“Who?” Robot Pelloni, or Bob as he prefers to be known, is yet another aspiring independent game developer - a person who, well, independently create their works without the outside aid of money. Over the course of five years, he slaved on a project in the interests of gaining fame and fortune: Bob’s Game. A game that’s supposedly so great, it trumps everything before it. So what’s the problem here, you ask? Nintendo refused his product, and he’s gone into an enormous bitchfit as a result. Just how big is this bitchfit, you ask? He’s sealed himself into a room - cutting himself off from all outside contact until Nintendo finally gives his game the go… or he goes batshit insane. Whichever comes first.

His ordeal seems sympathetic enough: Someone denied his work; something he poured his blood, sweat, and tears into. Realistically speaking, I’d be pissed off too. But fuck, at least consider some of the other options out there. What the hell will barricading yourself prove? You’re not Gandhi; your game definitely isn’t a national issue, and you’re certainly not going to make anyone bat an eye towards your direction. Get a load of just how arrogant this guy is:

There is nobody like me. I have created the entire game, start to finish.
I am far better than Miyamoto, Itoi, Kojima, Carmack, and Wright COMBINED.
NONE of these “designers” could create the entire thing if their lives depended on it!
They rely on the assistance of others- and take all the credit. They don’t even deserve their titles! I have bested them all by far.

“bob’s game” is a game by ONE PERSON, and it’s one of the GREATEST GAMES EVER MADE- if not THE BEST.
I stand alone on a mountain no other has even dared to climb. I have swam across the ocean only cruise ships could cross.
I have walked through the desert of no return. I have stepped in the footprints of none, a path never taken.
I have MADE HISTORY, and history cannot be undone. It’s too late, Nintendo.

No man has ever accomplished what I have accomplished at 25 years old- it’s no wonder you fear accepting this truth!
My work has humiliated your teams of engineers. One young man- singlehandedly- has made their lifetime of work seem like child’s play.
How can they possibly compete with such overwhelming skill? It’s not even fair, is it? That’s too bad, Nintendo. I’m real, and I’m here.
You can’t ignore me forever. I AM RIGHT, AND IT WILL WORK.

This is just from his latest news post. I can’t even delve into the guy’s earlier comments without facepalming at mach 4.

Now, I love playing indie games. I’m an avid fan of Cave Story, and absolutely love playing Blank Blood and Windom: Bootfighter. I strongly support the movement to independently develop your own games; in order to bring some variety to a cliché-saturated market. This guy is making an absolute mockery of the indie scene, which is really quite the tear-jerker. I don’t want to see other aspiring young developers or potential geniuses turned down simply because of this guy’s actions.

As sad as Bob’s story is, the rejection is pretty justifiable. This guy has no marketing experience, a lack of team ethic as a result of working by himself, and has had no outside input towards his product at all. Combines these qualities with an overinflated ego and you’ve got a failure in the making. It’s really pathetic; almost to a sympathetic degree… almost.

If this guy does get accepted - as doubtful as that seems - then we’re looking at a rather bleak future in video game development. We’ll be seeing an awful lot of terrible RPGMaker titles commerically released if this ever goes through.

Remember back in the days of old when you praised game like Super Mario World 2: Yoshi’s Island as the coolest shit ever? The pre-Halo days, when mentioning the acronym “FPS” would result in a storm of bewildered looks. Or even the early days of GameFAQs - back when the collective IQ of its forum-goers was much larger than my shoe size. Call me nostalgic, but I definitely prefer then to now.

Fastforward a decade later: You’ll find a generation of people who’re disinterested in the merit of what makes a good product. People are strolling down the streets with their iPods, listening to terrible music; others congregate around a local convenience store, talking about how the Saw series is “the most awesome shit ever.” These are the same people who’re raised on the flawed ethics of “what makes a good video game.” As far as they’re concerned: All a game needs is blood, tits, gore, a terrible hardrock soundtrack, and flamboyant clothing and they’re sold. What about substance, you ask? Pssh, who needs that?

I mean this in the utmost seriousness when I say “gaming has become a social scene of its own.” The typical stereotype of what one might consider a gamer is relatively easy to identify: A feeble person who wears a pretentious Halo or Zelda t-shirt, banters for hours-on-end about how Final Fantasy VII is the epitome of perfection, and has a minimal or nonexistent social life. The latter tends to fluctuate depending on your skill at Guitar Hero.

In further pointless efforts to differentiate themselves from other “lowly figures,” they adopted terms and phrases. These include: “pwnt”, “BOOM headshot”, “I five-stared your mom on expert”, “all your base are belong to us,” and other banal idioms. It’s bad enough that people like this even exist, but things are becoming far worse with the advent of G4… a channel dedicated to mass-producing these fuckwits by the millions.

G4 is a television channel that claims to “appeal to both the gamer and nerd communities,” in the same fashion as TechTV (whom G4 bought out, sadly). The truth is very different, however, as the majority of their broadcasts consist of Ninja Warrior re-runs and the like. So what about the gaming shows? I count a grand total of two - one focused on reviewing games (X-Play), and the other that mentions them, along with other internet culture news (Attack of the Show!). I blame the latter for further ruining the culture. If you wish to know why, try watching it for ten minutes… I guarantee you’ll cringe in disgust.

Combine all these qualities and you get a recipe for the most annoying individuals on the planet. People who, as ZombieG mentioned in his latest entry, have a penchant for making your life an absolute hell. If I was ever given the choice to live with these guys or GaiaOnline users, I’d sooner consume Agent Orange and end my misery on the spot.

I don’t consider myself the most nostalgic individual.  Yes, I still enjoy SWAT Kats from time to time, but some things I’ve learned to let go of.  The music I listened to in my angrier days is all of the sudden less angry.  The masterpiece I thought Final Fantasy VII was isn’t necessarily the awe-inspiring becon of brilliance it was then.

However, I also do not consider myself a family man.  Probably the exact opposite, to be honest.  I have my own sense of humor, and if my drink smells funny to you, that’s probably because it is.  Enjoy your cider, my butterscotch shots are calling and they taste like candy.  As if it being the holiday wasn’t enough, I’ve somehow managed to find myself babysitting two of my second-cousins.  They’re half-black.  Not that it matters, but it’s pertinent information, so remember that.

Of course, I knew in advanced these pillow-biters were coming, and I knew they both played video games.  I figured it’d be an easy gig, we’d play some Left 4 Dead, have some fun, whatever.  The day of arrival, they get to my house at one.  In the morning.  I’m sucking down a Red Stripe like it’s a gorgeous nipple dripping future-tense inebriation and playing Team Fortress 2.  The boy, who’ll be referred to as AJ, approaches me while I’m kill-streaking as an Engineer.

“What’s that?” he asks.  I’m glad you asked that, let me tell you.  It’s Team Fortress 2, and it’s been ages since I’ve played such an  endearing game.

“Looks kinda like Halo.”

Thus began the days of perpetual rage.  I’ve heard about people considering Halo to be the forefather of first-person shooters, but in the days of the internet you tend to consider everyone who says it to be joking.  Little did I know that this phenomenon is very real, very obnoxious, and very… close in proximity.  Is my allegiance to first-person shooters?  Of course not.  Goldeneye was my first, Unreal Tournament was my favorite.  Halo doesn’t stand anywhere on that ranking, to be honest.  If people consider “innovation” to mean “just walk away and you won’t die,” then perhaps they should meet Doom guy for a few moments.  Though, I digress.

I tried, I really did.  Asked him if he wanted to try out Left 4 Dead.  His response?  “I tried the demo, seemed to much like Halo with zombies.”  What?  How the fuck can you say that?  Finally, I coax him into it after showing him some of the gameplay.  I did this on advanced, because normal is a joke.  He asks for the controller in his ghetto-fabulous language and I suggest he turn down the difficulty just a smidge.

“No dude, I got this.”

Are you sure about that, chief?

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

Now, I’m not implying that watching the undead rape a defenseless black child is funny (though I’m guessing the mental picture may’ve made you crack a smile, and it’s ok, I did too), but I’ve played this.  Extensively.  I’m just trying to help you out, kid.  The rape never stopped and I wound up getting him to the second safe house on Death Toll before passing it back.  All the while I’m explaining the mechanics of the Director, about how the better you are, the more difficult it will make things.  Just as the words “so”, “watch” and “out” escape my chapped lips, I hear the witch crying.  I panic, he doesn’t seem to get it.

“Turn off your flashlight.”

“Why?  I need it to see.”

“There’s a witch here, and if you shine it, she’ll push your shit in.”

He sees it.  Turns his flashlight off.

“Good, just sneak by her and-”

He starts walking toward her.

“What’re you doing?!”

“It’s ok, I got this bro.”

He dumps a magazine of shotgun ammo into her, then bludgeons her with his shotgun butt.

“Told ya.”

The game informs him he’s startled the witch(!)

“How do I pull out my shotgun?!”

“You can’t when you’re incapped.”

The game informs him the survivors are no more.

“I don’t feel like playing this game.”

“That’s cool,” I say as I grab a manilla CD sleeve with something special nestled inside of it.  “I’ve got the Resident Evil 5 demo.”

Just as I inform him that I am so awesome because a nerd I know handed me a burned copy (true story), I put it in and pass him the controller.  He proceeds to tell me about how much he loved Resident Evil 4 and how many times he’d beaten it.  Even went so far as to say he unlocked the infinite launcher.  That’s nice kiddo, but what about the Chicago typewriter?

“The what?”

The god damn Tommy gun.

“Uh.”

The handcannon?

“What is that?”

Sigh.  The laser?

“I didn’t know you could get one of those!”

Load up Resident Evil 5.  In the first short minutes of the intro, he said what I knew was coming.  “Why’d this have to take place in Africa?”  Why the fuck not?  How many white zombies do you see getting gunned down?  Damn near all of them.  Not to mention, Resident Evil 4 took place in Spain and he fucking loved that.  Nevermind the irony in all of the comments about Jewish people he felt necessary to make afterward, but that’s a separate story all it’s own.  You’re in Africa, the zombies will be Africans.  Go figure.

He proceeds to play.  Horribly.  I’ve never seen a kid shoot so much dirt in my life, and he’s barreling off shots like the game hands it to him free of charge.  He dies over and over again, ignoring the most obvious of advantages the game practically handed to him.  So much for being awesome with your Resident Wiivil 4 and your waggling, ‘ey kiddo?

After that brief encounter, my little brother decides to finish his game on Shadow of the Colossus.

“Is that Prince of Persia?”

“You nigger.”

“What’d you say?!”

“The enemies are bigger.”

“Oh, I thought you said-”

“What? ‘Nigger’?”

“Um.. y-yeah.”

End of night one.  I cap things off by finishing off my Red Stripes and awkwardly laughing whenever Oblivion asks me: “Do you really want to be a Dark Elf?”

I wake up the next morning and grief Call of Duty 4 on the PS3.  It’s fun hearing Arabic people tell me my mother is a “sheet” and my father is a “sheet” and I am a “sheet.”  A “dry sheet.”  He wakes up and watches me play, and asks me if I’m trying to suck on purpose.

Why, yes.  Yes I am.  I show him the hospitable messages the fines denizens of the world have been leaving me and he laughs, which is good.  Then, he proceeds to tell me about how much ass he kicks on Call of Duty.  I offer him the controller, and it’s slaughter.  Having Call of Duty 4 for both the PS3 and 360, I think I can safely make the call that PSN users are a bit more casual than the 360 group.  I hear those frat boys with Cheetoh stains on their A&F shirts can be pretty mean after a Weiser or two.

I decide to cut the sodomy short and ask him if he wants to play Halo 3.  His eyes light up and he says sure, so I turn on my 360 and… what’s this?  This isn’t my profile.

“Oh, I meant to tell you.  I took out your hard drive while you were asleep.”

You did… what.  Ok, ok.  Calm down.  Just play the damn game.

So, we’re on High Ground, starting weapons are terrible, it’s like an actual match.  The ending score was 75-32, my only weapon(s) being dual SMG’s.  During the extensive length of this tenure, I was suffering trash talk at the behest of the self-proclaimed king of grenade “bouncing”.  Oh… kay…

I decide to end things early that night and play some Witcher when I hear something.. oddly familiar.  I believe that’s… Yeah.  That’s Naruto Ultimate Ninja on my 360.  This is the part where I laugh and lose the battle.

Next to last day, and I just want to sleep.  I’ve had to endure nonsense about how this kid doesn’t let people even bring PS3’s to his house because he so despises the console, even his sing-alongs with Naruto dialog.  I’m ready for this shit to end like right now.  I hop on the desktop, load up Command and Conquer Generals: Zero Hour after something catches my eye.  The memory card for a sibling’s digital camera is lodged in my computer.  With MySpace photos.  Cleverly angled ones.  I facepalm and search around a little bit more.  This poor child had left himself logged in, so I took the liberty of browsing around.  Basketball  players?  Check.  Rappers with Bart Simpson bling?  Check.   Naruto?  Che-wait, what?  Naruto?

I saved as much data from his MySpace page as I possibly could, and added a second e-mail account named “Moonjamin Franklin,” a title I’m particularly happy about.  It might take a little while, but it’s coming, kid.  Your password’s been saved in Forefox’s cache, I’m going to enjoy that destruction very, very much.  This was made apparent whenever I read what he’d written in the “what are you doing” field.  His entry?

“I spent my day watching nerds play video games.”

That was the final straw.  I tolerated the Naruto, the comparison between every game I liked to Halo, the constant spoiled brat-ishness, even that one game where you killed iconic mythical creatures and howled like a madman doing it.  No, I do not want to see Minotaurs die, I want to see them live happily in a land full of Narwhals and Sasquatches and Giant Squids who serve tea with all eight tendrils.  Delicious motherfuckering tea.  You may consider that nerdish behavior, but between this kid and me, one of us watches Naruto and edits their Myspace templates religiously, the other does not.  I have a social life I rather enjoy, I’ll be bartending butterscotch shots and amaretto sours at a house-warming party in just a few days.  The other one will be stuck behind a computer screen constantly eyeing his MySpace page.

I’ll be driving this kid to North Carolina today, and it’ll be a long trip.  You better believe there will be a significant amount of gore-grind and drone metal blaring in my vehicle.

I’m not one to blog, but last night was particularly shitty.

2008 was the worst year ever, and I’ll tell you why.

I got arrested this year. The story behind it is very strange, but it
happened, and I have to deal with it. Honestly, I’m not sure how I can pay for
the classes I must take as a result of my arrest. I’m probably going to be
shipped to jail to pay for my crime with time. Something like that just seems
like no big deal to me anymore, because I’ve had to bear the weight of these
thoughts for the entire year. Granted, it could be a lot worse, but God dammit
anyways. God dammit, that’s all I can say.

I think my right middle finger might be broken. Really, though, I’m not one
to do this kind of thing, blogging. But I just woke up, relatively early, and I
don’t have anyone to share these thoughts with. So here they are, public but
anonymous at the same time. I digress. My finger, it hurts a lot. I can move
it, but when I do, it’s painful. My right, big toe feels same way. I remember
falling last night, that’s probably why this has happened. If you haven’t caught
on by now, I drank last night. I drank a lot.

You know when you get to the party and there’s one person that is very drunk
and he or she is being a complete ass? That was me last night. That was a hell
of a twist, eh? Anyways, I bought the majority of the liquor, but that was only
motivation to drink more for me. I can’t really talk much about last night,
because I hardly remember it; I just remember being really drunk and feeling
really shitty as I walked home. What a perfect way to wrap up the worst year in
history.

I need a girlfriend too.

So, yeah. I’m supposed to show up to band rehearsal today – I’m counted on
for this kind of shit – but I don’t think I’ll make it, given my condition. As
if it wasn’t enough that I made an ass of myself in front of my guitarist and
his girlfriend last night, I have to go ahead and do this to him too. Have you
ever played the drums while you were hung over?

Well, anyways, I hope you all had a great New Years, and I really mean it.
Mine wasn’t so great, but I really hope it will start to pick up for me this
year. I hate to ramble on about my problems, I guess I’m going to go ahead and
blame it on the remains of the alcohol I drank last night still coursing
through my veins.

God dammit.