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The first time I booted up a Dynasty Warriors game, I was twelve, and I still remember the crack of the controller against my palms. I swung my peasant-turned-general through a row of spearmen like a weedwhacker through sunflowers, and the sound effects made the kills feel musical. The battlefield was a stage, mud and gore replaced by fireworks—each slash was a solo, each charge a blazing encore. Fast-forward to  Dynasty Warriors: Origins , and the pyrotechnics are still burning, but now the firelight casts a shadow, and I feel its heat much closer to the skin. This time the game asks me to choose: not just which neck to snap, but which banner to kneel under, which brother to back, which future to bleed for. The story kicks off, like too many wars, with someone else’s fire: the Yellow Turban Rebellion. Instead of troops, I pick a blank slate—no name, no past, just empty arms and a pointy stick. The rebellion surges up like a bad cough, and I’m the cough drop, being ...