Rock Paper Shotgun’s “Bank Holiday Mawnday Edition” is not a conventional PC release roundup. Instead of cataloguing the week’s games, the article turns the publication’s holiday absence into a playful piece of fantasy fiction, sending readers into the paper’s mythical Treehouse to “FEED THE MAW.” For anyone expecting a normal schedule of new releases, the joke is that the guardians are away—and the responsibility of keeping the hungry mystery alive has been handed to the audience.
That makes the piece worth reading as a snapshot of Rock Paper Shotgun’s editorial personality. There is no featured game, developer, publisher, release date, review score, or technical breakdown to report here. The article’s subject is the ritual itself: the familiar weekly PC games feature, temporarily disrupted by a British bank holiday and replaced with an imaginative excuse for an empty newsroom.
The Treehouse Is Empty
The setup begins with a deliberately grand journey through the Treehouse, where the reader climbs a spiral stair toward the Primrose Door. Beyond it lies a marble, gold, and glass chamber inhabited by the “Sages of Rock Paper Shotgun,” a knowingly exaggerated version of the publication’s editorial office.
The absent staff are described through a series of comic images. Ollie is missing among the books, Julian has abandoned the war table, and James is no longer working beneath the brass telescope with his enamelled spanner. Their disappearance is not treated as a crisis in the usual sense; they have simply succumbed to the siren song of Bank Holiday Monday.
A Weekly Feature Recast as Fantasy
The article’s strongest idea is its transformation of routine into mythology. A normal list of PC releases becomes a sacred duty, the newsroom becomes an enchanted chamber, and the reader becomes an unwilling visitor carrying an offering in a satchel. It is a compact example of how games journalism can be entertaining even when it is not discussing a particular game in detail.
The fantasy language also gives the piece a teasing sense of danger. The room appears deserted, but a silver mirror reveals a blurred crimson figure moving through the shelves. The threat is never explained, and that restraint is part of the joke: the reader is not invited to solve a mystery so much as comply with its bizarre rules before the creature gets closer.
Why the “Maw” Works
“FEED THE MAW” functions as both punchline and editorial handoff. With the regular writers absent, the audience is asked to imagine that the week’s new games are an offering capable of satisfying whatever lurks behind the mirror. It is a playful way to acknowledge that the publication’s usual service—pointing readers toward fresh PC releases—is temporarily unavailable.
For readers, the appeal comes from the contrast between the elaborate presentation and the simple premise. The article spends its limited space on atmosphere, characterful details, and absurd stakes rather than pretending that a holiday edition contains major news. That honesty helps the joke land: there is no fabricated announcement or forced analysis, only a theatrical explanation for why the regular feature is missing.
A Small Holiday Detour
As a piece of gaming writing, this is less a news story than a short editorial interlude. It does not offer enough information to assess the week’s PC releases, compare games, discuss performance, or summarize critical reception. Readers looking for purchasing advice will need to wait for the publication’s return.
What it does provide is a memorable bit of scene-setting and a reminder that recurring gaming coverage can develop its own traditions. The bank holiday becomes part of the fiction, the empty office becomes a stage, and the missing roundup becomes an invitation to play along. Rock Paper Shotgun promises to return properly the following day—assuming, of course, that there is still a Treehouse left to return to.
Sources
rockpapershotgun.com
