2008 Woodie Awards
The Friday Observer
Once upon a time, "games" meant "Whee!" not "Wii"
Regina Pynn
Issue date: 2/23/07 Section: Opinion
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Yet another evening spent in my friend's room in Hayden Hall, with the attention of the room's occupants divided between Diff Eq homework, Mastering Physics, and a video game. My boyfriend has been playing the video game on and off for almost a month now and I am still clueless about what exactly its goal is. I know it involves Star Wars, but I've yet to see those furry teddy bears or Jabba the Hut, so my understanding of the plot is decidedly limited.
When it isn't this interactive part of the George Lucas universe occupying their time, the gentlemen of Hayden Hall are devoted to another game. This on is (I believe) played off a different second game console, also hidden haphazardly under a collection of wires: Guitar Hero.
There is no plot for this game. A piece of plastic that resembles a guitar (only with large, colored buttons and switches instead of strings) and loud classic rock music are literally the entire game. While it is fun to pretend that rhythmically pressing buttons makes me a member of Lynyrd Skynyrd, I know this is not the case. But, alas, I have a hard time convincing people of this after their third straight hour trying to play "Freebird" on expert.
"Video game as an art form has not been utilized," one guy laments.
"In any form of media there is some level of didacticism," another notes.
"It appeals to the basis of human instincts!" one passionately argues.
"Supersmash? That's the stupidest game I've ever seen," I chime in at one point. I hope that my observation contributes as much to their conversation as their critiques of "Medal of Honor" and "Halo 2."
But I've miscalculated something. The entire room of 19-year-old men falls silent and the turn and stare at me. My boyfriend shakes his head in shame as the rest of the room bursts into the defense of Kirby, Mario, and that bipolar chick who switches from a princess into a dominatrix.
And amid all this, I wonder where this technological culture fits in with me- or, rather, how I fit in with this culture. I knew before I came to Stevens that this was a possibility. But someone who believes the creation of Microsoft was original sin and the Mac is the messiah was certainly not what I was expecting.
When it isn't this interactive part of the George Lucas universe occupying their time, the gentlemen of Hayden Hall are devoted to another game. This on is (I believe) played off a different second game console, also hidden haphazardly under a collection of wires: Guitar Hero.
There is no plot for this game. A piece of plastic that resembles a guitar (only with large, colored buttons and switches instead of strings) and loud classic rock music are literally the entire game. While it is fun to pretend that rhythmically pressing buttons makes me a member of Lynyrd Skynyrd, I know this is not the case. But, alas, I have a hard time convincing people of this after their third straight hour trying to play "Freebird" on expert.
"Video game as an art form has not been utilized," one guy laments.
"In any form of media there is some level of didacticism," another notes.
"It appeals to the basis of human instincts!" one passionately argues.
"Supersmash? That's the stupidest game I've ever seen," I chime in at one point. I hope that my observation contributes as much to their conversation as their critiques of "Medal of Honor" and "Halo 2."
But I've miscalculated something. The entire room of 19-year-old men falls silent and the turn and stare at me. My boyfriend shakes his head in shame as the rest of the room bursts into the defense of Kirby, Mario, and that bipolar chick who switches from a princess into a dominatrix.
And amid all this, I wonder where this technological culture fits in with me- or, rather, how I fit in with this culture. I knew before I came to Stevens that this was a possibility. But someone who believes the creation of Microsoft was original sin and the Mac is the messiah was certainly not what I was expecting.
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