Disclaimer: The opinions expressed within this column are those of the participants and the moderator, and do not necessarily reflect those of the GIA. There is coarse language and potentially offensive material afoot. You don't really think this is Kroll, do you? Don't say we didn't warn you.

Some time ago I wrote an essay for Newsweek magazine, for which I am privileged to be an entertainment critic, pointing out the distinct lack of artistic merit in so-called "video games" today. At the time I thought little of savaging such a crude, technological medium, as the bleeps and bloops of "Pac-Man" cannot possibly compare to the majesty of Aida. However, I was surprised to find that these "video games" command a legion of vocal and, amazingly enough, literate, admirers. Newsweek was bombarded with irate letters insisting that "video games" were indeed art. As laughable as I still find this thesis, in the interests of keeping the peace with our reading public Newsweek suggested that I might interact a bit more with the "fans" of these "video games". Thus, it was arranged that I would take over the so-called "Double Agent" column at the "Gaming Intelligence Agency", ostensibly one of the higher caliber "video game" web sites on the Internet.

While I dread interacting with such riff-raff, my editor is withholding my tickets to Andrew Lloyd Webber's new musical to force my compliance. Therefore, I have no choice but to follow though with this exercise in lowbrow communication. The maintainers of the "GIA", as regular visitors call the site, have been thoughtful enough to provide me with a form consisting of various fields for me to fill in after I have read one of the submitted letters. After I have finished with the form, one of the "GIA"s "technical" types will convert my responses to "HTML" and publish the finished column on their web site, at which point I will be free to return to the soft, inviting bosom of The Great White Way. If there are any semi-intelligent readers reviewing this travesty, I am sure that they can appreciate my pressing desire to be done with this foolishness, so onward!

While I would normally endorse the journalistic truism "view before you review", I did not feel it was actually necessary to do so in this case. I have seen video games many times, mostly in commercials on television, and have never been impressed with what I saw. I have actually played a video game once in my life, something in a bar on a dare called "Joust", sometime in the mid-80's. A pointless endeavor to be sure, I lost my quarter quickly and have never felt a need to try it again. For my essay, I looked over many of the interviews and research that my colleagues Steven Levy and N'Gai Croal had collected for their cover story on the "PlayStation 2". The interviews with various technophiles led me to believe that very little was new under the sun, as far as their misguided attempt to create an entirely new art form out of "chips" and "bits". The screenshots of various games, I must admit, seem somewhat improved over "Joust", but honestly, what are the chances that the actual games have improved as much in the same time period? I therefore feel perfectly justified in dismissing these games without the same review I might give to a more legitimate work.

The laughable incoherence of this letter only goes to show the validity of my position, that "video games" are strictly for high school dropouts and other troglodytes. But just to prove that I am taking this seriously, I called up Steven Levy, a noted computer "nerd", and asked him to explain to me how a "playstation", as Mr. (Ms?) QT3Z so eloquently calls it, works. Hence, in my own words:

The most visible feature on the "PlayStation" is the "compact disc reader", which, since it is the only part of the machine which actually moves, must be the most important part of the device. As Mr. Levy describes it, the "compact disc" is inserted into the device much like a music CD, indeed, it is possible that CDs and "compact discs" are related in some arcane way. The "lid" is then closed and the "PlayStation" then begins to spin the "compact disc" around, much like an old vinyl record, but apparently much faster. (How I miss those grand old days of vinyl! Many of my favorite showtune recordings are on records, and I consider my collection truly irreplaceable. But back to the subject at hand...) Inside the "PlayStation", something I like to call a "laser" is then activated. This "laser" consists of a "light beam", much like a flashlight but possessing some strange scientific property I couldn't quite understand from Mr. Levy's repeated explanations. Suffice it to say, this "light beam" somehow "reads" "information" off of the "compact disc", although I am not quite sure how, as I looked quite carefully at one of the "PlayStation" "discs" at the office, and I was completely unable to see anything, save for my own ruggedly handsome face. Perhaps there are tiny microscopic alphabet letters somehow engraved on the "compact disc", which the "PlayStation" then reads, much like I might browse the Sunday New York Times. At any rate, once the "information" is read from the "compact disc", some process must happen that converts the "information" into those crude drawings visible on the screen, but this process seems of little importance, since, as I said, it involves no moving parts. And now I feel quite drained after exercising my rational "left brain", so excuse me while I drink half a "Diet Pepsi".

Here we have someone showing a little more promise than Mr. "QT3Z", although unfortunately not nearly enough. Between his laid back demeanor and desire for "pornography", I picture Mr. "Bob" as a young college fraternity pledge at one of our less prestigious state universities, someone who skips half his classes and spends the rest of his time "partying", drunk on beer or "stoned" on "weed". The fact that he is aware in some small amount of America's great legal history is encouraging, but as Alexander Pope once wrote, "A little knowledge is a dangerous thing." What Mr. "Bob" fails to realize is the context in which the Supreme Court Justice was speaking, namely that it should be up to our elected officials and recognized critics to differentiate between art and "pornography". Mr. "Bob", with his limited mental abilities cannot possibly make this distinction himself, rather he should leave it up to qualified individuals such as myself. And of course, I have already spoken on the matter.

It becomes more and more clear to me that the primary audience for this column consists of brain-addled members of the varsity "football" squad. I feel very little need to answer Mr. Ardoin back (if that is in fact his real name and not just some "Internet handle") but I will point out that yet again we have the base male desire to stare at "jiggling" women. Or rather, I might presume, poor "digital" facsimiles of some imagined feminine ideal. If this is the future of this country, I feel somewhat better, for while the immediate years look grim indeed, the chances that this coming generation will be able to successfully procreate seem slight at best.

I think this letter quite speaks for itself. I remain firmly committed to my egalitarian principles, and I will gladly concede that "video games" may be entertaining and fitting for Mr. Smallwood and his redneck ilk, but they clearly are not for the refined palates of more civilized folk.

Awful! Just horrifying, I mean really!

Closing Comments:

I must say, reading the deranged comments of the absolute hoi-polloi has been far, far worse than my darkest nightmares. But I have emerged more or less unscathed, and more committed than ever to the notion that these "video games" are merely popular trash, and if left unchecked will someday spell the ruin of us all. However, it is not my job to do anything about such things, as a critic I am merely required to point out flaws and move on. It is an oftentimes thankless job, but someone must stand up for what is good and noble. Having done my duty, I am now free to move onward and relieve my mind of this filth. To "Cabaret" I go, and good riddance to all of you!

-Jack Kroll, pompous blowhard