My old friend Octopus Space Invader arrived on Earth shortly after I did. Unlike me, he never really understood why humans enjoyed games. He only cared about winning.

While I spent evenings in arcades studying high-score strategies, Octopus spent his time finding ways to annoy both humans and fellow invaders.

He would stand behind players and loudly predict their mistakes.

"You're going to miss that bonus!"

Sometimes he was right, which only made him more irritating.

He disguised himself well—changing colors, growing extra hair, even pretending to be several different people in the same week—but his personality always gave him away. Wherever there was an argument about which game was best, Octopus was usually in the middle of it.

One day, in a crowded Tokyo arcade, he declared:

"The future of gaming is not skill. The future is finding ways to distract your opponents."

The other kids laughed.

I pointed out that distracting opponents wasn't the same as becoming better at a game, but Octopus insisted that anything which helped him win was a valid strategy.

Soon a group of kids gathered around us, eager to see whose ideas worked best. Some agreed with me. Others thought Octopus might have a point. Before long, everyone was challenging one another to beat high scores and prove their theories.

Despite his mischievous habits, Octopus had one undeniable talent: he was astonishingly good at games. Whether it was Space Invaders, pinball, or some strange new machine nobody had seen before, he could figure it out faster than almost anyone.

Our rivalry became a familiar sight among the kids who visited the arcade. They thought they were watching two unusually competitive friends trying to outdo each other.

In reality, they were watching a crab from a distant star system and an octopus from another galaxy competing for the highest score in Japan.

And every game ended the same way:

Everyone had fun, everyone wanted one more turn, and Octopus and I were already planning the next challenge.