Why is it so hard to not feed?
Literally why is it so hard to just not fight your opponent and not give them any chance of getting a lead, why is it so hard to play passive when you're playing a lategame champion? Why are people so dense?
13 Comments
Simply put? Cause you can't.
I'm not saing that you should jump 1v1 after losing or try to trade up every single second as 0/3 but that, in this meta, it's easy to say "play passive" but it's simply not possible to do so.
Once the enemy gets even the smallest lead you are unable to touch a single minion without losing 30% hp and even sitting undertower farming may prove to be impossibile when champ like Zed can cut down half of your HP bar outside the tower range.
Getting help from jungle is impossibile at that point since it will end up with the enemy going away safe or in the WCS getting a double. Sitting undertower? 'Nother bad choise since they can pretty much towerdive you and kill you before even getting hitted once ).
LSS .... there is too much DMG in this game and not enough defensive option.
It's only game. Why you have to be mad?
To feed, or not to feed: that is the question: Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep; No more; and by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, ‘tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause: there’s the respect That makes calamity of so long life; For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely, The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay, The insolence of office and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscover’d country from whose bourn No traveler returns, puzzles the will And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pith and moment With this regard their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action.—Soft you now! The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons Be all my sins remember’d.