I Hate Jeff Grubb

Astro Bot's Leaderboards Bring No Joy

Look, I think we can all agree on one thing: we’re smart. I’m smart, you’re smart, we’re all smart. Smart enough to get through life without ever having to really question if we are smart.

Every now and then, something may come along that gives a bump to the notion. But we can always write around that. We could’ve crushed that school exam if we’d studied, like, five more minutes. We’d totally have nailed that trivia question if we weren’t so busy living our best lives. 

See? Easy. Believable. We understand the gaps in our performance, and with a few well-placed words, we fill them, smoothing over the cracks and keeping the narrative intact.

There’s always a reason when we don’t look smart, and obviously, that reason has absolutely nothing to do with us not being smart. Obviously.

This is the lie we tell ourselves. And for the most part, it is a good lie. It is enough. It keeps us moving, keeps us feeling secure in a world that does not ask for reflection on these matters. Life is good. Everything is fine.

And then, without warning, the narrative falters. It is shaken, upended by something, or worse, by someone. In that moment, you are confronted with a truth that cannot be easily reasoned away—a truth that disarms you.

You are not as capable as you once believed. For years, you’ve coasted on a wave of quiet self-assurance, buoyed by excuses that justify every stumble. But now, those excuses feel brittle, fragile in the face of a new reality.

For me, that reckoning comes in the form of one name: Jeff Grubb.

You probably don’t know who Jeff Grubb is—and you don’t want to. Unless you’ve got some sick fetish for getting your dreams crushed by the Astro Bot speedrun leaderboards, in which case, yeah, he’s your guy.

In that world—in my world—he’s a constant. A menace. The kind of guy who sets a record just to let you know you’re wasting your life.

See, PlayStation’s hottest new 3D platformer is launching weekly levels with leaderboards designed specifically to pit your skills against friends and the world, demanding faster and faster times. Astro Bot, the character, operates with a remarkably simple moveset for this kind of game. Emulating the speediest runs, at first blush, is an uncomplicated endeavor, a mere dance of thumb and reflex.

After only a couple of tries, I found myself nestled within the top 500 players in the world. I was having fun—an elusive adult emotion.

As quickly as it had arrived, each fleeting high was punctured by the harsh reality that awaited me with every login. There, lurking above my name, was a specter of my own inadequacies, an unrelenting reminder of my place in this digital hierarchy: Jeff Grubb.

His name loomed large, an omniscient force that ascended the leaderboards with a disquieting ease, a harbinger of the apparent gulf that stretches between aspiration and fulfillment. Jeff Grubb was the embodiment of that nagging truth we all wrestle with—the realization that no matter how fervently we chase our dreams, there exists an elusive mastery, a deftness that slips through our fingers like sand and that of which we can only combat with good lies.

Every time I saw his name at the top of the charts, it felt akin to discovering that your hot ex has shacked up with some obnoxious dinkus who’s not even good-looking, but, you know, ridiculously wealthy or something.

I can’t help but think there must be some secret, some hidden advantage he has that I could replicate if only I had the time or the right equipment.

Maybe it’s his setup—a pristine gaming chair that cradles him like a lover while I sink further and further into a living room couch that was, assuredly, designed with no specific attention to dominating Astro Bot’s speedrun levels.

Perhaps it is the pressure of responsibility that grants Jeff Grubb an innate advantage, a weight that shapes him into something sharper than I could ever be.

I mean, this guy has kids, which means he’s got to squeeze in those runs between snack time and school pick-ups. While I’m over here binge-watching the immediately forgettable Agatha All Along, he’s transforming the chaos of parenting into gas for his internal gaming machine, turning every second into an opportunity to master the very level I see as a reprieve from my life of constant leisure.

And there’s the wrinkle. 

I’m doing it again. 

I stop myself. It’s a delicate dance between aspiration and acceptance. Do I have the guts to confront this head-on? To acknowledge that maybe, just maybe, I don’t have to be the best? That it’s okay to admire someone else’s talent without feeling diminished by it?

I look at Jeff Grubb, and I have to wonder exactly what I would be sacrificing if I simply confronted the idea that he is better than me at this game. 

Even typing the words is like a dagger in my side. Shame and regret spill out of me like blood.

Yet, in this contemplation lies a question: Is my identity so fragile that it would shatter upon the admission of his supremacy? If I acknowledge his greatness how deeply does it diminish my own abilities? 

No, that cannot be it.

Perhaps I need not seek to replicate Jeff Grubb’s triumphs, nor hold a mirror up to my own limitations, but instead to understand the contours of Jeff Grubb’s journey. Maybe, just maybe, Astro Bot is not part of my story but is critical to his own. 

At the time of writing, I check my PlayStation app, and it reveals to me that Jeff Grubb was online seven hours ago. It is 10 a.m. now, and I find myself pondering: was Jeff Grubb grinding out milliseconds while I was sleeping soundly at 3am like an adorable baby? Yes, of course! This isn’t a question of skill or ability; it’s a question of need.

Jeff Grubb needs these high scores as one might need air or water, or as I might need compliments on my bright, bubbly personality! His pursuit of excellence is not merely a game but a lifeline, a means of articulating his existence in a world that often feels so dark and unyielding. In that light, it would be wrong of me to deny him the triumphs he so ardently seeks. Yes, I am doing him a favor, really, by not pursuing these challenges at his level of intensity.

In this revelation, I free myself from the shackles of hating Jeff Grubb.

No, no, I don’t hate Jeff Grubb. I appreciate that he’s making his way up the leaderboards. I am happy for him.

He needs this.

I don’t.

I love you, Jeff Grubb, and you’re welcome.

Thanks for reading all that.