Having it go worse was easy enough to imagine - punching Pemberton in the nose would have been briefly gratifying, but that was assault and would have led to arrest and scandal. What he couldn’t figure was why Pemberton (and by extension, the rest of Miss Stewart’s household) was so dead-set on keeping the two of them from being friends. They’d gone through the whole ridiculous spy novel charade of passing carved animals back and forth just to maintain some connection, and now even that was gone.
When the obvious truth finally broke in Lachlan’s brain, he sat up suddenly enough that he smacked his forehead into the bunk above him. They’d both been thinking like children, when it came right down to it - not just the toys, or the playing at spycraft in the marketplace, but the whole situation between them. And if there was one thing a daughter of old money had to be aware of, it was her future beyond childhood.
And her household was making sure that Lachlan was not to have a place in that future. It wasn’t about his family’s wealth, or his working on a ship, or his personality - it was about him knowing his place. MIss Stewart would be presented to society soon, and while it was perfectly acceptable for her to dance with a junior officer or three at balls, service on a commercial ship didn’t carry the same social status that a commission did. The answer had been staring him in the face this whole time - and it all came down to the very thing they’d both decided didn’t matter - Class. She had it, he didn’t, and that was all there was to it. He’d never win over Pemberton, or finagle an invitation to one of their balls, or be allowed to approach her in public as anything more than a tradesman - certainly not as a friend.
Because they were worried about him becoming more than a friend.
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