GAME TALK #1: WE ARE SHALLOW

Posted by Chris Ward at 9:10 PM Apr 14, 2008

Greetings, and welcome to the first edition of, umm...Game Talk. Yes, you in the back row: you are absolutely correct. "Game Talk" is a pretty shitty name for this section, where we'll be answering your fan mail/hate mail/free game walkthroughs to the hardest games out there.

Well, haters, think of this: maybe "Game Talk" is meant to be ironic, ever think of that? Maybe I didn't have time to think of something good, ever think of that?

Still, check out this rad graphic!

If that doesn't scream Now You're Playing With Power, then I have a counter-argument to your argument: "Hey, fuck you, pal."

Also, I was particularly struck by this stock photo and the fear in the woman's eyes that, yes, eventually, everyone in the room will figure out that NONE OF THE WORDS ON THE SHEET OF PAPER ARE ACTUAL WORDS.

She's a pod person, and she's just revealed herself. Please kill her now.

Anyways, please, email your letters and column name suggestions to joystickdivision@gmail.com. Now that I'm done writing for Wizard Magazine's Magic Words, I have a Prison Mail-sized hole in my gut that I need filled with deviant correspondence.

The first piece of hate mail, after the jump!

Here's a gem we recently received, directed at our Game On column:

I sent this before but I'll do it again. You guys are being very disrespectful by not putting the developer's name on your shallow video game reviews.

If you are going to cover video games, at least get that one part right. A publisher is just a publisher. Give credit to the people who worked on the game, please.

I guess if you don't get it right this time, I'm going to resend this letter every week.

Sean Lane,
Houston TX

Guess what, Sean: there's no way you're going to re-send this letter every week. You're going to say that you will, but then you're going to drop the whole thing like the little half-hearted lying bitch you are. When I edited the letters column at Wizard (did I mention that? sorry.) for four odd years, I got a fair share of mania-fueled dumbfuckery sent my way by people living in motel rooms (Not to say you live in a motel room but, yes, you probably do). Each of those readers said they were going to keep complaining about something until, for example, we finally ran their letter detailing some Aquaman and Nightcrawler gay fan fiction. That's a true story—this guy sent 4-5 handwritten letters a day to me about his idea for a Aquaman/Nightcrawler gay crossover for, like, 4 weeks. I finally ran his letter and made fun of him (only because he was equating superhero homosexuality with being inherently funny, rather than investing himself in a full-blown, no-nonsense, un-ironic, fish-cocksucking story starring Nighcrawler. Which would be awesome). But, despite all this, I still respected his tenacity and stamp purchasing abilities. That, and the fact that he had a mental illness. Still, THAT'S a determination that you, Sean Lane, can never muster even with all the strength in your "send email" pinky.

Ahem.

Now, on the subject of developers, there's a couple of reasons why we don't always mention them (and we have many times). For one, Game On runs in a free newspaper, so we tend to write for the "everyman using our paper as a bum shelter" demographic. And bums don't much care for paragraphs about developers. Also, we get about 600 words, so it's not always pertinent to mention the developer (or even the publisher) in such a short space, unless it's in the infobox. And some games are so shit-awful, that the developers are probably glad they weren't mentioned.

Now, I have to excuse my attitude. You see, it's April 14th, and that means tomorrow I'm going to get raped by the government. That's because I'm a freelance writer, and none of the paychecks I receive have taxes taken out of them. How does it feel? About like this.




For Health Care, I rely on the Lord Jesus Christ, Wheaties, and AirBourne effervescent tablets. My 401K is in a sock drawer. In fact, it IS the sock drawer. Abraham Lincoln once kept his darned (get it!?!?!) garments there and I'm hoping to sell it one day and retire, along with my signed Margot Kidder glossy. Seriously though, I owe thousands. I'm probably fucked. The next time you hear from me, I'll be in Eastmost Peninsula.

Hiding.

With the old man that gave me a shitty wooden sword.