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  • GregK
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Title Score
Ikaruga 9.0
1Oct 04

Fortune Smiles Upon Thee, Thou Hast Found a Torch!!

One of the interesting things about games is that they're designed to make you feel as if you're somehow special. This is one of the ways in which games, as a medium, are distinctly peculiar. When you watch an Arnold Schwarzenneger movie, you root for Arnie--he's the hero. When you play Terminator 3: The Redemption (to continue the example), you root for yourself. You're in charge. You da man.

This is intriguing. At least for me. I believe the following statement is true: Between a lifetime of exposure to games and a lifetime of unrestricted access to the Internet, one threatens to start to feel entitled to quite a bit more than one actually deserves.

I used to feel very optimistic about what the Internet represented to society as a whole. I was convinced, for instance, that the Internet would help promote literacy--after all, being able to use the Internet requires a basic knowledge of reading and writing, and I figured it'd naturally encourage people to excel in these capacities. Which would have been great. However, this has not happened--instead, the Internet has more likely led to the English language's downward spiral. I thought the Internet would cause people to see the value in honing their written communication skills, so that they could better interact with each other, and risk misunderstanding far less frequently. Instead, the lowest common denominator of comprehensibility has proven to be not just acceptable, but standard. Emoticons are unapologetically used to present cookie-cutter expressions. Are people really satisfied with this type of discourse?

On top of that, you see certain unlikable personality types on the Internet much more commonly than they appear in the outside world. On the Internet, everyone's a powerful, vicious lion. Everyone has a soapbox. And, who's to say? Perhaps everyone truly is entitled to one. But while it's nice that the Internet is a global-scale forum for discussion and debate, the part about it I don't care for much is the part that causes people to feel as if their opinions or beliefs are somehow important or meaningful--or, rather, more important and more meaningful--when, in fact, they usually aren't.

(The Internet is not here to make you feel better about yourself at the expense of others. That's the difference between the Internet and games.)

It's possible, I think, that avid game players such as me are far more susceptible to this sort of mentality of self-importance. After all, we're used to seeing ourselves at the center of the screen, as it were. We're the heroes. Our actions have consequence. Our lives have meaning. Everyone else is an NPC. Did you see that? Our experiences are unique. We deserve an audience. I found all the hidden packages. I finished Ninja Gaiden without dying. These types of things, we think, are special--because, to us, they are. They're still constructs. We have nothing to show for ourselves when we've finished playing 200 hours of Morrowind or finish an eight-hour session of World of Warcraft. This is not productive time--this is entertainment. It's important, I think, to not lose sight of this.

My concern about how much time and money I was spending on games grew to such a level that I realized that I could never continue to justify it unless I somehow turned it into work, and so, that's what I did. This was not a perfect solution, but it's worked out as well as I could have expected.

I often wonder how, exactly, a lifetime of game playing has affected me. Many people seem to be concerned about the possibility that games foster the propensity towards violent behavior, or at least cause one to become desensitized to the idea of violence. I still do not believe this, although I do think that a lifetime's exposure to games is liable to do something. And what I think this is is provoking a sense of entitlement, worth, and deserving--though, this is not to be mistaken with confidence. I suspect many game players have confidence problems; despite all their posturing, they secretly know themselves to be nowhere near as capable as the characters they're controlling onscreen.

When you play games, you forget about yourself, because for that time, you are at the center of the universe, and all activity revolves around you. Your obscure hand-eye-coordination talents may determine the outcome of your playing session, but ultimately, you have complete control no matter how good at the game you are--the game experience begins and ends with you. It's your own little perfect world, and you're its master.

I'm not concerned that games may make me violent; I'm concerned that games, in conjunction with the Internet, may turn me into an awful human being--into exactly the sort of person who I grew up intensely disliking; the sort of self-important, faux-self-loathing, in-love-with-the-sound-of-his-own-voice jackass who alternatingly brags, insults, and brown-noses his way through life.

I've said before that, as thrilling as it is for me to play competitive games online (for the sake of the pure competition), I have a very limited tolerance for the sorts of personalities who seem to frequent most online games. I have no patience for spoilsports, brats, and braggarts. I have no tolerance for rudeness. I play games expressly to avoid these types of people at the movie theaters, bars, or bookstores in which I might otherwise be passing the time.

Without games and the Internet, it's possible that I'd be nothing and nowhere--I owe a lot to these things. My entire career revolves around both of them. I earned my master's degree over the Internet earlier this year. I met the woman who became my wife on the Internet. So it seems, then, that in spite of my best efforts, the Internet may very well have turned me into just the sort of ungrateful prick who I claim to hate. But I hope that's not true. Games and the Internet mean a great deal to me, but at the same time, I try never to forget their apparent potential to negatively impact my character, my outlook, and my perception of others. As much time as I spend dealing with games and the Internet, I always keep my distance.

Most of my written work on GameSpot is in my reviews, which I purposely write in a matter-of-fact fashion, to directly reflect my perceptions of my gaming experiences. Occasionally I am surprised to see criticisms of my and GameSpot's chosen writing style--some would have you believe it to be presumptuous. Why don't those reviewers just say what they think? I want to know what they think.

My thoughts are my business, and I express them only when I aim to make a point that seems as though it may be of some small value. I happen to believe that what I think is more important than the fact that I thought of it; so if you'll excuse me, I'd prefer to leave myself out of the discussion whenever possible. To put it another way: I do not and would never presume to think that you should give a rat's ass about what I think.

However, if you've reached this point, then I sincerely appreciate your taking the time to ingest my perspective.

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My Recent Ratings

Title Score
Ikaruga 9.0
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