There are certain common disputes that arise among gamers with all the regularity of a metronome's motion. Some of these disputes are well over a decade old, and in that time they have changed very little with regard to their form or content. Gamers seem to delight in retreading the same argumentative territory, rarely contributing anything to the discussion that their opponents have not already heard years ago.

I hope that I shall alleviate some of that Sisyphean misery by tracing the outlines of these arguments, in order that we might sidestep them in the future. In no way should this effort of mine constrain free, open discussion; quite to the contrary, let what follows serve as a means to bypass the morasses that lie between us and our perpetual goal of fresh, interesting discourse. Think of this as an indirect roadmap, which helps you to stay on course by listing all the dead-end streets that intersect your route. Nor should you consider these arguments exhaustive, any more than you might consider the typical butting of heads in an online forum to be a thorough examination of the matter at hand.

Upon its release in 2002, the PC adventure game Syberia, developed by Microids and published by The Adventure Company, garnered immediate and unrestrained praise. GameSpot's Scott Osborne regarded it as "an adventure-game tour de force," saying that its "melancholy story feels unusually rich, a true cut above the stories in most other games of this sort." GameSpy's Carla Harker described its story as "hauntingly sad." Ray Ivey wrote for Just Adventure that "the entire story of the game is drenched in a sense of sorrow and regret," and Bob Freese, writing for the same publication, exclaimed in bold face, "This is, without question, the finest PC game I have ever played."

They're right about Syberia's story (or plot, if you prefer). It's pure sterling. But it's always a good idea to differentiate between story and narrative, the latter consisting of how the story is told. Very few reviewers bothered to pick at Syberia's narrative chinks--a state of affairs which I would now like to rectify.

The most remarkable thing about Capcom's Resident Evil 4, to my mind, is not the game's creepy atmosphere or visceral combat, but rather the circumstances under which I first attempted to purchase it. Normally, I am happy to spend money on the things that I desire, and those who sell such things are, in turn, pleased to take my money. If I understand the rudiments of economic theory, that's the way the process is supposed to work. But the crappy GameStop franchise located in LaPlace, Louisiana, likes to play by different rules. By the time my trip to that GameStop had ended, an unnamed employee stood dumbfounded behind the counter, an elderly woman had regained more than two hundred dollars, and I emerged from the store empty-handed, but nonetheless victorious.

People have often remarked to me that I'll never know what I have, until I lose it. Living in Maine as I do, and with the summer solstice fast approaching, that's certainly true of the nocturnal hours, which, through their excruciating absence of late, I've recently discovered are essential to my own mental well-being. This is because during the summertime at this unreasonable latitude, there are only about six hours of darkness every night, from 10:00 PM to 4:00 AM, and the corresponding stretches of sunlight are driving me batty. Not only does the sunlight itself afflict my sanity--though hell, I've got enough blankets draped across my bedroom window that this shouldn't be such a great onus--but I also find distressing the very notion of being surrounded by large-scale activity. I'm talking about the chirping of birds, the rumble of engines, the laughter of children, and all the other noises most people consider indicative of a healthy human society. Shut up, shut up, shut up! Give me back the world on my own terms, and I promise you'll never spy my name atop the headlines.

After all, I've got important things to do during the wee hours, such as watching cartoons. On this matter, I shall brook no disruption.

It is very nearly a rule that when my flatmate Gavin gets ahold of some shiny, new PC game, you may find me hunched before my aged rig, playing the prior iteration thereof, and pretending to be just as happy as he. He plays Oblivion; I "re-explore" Morrowind. He plays Half-Life 2: Episode One; I "revisit" the original Half-Life. While he lives in the year 2006, I make as if the last generation or two of gaming progress never transpired. This habit of self-deception is something of a defensive mechanism on my part, meant to guard against the frequent bouts of insanity that beset any avid gamer who has fallen behind the curve of obsolescence.

So, during these last few days I've been making my way through the Black Mesa Research Facility all over again. This happy occasion has prompted me to reflect on the undiminished glory that is the original Half-Life: why it was so special in its day, why it surpasses in many respects every shooter made in the eight years since its release, and why we can never really grow beyond it, even if we so desired.

On one sweltering, summer afternoon in Baton Rouge, perhaps three years ago, I visited a hobby store. I call it a "hobby" store because I don't know what better appellation might befit a store that sells games of all types, except for the electronic variety. You may know its kind: the store stays open well into the evening, so that the core customer group of high-school-aged boys will visit on days other than the weekends. Tall glass cases house row upon row of hand-painted miniatures for display, many of which have somehow gathered a layer of dust, in spite of their transparent trappings. And the selection of merchandise ranges from old, out-of-print Avalon Hill games, to esoteric tabletop RPGs imported from continental Europe, as well as Magic: The Gathering, Warhammer, chess, Go, and everything in-between. Such stores as these are guilty pleasures--shameful even, for some people--but the guilt fades quickly before the sheer onslaught of enthusiasm, which permeates the place to its very core. You can tell, simply by examining the variegated wares, and also the faces of other customers, that there is an unbroken chain of pure, juvenile delight that stretches from the games' designers, to the store's proprietor, right to the customers themselves. Hobby stores are among the happiest of places in which money is expected to change hands.

In other words, they're a far cry from EB or Gamestop.

Two weeks ago, I reviewed the game Coliseum for this very website. At the time, I thought that I had written something worthwhile and interesting; well short of grandiose, to be sure, but certainly up to the standards to which we are accustomed here at GWJ. I described the game's premise and mechanics, encapsulated its charm, and I showed what different approaches it took in contrast to most games of the same genre. At 6:17 AM on April 11, 2006, I smiled at what I viewed as a job well done, clicked "submit," and promptly went to bed.

And now, two weeks later, I am moderately disgusted with myself. Aside from some brief discussion in the opening paragraph about how some genres of games are not as good as others, there was not one bit of controversy in the entire review; no theories or claims on which I staked my reputation; no original contributions to the ongoing dialectic of gamerkind, such as it is. I succeeded only in my ambition to render an honest description of a product available for purchase; that is, I advocated that you all should spend your money in a certain manner. That is the sum of my accomplishment, and it's just not good enough.

I am strong of will and free of mind, and I can control the most significant of my own actions. This thought is now so thoroughly ingrained upon my consciousness that I no longer even have to repeat it to myself, with hands clasped about my ears while chanting above the din of dissenting voices, "Lalalalala, not listening," for it to hold true. But like everyone else, I am also a creature of habit, and even of plain inertia, and sometimes I wonder what good it is to be free if I should never desire to do otherwise than I have done in the past.

What experience has taught me about myself is that, left to my own devices, I shall invariably drink to excess and seldom wake, preferring a world built of hallucinations and dreams to one of muddy, springtime weather and a sun that is entirely too bright for rational eyes. So when my employers recently granted me six straight days of freedom from toil, I did what came naturally, renouncing the opportunity for novel experience, and instead plunging headlong into a bottle. In truth, several bottles. And why not? Why not let determinism run its familiar course, through that well-worn channel carved over many years by liquids both fermented and distilled? That, after all, is my goal: to imbibe, to geek, to whine, and not to bathe.

I'm sure that anybody more than slightly beyond my own twenty-three years of age will laugh heartily when I say that I am growing old. This is because they are ancient and jaded, and their favorite thing to do is to make fun of younger people and dismiss what they say. I'm not quite to that point yet, but I can feel the metamorphosis occurring. Oh, sure, the teenage store-clerks still check my ID whenever I buy liquor, but little do those vexatious whelps know that whereas I could once quaff more shots of the hard stuff than they had seen birthdays, and wake up the next day starving for breakfast, I can now only manage about half that amount, and I wake up desperate for more sleep.

Vexatious whelps, did I say? Oh no. I have reached that point. I guess my tired brain was simply too addled to realize it before now. The time, it does fly.

In the late 1990s, Interactive Magic and Erudite Software released three of the best wargames ever made: The Great Battles, respectively, of Alexander, Hannibal, and Caesar. Lately I've been replaying these games and exploring the intricacies of combat across three continents and three centuries of warfare. We who aspire to an excess of masculinity could learn much from playing through the battles of history's greatest generals; for part of the allure of wargames, and I believe ancient-era wargames in particular, is that they often far exceed purely academic exercise, and enter into the realm of male wish-fulfillment, with a force which, at times, borders on hallucinogenic. As I play, I can almost smell fresh blood mixed with upturned earth. It's so invigorating, it's quite literally scary.

Someone recently asked me how I became interested in ancient history. I wasn't immediately sure what to tell him, so I thought for a moment before settling upon the truth.

"Violence fascinates me. I've lived a decidedly non-violent life, and I'm a rather pacifistic guy, but there's something irresistible about violence. I mean organized violence in particular, as in warfare. And, as with any kind of study, in the study of warfare it makes sense to start at the beginning."