Echoes of a Green Glow — Saying Good-Bye to the Xbox
- Nathaniel Hope
- Nov 4
- 20 min read
There was a time when Xbox meant belonging. It wasn’t about specs or subscriptions or profit margins — it was about presence.
It was about my Ghostbusters-suited avatar holding an Alan Wake book. About Halo 3 nights on a 32" 720p LCD, friends shouting over headsets as the room filled with laughter and static. About firing up Xbox Live Arcade and stumbling across something unexpected and brilliant like Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: Turtles in Time Re-Shelled, Mega Man 9, or The Simpsons Arcade. It wasn’t just a console; it was a home for discovery and connection. That’s the Xbox I wrote about last year — the one that felt alive, human, and inviting. The one that made gaming feel communal instead of competitive. The 360 era felt like a revolution in connection and convenience: Netflix streaming before “streaming wars” was even a phrase, the dashboard that felt like mine because I made it mine. But while that essay began as a celebration of an incredible era to grow up in, it slowly unraveled into something else — the confusion and frustration that I, and many others, still carry for a brand we used to love.
The spell broke with the reveal of the Xbox One. When Microsoft leaned on TV-first marketing and restrictive DRM policies, it felt like they’d forgotten who they were talking to. It was the first time I remember feeling distrusted by a console maker. Like many others, I drifted to PlayStation for the games and stayed for the consistency. But even as I moved on, I kept a hopeful eye on Xbox — because somewhere beneath the corporate armor, I still remembered what the brand used to sound like when it talked to us. This year, though, it’s hard to recognize that voice at all. Xbox feels emptier than it’s ever been. In just a year, the mood around the brand has shifted from cautious optimism to something closer to mourning.
The headlines say it all: profit mandates, mass layoffs, price hikes, and a leadership team that sounds increasingly detached from the culture they once helped shape. According to Bloomberg and The Verge, Microsoft CFO Amy Hood demanded that the Xbox division hit 30% profit margins starting in late 2023 — a target analysts say is far beyond the industry’s typical 17–22%. Xbox had hovered around 12% in 2022, and the only realistic way to reach that new benchmark was through cuts: slashing costs, raising prices, canceling projects, and dismantling teams. All of that just to chase an arbitrary number on a spreadsheet. Thousands of employees were let go. Studios were gutted. Creative momentum was sacrificed. And on paper, it “worked.” Operating income jumped 34%. In reality, it feels like the brand is bleeding out just to keep investors happy.
That seems to be the recurring theme in every new headline — keeping the investors happy. It’s something I don’t completely understand. Sure, you want the people funding your projects to see a return. But what’s the trade-off here? The people who make the games? The players who keep believing? The brand that once stood for passion now reduced to damage control? I’ve spent most of my life studying games and over a decade selling just about everything else. And no matter the store — electronics, movies, or management — the question never changed: What makes us different? Why do people come back? Of course, there were quotas, budgets, and corporate mandates to hit. Numbers mattered — they always do. But the thing that kept people coming back wasn’t the metrics. It was the experience.
If you build something memorable, something joyful, something that makes people feel seen and valued, they don’t just buy — they belong. That was Xbox once. They gave us something the competition didn’t: games that felt special, an ecosystem that felt alive, a community that felt like home. That’s what built loyalty. That’s what made the brand more than plastic and silicon. When you have that, the numbers take care of themselves — because satisfied players don’t walk away. Satisfied studios don’t collapse. Satisfied communities grow. But somewhere along the line, spreadsheets became more important than stories. Quarterly wins mattered more than long-term identity. And when you start chasing profit instead of purpose, everything fragile begins to break — trust, creativity, morale, and yes, the bond with the very people who once championed you. Do these investors even understand what they’re investing in? If you rush a game out the door just to squeeze out faster returns, only to watch it launch broken, trend for the wrong reasons, and bleed player goodwill… sure, you may pad a quarterly report. But you scorch a legacy to do it. Short-term profit. Long-term rot.
Eventually, everyone loses — the developers, the players, the brand, and yes, even the investors. Because once your audience realizes you see them as metrics instead of humans, they stop showing up. When the place you used to call home stops feeling like home, you don’t stay — you leave.
A company can survive losing money. It can’t survive losing meaning. And that’s exactly what started happening. Instead of rebuilding trust, Microsoft doubled down — not by listening, but by buying. It didn’t just expand; it consumed. They bought up — or, really, gobbled up — nearly every major gaming studio they could find, only to release rushed and broken games at premium prices: Redfall launched in shambles (Phil Spencer even took “full responsibility”), Forza Motorsport arrived with a laundry list of known issues, and CrossfireX was so troubled it was pulled from sale and shut down barely a year after release. Even Halo Infinite — the franchise that once defined entire console generations — showed cracks. Not broken, but unfinished. Not legendary, but “we’ll update it soon.” When your flagship hero becomes a meme named Craig and your fanbase becomes your QA team, it’s not a creative direction — it’s a cry for help wrapped in nostalgia.
Then came the layoffs: thousands of employees gone, tons of studios shuttered, countless franchises left in limbo. But it didn’t stop there. They raised console prices, hiked Game Pass subscriptions, and somehow still boasted about “the next generation of Xbox.” What’s worse is how much was promised — and how much was quietly buried.
Just when it seemed like Xbox was finally regaining a little bit of trust after last year’s layoffs, came the shock that so many of their most promising games — the ones with trailers, gameplay showcases, and years of hype — were suddenly gone. The Perfect Dark reboot from Crystal Dynamics. Everwild from Rare. Contraband from Avalanche Studios. Project Blackbird from ZeniMax Online Studios. Years of development. Years of anticipation. Canceled. It’s one thing to balance a spreadsheet to please investors — but it’s another to pull the rug out from under the very teams who were building the worlds that remind us why we play.
To show players glimpses of the future, only to erase them without warning, these weren’t just cancellations. They were quiet funerals for creativity. And the biggest question I have now is: with so much talent gone, so many studios closed, and so many dreams buried under the weight of short-term profit — what does Xbox even have left?
Optimization Over Inspiration
I’ve been thinking a lot about that question. And the more I sit with it, the more I realize it’s not that Xbox forgot how to make great games. It’s that somewhere along the way, it forgot why it made them.
The brand that once told us to “jump in” started talking like a boardroom. Every choice, every headline, every delay started sounding like it came from a spreadsheet instead of a studio. I get it — the industry’s changed. Games are expensive, expectations are massive, and investors want predictable returns. But creativity doesn’t live on a quarterly report. You can’t budget wonder. And that’s really the heart of it. Xbox didn’t stumble because it stopped innovating — it stumbled because it started optimizing. It traded its spark for strategy decks. And nowhere does that disconnect show more than in how Xbox leadership talks about its own identity today. In a recent IGN interview, Xbox President Sarah Bond called the idea of exclusives “antiquated,” saying players have “evolved past” platform-defining experiences.
Maybe she believes that from a business standpoint — but history proves otherwise. Exclusivity didn't hold Xbox back; it built Xbox. It still fuels Nintendo. It still defines PlayStation. Calling it “antiquated” isn’t insight — it’s amnesia. Seriously, look at Nintendo. They’ve been doing the so-called “antiquated” thing for decades — and they’re thriving because of it.
Mario, Zelda, Animal Crossing, Smash Bros., Metroid — these aren’t just games, they’re identity. The same goes for PlayStation. Most of their biggest hits eventually find their way to PC, sure, but they start on PlayStation. They give players a home base, a sense of place. And maybe this is just me speculating, but cross-platform gaming isn’t the death of exclusivity either. It’s the evolution of it. It’s proof that you can still have your own identity while inviting others in. Not every game needs to be everywhere. Fortnite and Call of Duty thrive on cross-play, but Zelda doesn’t need it. Spider-Man doesn’t need it. They stand on their own because they mean something where they are. That’s what Xbox used to understand. Exclusivity, at its best, isn’t about locking players out — it’s about giving them something worth showing up for. It’s how you build legacy. It’s how you create shared memories.
It’s how Xbox built its legacy — with Halo. Gears. Fable. Forza. Lost Odyssey. Blue Dragon. Those weren’t just titles; they were touchstones. They made Xbox matter. They gave the platform an identity — a heartbeat. These games gave people pride in the brand. They made you feel like part of something bigger. To say exclusivity no longer matters feels like waving a white flag, not just to Sony or Nintendo, but to Xbox’s very sense of self. What makes Bond’s statement even more confusing is how counterintuitive it feels. Xbox still has exclusives — even if it doesn’t talk about them the way it used to.
Fable II and Fable III remain locked to the platform. Halo 5: Guardians never left the Xbox One (and yes, it’s still missing from The Master Chief Collection). Forza Horizon 5 may be playable on PC and through the cloud, but it’s still seen as a core Xbox experience — one of the best racing games of its generation, and one that carries the brand’s DNA. Even Sea of Thieves, which only recently sailed to PlayStation after seven years, was long considered a defining Xbox adventure. These games proved that Xbox could still create worlds worth owning a console for — experiences that made players proud to belong to the ecosystem. So when leadership suddenly starts implying that exclusives no longer matter, it sends a mixed message: if even you don’t see value in your own identity, why should anyone else?
Selling the Past as the Future
And maybe that’s the most painful part — it’s not just that Xbox has forgotten who it is, it’s that it keeps selling us fragments of what it used to stand for. Like watching someone pawn off family heirlooms to keep the lights on, you can feel the identity slipping away piece by piece — not in dramatic explosions, but in quiet concessions. You see it in the way its once-exclusive worlds now drift to other platforms. Pentiment and Grounded found new homes on Switch and PlayStation. Hi-Fi Rush — one of the brightest, most joyous surprises Xbox has published in years — launched in January 2023 and earned widespread acclaim. When it arrived on PlayStation in March 2024, it should have been a victory lap, a moment of pride for the brand.
Instead, it became a farewell.
Just two months later, in May 2024, Microsoft announced it was shutting down Tango Gameworks — the studio that made Hi-Fi Rush possible. By June, a team that delivered a hit, won awards, and reminded us what Xbox creativity could look like… was gone. No celebration. No future. Just a quiet press release and a locked door. The moment stung even more when, in response to an Xbox executive telling studios to “make more award-winning games,” a former Tango developer posted Hi-Fi Rush’s trophies with a single caption: “Not enough?” Because apparently five industry awards still didn’t count. That wasn’t multiplatform expansion — it was a send-off dressed as strategy. It didn’t feel like a company sharing its success. It felt like a company cashing out its soul. Once, studios were Xbox’s heartbeat. Now they feel like inventory — something to acquire, extract from, and quietly erase. And those were the small tragedies — the losses quiet enough that most people never even noticed.
Now the ripple has reached the heavyweights.
For the first time ever, Gears of War — the series that helped define Xbox — has landed on a rival console. Gears of War: Reloaded is now on PS5 and PC with full cross-play across all platforms — something I never thought I’d ever see. And as surprising as it is to witness such an iconic Xbox franchise arrive on PlayStation, it raises a bigger question — why? What’s the goal here? If this were about reaching new audiences, Gears of War would’ve made that leap years ago. But it didn’t. Gears was one of the cornerstones of the Xbox identity — gritty, cinematic, built on camaraderie and competition. It was Xbox’s answer to Halo, proof that their ecosystem could deliver its own brand of blockbuster storytelling.
So why now? Why take one of your flagship franchises — one that already had a definitive remaster with Gears of War: Ultimate Edition — and remake it again, only to send it out the door to rival platforms like the Sony Playstation? What does that accomplish? If it’s about profit, that feels short-sighted. If it’s about visibility, Xbox already has that. It starts to feel less like a strategic move and more like a surrender — like the brand no longer believes its own ecosystem is enough. Because when your exclusives start showing up everywhere else, you stop being a destination and start being a distributor.
But this next one changes everything
Halo isn’t just another series — it’s the series. The cornerstone. The crown jewel. The beating heart of Xbox’s entire identity. And now, for the first time in history, it’s crossing over. Microsoft has announced a full remake of the original Halo: Combat Evolved — rebuilt from the ground up in Unreal Engine 5 and launching on PlayStation 5.
Let this really sink in...
Halo — the game that defined a console generation, that sold millions of systems, that built Xbox Live, that carried the brand for over twenty years — is now sharing space with its oldest rival. Even GameStop called it “the end of the console wars.”
And yes, I will admit, the game looks stunning. Unreal Engine 5 is a technical marvel — the lighting, the reflections, even the water looks absurdly good. Chef’s kiss. But beyond the visual spectacle, beyond the shiny new coat of paint on a 25-year-old game, there’s something surreal about this moment. Because Halo was to Xbox what Mario is to Nintendo — a symbol, a promise, a shared memory. Seeing it appear on another platform isn’t just a release. It’s a cultural shift. A closing chapter. A white-flag moment. It's bittersweet. It's sad. And yeah — I’m not gonna lie. I'm very emotional about it. Am I going to try the new game? Probably. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t the least bit curious. But even with all that curiosity... I can’t shake the bigger question: Why are we doing this again?
343 Industries already remade Halo: Combat Evolved Anniversary in 2011, and then we got Halo: The Master Chief Collection in 2014 — the definitive, beautifully restored Halo saga, later expanded and brought to PC. It has been modernized, preserved, celebrated. We have honored this legacy already. And yet here we are again, going back to the beginning. Because Halo Infinite — the game that was supposed to be the fresh start, the bold new chapter, the living, evolving future of Halo — stumbled. Not just in performance or polish, but in direction. It arrived missing core features, launched into a live-service structure it couldn’t sustain, and spent more time catching up than leading. It wasn’t a failure because Halo is dead — it was a failure because Halo was forced to chase trends instead of being allowed to define them, the way it once did.
So now the franchise is circling back to its birth, not as a celebration, but as a retreat. A reset button dressed as nostalgia. A surrender wrapped in a remake. When a universe that once pointed forward suddenly points back, it doesn’t feel like confidence — it feels like uncertainty wearing armor. So I don’t ask “Why remake Halo again?” because I don’t love Halo. I ask because I do. Other than minor quality bumps or recycled nostalgia, what’s really new? If these “new” versions of old games don’t bring fresh content or that creative spark, then all they’re doing is charging players a premium for memories they already own. And watching Halo return to its starting point doesn’t feel like legacy. It feels like a brand looking backward because it no longer knows how to go forward.
And maybe that’s the most telling sign of where Xbox stands now — a company once built on imagination, now circling the drain of iteration. You can’t repackage history and call it progress. But with so many studios closed and so much talent gone, maybe remakes and re-releases are all Xbox can do. It feels less like a plan and more like a bandage over a wound that needs surgery. I think that’s why people keep talking about Xbox lately — why the criticism feels so personal. It’s not born out of hate; it’s grief. Xbox used to represent the spark that competition brings — the push that made everyone better. Now it feels like watching a star collapse — not because it burned out, but because it forgot why it shined in the first place. And yeah, maybe that sounds melodramatic. But when you’ve lived through as many console generations as I have, you start to recognize the difference between growing pains and soul erosion.
Analysts still point to Xbox’s “strengths” — 13% revenue growth here, “bright future ahead” soundbites there. On paper, sure, Xbox has Game Pass, cloud tech, and powerful hardware. But peel back the numbers and the cracks aren’t hard to see. Game Pass Ultimate jumped from $19.99 to $29.99 a month in October 2025 — a 50% price hike. PC Game Pass climbed from $11.99 to $16.49. And it’s not just the cost; even developers are sounding alarms. Arkane founder Raphaël Colantonio has called Game Pass “unsustainable” and “damaging the industry.”
And then there’s the hardware
Let’s start with the present. The same Xbox Series systems that launched in November 2020 — the same consoles sitting on shelves for years — quietly got more expensive. Five years into their life cycle, and the cost to buy an Xbox actually went up. The Series X climbed from $499 to around $599, and in some regions crept toward $649. The Series S rose as well. By this stage in a console generation, we’re used to seeing price cuts, slimmer revisions, maybe a quiet hardware refresh — not price hikes on systems pushing five years old. But instead of rewarding loyalty or respecting time, Xbox raised the cost of aging hardware — and several times over. Microsoft said the increases were due to “changes in the macroeconomic environment,” citing tariff pressures and supply-chain disruptions. And yet: when you hike prices more than once in a single year, the tariff excuse starts to stretch thin. Former industry insiders have bluntly called it “not a tariff issue, but a profit issue.” You don’t increase the price of five-year-old hardware because you’re winning. You do it because you’re cornered — hoping momentum can be faked on a spreadsheet even if it can’t be felt in the player’s hands.
At this point, you’d expect the focus to shift inward — regroup, rebuild, rediscover what made Xbox feel like Xbox. Instead, the company did something else entirely. In a move almost no one predicted, they stepped into the handheld space — not with a bold, first-party device, but with someone else’s machine wearing Xbox colors like a borrowed uniform.
This year, Microsoft unveiled the ROG Ally Xbox Edition — a $999 portable gaming device wearing Xbox branding. Except Xbox didn’t build it. Asus did. It’s the same ROG Ally with a different badge, a green sticker on someone else’s engineering. On its own, that isn’t alarming — partnerships happen. But Xbox leadership pointed to this handheld as a preview of their future, their “premium next-gen path.” That’s not a hardware roadmap — that’s identity on lease.
And here’s the kicker: even if you ignore the branding question, the value still doesn’t make sense. The ROG Ally — both the Xbox Edition and the standard model — costs significantly more than a Steam Deck, a device that not only does everything the Ally can do, but also has seamless support for Xbox Remote Play, Game Pass cloud streaming, emulation, and a thriving ecosystem… without pretending to be an Xbox. You’re paying more for an Asus machine so Xbox can pretend it’s theirs. Meanwhile, Valve is out here actually innovating, iterating, supporting developers, and building hardware that respects players and budget. One handheld feels like the future. The other feels like licensing paperwork taped to a GPU.
If this is truly a preview of their future — their “premium next-gen path” — then the next “Xbox” won’t be a console at all. It’ll be a Windows gaming device built by whoever signs the contract: Asus, Dell, HP, whoever’s willing to paint it green and call it legacy. And if that’s the destination, then what are we even looking at anymore? A console? Or a brand licensing deal wearing a controller logo? Vision isn’t something you outsource. You can’t white-label a soul. If the plan is to turn Xbox into a logo slapped on third-party hardware like it’s Razer merch or a limited-edition laptop, that isn’t evolution — it’s dissolution masquerading as innovation.
Gaming in The Cloud
We’ve covered a lot, but there’s still one card Xbox keeps waving like it’s the ace that will change everything — cloud gaming. It’s one of Xbox’s core pillars now, their great “play anywhere” promise. Phone. TV. Tablet. PC. Handheld. “Your games, everywhere.”
And on paper? Sure — it’s a cool idea. I’ve tested it. It works. It’s neat to fire up a game on your phone or smart TV with nothing but a controller and Wi-Fi. But when you pull back the marketing gloss, it stops looking like the future — and starts looking like déjà vu with a faster connection and a pricier subscription. Xbox talks like it discovered this frontier. But Sony was streaming games back in 2014 with PlayStation Now.
I literally played Uncharted: Drake’s Fortune — a PS3 game — streamed to my PS4. And just when I thought it couldn't get any cooler, I also streamed it to my PlayStation Vita years before “mobile cloud gaming” became a buzzword. Besides Sony, Nintendo streams select cloud-versions of games on The Switch. NVIDIA lets me pair a controller to my LG OLED and stream PC games right from my TV with Geforce NOW. My Steam Deck? I can stream my Xbox, my PS5, or my entire PC library from it without fanfare or speeches about “redefining the future.” I don't mean to sound cynical here. But as you can see, cloud gaming isn’t a frontier anymore — it’s a feature. And Xbox isn’t leading it — they’re holding up a well-used map like they drew it.
It’s like that meme — the guy on the podium spraying champagne, biting the medal, celebrating like he just took first place…but the plaque says third. That’s Xbox right now: Proclaiming tomorrow while struggling to hold onto today. And if there was ever a moment that showed this disconnect, it was the “This is an Xbox” campaign. Trying to convince us a Samsung TV is an Xbox, a handheld PC is an Xbox, your phone is an Xbox — the messaging was loud, blunt, and strangely insecure. It didn’t feel confident. It felt like a brand trying to remind you it exists by pasting its logo onto anything with a screen. Yes — the idea of playing anywhere is cool. Yes — accessibility matters. But technology alone isn’t identity. Right now, Xbox is chasing ubiquity instead of uniqueness. And being everywhere doesn’t matter if being everywhere feels the same as being nowhere.
So after all of that… what’s left?
We’ve walked through the acquisitions, the cancellations, the layoffs, the price hikes, the remakes, the cloud promises, the handheld branding exercises — all roads pointing to the same truth. And now we land on the final pillar Xbox keeps leaning on:
Power. Teraflops. The world's most powerful console.
Xbox has been chasing raw horsepower for as long as I can remember. And maybe, on paper, they’ve held that crown at times. But here’s the thing: Power means nothing if there’s nothing meaningful to use it for. Bragging rights don’t build worlds. Specs don’t build identity. Teraflops don’t build memories. History already wrote this chapter — loud and clear. Plenty of systems have boasted muscle, only to fade because muscle alone isn’t magic. You can engineer a tank, but if no one wants to drive it, it’s just steel and horsepower gathering dust. Take a look at some of these powerhouses here:
The Jaguar roared about “64-bit power” into the void.
The 3DO stood tall and collapsed under its own price.
The PS3 found a soul only years after launch.
The Vita was a masterpiece left to starve.
The Xbox One X was all muscle, no momentum. Underneath the power, cracks formed.
Some consoles collapsed under their own weight — crushed by ambition without direction. Others chased specs instead of soul — delivering horsepower no one asked for and no games that justified the engine under the hood. A throne means nothing without a kingdom to rule. And history shows the other side of this as well. When vision leads, power follows. The systems we remember most weren’t always the strongest — they were the ones that made us feel something. Here are some great examples:
The NES didn’t dominate because it was mighty —it dominated because it reignited wonder.
The PlayStation wasn’t just a machine —it was a doorway to worlds we had never seen before.
The Nintendo DS didn’t win because of specs —it conquered with curiosity, joy, and touch-screen magic that made the whole world pick it up.
The Wii didn’t chase raw performance —it chased joy, and joy answered.
The Switch never tried to be the fastest —it simply let us take our stories anywhere.
None of these systems were the most powerful on paper. They became the most powerful in memory. Because gamers don’t fall in love with teraflops. They fall in love with worlds, with moments, with the feeling that games — and the people who make them — still believe in magic.
It's time for me to say good-bye
I used to hold onto hope — that Xbox would eventually rediscover its soul, its sense of identity, that pulse of creativity that once made gaming feel alive. For years I waited, believing the spark would return. But after wave after wave of layoffs, cancellations, price hikes, and a vision nobody asked for, that hope is gone. Whenever I write essays like this, I always try to end with hope — a path forward, a chance for redemption, a reason to believe. But this is the first time in my life where I don't feel that anymore. At least, not for Xbox. And that realization hurts. Because this wasn’t just a console — it was a chapter of my life. A place where wonder lived. A place that felt like home. Watching it slowly fade has been like watching someone you grew up with drift into someone you no longer recognize.
Seeing Halo — the beating heart of Xbox — appear on PlayStation wasn’t just surprising. It was final. It was the nail in the coffin. That was the moment I felt the door close. Not with anger. Not even with shock. Just quiet acceptance. The silent confirmation that the Xbox I loved isn’t coming back. And so, I think this is good-bye...
This isn’t anger. It’s grief. And sometimes grief means accepting that a story has already ended. I’ve accepted that now. As much as I hoped Xbox could still somehow surprise and dazzle us, maybe some eras just aren’t meant to return. Some stories live best where they finished — in memories, in moments, in friendships and late-night laughter echoing through Xbox Live lobbies. I’ll always treasure those nights: the avatar costumes, the dashboard themes, the sound of a party invite, and that feeling that a whole world was waiting behind that green glow. That time mattered. It shaped me. It shaped a generation.
But that time is gone now. I don’t know if Xbox will ever find that spark again. And if they do, it won’t come from power. Not from numbers, not from quarterly targets, not from spreadsheets. It will come from imagination. If that moment ever returns, I’ll be the first to cheer — truly. Because Xbox doesn’t need another technical milestone; it needs a heartbeat again. A vision. A reason for players to feel something. I wish them well. I really do. But for me, it’s time to move on to greener pastures. Pun fully intended. I’m not leaving in anger — I’m leaving with gratitude for what it once was, and peace for what it no longer is. The legacy of Xbox isn’t gone. It simply lives somewhere else now — in nostalgia, in gratitude, and in the hope that someone, somewhere, is still trying to build the kind of magic we once felt.
Goodbye, old friend. Thanks for the memories. I’ll carry the spark forward. And to anyone feeling the same way — love doesn’t fade just because things change. Sometimes letting go is how we keep the best parts alive.
Thanks for reading.
Sincerely,
BlueNile101
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