I think some pithy introduction might be called for. The following post can only be apologised for!
The Seven Ages of Mission Control (with thanks to W Shakespeare!)
All the world's an arcade,
And all the men and women merely player1 and player 2;
They have their tokens and their quarters;
And one man in his time makes Mission Control,
His acts being seven ages. At first the design,
Sketched out on a piece of scrap A4;
Then the glorious mock-up, with its rendering
And shining reflective surface, creeping in development
Unwillingly to build. And then the research,
Sighing each time, with a woeful forum post
and yet more delay. Then a re-design,
Full of strange curves, and lit like the Aurora Borealis,
Jealous of cabs already built, unsure of his next step,
Seeking the ultimate curved marquee
Even with the derision of others. And then the builder,
Slow to get going, getting mdf primed,
With colours severe and angles carefully cut,
Full of circular saws and modern T-moulding;
And so he cuts the parts. The sixth age shifts
Into the glued and screwed cabinet carcass,
With edges finely sanded and coin door fixed on front;
His highest scores, well sav'd, a cabinet too wide
For his Happs Bezel; and his big manly subwoofer,
Turning again toward childish treble, bleeps
And explosions in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second cabinet and mere oblivion;
Sans Jamma, sans tron joystick, sans steering wheel, sans everything