The Crux of the Problem (Part 1)

Gaming journalism - and also the look on my
Dad's face when I told him about my
proposed career.

Gaming journalism stinks like something that is just too good to be true. On one side of the table you have a medium which was created solely for the purpose of recreation and entertainment, while on the other side sits the smug form of journalism, grinning from ear to ear because it can’t quite believe its luck.  Writing the odd article and reviewing a few games seems like a small price to pay for being allowed to wallow away your days in front of a glowing LCD screen. My Dad always told me – “Don’t root your best friends missus’”, that and – “If it seems too good to be true then it probably is.” I am happy to say that I am still yet to perform the ultimate faux pas of friendship; unfortunately I think I am sorely deluded where gaming journalism is concerned. 

I read an article a while back that listed some of the generic skills needed to saunter successfully up the corporate ladder of journalism and gaming associates. This list could apparently help you dodge “Rejection”, the burly Fijian doorman whose skin is burnt an unsettling shade of beige from the time he spent serving as a soldier of fortune in Syria. Coincidentally, this is the same guy that is waiting to Rock-Bottom you the next time you try and feed that “It’s not the size of the boat, it’s the motion of the ocean” bullshit to your soon to be ex-girlfriend.

Enjoy this moment while it lasts because man I suck
at editing photos.

This same magic list will also oil you up with enthusiasm and slide you across the lobby foyer of “Hotel Success”. Your greasy trail conveniently obscures the tasteful flooring of Toledo tiles, which happen to be elegantly arranged in a mosaic to spell out the word “Practice”. Before you know it you’ve slithered straight through the open doors of the executive elevator, and that bad boy is an express route to Good-Time Offices. 

Try and excuse my cynicism, the article was actually pretty useful. There was just one line in particular that seemed tailor-made for souring my unrealistic outlook, “You have to enjoy writing about games more than you enjoy playing them.” I know right, time to blanch. That pill seems a little hard to swallow. As I stated earlier, Videogames are designed primarily as forms of entertainment and while writing and gaming can both be hobbies, there is a natural state of progression where gaming journalism and the meshing of those two hobbies are concerned. As a rule, you’ve gotta play the game to be able to write anything about it, and mustering up the motivation to play a videogame has – at least for me – never been a problem. But therein lies the crux of the problem. 

Yes skerrick is a word you cheeky bastards. 

Gaming journalism hinges on a sense of self control and professionalism that I am undoubtedly lacking. Gaming has long been one of my main hobbies, to the point where it has sometimes seemed like a choking weed in my garden of fun, causing all of my other pastimes to wither and die. I have committed a truly staggering amount of time to some videogames and as of so far, I have barely written a skerrick about any of them.

So here I am, poised on the precipice of validation, ready to justify the hundreds of hours that I have sunk into five pieces of particularly addictive media. These games, good or bad, are all at the heart of my gaming obsession. I am not here to debate their merits, but like a drunken conversation where I try to defend Nicolas Cages’ acting, I’ll probably end up doing just that. These are my ...

And yes I did mean to capitalise every word except gaming.....  fuck.

5.            Halo: Combat Evolved

Old Halo. The one and only. The infamous. Of all the games in this list, Halo is the one that makes me feel like I’ve just been caught re-enacting Shaggy’s “It wasn’t me” music video. I can already hear the scorn in your cynical voices as you reread your comments out loud, checking to make sure you haven’t screwed up the spelling in your homophobic insults. “How does someone sink a serious amount of time into an FPS lacking any online features? P.S you’re a fag.” Two reasons – Visuals and multiplayer. 

First up, Halo was fucking beautiful. I know the original graphics now look like hammered shit but bear with me here. Think back to a time where James Bond and Joanna Dark looked like they’d been clobbered by the ugly bat, warped and twisted faces courtesy of too many harsh interrogation sessions and Nintendo 64 graphics. Cue Halo and a technological revolution. Shimmering energy shields, blades of grass and Tool inspired lighting effects. You show me the gamer that wasn’t initially wowed by their first time driving a Warthog around Halo’s sprawling open environments and I’ll show you a soulless bastard. 

I think we all know who you'd rather take home for Christmas.

So take the sort of visuals that left me staring starry eyed and slack jawed at my best friends 14inch…… television, and then chuck in co-op mode for the campaign, 4 player split screen and LAN support for up to 16 people. Halo singlehandedly made me an advocate for any future game featuring a co-operative campaign. If driving a Warthog was fun on your own then having a friend ride shotgun and scream “Get to da choppa!!” over and over again was a rare kind of joy.  Colour me sold from that moment onwards – ‘The more the merrier’ became a mantra of mine for any situation outside of the bedroom, because while I may be a red-blooded man, I’m also very realistic about my abilities when it comes to doing the horizontal mambo. 

This was the game that spawned a console LAN craze for the first and probably only time in history. Ah those were the days. LAN parties and  Capture the Flag on Sidewinder - which always started with the best of intentions - until several hours later the game gradually ground out to an exhausted stalemate and those stoic players still left standing inevitably turned to slaughtering their allies for entertainment. This is also the only videogame to date which I have played with any of my friends’ father’s. Jim Mckelvie – The Ghost Recon specialist and designated getaway driver in any and all escape situations. As long as he didn’t have to exit the vehicle for any reason we were fine. There’s twitchy trigger fingers and then there was Jim, who aimed a charged up plasma pistol like a terrified Parkinson’s patient trying to defuse a bomb in the midst of a Siberian blizzard. Damn, he was a surgeon with the shotgun though.