“Johnny, did you want to say something?” That’s gone and done it. Saints Row 2 has violated the One Steve Limit, and at the worst possible time. On the radio, a chipper woman is speaking on behalf of her overmedicated son on the effects of a new prescription pharmaceutical. In the back seat of my convertible, Johnny – that is, Johnny Gat – is bleeding out all over the leather, mumbling slurred promises to a dead girlfriend.
Somewhere lost in a subworld of a subworld, a strange little bastard child of a game exists called A.L.T., a Doom II mod released in 2012 by a group of Russian modders known as Clan [B0S]. A.L.T. begins with the peculiar sight of a bloodied Doom marine in front of a door, frozen in the middle of a dying animation. A whole 30 maps later it ends with the player coming back out the other side of that door as that marine and dying. But here, in our pre-awakened state, moving causes you to abruptly take damage, and turning around
I’m a very accomplished photographer. My photos have been in magazines, newspapers, textbooks, blogs, online videos, television and any other medium that you can think of. My work has been seen by millions and will be one of the most important resources for the history of videogames. The only catch is that I’m almost never credited and don’t get paid for it.
In 1932, actor Peg Entwistle jumped to her death from the “H” of the Hollywoodland sign. Her suicide note read, “I am afraid, I am a coward. I am sorry for everything. If I had done this a long time ago, it would have saved a lot of pain. P.E.” It wouldn’t be the last time a superficial city took someone’s life.
If you’ve been anywhere near the ocean, you’ve likely seen barnacles – the hard-shelled crustaceans that crust over wharves and rocks and the hulls of boats by the hundreds. Once they attach themselves to a solid surface, they are there forever, resting when the tide is out, feeding on plankton when the tide is in.
The following is the latest in a series of journal entries chronicling the author’s descent into next-gen gaming degeneracy and assorted geekery — from getting his first television in years to trying to figure out why the @$@$&@@ you need two goddamn directional pads just to walk down an effing hallway. I’m writing to you today as a simple gamer, with a simple dilemma: What happens when you’ve achieved everything you can in a game, save for its one final challenge – and that challenge is so tedious, so time-sucking, that achieving it actually makes you feel bad about yourself?
A few days before my flight to Los Angeles, I was sitting in my office working on the poster for Geek Flea VI. It was early evening and I was vaguely aware of the room darkening apace with the sky. Without warning and for no apparent reason, my heart starting pounding and my mind started racing around a singular thought: “Do not go to Los Angeles.”
