Epic Battles in the Gingerbread House

My husband's mild-mannered, gentle sort. He's quite tall and muscular, with large hands and feet. Most of the time, he's easy-going and happy-go-lucky and quite content to potter through life without much drama, except when he's faced with some challenge for which he is quite obviously too big - for example, threading a needle. After a couple of minutes of watching him trying to get a piece of thread through the eye of a very small needle with his banana-like fingers, I suppress my mirth and do it for him. (Come to think of it, I usually end up sewing on the button or hemming the trousers that required the threaded needle. A clever - if somewhat sneaky - man, my husband.) But he's a kind soul, so I love him.
Most of the time.

As I write, he's playing some online game next door. His character is a green Orc-like creature that goes around killing fairies, wizards and other Orcs. Occasionally, his character meets up with a rag-tag band of weird-looking creatures and they all gang up on a dragon. Or a monster. Occasionally a ghost. Balls of fire are thrown and spells are cast, and a great time is had by all. Now, I don't claim I understand what the attraction is - after all, he could say the same for me when he drags me away from the yarn shop window, my nose and fingerprints still fresh on the glass, - however, my crocheting rarely involves rage. His Orc-ery, on the other hand, seems to involve a lot of shouting at fellow players, much sighing and a lot of exasperated snorting. As I type, he's calling a pox upon the house of the Night Elf that has just dealt his Orc a fatal blow. It's almost Shakespearian in its tragedy.

Now, I could deal with this because it's a bit like being at a sporting event, but the sad thing is that - thanks to the vastness of the World Wide Web - he's probably playing with a bunch of 12-year-olds in Tokyo.
"He just can't shoot straight!" says husband, pointing at the screen.
"Because he's probably a child," I answer.
"But he keeps running across the line of fire," husband cries.
"Well, it's probably a child," I say reasonably. "He just doesn't have enough practice or coordination."
"Why does he keep shooting at the dragon's leg?" he says, exasperated.
"Because. It's. Probably. A. Child," I enunciate. "A child."
"Well, it's a stupid child," says husband petulantly, folding his arms across his chest. "He's stupid and I don't want to play with him any more."
"Fine," I say (as though it made any difference to me.) "Go and play with the other ... umm ... grown ups."
And as he switches servers to another game, I can hear him mumble things like "Stupid poopoo face..."
Oh dear.