I'm standing on the rooftop of a multistory building in The Finals, deep within some futuristic interpretation of Las Vegas. Against an ever-depleting timer, I'm trying to reach a lockbox full of cash in the casino floor below which, all going to plan, I'll then carry across this war-torn battleground towards a vault while my team-mates provide cover.
The thing is, I've misread the mini-map, and I'm dozens of meters higher than I'm supposed to be. My comrades, battered and bruised, are posted behind cover at ground-level, throwing everything they have at the opposition's defenses in a bid to slouch closer towards our goal. I swap my over-the-shoulder RPG for a hefty sledgehammer and do what I do best: brute strength by way of white-knuckled melee blows to the asphalt beneath my feet.
