1611: Look in the Middle

I was pointed in the direction of this post earlier by a retweet on Twitter, and while I agree with some of its points — the games press needs to embrace the ever-growing diversity continually exhibited by the development sector — I feel like it’s not quite got its priorities right.

The angle on display in the piece is that press should pay more attention to the sort of things that were exhibited at IndiE3, an alternative presentation put on by the independent developer community during E3 — which is, as you may know, the busiest time of the year for both the mainstream games press and mainstream games publishers.

The games on display at IndiE3, judging by the description in the article linked above, were all highly unusual, creative games — often lumped together as “art games” — and, for sure, their existence is worth exploring and celebrating. They’re often very personal works put together by small teams — even individuals in some cases — and, in many ways, they’re probably the closest we have to true “works of art” in the medium in the traditional sense.

But I kind of have to disagree with the assertion that they’re the ones suffering the most from the mainstream press’ obsession with whatever the Top Three Triple-A Titles Right Now are at any given moment. In recent years, we’ve started to see the phenomenon of the “indie darling”, for example, whereby mainstream press and gamers alike suddenly all jump aboard the same small-scale title and champion it until they’re blue in the face. Not only that, but we’ve seen a significant growth in indie-specialist sites in the last couple of years; whether or not those sites make any money or not is another matter altogether, but they exist, and those are the places that are celebrating these highly creative, original and often very affecting titles — far better than the broad brush-strokes of the mainstream outlets can.

No; the field that is suffering the most from the mainstream press’ attention deficit disorder is that of mid-tier games. Barely acknowledged at the best of times and sort of waved away with a dismissive air of “this doesn’t really need to be explored in detail” at others, mid-tier games are often where the most interesting, accessible work is going on in the video games business. In contrast to the often self-consciously “arty” world of the aforementioned indie games — a style of development that makes them less accessible to those who prefer somewhat more “conventional” (for want of a better word) titles — mid-tier games often make use of recognisable gameplay tropes and conventions and marry them to subject matter that is more creative, inventive and risk-taking than that seen by big publishers. It’s mid-tier games that gave us titles like Deadly Premonition, the Twin Peaks game that never was. It’s mid-tier games that gave us series like Atelier, an unconventional take on role-playing games that requires a different way of thinking and which is still, to date, something of a trailblazer in its prominent use of female protagonists. It’s mid-tier games that gave us titles like Murdered: Soul Suspect, a game that was actually a whole lot more compelling and interesting than its mediocre reviews made out. I could go on all day.

These are the games that the mainstream press is truly neglecting. But with the ever-increasing focus on clickbait and ad revenue — both GameTrailers and Polygon, both high-profile online outlets, let a number of people go in the last couple of weeks, not to mention my own redundancy a short while back — this is a situation that’s only going to continue to get worse, until all big-scale games sites are going to be identikit news feeds with slightly different CSS.

That’s not an acceptable means of celebrating a medium with as much diversity as video games. That’s not an acceptable way to treat the talent in the industry, both on the development and press sides. That’s not a sustainable way for the business to continue to operate, surely. Surely?

1607: Future Unwritten

I had a job interview today. I feel like I should talk about that a bit, but then I’ve not been mentioning it much on social media — largely due to superstition about “jinxing” it — and so I won’t talk about it in detail for now. (I hear whether I have another interview next week; I may say something more then.)

What I do want to talk about is the fact that said job isn’t involved in the games press, or indeed anywhere in the games industry. It is in something completely unrelated that just happens to use my skills at using content management systems for editing digital content in a productive manner. It’s for a large company and would involve me working at the site for said company rather than at home, so all around it will be a fairly significant change to how my life and career have been unfolding for the past four or five years.

So why am I leaving the games press behind, when those of you who know me well will know it’s something I wanted to do for most of my life? Well, the chief reason is that the games press of 2014 is not the same as the games press I initially gazed at with admiration back in the ’80s and ’90s. The industry has moved almost entirely to the Internet, for one thing — a few magazines do still exist, but their relevance is declining — and, as such, so has the way of working.

The rise of the Internet has led to an explosion of games press outlets. Because it’s so easy to get a website up and running, pretty much anyone can open a games site if they want to; whether or not it will become successful is another matter entirely, but the sheer volume of people writing about games on the Internet is ridiculous.

And yet I don’t feel like there’s anything near the diversity of character that the old magazines had. When I think back to the edgy humour of Atari ST magazine Zero; the informative multi-format coverage of Advanced Computer Entertainment; the distinctly “British-feeling” PC Zone, I don’t feel like we have anything quite like that in the modern games press. There are individual personalities who people like to follow around the Internet, for sure, but when was the last time you read something like Charlie Brooker’s contributions to PC Zone, one notable example of which was an entire preview written in third-person perspective Franglais? (Fade to Black, as I recall.) When was the last time you read a boxout on a site about the fact they don’t have Teletext in America? (Found on an Alpha Centauri preview, if I remember correctly.) If Half-Life 3 came out tomorrow, how many sites would devote a few words to a boxout listing “other famous Gordons” as PC Zone did with its review of the original?

I feel a lot of that character has been lost. The modern games press is probably more “professional” (for want of a better word) but it’s also become a whole lot more boring and predictable. The big sites, these days, are all but interchangeable in terms of what games get covered when; thanks to press embargoes on previews and reviews, everyone publishes their thoughts on particular games at the same time, meaning there’s often relatively little reason to look at more than one place, whereas seeing different magazines’ approaches to games coverage used to be a real joy.

The chief reason I’m in no hurry to go back, though, is the volatility of the industry. Over the course of the past four years, I’ve worked for a number of different outlets, some of which you may have heard of, some of which you might not have — Kombo, Daily Joypad, Good Old Games, IGN, GamePro, Inside Network and, most recently, USgamer. In each of those positions there wasn’t a whole lot of progression or advancement opportunities; games press positions are like gold dust, so a lot of people tend to stay where they are for as long as possible unless a significantly better offer comes along, which leads to a lot of positions stagnating somewhat. On top of all that, the aforementioned volatility of the industry meant that sometimes you come downstairs to start work only to discover an email announcing that the site you’ve been working on is to close, and that you’ll be out of a job — or that you’re surplus to requirements and no longer needed. (Yes, I am speaking from personal experience on both counts.)

This has happened several times throughout my career, each time through no fault of my own — and I really mean that; I’m a hard, dedicated worker, and any of my past employers would happily back me up on that. Every time it’s happened it’s meant that I’ve effectively had to start again from scratch — because I held one position for some time at the previous post, that’s what I’d end up doing at the next, and so the whole lack of progression thing perpetuated itself somewhat, because by the time I thought I should be advancing — and probably would have been advancing in a “normal” (i.e. stable) job — I was, instead, scouring the Help Wanted ads for where I’d be going next.

I’ve been speaking selfishly so far, but I’m far from the only one affected by this sort of thing. Just today, for example, the day after E3 — the biggest event in the games industry calendar — GameTrailers, one of the biggest video game video sites in the world, laid off a whole bunch of staff. How is that happening in an industry that, in money terms, is taking on movies and winning? How is it that one of the biggest creative mediums in the world right now can’t provide job security for anyone involved in it — whether you’re a member of the press, a developer, an artist or anyone else?

I’m tired of it, to be perfectly blunt. I’ve bought a house with Andie, and I want to be able to live my life without having to worry about whether I’ll still have a pay packet at the end of each month. I want to be able to have a job that I can build into a career; a position where I can learn new things, advance, take on new responsibilities and, most importantly, come home at the end of the day and forget all about until I go back the next day. Video games, as much as I love them and as big a part of my life as they will always be, are not providing that right now, so it is time for me to look elsewhere.

I worry that these feelings are coming too late. At 33 years of age, I’m no longer a fresh-out-of-university graduate, and I worry that prospective employers will see my fragmented work history and wonder what I’ve been playing at for the past 10+ years. Still, you can’t turn back the clock, so all I can do is try my best and see where life takes me next.

1578: Games Journalism is Broken

And I’m not going to fix it. I’m not sure anyone can.

I mention this amid the news that Future, one of the biggest publishing companies in the UK that has been around for as long as I can remember, is having severe difficulties. Difficulties that are serious enough to see it considering the closure of CVG (aka Computer and Video Games), one of the longest-running brands in the games press. Future’s woes aren’t solely to do with the games press side of its operation, of course — indeed, it is apparently intending to keep PC Gamer, Gamesradar and the new (somewhat redundant) Kotaku UK up and running regardless of what else happens — but the company’s situation, particularly with regard to the games press, is not at all unusual. I was let go from my position at USgamer recently, as you’ll know if you’ve been keeping up to date with this blog, and I believe Destructoid also lost some people recently, too.

It’s getting beyond a joke now. The video games industry is one of the most lively, vibrant and exciting creative sectors right now; a business that nowadays regularly puts the amount of money thrown about in movies and music to shame. Over the course of the last 30+ years, it’s grown from something that nerds do alone in their bedroom — an activity to be ashamed of — to something that absolutely anyone can engage with on one level or another. Thanks to the rise of smartphones and tablets, there are more “gamers” out there than ever before, but even not taking this rapidly growing market into account, computers, consoles and handhelds are providing more diverse, more interesting, more creative experiences than at any other time in the history of interactive entertainment.

So why is the games press a business that seemingly finds it impossible to remain stable for more than a year or two at a time? Why is the games press such a volatile sector that hard-working individuals (like me, the CVG lot whose jobs are at risk, and any number of other people who have lost their jobs recently) regularly have to effectively start their career over again time after time? How are people who have given up a lot to be a part of this business that they feel so strongly about supposed to build a career and progress?

Part of the reason is the very nature of the Web. People aren’t accustomed to paying for content, so they won’t pay for it. This means that sites have to rely on lowest-common-denominator ad-based revenue, which in turn leads to a decline in the overall quality of content as producing work that shows up high in the search engine rankings or which provides answers to the most vapid of questions becomes a priority for sites. There are rare exceptions — a well-written piece from an established writer can attract a goodly degree of traffic and, consequently, revenue, as can something controversial or which exploits the hot-button topics of the day — but they’re just that: exceptions. For the most part, it’s all about the daily churn: getting as much content as possible out as quickly as possible; a far cry, to be sure, from the magazine model of the pre-Internet days.

And you know what? I’m getting to the stage where I feel like I’m done. I love writing about games. Love it. But it doesn’t feel like it’s possible to make it into a career any more, and it certainly doesn’t feel like it’s possible to make a career out of writing about the most interesting niches of the industry. I’ve been doing the same thing in the business for four years now, largely because I’ve had to reboot my career and start over several times. I’m 33 years old; I can’t keep doing that, and I can’t go back to begging for scraps on a freelance basis, no disrespect intended to anyone who does successfully manage to draw a living wage through that way of working.

And so, I find myself increasingly wondering whether or not if, should a fantastic-sounding job offer for a video games site find itself in my inbox tonight or tomorrow, I would take it. At this exact moment — 22:42 on a Thursday night in May 2014 — I’m erring towards “no”. It would be wonderful to have the guarantee of a new job in this sector that I love, but I’d constantly be wondering if, a year or two down the line, I’d be in the exact same position I am now: never advancing; never progressing; never learning anything new.

A career in video games sounds like a dream come true to most people who grew up with them. But I can tell you, it’s not everything you might hope. In fact, there are a lot of times when it really, really sucks, and it seems like the spring of 2014 is one of those times.

My best wishes to everyone who, like me, is going through a tough time right now. May we all land on our feet and find ourselves doing something where our skills are truly valued and appropriately compensated.

1544: Sick Notes

As I think I’ve mentioned a couple of times in the past, I keep a few copies of defunct UK games magazine PC Zone around as a reminder of some early forays into writing about games professionally. These ’90s issues of the dead magazine feature nothing more exciting than a few walkthroughs by me, but it’s the rest of them I find so fascinating to read with modern eyes.

What particularly caught my attention recently was a section called “Sick Notes”. This was one of the many different things the magazine did with its last page before the back cover — over time, this included a regular column by “Mr Cursor”, a look back on the month’s gaming and what one of the editorial staff had been up to, and numerous other things.

Sick Notes was the brainchild of Charlie Brooker — yes, that Charlie Brooker — and was intended as a complement to the magazine’s other letters pages. PC Zone at this point had several different “reader input” pages, including a traditional “letters to the editor” page, a “Watch Dogs” letters page where readers could write and complain about service they’d received from hardware and software manufacturers, and a “Troubleshooter” letters page where they could ask technical queries about PC problems.

Sick Notes, meanwhile, was marketed as “The Place to Write for Abuse” so you knew what you were getting when you wrote in — and you had to write specifically to Sick Notes. It certainly lived up to its name. Here’s one memorable example that won the monthly £50 “Loser of the Month” prize, with Brooker’s response in bold beneath.

I see that in issue 67 of your “magazine” you asked us to send in a game idea. How’s this then: You start off in a primary school where all goes well and you please the teachers. You then progress to secondary education and achieve above average results and so decide to sit A-levels in your local college and finally, after four years in university, end up with an honours degree in English language and English literature.

AND THEN YOU END UP WRITING YOUR PATHETIC [swearword] PIECE OF [swearword] PAGE-FILLING SO-CALLED COLUMN.

Mark Richardson

There was a boy called Mark Richardson at my school. Everyone called him ‘skids’ because once, in the PE changing rooms, somebody noticed that he had huge brown skidmarks in his underpants. Not that this inability to tackle basic personal hygiene was restricted just to poor wiping skills. He smelled bad pretty much all the time. He was a mess. His face was permanently coated with a faintly shiny film of sweat and grime, his hair so caked in grease it recalled television footage of unfortunate seabirds in the aftermath of the Exxon Valdez oil slick. His clothing was dirty. To use the Whizzer and Chips terminology of the day, it ‘ponged’.

But the worst thing about Skids was the way he picked his nose. He was always at it, plugging a finger in as far as he could, corkscrewing it around inside the nasal cavity, unhooking entire strata of half-dried mucus, drawing out measureless strings of oleaginous grey-green slime. Then he’d take them to his mouth, puckering his lips as if sampling some exotic delicacy. Skids devoured snot. He relished it. Guzzled it. Chewed it up and swallowed it whole, then painted his finger clean with his pink, stubby tongue. Made you sick just to watch him do that.

Anyway, sorry, what were you saying?

This was pretty much par for the course back around the time of PC Zone issue 70 (December 1998) but looking back on it now it’s hard to believe that this existed. And don’t worry, I’m not about to go off on a whole big “This Is Not Okay” social justice rant here; quite the opposite, in fact. I find it a bit sad that people who write for a living — usually for websites rather than magazines these days, though print is still hanging on in there — don’t really have the freedom to express this side of themselves any more; the means for some much-needed stress relief, and for the readers to try their luck against one of the most notoriously acerbic wits in the business.

I mean, sure, these days we have the people who have made a name for themselves with strong opinion pieces — people like Ben Kuchera and Jim Sterling spring to mind immediately, and there are others, too — but it’s not the same thing at all. Brooker didn’t just blindly insult people in Sick Notes — though he always did so with carefully-considered barbs rather than mindless abuse on that page — he also wrote witty, creative, unconventional articles that were entertaining to read far ahead of fulfilling some sort of amorphous “obligation”. And he wasn’t alone, either; the writers of Zone, among them, did all sorts of things with even their most mundane articles, with particularly memorable examples including entire reviews written as movie scripts, a “Franglais” preview of Flashback follow-up Fade to Black written from the perspective of its protagonist Conrad Hart, and countless others I’ve doubtless forgotten.

What’s my point? I’m not quite sure, really, but I think it’s that people who wrote about games used to seem like they were having more fun with it. This isn’t to say that there aren’t great, entertaining writers out there whose work is a pleasure to read, but rather there seems to be something of an unspoken rule that things need to be taken very seriously these days. You’ve got to get that SEO; you’ve got to get those clicks; you’ve got to capitalise on the popular things of the time; you’ve got to be seen to be criticising the things other people are criticising.

Cynical? Perhaps, but it’s why things like Goat Simulator feel so obnoxiously forced; what should be a silly little game that people stumble across organically and then tell their friends about has become something heavily promoted and treated with, in a number of cases, considerably more respect than I think even its creators intended. Fair play to them for successfully capturing the imagination of the press and the public, I guess, but it’s just not the same as the magic I feel reading an old PC Zone and comparing it to its rivals PC Format and PC Gamer as well as multiformat magazines, each of which had their own distinctive tone about them.

We can’t go back now, though; the world expects daily updates as things happen these days, rather than a monthly digest of things the editorial team thought were interesting, intriguing or just amusing. And the world certainly doesn’t expect a member of a site’s staff to hurl such an amazing torrent of intelligent abuse at them as Brooker did to Mark Richardson above; these days, treating your readership with such contempt is probably a firing offence.

Which is kind of weird, when you think about it; websites deal with reader numbers that magazines, even in their heyday, could only dream of, while for a magazine like PC Zone, every reader counted and thus you’d think posting something like Brooker’s response would be taking something of a big risk.

Maybe it was too much of a risk. Maybe that’s why PC Zone doesn’t exist any more. But I’ll be honest with you; I miss those days. I’d much rather be working on a monthly magazine than a constantly-updated website, but this is 2014; that’s the way things are, so I must, as the saying goes, “deal with it”.

1102: The Golden Age of Magazines

I really love re-reading old games and tech magazines, particularly those from the ’80s and ’90s. There’s a rather wonderful sense of innocence about the monsters that video games and Internet culture would become, and an even more pleasant feeling of knowing that an article was written to be a lot more “permanent” than the somewhat disposable writing for websites we have today. I’m not saying that writing is inherently worse today, of course — on the whole I think it’s a lot better for the most part — but that the sheer volume of it these days makes it more and more difficult to build up a portfolio of specific pieces you’re really proud of rather than stuff that’s just been churned out for the daily grind.

Taking video games magazines specifically, I particularly enjoy the completely different approach to games criticism seen in the mid- to late ’90s. Because reviews came out on a magazine’s street date rather than under the carefully-timed embargo of a PR department, you could generally feel pretty secure that the writers in question had spent a healthy proportion of the preceding month with the game, and that you knew they would have explored it inside out in most cases rather than rushing through. Consequently, we got a lot of reviews that were more like multi-page features, filled with big images, annotated screenshots, quotes from the developer and all manner of other things. Sometimes you even got reviews in a completely different format — PC Zone magazine, which I was loyal to initially because I liked it and later because my brother became the big boss man over there (also I wrote a number of articles for it), liked to experiment with short-form quick reviews for budget or crap games, and also held regular “Supertests”, in which they took a variety of different games in the same genre (often flight sims of various descriptions) and compared them directly to each other to determine which one was “best”.

You know what the absolute best thing was, though? No comments sections. I must confess that when reading a 1998 copy of PC Zone on the toilet the other day, I instinctively found myself glancing at the end of a somewhat contentious article (written by none other than Charlie Brooker, who used to be a regular for Zone, believe it or not) to see the ranty comments. I had already flipped the pages to the end of the piece before I realised I was holding a magazine in my hands, and that its content was static and non-interactive. It was probably for the best; Brooker’s article was a candid exploration of “why girls don’t like games” which was very, very amusing, very, very irreverent and would not have got within a mile of today’s Misogyny Police before being torn to shreds — despite the fact that it had a wealth of valid points and was clearly intended to take the piss out of anyone who believed that games were solely “boys’ toys”. But I digress. The point was, there was no opportunity to respond immediately to an article and belch forth the first opinionated effluvia that came into your head; if you wanted to respond, you had to damn well write a letter (or, later — much later — an email) and hope it got published in the following issue. PC Zone engaged in what is surely one of the first acts of trolling their comments sections on a number of occasions, tasking Brooker with responding to the most offensive, rude and generally disrespectful messages on a special “Sick Notes” page. Hilarity inevitably ensued, usually at the expense of the person who had written in.

I kind of feel like there was a lot more character about the old magazines in general. I read PC Zone primarily because I enjoyed the writers’ work and knew their tastes and senses of humour; I knew that David McCandless was obsessed with Doom and Quake (particularly multiplayer); I knew that Chris Anderson loved X-Com; I knew that you could count on Brooker for an irreverent, hilarious article — his Fade to Black preview written entirely as a short story about “Monsieur Conrad ‘Art” in Franglais was a particularly memorable example.

Different magazines had their own distinctive personalities, too — I contributed walkthroughs and tips books to the Official UK Nintendo Magazine for a while and was obliged to write using a particularly loathsome house style that effectively required me to write like a chav. Lots of “ya”s and “yer”s, and Mario was perpetually referred to as “Mazza”. It was a magazine primarily aimed at children, of course, so this style was understandable, of course — looking back on it, though, it’s more than a little cringeworthy.

I sort of miss magazines, then — I know they’re still around and all that, but the magic just isn’t there any more when you can get access to high-quality writing for free at your fingertips thanks to the Internet. That’s sort of sad, really; while you can take an iPad into the toilet with you and browse your favourite sites, it’s still not quite the same as having a proper magazine to leaf through at your leisure.

#oneaday Day 945: Reviewing is Broken, August 2012 Edition

Game reviews are broken.

This is a pretty well-established fact by now, I would have thought, but the issue rears its ugly head any time something interesting but flawed such as Papo & Yo shows up and is, overall, worthy of praise but riddled with technical issues.

Let’s stay with Papo & Yo for a moment to illustrate my point. (I won’t be spoiling the game here, so read without fear.)

Papo & Yo is, technically and objectively speaking, filled with flaws. The frame rate is pretty poor at times, there’s a lot of screen tearing and the collision detection is occasionally a bit off.

Does this make it a bad game, though?

No.

Does it prevent it doing what it sets out to do?

No.

This is ultimately all that should matter. And yet IGN notes that “poor design outweighs any interesting concepts”, ultimately concluding that the game is “bad”.

Well, yes, if judged next to something that is longer, more polished and designed primarily as a “game”, I guess Papo & Yo is “bad”. The problem comes when you consider the fact that all games are not created equal. Papo & Yo was put together by an extremely small team who did not have the budget to do more than they did. It succeeds admirably in telling its powerful, emotional story despite its technical flaws, which cease to matter almost immediately after starting to play. It was also not designed to be a “good game” — it was designed to be a vehicle for telling its story.

I’m reminded of a post I wrote a while back concerning visual novels and interactive movies. Back in the dawn of the CD-ROM era, if anyone dared to release a title like this that focused on the story at the expense of what would be traditionally called “gameplay,” it was slated without mercy. The mantras of the day were “gameplay is king” and “graphics do not make the game”.

To be fair, a lot of these “interactive movies” were simply poor stories, too, largely proving that (at the time) game studios simply did not have the budgets to compete with Hollywood. But some were enjoyable, and I can’t help feeling that some of them may have had a better response had they been released today with better technology and storage capacities.

You see, gameplay isn’t king. Not all the time, anyway. In something like Geometry Wars, sure, gameplay most certainly is king, though the beautiful neon presentation certainly doesn’t hurt. But in something like School Days HQ or Papo & Yo, gameplay is not king. Gameplay is not even in the king’s court. Story is king. And alongside this comes the necessity to judge a game based on how well it is achieving its objectives rather than how “good” it is compared to all other games. In no other medium do we judge individual creative works against everything else ever created in the same medium. No; we judge bestsellers against bestsellers; literature against literature; arthouse movies against arthouse movies; blockbuster against blockbuster.

Both School Days and Papo & Yo are “bad” if we’re to judge them against other, more “gamey” experiences. In School Days all you do is watch animé sequences for 20 minutes and then occasionally get to pick between two options. In Papo & Yo all you have to do is navigate the environment and solve some fairly simple puzzles. But neither game is setting out to be a “fun” game. Both of them are setting out to do one thing and one thing only: tell a story. They accomplish this in completely different ways. And they both succeed admirably, regardless of their game mechanics and regardless of any technical issues.

Most gamers I speak to on a regular basis seem to recognise this fact. So why, exactly, do we persist in judging all games to the same standards? This isn’t about giving a “free pass” to “art games”, as I have seen a few commentators remark in the last few days. It’s about judging a game on just one thing: how well it achieves its goal. Screen tearing (which, let’s not forget, blighted the original Uncharted to a very noticeable degree) does not affect how well Papo & Yo spins its tale just as, to flip the argument around, the stupid, nonsensical story doesn’t affect the fun factor of Call of Duty.

As always, then, the best way to judge whether or not a game is something you want to play is simply to try it for yourself — or at the very least discuss it with your friends and get the opinions of people you trust. “Good” and “Bad” are relative, arbitrary and ultimately quite useless descriptors when referring to creative works, and so I firmly believe the sooner we get out of the habit of judging all games against some ill-defined “canon of greatness”, the better.

#oneaday Day 716: Games Media Shakeup

Interesting news out of the game journalism industry today, as luminaries from Joystiq, Kotaku, The Escapist and MTV news come together to form the Voltron of writing about games, Vox Games (final name TBD).

The “dream team” assembled for the new venture has the potential to provide a serious shakeup to video game news and journalism if handled correctly. All hail from some of the most popular, well-known sites in the oversaturated field of games writing, and all will have their own take on how to push the medium forward. Hopefully Vox Games, or whatever it ends up being called, will prove to be a site that dares to be different.

But what does that mean? What could a “different” games site look like? Let’s brainstorm.

For starters, the idea of “consensus” among the media needs to go out of the window. Jeff Rivera wrote a good piece on this subject over at Gamer Theory recently, and he’s on the money. All too often we see outlets appearing to predetermine which games are going to be the hotness of the season, sometimes offering review scores which don’t necessarily match up with the words being written. Battlefield 3, for example, was almost universally lambasted for its (apparently — I haven’t played it) woeful single player campaign, but that didn’t stop it picking up a ton of perfect scores and awards. In some cases, this is likely something of a hangover from Gerstmanngate, as outlets don’t want to piss off their advertisers by rating the game that is on the background of every single page of the site less than a 9 out of 10.

Alongside this, the audience needs to be re-educated away from thinking that anything under a 9 isn’t worth bothering with. Eurogamer ran afoul of commenters on several occasions last year by daring to rate big releases with an 8. They weren’t wrong to do so, but commenters were wrong to assume that 8 meant “bad”. This is a hole we’ve dug for ourselves over the years, and it’s going to be very difficult to get away from. It’s tied in to the “consensus” thinking, though — it’s entirely possible that those reviewing a game for a particular outlet might feel the desire to see what other places have rated it, and, whether consciously or subconsciously, seeing these other scores can colour the writer’s judgement.

Which is ridiculous, of course, because scores are completely arbitrary and borderline meaningless. There’s no way to quantify “how good” a game is. There’s no universal measure of “quality” because everyone’s tastes are so different. Some people might think Modern Warfare 3 is game of the year, while I might think it’s the most insulting game I’ve ever played. (I do, incidentally.)

But the review scores debate is well-worn, so I’ll step away from it at this point and consider some other ways in which game journalism can evolve and develop.

Chief among one of the things which needs to adapt is the relationship between developer, publisher, PR and press. At present, publishers and PR hold all the power. Developers are muzzled from talking about their game if it doesn’t fit into the publisher and PR teams’ tightly-controlled marketing plan. We get press releases announcing when trailers will be released. We get countdowns to countdowns to exclusive reveals of some stupid thing on YouTube which they hope will go viral but won’t because it’s trying too hard. Many newshounds in the industry get reduced to little more than PR mouthpieces, frantically rewriting the press releases that flood their inboxes on a daily basis rather than going in search of the “real story”. And why? Because uncovering a “real story” might compromise a relationship between an outlet and a publisher/PR team.

This isn’t an anti-PR rant, of course. Many PR types do a fantastic job of facilitating communication between different branches of the industry, acting as a “gobetween” or “messenger” rather than an impenetrable wall through which information cannot pass. Aubrey “Chupacaubrey” Norris (Deep Silver), Tom “Evolve PR” Ohle (CD Projekt, Larian Studios and numerous others) and Jeff Green (PopCap) spring immediately to mind here, and are certainly a far cry from the PR teams from certain large publishers who take days to reply — and don’t even bother at all sometimes. For the industry as a whole to evolve, we need more people like this who are willing to work with the press rather than, as sometimes seems, against them.

And what can the writers in this brave new world do, besides not feeling obliged to fit in with the consensus of the rest of the industry? Branch out. Explore. Raise the profile of small-scale projects and the underdogs of the industry. Review the crap games as well as the awesome ones. Provide something unique — truly unique, rather than the press release meaning of “unique” — as opposed to what many other sites offer, which is an interchangeable retread of the exact same story also posted on all of the other outlets. Different sites should have their own “voice” — and this doesn’t necessarily mean being snarky, which is a somewhat overused form of humor in the industry today. What I mean, rather, is that different outlets should have their own take on events that are transpiring — editorials, comments, analysis, rather than the same dry old press release facts and improbable quotes from CEOs and VPs of Five Different Capitalised Titles.

Will Vox Games be the outlet to give the industry a good shakeup? I certainly hope so, and should the opportunity ever arise to become a part of it, I’ll be sure to do my bit, too.

#oneaday Day 151: Not To Be Read Until 4pm

This won’t be news to any of you, but sometimes in the games industry, you find out things and you’re not allowed to talk about them. The technical terminology for this is an “NDA” or non-disclosure agreement, or an embargo preventing publication of something until a particular time.

It’s obvious why publishers insist on this sort of behaviour: it allows them to control how and when information gets released. This means that they can effectively control the press to release the information that the company wants talked about at a specific time, ensuring that it doesn’t “clash” with anything else and get upstaged by something cooler.

Still, when something gets embargoed until a particular time, you’d expect the information that was being held back to be complete, wouldn’t you? Not so in the case of today’s Call of Duty Elite announcement, which explained what the service would be but failed to mention anything useful like how much the premium option would cost and indeed what the premium service actually offered, compared to what free members would get.

The practice of embargoes seems to be a relatively recent one. I don’t remember them being mentioned all that often before a couple of years back — but then, I wasn’t involved in the games press full-time at that point, so this sort of nonsense may well have been going on for years.

The thing is, though, it ultimately hurts everyone. People tease embargo reveals all day, then EVERY FUCKING SITE UNDER THE SUN releases the same information at the same time when the embargo expires, and then I don’t read any of it. If you follow games sites on Twitter and you do happen to be interested in the coverage, you’ll probably only click on the first link you see. This means it becomes a race for whichever outlet can get the content live and tweet it first. Sensible outlets will have prepared the material well in advance, of course, but sometimes that doesn’t happen and you end up with sloppy, rushed reporting.

Then sometimes you wonder why on Earth certain pieces of information are embargoed. I had a press release from NVidia earlier today talking about their new pair of wired 3D glasses for 3D Vision-equipped PCs. It was embargoed until 5pm Pacific on the Sunday just gone. It’s a pair of 3D glasses — not the most exciting thing in the world, even if they are under $100 for once. Why did that need to have a timed reveal?

As with most things in the industry, if one person does it, everyone has to do it. Gone are the days* when a developer could just go “Yeah, I’m experimenting with a thing. It’s pretty cool. Might not go anywhere though.” No, now it has to be a countdown to an announcement of a teaser trailer which leads to a countdown to an announcement of an exclusive reveal of the first gameplay footage which will coincide with an exclusive reveal of one little piece of information that no-one gives a shit about. (OMG! The main character’s eyes are directly scanned from an actor/rapper no-one’s heard of! Fuck off.)

I’ve never worked in the music, film or “general” journalism industries so I can’t say for certain whether this sort of thing goes on in them. But somehow I doubt it’s quite so tightly controlled as the ever-peculiar games industry.

* The exception to this is, of course, the indie development industry, who rarely, if ever, use embargoes and are usually pretty candid and open about the projects they’re working on. And all credit to them — honesty gets them far more respect from me than an intricately-planned campaign which drives journalists and consumers alike utterly crazy.