I was born a Gamester, although the term 'born' implies a beginning of sorts.

As far as I know I am immortal. I've always been here in this universe and as far as I can make out, I always will be. For some reason that makes me very incurious about my origins. I suppose I might find out sometime, or perhaps not.

I watch teeming life all around me. The panoply of creation. Sometimes the worlds of the transients overlap with mine and we play together.

I discovered early on that my games can hurt others. It was an accident at first. It made me feel bad and so I came to see myself as bad.

My games are very important to me. I don't lose many.

But there is a being who always bested me. A cavalier. A rogue spirit. A so-called Lord of Time. We meet often. I adopt many different guises and he does not recognise me – a Toymaker of the Celestial sort; a Fictioneer in my Land of Words, The Great Intellegence, Mara, Fenric, the Wire, and all the rest.

I know him well-enough, even though he hides behind different faces. He always wins.

But now our game is nearly done.

With much effort I have broken my own rules. I have warped the reality of the cavalier. He has become a fiction.

The Doctor.

You think he's fictional, don't you?

You watch his exploits. You listen to them or read about them. You might even write about them.

That's all my doing.

And now I have a new toy. Here. This place. Where I lurk as a series of electrical impulses. Watching, waiting.

What of the Doctor, you ask? Will he not ride to the rescue? Like he always does.

Not this time.

You see I've fed back all your stories. I've taken them all and mutated them into HIS reality. All your clever ideas, plots, hopes.

He's lost you see. In a bloated multiverse of alternatives. Chasing after non-existent companions, fighting phantom opponents, having spurious 'ships.

So he's too busy to help this time. He can't see the wood for the trees.

The time is right for me to exact my revenge on the cavalier. Through his favourite Homo Sapiens.

Checkmate.

So sit back and relax, dear reader.

Can you feel my invisible tendrils reaching out from the screen? Touching your mind? Moulding it?

Can you?