Tatooine Musings

I find your lack of MMO's disturbing...

noreply@blogger.com (Vossk76) — Wed, 14 Dec 2011 07:17:00 +0000

Well, after a couple of fairly light-hearted blogs it is time to turn to more serious and somewhat heart-wrenching stuff. And it’s a biggie today. I will make no excuses for this latest piece, but if you’re of the sensitive type or simply don’t feel comfortable with sampling the emotional outpourings of a grown man, then I would urge you to go and read Garfield. For this week, I will be saying farewell to a very dear friend. This latest blog is a eulogy in some ways; although I actually said my goodbyes last year, this week will see the absolute finale’ of what has been a long, passionate and, at times, difficult but always faithful relationship. I talk, of course, about Star Wars Galaxies.

Tomorrow, Sony Online Entertainment will shut down the servers for the last time, ending what has been an 8-year adventure for millions of fans in a galaxy far, far away. Gone are the days of scything our way through hundreds of Nightsisters, searching for that elusive Sith Holocron (4 of 5). No more, the heady rush of adrenalin as a fearless YT-1300 pilot, and his battle-ready passengers, barrel towards the Blackguard-controlled Imperial Star Destroyer at Ord Mantell. And never again will we hear the rising strings of John Williams’ soul-stirring symphonies as we stare across the barren Jundland Wastes, watching the binary sunset of Tatooine.

For those of you who don’t know what Galaxies is, but rather feel as though you’ve just stumbled into the review of some futuristic Mills & Boon novel, I will attempt to explain where the passion comes from. Galaxies is a massively multiplayer online game set in the Star Wars universe, where players could create a character from one of a number of species and basically embark on a never-ending (until this week) adventure. Subsequently, players could then choose from many SW-related ‘professions’ in which to train & perfect their character. The galaxy, and the worlds within it, was a completely open sandbox where this character could interact with other players’ characters & non-playable characters, in order to embark on a multitude of quests or partake in more normal day-to-day activities; Jedi could embark on crusades to learn ancient wisdom and wave big glow-sticks at people whilst doing so. Bounty hunters could chase down other players in order to earn cash rewards & prestige. Artisans could make any one of the millions of individual items of weaponry, armour or clothing needed to keep the galaxy’s mercantile wheels turning. And commandos could blow stuff up with massive guns whilst looking totally awesome. And after a hard days’ glow-stick waving, or crafting, or looking awesome, one could simply relax in the local cantina, with a glass of jawa juice and the peace of mind that there would be “No blasters!” whilst you flamed the noobs.

It truly was a masterpiece of entertainment in its time. As gaming experience, its sheer size, complexity & unlimited potential was initially overwhelming. My very first character spawned in a town called Bella Vistal, high in the mountains of Corellia (Han Solo’s home planet) without a thing to his name; nothing. No money, no weapon, no speeder bike and – more importantly – no bloody clue what was going on. I saw someone saying in the chat window that they were heading to Corellia, the planets’ main city. It was a 4 kilometre walk (the “Toggle Run” setting still hadn’t been discovered....) but upon arriving, those initial feelings of confusion & bewilderment turned into sheer amazement. An entire city populated by thousands of other players offering missions, advice, weapons, clothes...everything a very dazed & foot-sore adventurer could ask for. Traders, doctors, droids, glow-stick wavers, awesomely-resplendent commandos; they were all here to behold. The feelings of community & camaraderie I felt in those first few hours drew me in and held me captive for the duration of my playing days. All 2190 of them.

Yes, I played SWG for 6 years. That’s right – 6 YEARS. Not solely, I hasten to add, but on & off. Let’s just put that into context; that’s precisely as long as World War 2. It’s actually longer than the First World War, the first Boer War and the Falklands War, combined. And that’s a lot of war. In fact, whilst I’m doing the maths, that’s enough time to allow me to walk, slowly, around the Earths’ circumference. 8.45355 times. “Now then, scribe,” I hear you ponder “what on earth could keep you pinned to the monitor for long enough to allow you to walk around the planet almost 9 times? Surely walking past Mount Everest or the Grand Canyon almost 9 times would be a far more productive use of your time?” And I am inclined to agree with you; I could certainly have spent that time far more productively but it was that feeling of camaraderie with faceless names, the feeling of embarking on untold adventures with complete strangers, the tangible sense of uncertainty of what would be around the next corner despite the obvious intangible fiction of it all. I could literally type myself to death trying to explain these feelings to someone who has never experienced them but in summary, all I can say is, “I just really fucking liked it!”

I mean, come on; here was a game where I could play a 7-foot tall lizard, dressed in Mandalorian armour, with a gun that fired molten lava at people. Or if I got bored of that, I could change my profession to Jedi and run around scaring people with a big glow stick whilst wearing a dressing gown. Or if I fancied something completely different, I could train to build spaceships. That’s right; Build. Spaceships. BUILD. FREAKING. SPACESHIPS!!!!!!! And when I’d built my very own Millennium Falcon, I could then get in it, fly around space for a bit, blow shit up, make the calculations for the jump to light speed (which ain’t like dusting crops...), smuggle some stuff to Jabba and then hang around his palace looking at the dancing girls’....assets. Seriously, for anyone who’d ever seen Star Wars and wasn’t already dead, this was a freaking dream come true! And so it was, for 6 years.

And it is with the aforementioned massive reptile that a large & very fond part of my heart will always remain. During my first few weeks, I created a few characters, but none I was really happy with; and then came Vossk. That’s right – my online alter-ego derives directly from my online alter-ego. Vossk was born out of one particular sleep-deprived, dawn-hours Galaxies session where I was frustrated with my existing character, and I stuck with him for the rest of my playing days. Whenever I was ill, he was still upright & hard as nails. Whenever I was penniless, he was out looting & spending. When I was basking in the tranquil British summer, he was wading through hoards of Rebel troops in the icy wastes of Hoth. And when I was at work, he had some time off to do...well, whatever it is a bloody great lizard does when he’s not wading through hoards of rebel troops. I played him as a bounty hunter, medic, dark Jedi, smuggler, marksman but most predominantly as a commando. I had an alternative character, a trader called Uppya Transom (think about it…), but he was really just Vossk’s fence, a means to trade spare loot in order to make money to buy bigger guns or shinier armour. I put Vossk into the loyal service of the Emperor and embarked on missions for Darth Vader himself. I crossed entire start systems whilst engaged in life-or-death dogfighters with clouds of enemy ships. And, yes, I stood at the Lars homestead and watched that binary sunset, just like Luke Skywalker. And this is the crux of the matter, I believe. This is where I – and I assume many other players – fell through the looking glass; the true escapism that games like this, and their avatars, allow people.

Whilst my 6 year period in-game was generally a happy time, it spanned the most tumultuous period of my real life, especially between 2004 & 2008. I mean, literally, rollercoaster stuff; new job, redundancy, daughter born, friend killed, buying an apartment, losing the apartment, meeting women, losing women, earning shit-loads, filing for insolvency. I sampled pretty much every dish at the cherry pie & shit sandwich picnic that life serves up. And through all this, through all the bright lights & grey days, that little digital lizard and his online peers kept me ticking. Now, I don’t want to seem like some kind of mental e-preacher, and I am certainly taking nothing away from my family and specifically my closest friend, who stopped me going down the pan in more than one way (/bmoc). But, when I needed to get away from it all, when I wanted to hide from the dickheads I dealt with at work or wanted to tell someone about my daughters’ latest trick, I could always turn to Galaxies. Even your closest mates don’t appreciate phone calls at 4am to tell them that Junior has just farted so loudly she scared herself, but good ole’ Zingbot Wibblesword over in Denver, where it’s only 9pm, will absolutely piss himself when you tell him in guildchat.

And it’s in this sort of interaction that such a game should be measured. Yes, there’s a considerable amount of time & money that players should be prepared to commit, but that’s not the intrinsic value. You admire a friends’ digital home because you understand how difficult it was for them to amass that dazzling array of rare collectables. You feel for your comrades as they fall in virtual battle, because you’ve been ganked by that Dark Jedi Master too. In real terms, they may only be a Bothan on the screen, but somewhere in this galaxy, that Bothan has just become a mother. Or has just passed their driving test. Or has just filed for divorce. Behind the pixels & plasma bolts they’re real people, dealing with the same stuff life throws at us all, and just looking to share a brief period of respite with other like-minded souls. And there is the connection that makes the physical investment so emotionally rewarding. That we can, as players, bask in each other’s glow on the good days or provide emotional crutches during each other’s low points.

I won’t pretend I’m some sort of MMO Yoda, ready to cure all the worlds’ ills with a quick round of Heroics Instances, nor am I really sure that I could ever adequately communicate the personal benefit that such a game has provided me over the years. However, there is genuine value in having such a social avenue, especially for people who live on their own or are restricted, for whatever reason, in their social interactions. Indeed, I enjoyed many evenings when I had my daughter over simply chatting to my friends online, whilst not even playing the game. Any avenue for human interaction should be welcomed, regardless of how virtual or intangible it is, and from personal experience, when the creds are down, a problem shared is a problem halved. Even if it is with a midget Mon Calamari.

At this point, I find it interesting to note that Galaxies’ own existence was a topsy-turvy affair, with very high points & also very dark days (NGE, anyone?) but it weathered the storms of falling subscriptions, unfavourable reviews and out-of-date game engines to see out a very notable lifespan in terms of software in general, and games specifically. As a comparison, playing Galaxies on its’ last day of existence would be equivalent to booting up your computer with Windows XP. And then using Lycos to search the web. Regardless of your interest in online gaming, you should doff your cap in recognition of this feat – simply still being around when the Microsoft Help paperclip is rusting in an MSOffice waste basket, and the Lycos labrador is propping up the digital daisies at the bottom of the Search Engine garden, is a herculean effort of no small undertaking.

And on that high note, I shall bid adieu to you, Star Wars Galaxies. I never achieved everything I wanted to but you gave me more than I could have ever hoped. I pulled you from the back of a dusty bottom shelf in a supermarket in Colorado and, in return, you transported me to the star-strewn nebulae of the Core Worlds and beyond. It was a journey I am proud to have taken, and that you demanded the investment of so many hours was a small price to pay. I would like to say a big thank you to the following people for their time, efforts, support & general bloody-good-naturedness through the years; Nubius, Ziso, Fargo, Aidlywo, Ri-om, Ozakk, Iahise, Saer’, Surge, Tertius & Daiwa. And of course, Mack Shackalack – best friend, closest ally & always ready with a White Russian & a smoke when needed ;-) You will always be missed.

But most importantly, I want to thank Vossk. For all the adventures, for all the laughs, for all the narrow scrapes, for all the 3am “One more quest...” sessions; thank you.

And to all those other characters in that galaxy far, far away; the Force will be with you. Always.

How 'bout "No", you crazy Dutch bastard?

noreply@blogger.com (Vossk76) — Fri, 09 Dec 2011 18:58:00 +0000

Well, after only 2 blogs I've sold out. I've traded my journalistic integrity on a promise; a promise to a work colleague that I would write a blog on demand. So here I am, under the spotlight of write-or-be-lambasted-at-work pressure. Trust me, reader, I'm not proud of myself. I wanted to resist. I wanted to fight. I wanted to make a stand, like a literary William Wallace. But without the skirt.

But I caved in like a Chinese highway. Not so much William Wallace but more William Hague. But, in my defence, this was down to a very good reason; said colleague is a bloody big Dutchman. Now, it's not the physical size of him that's my primary concern - it's the Dutch angle. And before anyone accuses me of being some sort of xenophobic Eurosceptic, I would like to quantify my stance on all things Oranje.

The Dutch have given us great things over the years. There is the usual stuff; Edam. Tulips. Countryside that's very easy to bike around. High-quality adult entertainment. "Those" cafes. But, primarily, there is the Holy Trinity; Dennis Bergkamp Marc Overmars and Robin van Persie (my long-standing support of The Arsenal has no bearing on this, what with me being an upstanding member of the journalistic community...ahem...). So, needless to say, if you want to see some good football, eat some mind-expanding baked goods, jelly-wrestle with some top totty and be able to cycle home after it all without needing a 21-speed bike, then the Netherlands is the place to be.

Unfortunately though, despite giving us the men that gave us THOSE goals against Newcastle & Argentina, THAT volley against Nottingham Forest and THAT Intercontinental Ballistic Missile against Charlton Athletic, our cloggy chums have also done their best to scupper everyone's fun at some point during history. They ruthlessly wiped out elm trees in the 1980's. They neglected to point out the 2 SS Panzer divisions hidden in Arnhem in 1944. And they also gave the Germans the Synchroniser Gear, which allowed machine guns to be fired between propeller blade strokes on World War 1 aircraft, turning the tide of aerial warfare for the majority of the conflict. But their most damning crime? Their most glaring defacement of Mother Nature's sweet tapestry? They wiped out the dodo. That's right, the dodo. Gone. Extinct. Ceased-to-be. Small, flightless bird versus scores of fresh-meat-deprived Dutch sailors, their dogs, ships' cats & rats. Quite simply, de Vries, that's just not cricket.

This has stuck in my craw for a number of years now. Whenever - and I literally mean, WHENEVER - discussing our low-landed cousins, I would typically be heard to spew forth something along the lines of ; "Ah, yes, well...they maaaaaay have given us the Cape Canaveral cookie, but they wiped out the dodo!" The sad, lingering thoughts of Biggles getting trounced by the Red Baron's superior firepower, the Para's getting royally stitched-up whilst trying to get to a bridge that was just too bloody far, and the splinters from all those elm-wood pencils I had to use as a school kid - these all pale into comparison when I think of the dodo's doomed existence once Jan & his pooch first stepped ashore for a banyan.

"Why?" I hear you ask. "Why the poorly-evolved-bird love?" I'll tell you why. The dodo was, effectively, a 1-meter-tall, 30kg, flightless pigeon. Have you ever tasted pigeon? It's bloody lovely. And here was 30kg of the stuff that couldn't get away! More to the point, probably 10kg of it was pure, plump, juicy breast meat that'd never been used to flap a wing in it's life and was just aching to be pan-seared with some juniper berries, wild mushrooms & and a dash of port. Did the greedy bastards think of sharing it? NO!!! Did they, for one minute, consider that somewhere down the line, a slightly chubby Englishman with a penchant for game & fine red wines might want to savour such a veritable smorgasbord of pigeony goodness? NO!!! They robbed me of what would undoubtedly have been my Judgement Day meal and, by God, I am pissed about it and will remain so for the rest of my days.

Yet, I dare not voice these feelings in public & certainly not to my Dutch acquaintances, for let us remember that they had thousands upon thousands of such delectable, docile dodos....and chose to wipe them out. It takes a special mentality to wipe out your primary source of fresh meat along your primary trade route from one of your primary colonies back to the moederland. I mean, there's shitting on your own doorstep, and then there's shitting on your own doorstep whilst torching the house as well. I bloody love KFC, but I'm not so unhinged as to eat it out of existence. That is just plain bonkers.

So there we are. It is with the spectre of such Nederlandische genocidal tendancies looming over me - quite literally given said colleagues 6'4" frame - that I write this. If you don't hear from me again, assume that I have met the same fate as our poor pal from Mauritius...although being noshed to death by a Dutch sailor is in fact a fate worse than a fate worse than death, and so I will gladly go out begging my colleague for Death by Dutch Elm Disease if it saves me the ignominy of being served up on toast with chocolate sprinkles.

In summary, Sister Holland has given us much to tickle and titivate our fancies, but like every fickle maiden she is capable of taking it all away without so much as a "Thanks for the Brownie". And the lesson we should all remember is that Mr Fokker so capably helped the Kaiser whilst wearing wooden shoes; it can only make you wonder what the result of the Great War would have been if he'd got his skates on.....

Ik hou van de dodo!

To buy, or not to buy....

noreply@blogger.com (Vossk76) — Mon, 05 Dec 2011 17:58:00 +0000

Well, this is only my second blog and I've already got 3 subscribers! Thanks to Martin, Harry & Surge - the support is very much appreciated.

After last nights' introduction, it's time to get things up & running now. No more dancing about on the fringes of conversational mediocrity. I intend to get stuck into the most pressing international matters of the day; the topics that count for the people who care. So we're into the meat of it. The nub. The bottom line. The nitty-gritty.

Video games.

That's right. Video games. "Tish, paw and poo-poo"say you? "Naaaaaaaay" say I. Bear with me avid reader, for we're not discussing Frogger here. We're talking 21st-century, multi-billion dollar entertainment franchises that make most companies in the film industry look like they would but aspire to reach the dizzying creative heights of Speed 2. It is with such a franchise that I have just fallen out - Uncharted. For those of you who don't know the Uncharted games, the series places the gamer in control of a guy called Nathan Drake. Drake is a 21st century version of Indiana Jones (if you don't know who Indiana Jones is, please log off now and put your face in a blender; you'll be helping civilization) - an all-action, wise-cracking, gun-slinging, running, jumping, climbing, punching, dodging, all-round good guy who always gets the girl. And sometimes the treasure. Basically, it gives everything anyone of my age could want out of a game, with the exception that he doesn't get to kill any Nazis.

I got the first game free with my first PS3; I've completed it probably 5 or 6 times, on & off, over the last 4 years and still have my original copy. It really is that good. Uncharted 2 took it to the next level (urgh - sorry about that). The eye-melting graphics, brain-zinging storyline, spot-on scripting & in-depth character development were all dialled up to 11. Despite the slightly ""Hollywood" ending, it was still a truly fantastic experience - once again, I put in several replays and still retain my original copy. Then came Uncharted 3.

Now, taking a step back and putting things into context, October/November was a huge period for gaming. Uncharted 3, Battlefield 3, Skyrim, Dark Souls, SWTOR beta trials, Assassins Creed: Revelations & Batman; Arkham City all hit the shelves/interweb for consumption. There was also some waffle about something to do with CoD. Or possibly Haddock. Either way, I'm not a fan of Norwegian trawler simulators, so it's bound to be shit....

Now, with such a plethora of plastic playthings begging to be inserted into my slot (forgive the pseudo-sexual connotations, but we all know what it's like to unwrap that new shiny disc of joy), I made measured judgments on what to buy. A new PS3 title here in Dubai costs upwards of £40 - if the UAE Government haven't banned it - so I don't wade into these purchases with such wanton abandon as I once would have. In fact, I have developed my own bench-marking system for all such purchases that I like to call the Sliding Scotch Scale. It works thus;

[Cost of item 'A' / Potential Length of Enjoyment (in hours) = Fiscal Fun per hour].....or [A / PLE(h) = FFph]

Now substitute an equally-expensive bottle of single malt whisky for item 'A'. If my FFph is higher for the scotch, it's time to get a bag of ice. If not, it's time to warm up the sofa, put Controller 2 on charge and the phone on mute.

So, it is with such absolutely fool-proof mathematics firmly in mind that I approached the purchase of Uncharted 3. And reached a very close decision in favour of the scotch. But still, for a few days after, I umm-ed & ahh-ed, until I saw something online. A review. Or rather, a decisive review. An individual - of rational mind I gather, given that he is in the paid employ of a money-making enterprise - gave Uncharted 3 a score of 10 out of 10. That is 100%. Despite the feckless drivellings of all those arseholes who will inevitably beg you to "...give 110% .", you cannot get any better than 100%. In other words, said individual claimed that this game was interactive entertainment perfection, coitus excluded. And not just any old 10/10...NO!!!! 10/10 for each of 5 different areas of scoring; literally 100%. Not even 99.99%, rounded up. A straight-as-an-arrow 10. And so I was swayed. My liver was spared and my controllers were doomed to a weekend of charge cycles.

However, £45, 7 hours 10 minutes and almost-one-blog later, I'm looking at an empty hole in my drinks cabinet and baying for blood. That's right; just 7 hours & 10 minutes. That's how long it took me to complete, not including the 10 day gap where I didn't play it as I stewed in the general funk of realisation of how disappointing it was. As a frame of reference, I've put 50+ hours into Skyrim and only just learnt the skill which allows me to boil a kettle. Remember - this guy said it was perfect. PERFECT. Now, unless I am the victim of some seriously long odds, whereby I am in possession of the only copy of the game where the NPC AI is of the same level of most single-celled organisms, this "review" is, quite frankly, horseshit. During my 430 minutes in-game , I have watched 3 enemies run INTO grenades I've thrown. I've had 2 guys willingly dive off a cliff, rather than take cover behind the jeep next to them. I've made Drake dive through a solid wall, into a burning room. 4 times. In a row.

To top it all off however, the final nail in the coffin is what I'm referring to as "Police Squad Syndrome". For those of you who remember this timeless comedy classic, you will recall with great glee the frequent scenes where Lt. Frank Drebin would be engaged in a shoot out with the criminals. Except the criminals would be maybe only 2 or 3 feet away, hiding behind the same car/park bench/waste bin as Frank. Seriously, if you've not seen this, you've not lived. Or laughed. Unfortunately - but at the same time providing a very sad & twisted comedy value - this situation is an all-to-often occurence in Uncharted 3. Thugs, apparently hired for their cold-blooded killer instincts, will run up and crouch behind your cover, whilst trying to shoot at you with an RPG-7. And that can only ever be a bad thing.

"Ah!" I hear you say. "What about the much-vaunted multi-player options?" you pose. I have considered this at great length and will respond with equal balance & poise; "Bollocks", I say. I do not buy a campaign/story driven, single-player game for its multi-player aspects, just like I don't go to restaurants based on the standard of conversation I could expect to have with all the other diners. I go for the food. The meat & bones. I play MMO games for personal interaction, and have done so with many great guild-based friends for a number of years. This is a specific niche and no-one should kid themselves that this generation of console-based gaming will ever overtake the PC MMO communities. I will take nothing away from console multiplayer, but several hours on "Haddock 4; America Saves The World Again" will never replace the coffee- & booze-fueled fun-fests of Star Wars Galaxies, as Ozakk & I threatened to pee on everything in sight, including the Emperor. Nor the 48-hour weekend sessions where Mack Shackalak & I would hook up to grind out GCW points & chat to each other online for the duration...despite being in opposite bedrooms in the same house (some things are just better said in /tell).

And so I get back to the crux of the matter, and answer my own questions from last night; "Video game reviews; Are they reliable? And who gives a shit?" The answers, respectively, are;
a) "No" and
b) "Me, but I'm clearly a tit as I've wasted 10 days, 7 hours & 10 minutes on that tripe when I could have been getting legless on Scotland's finest export".

So, in conclusion my dear friends, I urge you to not put too much faith in franchises (except Star Wars (except Phantom Menace)), always trust the maths and certainly not believe everything you read. I have ejected Uncharted 3, and shall take it to Game when I return to the UK. Perhaps I could trade it in for a copy of Speed 2?

Stay frosty!

Kicking off

noreply@blogger.com (Vossk76) — Sun, 04 Dec 2011 16:04:00 +0000

Well, this is my first outing into blogging so bear with me. I have a Twitter account, but it is very confusing and I can never work out if i'm tweeting, re-tweeting, de-tweeting or just mine-sweeping. So, I thought I'd go for something much simpler like pouring my brain out onto an electronic notepad. Metaphorically speaking.

I've decided to call my blog 'Tatooine Musings' for 2 reasons; 'Musings' from the fact that I will generally be waffling about whatever I feel, with no particular agenda, and 'Tatooine' for the fact I live in the UAE & it reminds of me Luke Skywalker's home planet. It's barren, sterile, unforgiving, and full of hostile native lifeforms. And that's before you even get into the desert.

There is a nightclub (and I use that word in the very loosest sense) here called Rattlesnakes and it makes the Mos Eisley cantina look like a veritable family day out. Anyone who has ever been is to be found the following morning looking like something you've scraped off your shoe, fumbling, mumbling and generally feeling very, very sorry for themselves. Some people even miss their flight back to Europe. I have - this very week - officially resigned my Rattlesnake gate pass following a session last Monday. It's not so much the booze, lack of sleep, loud music, cheap women or cheaper perfume that puts me off - it's the fact that, after 3 hours there, even the INSIDE of your shoes stink of cigarette smoke.

As an ex-smoker, it doesn't really bother me when I'm in the club and you can't help but admire the dedication of the working ladies who put up with it for 8 hours a night, 7 nights a week. But waking up the following morning and thinking that someone's emptied all of Dot Cotton's ashtrays into your dhoby basket is totally uncool. Plus, with a hangover and conference to deal with, it's the very lowest thing on my "How to Wake Up" list. And this is a man who has once woken up with a wet spaniels arse in his face.

So, I shall gracefully retire from that scene and shop about for somewhere less grimy in which to enjoy a few beverages on the odd night where we are "networking" or (my personal favourite) "enhancing Regional synergies". We are in the process of identifying new sites for our essential "team building" evenings, and I shall endeavour to keep you posted, however it could possibly be a drawn-out process with several rounds of assessment, judging and critiquing before we make it to the eliminators. Still, as good old Roy Castle said; "Dedication's what you need."

Well, I shall sign off there for tonight. Tomorrow - "Video game reviews; Are they reliable? And who gives a shit?"

Cheers!