Being a computer science major ‘mdash; as opposed to a writing major, like many of the staff members here at the Guardian ‘mdash; I have the unfortunate job of penning a column that isn’t really taken ‘seriously.’ As such, most of the things I write about have no real semblance to the overall stature of publication. (Whether or not this is actually true, I can’t say, but it does allow me to speak my mind freely without the expectation of a writer’s lofty prose.)
The only real standard I’m asked to meet is to consistently share my expertise on one topic: video games. I’m given more freedom due to my lone ‘game’ status, one that is mostly misunderstood, and that only a few in modern society truly get. Fewer wear it proudly, like a heart on a sleeve.
That’s how it used to be, anyway.
As a gamer, I used to believe I was special. Well, not special per se, but I used to feel like I was in on an incredible secret, a hilarious inside joke. You know that feeling you get when you hear something really funny, and while you’re laughing your ass off, you laugh harder because some people don’t really get it? Yeah, that was me, all the time.
Most people scoff at the mere mention of video games ‘mdash; but really, they scoff because they don’t get it. Many think gaming is reserved for misanthropes in their basement lairs. But their ignorance makes it that much more enjoyable for us: the pasty elitists. We not only get the joke, but we get that it’s fucking brilliant. We share, we laugh together, and most especially, we pity those who could never fully understand this sly brand of humor.
Inevitably, like everything mysterious and fascinating, the gamer eventually needed an explanation. At some point, the rest of the world had to know what the big deal was ‘mdash; after all, it’s human nature to rubberneck the rabbit in the hat.
But, like a magic trick revealed, all the mystery and preciousness disappeared when games became the everyman pastime; something had invariably been lost in the mass appeal. We’ve reached a point where Playstation, Wii and other consoles have made gaming completely mainstream.
To the unease of original gamers across the globe, it’s now cool to be a geek.
To be honest, though, it’s not all that surprising. The mass growth of video games probably has more in common with the rising popularity of comics than anything else. Upon their inception, comics were seen as a detriment to high literature for their picture-book appeal ‘mdash; but those who fell in love with the medium at 12 and understood its huge potential finally grew up, pioneering sophisticated graphic storylines to combat the literati.
A very similar phenomenon is happening within the world of gaming. Every prodigy child who grew up absorbed in game culture back in the ’80s and ’90s has gone on to create hyper-sleek, evolved versions of their old favorites. They all played Super Mario, The Legend of Zelda, Metroid, Megaman ‘mdash; these games are considered classics today. As creators, they could see the potential in interactive storytelling and the kind of emotional response it could evoke, especially by way of a virtual universe that could provide endless hours of entertainment. Ten years later, it’s hard to find a male between the ages of 18 to 30 without a
console of some kind.
No one could predict how massive gaming culture would become. As a result, the market’s long been flooded with low-brow action games that cater to the most savage desires of amateurs. Not that I don’t play the occasional blood-and-guts mindlessness ‘mdash; there’s a time and place for B-raters. But video games have become lucrative, enough so that the nerdy connotations of ‘gamer’ are slowly fading away.
Even the fact that I know more about gaming than most is now irrelevant to my identity as a gamer. Truth is, everyone is a gamer of some sort these days. If you’ve held a joystick for over an hour, congratulations: You’re officially one of us. It’s that easy.
I suppose, then, that I’m reacting against what used to be the nature of a gamer, sort of like punk music, when it went catchy and marketable. Punk was a reaction against pop, but when it became a fad ‘mdash; blasted on radios everywhere ‘mdash; it suddenly became less relevant. Its very rebellion was packaged and redistributed as the new pop.
Similarly, being a gamer is hardly a mark of distinction: The badge of honor that I wore proudly growing up is slowly deteriorating, and along with it, a small piece of my identity.