Sketch Plissken

In return, games journalists have grown distrustful of self-identifying gamers. The wretched miscreants that swamp Quinn, Sarkeesian and others with vile threats every time they post a video, a story or a tweet, have come to symbolise community. But this isn’t strictly fair. There are lots of gamers who are angered and bewildered by how some game sites cover the industry and its superstars; they feel they have legitimate questions about how games journalism functions. They are invested in this business and they have a right to their scepticism. It turns out, lumping them in with the rabble who harass women developers and critics has added to the opprobrium.

- the Guardian on the Gamergate’s puddle of piss.

BOO FUCKING HOO.

Anyone with half a fucking brain can suss out that the so-called “corruption” in game “journalism” is a feature, not a bug.  These platforms have never been more than third-party (or sometimes first-party) hype machines existing in a symbiotic relationship with the producers of the consumer goods covered.

If the relationship ceased to exist, so would the venues.

The readership are not the “consumers” of online geek journalism.  They are an audience, a demographic whose numbers and composition determine ad rates.

I play a fuckton of video games.  Blanket statements about the horrific behavior of gamers don’t bother me because I haven’t engaged in such acts.

My conscience is clear, and my experiences have shown that there are way too many of my co-hobbyists who’ve internalized shithead behavior.  

My “investment” comes down to “I don’t want to play crap games” with “crap” being a subjective term based on personal preferences.  I have a greater investment in General Motors, because my safety actually depends on the quality of their product.  

No one has died because of a shitty videogame or the fact that some work-for-hire freelancers and indie devs were socializing behind the scenes.  

There is literally NOTHING at stake in the “corruption in game journalism” nonsense.  It is post-facto justification for some unconscionable behavior by a bunch of whiny man-babies sporting grudges against certain individuals and women (who had the gall to enter “their” space) in general.

QUIT PRETENDING THAT THE ASSHOLES HAVE A LEGITIMATE GRIEVANCE.  THERE IS NO FUCKING ROOM FOR UNDERSTANDING OR A MIDDLE GROUND WITH COWARDLY TURDS WHO HARASS AND THREATEN PEOPLE ONLINE, OR THE DELUDED DIPSHITS WHO MARCH TO THEIR IDIOT DRUMBEAT.

(via truncheonthing)

truncheonthing:

1995.
September, 2014:
A 41 year old man emerges from a fitful slumber.  His wife and his thirteen year old daughter are having yet another screaming match downstairs.
He runs his meaty fingers through his thinning hair, pulls himself up into a sitting position, and checks his texts.
The mechanic says the repairs on the Subaru will run at least two grand.
Tim wants to know if the Powerpoint presentation will be ready to show by noon.
He pulls his Harding Elementary School Parents Day t-shirt over his paunch.  His six year old son enters the room and informs him that he accidentally pooped in the bathtub.
He closes his eyes and remembers that one shining moment two decades ago when he was the coolest motherfucker on the planet.
What happened to that leather trenchcoat, he wonders before remembering that he and his wife used it as bedding for their ailing cocker spaniel, who shit all over it.

truncheonthing:

1995.

September, 2014:

A 41 year old man emerges from a fitful slumber.  His wife and his thirteen year old daughter are having yet another screaming match downstairs.

He runs his meaty fingers through his thinning hair, pulls himself up into a sitting position, and checks his texts.

The mechanic says the repairs on the Subaru will run at least two grand.

Tim wants to know if the Powerpoint presentation will be ready to show by noon.

He pulls his Harding Elementary School Parents Day t-shirt over his paunch.  His six year old son enters the room and informs him that he accidentally pooped in the bathtub.

He closes his eyes and remembers that one shining moment two decades ago when he was the coolest motherfucker on the planet.

What happened to that leather trenchcoat, he wonders before remembering that he and his wife used it as bedding for their ailing cocker spaniel, who shit all over it.

vgjunk:

Some character profiles from Saturday Night Slam Masters, arcade. I’m surprised that Haggar was born in New York and not Metro City. I’m not surprised that he likes pounding punks.