When I finished playing The Walking Dead, I sat back and felt satisfied I’d made all the right choices. My Lee had done their best to guide the eight-year-old orphan Clem through a zombie apocalypse, teaching her how to survive but not forget to be kind. When I had been given a choice to steal a stranger’s food, I’d refused; when I could leave someone who had wronged me to die, I saved his life; and when I was bitten,
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