The army, haggard and starved, stands at the gates of dev land. Behind them is the vast, empty, cold wilderness of no-information land. Armed with the weapons of speculation, the army attempts to scale the walls. However, their bodies, at the same time emaciated from the lack of information yet also bloated with speculation, are not up for the task. they fall in droves as the cannon of each refusal rains grape-shot down upon them, being ruthless in its effects. Yet these men cannot die. Forcing themselves to get up by the painful memories of buggy patches and 0/0/0 heirs, they again assemble at the gates of dev land, and prepare to do the dance again: to beg, to storm, and to fall and rise again. They are animated by the thirst for content and flavor, their unending desire sated by the release of new patches and DLC's, but the thirst soon returns, and the haggard armies assemble again. And again throughout dev land Johan assembles the cannons of delay, preparing to hold off the animated corpses that once were men until he can patch together a dev diary to fling across the walls. But the tribute is never enough. Someday, EU4 will release its last patch, and dev land will fall to the ravenous horde. For this was how it was laid out long, long, ago, in the time before time, by the Gods of Paradox.