I Want To Make Games

There's been lots of post-GDC blogging, but there's one issue I want to touch on stemming from N'Gai Croal's well-attended panel "Up Against the Wall: Game Makers Take On the Press." The panel allowed developers (many anonymous) to take pot-shots and ask serious questions of the gaming press on issues of journalism, review scores and the differences between game critics and game reporters. As ever, the discussion at GDC was a stimulating mix of great ideas, cogent criticism and healthy rants.

But one point (that I've already seen echoed quite a few places) concerned me a little. During the Q&A session one dev stepped up to the mic and expressed disappointment that many game critics/reviewers were crossing over into game development. He said (paraphrased): "This causes me to take every review they've ever written into question."

I guess what concerns me is this church and state idea between writing about games and making them. The analogy I'm making isn't quite right, because nobody really cares if a game designer decides to start writing about games. So long as they don't cross back. They're concerned that, somehow, game reviewers are softballing their criticism in order to get gigs. And I'm not terribly comfortable with this idea that critics must forever remain monkish devotees to fair and balanced review scores.

Here's the thing: I want to make games. I want to write movies, cartoons, comic books. I want to make music and art and anything else that tickles my fancy. I also really, really like thinking and writing about games, movies, cartoons, comic books, music and art. And, honestly, I'm more suspicious of people who don't have these urges than folks who do. So, yeah. Maybe some may think that my writing about games is worthless now, because someday I might actually stop talking about doing all these things and actually do them.

I don't think this ought to be the case.

There's a long tradition of people who think about and critique a medium before moving on to become a part of it. My favorite example (and the one most likely to peg me as some kind of fancy-pants beard-stroker) is François Truffaut. Before he was an influential part of the French New Wave, he was a contributor to Cashier du Cinema -- a revolutionary publication that championed the auteur theory and changed the way people thought about cinema. Many other contributors to the publication, most notably Jean-Luc Goddard, became part of the medium they studied. There may have been a hue and cry back in the '60s among the cinema set when this all went down, too. But I'd say the creative world is richer for it. Criticism may have lost a few perspectives, but the net gain is worth it. This process gave the world new ways of looking at movies and bodies of work from a handful of directors who were obviously enriched by starting their careers as critics. I honestly don't think that the fact that these wannabe filmmakers eventually got jobs makes their writing any less valid.

There are quite a few more notable film critics who have seen their work onscreen. To me the most interesting was the example of Jay Cocks, a former Time writer who Martin Scorsese invited to write Gangs of New York and Age of Innocence. Heck, even the oft referenced Pauline Kael saw one of her second-stringers go on to write Sunday Bloody Sunday. Just a guess, but I'm betting that The New Yorker was more proud to see one of their scribes earn an Ocsar nod than concerned that she may have used her position to get meetings in Hollywood.

Many are familiar with the fact that Roger Ebert dabbled in screenwriting. He is, perhaps, the best known movie critic on the planet and, so far, the fact that he wrote three jiggle pictures for Russ Meyer (duo pictured above) hasn't destroyed his career. Maybe if the guy gave a glowing review to Transformers, then got a gig writing Tranformers 2, we'd be more suspicious.

It's a question of selling out, I suppose. But who would sell out their opinion in exchange for a paycheck? I guess after the whole Gerstmann thing that's becoming a bigger and bigger concern. Honestly, I'm way too in love with my own ideas to rent them out to the highest bidder. Maybe some people aren't and that's something to worry about. But, I'd say they're the exception rather than the rule.

Later this year we'll test just how comfortable gamers are with their taste-makers making games. Penny Arcade have long been a trusted source for honest opinions regarding games. They've been assailed, a little, for their work doing ads and illustrations for game companies, but I don't think the vast majority of folks really call Gabe and Tycho's taste into question. I suppose there's an outside chance that Penny Arcade Adventures: On the Rain Slick Precipice of Darkness will cause suddenly cause readers to call every pick and pan into question. I kinda doubt it. Here's why:

If you ask any game critic out there why they do what they do they'll say 1) "I love video games" and 2) "I love my soapbox."

A soapbox is kinda pointless when you're shilling somebody else's ideas.

Mini-Rant: The Orange Box

I try to keep this blog positive, but the issue of The Orange Box has been nagging at me -- especially post awards season, when so many gave the The Orange Box honors for being such a great value. But I'd like to argue that The Orange Box isn't a game. It's marketing. Calling The Orange Box the best game of 2007 is like calling the #1 Combo at In 'N Out the best hamburger. The correct answer is The Double Double. The fact that it comes with fries and Coke should be of no concern to connoisseurs of hamburgers. Something similar happened in cinemas this year when the Weinsteins bundled two movies together and called it Grindhouse. Thing is, the Grindhouse package was meant to be consumed in one sitting. Death Proof and Planet Terror were shortened and cut together with trailers and all kinds of other stuff. I think Grindhouse really can be taken as one experimental movie, while it's really hard to argue that The Orange Box is a single game. Now, just like Grindhouse The Orange Box is being split up into individual parts, but unlike the Grindhouse (which had their missing reels replaced and trailers, sadly, ditched) they'll likely be no different from the games early adopters played. Is Portal, now, only a fraction of a game?