Confessions of an industry grunt: tribes part un

The video-games industry. Biggest money-spinner in entertainment and meeja.

What our offices look like. In our dreams

Ergo a visionary, creative group of individuals, all dedicated to ensuring that you, the sweaty-palmed punter, are given your fortnightly dose of high-octane, riveting, HD FUN FUN FUN FUN FUN. (Unless you like JRPGs, in which case please replace every instance of “FUN” with, alternately, “GRIND”  and “TEENAGE BOY WITH SILLY HAIR IN IDIOTIC CLOTHING”).

The reality is, naturally, somewhat different.

The alleged creative/technical geniuses are in fact a herd of sad, flaccid individuals. Without wishing to get too anthropofuckinglogical on you (primarily because many of these twats are barely human, and coprology isn’t really my fucking forte), we’re looking at distinct groups, each of which interact in specific ways with the other, each of which has adapted to its specialized role within the shit-heap that is the gaming industry, and each of which has massive fucking delusions as to its importance in the overall scheme of things.

At the top of the heap, you have the über-communicators. The opinion-makers. The fearless scribes who, with one swoosh of their mighty pen, can make or break your common-or-garden mulit-platform online enabled, PDLC-peddling megagame. The Fourth Estate. The journalists.

Or, if you’re not completely batshit insane and have, at the very least, the observational capacity of the average fruitfly, at the bottom of the heap you have fucking game journalists. These sad fucktards with their deliciously unironic pre-pubescently sticker-festooned flaptops manage the rare and unusual feat of being at the bottom of two piles, being the lowest of the low when it comes to cuntsack scribble-hackery as well. Lower even than dance-music journalists. They do not deserve your pity however.

Fuck, no.

We’re talking ponytailed, Shitnies-wearing clittards with major halitosis and attitude problems, brandishing their press passes and demanding to have first dibs on “evaluating” whatever new, glossy game we have to show, before furiously tap-tap-tapping drivel into their Delltops while crouching in corners of GeekFest’whateverthefuckthisyearis, trying to look important. Thrusting their tattered E3 2004 (“man, the last real E3, man”) courier bags into the crowd and demanding to be let through as if they fucking own the fucking joint.

(Clue: they don’t. They’re pondscum.)

Namedropping like plod-loving cuntfuck Michael fucking Winner – going on and on and fucking on about how they’re really tight with fucking Miyazaki, boys with Kojima, down with the Housers and regularly hang out with Yamauchi.

Babelfish translates: they do their fucking jobs by interviewing a bunch of video game “creators” – parasites who haven’t had an original idea in over a fucking decade and who are desperately trying to flog the limp umpteenth instalment of whatever half-arsed idea made them extraordinarily rich men in the first place (with the exception of Saint Miyazaki of Cool Japanese Stuff, natch) – and once saw the dude who did Gran Turismo at a press junket after-party. Shortly before being sick all over the harassed PR guy who was desperately trying to keep the alleged talent well away from the Asahi-downing jizzsacks in bad streetwear. And that was just the guys from Consoles Plus who are, in the grand scheme of things, almost human. Well most of them. Some of them.

OK, one of them, once, and that’s only because he had the common fucking courtesy not to go through my pockets when I asked him to keep an eye on my stuff when I had to go outside for a coffin nail at a legendarily tedious industry bash last year. Goddamn idiotic health-nazi smoking laws.

But I digress.

The only person lower than them on the Mario food-chain is balding “visionary” (babelfish translates: “has-been”)  Peter fucking Molyneux. Cos he’s a right cunt.

Polite notice: anyone who works in a check-out capacity in video-games retail does not work for the fucking videogames industry. Bene?