Taco Bell now, Taco Bell tomorrow, Taco Bell forever
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Welcome to Violence You Degraded Turd After many years of laboring in the vineyards of game design, holding aloft the Platonic ideal of what the Ars Ludorum can achieve, and working for the time when game design shall achieve its place among the pantheon of Muses—that fabled 21st-century day when games shall be universally acknowledged as the premier form of the age, as the 20th century acknowledged film and the 19th century the novel—I have come to an unutter- ably grim and depressing realization. You puerile adolescent- and post-adolescent scum don’t give a tinker’s cuss. Berg was right, when he told me, lo these many years ago, that there’s no point in trying to write a good set of rules because you idiots can’t tell the difference between a good set and a bad set anyway. Actually, one is better off writing a bad set of rules, because it will take you lot longer to figure out that the game itself is an unutterable gobbler. Dunnigan had the industry dead to rights when he said that games that sold were always about NATO, Nukes, or Nazis. Or rather, he was wrong only because he was talking about wargaming; the basic sensibility remains. Games are about violence. Oh, not Go, say, or Bridge, but the kind of games that fly in the dog’s vomit we gaily call the Gaming Industry. From D&D® to Mortal Kombat® to Quake® to Metal Gear Solid®; from the electronically-roaring arcade to the blaring TV speakers of the console gamer, from the tabletops of FRP to the snow-draped forests of paint-ball, from the hooligan-crowded stadiums of English football to the smash-ups of NASCAR racing, from the PKers of online gaming to the hyperkinetic spasms of real-time strategy, it’s what really cleans your clock, isn’t it? What gets your blood moving? What elicits voyeuristic glee? The spray of blood, the intestines spilling spaghetti-like onto the ground, the coarse death-rattle of your foes. You’re all a bunch of perverted little Attilas, without the guts to pull a knife or shoot down that son of a bitch across the hall in reality. And so you get your jollies through ‘interaction,’ the simulation of what you long to do but haven’t the cojones. Am I right? Or am I right? Enough with this high-falutin’ crap about playing a role or telling a story. Enough with the demands of strategy, the pitting of mind-to-mind, the modelling of reality. There’s no future in that, is there? No, let’s get down in the muck and wallow with the pigs. Away, sweet Muse; what profits me your inspiration? I see it clearly now; the route to success lies through the charnel house. Henceforth, I listen to other voices. Here, vile reader, you shall find what you desire. Violence of the most degraded kind. Suppurating wounds, whimpering innocents pleading vainly for mercy, torture and raping and cannibalism. Reality in its rawest and most repulsive form. Here, you will find the tools you need to sate your blood lust....
