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This is my favorite interpretation of history, courtesy of Valve Software and the Soldier.
The 18th century was a time of rapid innovation. In the space of a single year, the two-story building, the stage play, America, and the rocket launcher were all invented by the same man: Shakespearicles, the strongest man who ever lived. Despite his powerful grasp of language and ability to bench press 700 British pounds, several inventions eluded his iron grasp, most tragically among them, stairs.
For the next three hundred years, people who needed to get to the second floor used the only method available to them: shooting a rocket launcher at their feet. Yes, it was ridiculous, crippling, and awful, but what are you going to do? Not go to the second floor? That's where your bed is.
Luckily, in 1857 a young bearded inventor by the name of President Abraham Lincoln stumbled upon the answer: stairs. Unluckily, he never quite understood the full import of his own invention, and died trying to rocket jump up the stairs in his laboratory at Ford's theatre. Horrified by this tragedy, mankind agreed to never invent anything ever again, turning its scientists to that most noble endeavor, astrology.
It would not be until 1921 when hotheaded Pisces Franklin D Roosevelt, languishing in a hospital after losing both of his legs in a rocket jumping accident, stumbled upon Lincoln's notes and perfected the modern staircase, freeing people from the tyranny of the second floor as Lincoln intended.