This fear has been stomped on and viciously maimed in a two-prong attack that involves so much concentrated bad-assery that it should be regulated by law.
I speak, of course, of a fresh copy of Crackdown, which is in the same room - nay, running on the same console - as Guitar Hero II.
There's so much awesome in here right now that even my toenail clippings are transformed into charismatic, unassailably-cool, ultra rock-god genetically engineered justice-cyborg sex symbols of the entire universe.
A few moments ago, I saw a speck of mere dust attain a shining, purplish hue; sweeping, curved lines of energy coursed into it from the very ether, and in a blinding flash, that tiny little mote of dust became more awesome than the forbidden love child of Eric Clapton and John McCarthy.
There's only one complaint I have with Crackdown, and that is with the name. It's too long. They should have just called it "Crack" and been done with it - it's close enough.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some roof-leaping, car-tossing, machine-gun-wielding justice to dispense.
And not with an iron fist, either. Not even a platinum-coated titanium fist. I dispense justice with a holographic nuclear powered quantum vending machine from the year 12006.
Feast on the awesome. Bitches.