My girlfriend and I are sitting on our recliner couch in that curious together-but-apart configuration that has become our weekday mainstay. She is furiously trying to prepare a lesson for the class she’s supposed to teach the next morning, while I am browsing the internet and updating my GameFly queue. As the TV drones on in the background, a flash of recognition tears my eyeballs away from the computer.

“God of War III is out next Tuesday”, I mutter, lost in a fugue of geekish intensity. It’s hardly a revelation, but there’s a feeling of being blindsided that’s hard to process, as though the game were silently dropping out of nowhere. My girlfriend pauses to give me a pitiful look, the kind only given to very stupid dogs or very ugly cats.

“I could always buy it for you”, she teasingly replies.

“That’s a great idea,” I say, “I mean, it worked out so well the last time.”

“If you’re not taking part in any backbreaking labor activities, grab a swimsuit and come to the beach!”

A year and a half ago, amidst the media fiesta surrounding the release of Resident Evil 5, N’gai Croal issued what I (at the time) considered to be an inflammatory, somewhat excessive denunciation of the game’s imagery. I wrote off the controversy as a hypersensitive tempest in a teacup.

I didn’t have any particular objection to what N’gai said. While I could see a certain misstep in the general plot -- alpha-male Chris Redfield traversing the Dark Continent, slaughtering savages and establishing a bulwark of civilization -- at the end of the day I felt this was a bit reductionist and probably well beyond the scope of the game’s design. The Las Plagas Spaniards were, after all, just as feral. It appeared to me that Croal had read too much into this one title, because, after all, “it’s just a game.” A game that happened to feature African zombies, but a game first and foremost.

It was very easy to dismiss talk of controversy for this very reason.

After you, milady. Just, uh, make sure you take your shoes off. My lease is up in 6 months and I don’t want to be charged the carpet replacement fee. No harm in being careful, right? And oh, I am careful, just so you know.

There’s an elegant shoe-rack inside, directly to your right. It’s inspired by the classic Pac-Man game board. You probably already noticed that, what with the giant pixel-art Pac-Man Jr. on the wall. Perhaps you have also noticed the semi-complete set of ghosties sitting on the wall-rack, next to the FIOS box? I’m short a Clyde. My roomie broke him last month. That’s what I get for letting his coworkers use the place for a soirée.

Oh, but no worries about him. He’s out all weekend. Yep, it’s nothing but us tonight. Us, some shampagnee, and the 64” DLP. Sixty. Four. Impressed? Try missing a headshot on that baby.

The forlorn bookworm to your left should be recognizable. That iconic mug belongs to Burgess Meredith playing the role of Henry Bemis, an antisocial sop who would rather live in the dominion of the printed word than interact with friends and family. In true Twilight Zone fashion, this fragile little man was driven to ruin through the very thing he prized most: quiet, uninterrupted solitude. His lust for a little slice of quiet and an endless stack of books left him the most lonely man on earth.

It’s not so much that Bemis was a terrible man as much as he was terribly busy. Skidding through the demands of work and home, juggling the twin weights of wife and boss, it’s a wonder anyone has time enough for the simple comforts that make the fabric of life so rewarding. There is hardly time enough in a day to work and comfortably fit in a few fleeting moments of relaxation. And really, what good is life without its occasional indulgences?

Like Bemis, I stand before a gulf of hedonism, a vibrant immediate future that is comprised entirely of glittering self-interest.

It is summer at last.

School is out and I have so many games to play.

I wouldn't say a single word to them, I would listen to what they have to say and that's what no one did.

My fifth-period class shambles into the room. Groggy from a blissful combination of record-breaking heat, the end of a two week long Spring Break and a recently consumed California-approved lunch, they’re hardly receptive to anything resembling instruction. I quietly take roll as they settle into their seats, waves of conditioned air washing over the walls.

“Can anyone tell me what happened 10 years ago today?”

Blank, cynical eyes answer. They’re not insulted by the grade-school question. They’re not annoyed that I’m taxing their critical thinking cortex. They honestly don’t know. Then again, it’s the name that commands attention, not the date.

“Columbine.”

Music wafts through the room. My Zune Software is on randomize, and every 4 minutes delivers a buffet of eclectic harmonies. The high schoolers milling about my tutoring room could use some auditory stimulation to lift them from the doldrums of classwork. Those that are unfortunate enough to lack iPods are at the mercy of my playlist.

The adolescent at the desk across from me hardly notices. Dressed in black, hair smartly moussed into place, he's too concerned with the essay sitting in front of him. His attention wavers as I propose that the meager 200 words used to describe his academic hardships aren't making full use of the 700 word limit that his college of choice has allotted. The furrowed brow suggests that he believes it's good enough. As we try to find a fertile place to cultivate some valuable Me-Voice, the computer clicks to the next track.

A dozen notes play through tinny speakers. The young man's face changes. Determination melts away, revealing a sudden snap of curious attention. “Ocarina of Time?” he asks hesitantly. “Good ear,” comes the response. I whistle along to the music, an impromptu concert of geek cred, and we spend a moment chatting about the game. He recalls it was one of the first games he purchased for the N64. A thought flashes through my head as I quickly crunch some numbers. "Wait a minute. Exactly how old were you when you bought the game?"

With the last grains of sand slowly ebbing the year away, with the promise of a new year's worth of triumph and folly on the horizon, we inevitably turn the calendar back and attempt to wring a tidy label out of the year's events. 2008 will likely go down as a time of change: a year when a $20 independent game turned the concepts of game narrative and meaning on their heads, besting the efforts of larger, meaner entities; where the concept of continuous, worthwhile downloadable content inched closer to reality; where we, at last, honestly questioned the sustainability of print media in the digital age.

See? It's a hard impulse to resist.

Perhaps it's this melancholic need for street-grade Zeitgeist that finally drove Shawn Elliott to assemble his energies and spearhead an online Games Journalism Symposium centered around the concept of the review. Over the coming months, the video game community will be exposed to I.V.-drips of unfiltered Gamerista musings, with dialectic assertions and arguments spawning from what is, essentially, an elaborate “tell me what you feel” roundtable. Elliott's assembled pantheon is no stranger to the give-take of opinions in the era of web journalism. With Goodjer favorites like Stephen Totilo and John Davison, to former Elliott-associates Dan Hsu and Robert Ashley, I have little doubt the various forums, Twitter-feeds and blogs that compose the Meta-state of Gamerland will be buzzing with activity.

But is any of this really going to change anything?

I hesitate – now at the edge of uncertainty and self-preservation. For a second I'm confident that there is no way in heaven or hell that I will clear the gulf between the two ledges. I panic, break out in a leap before the runway at my feet expires. No going back now.

I sail silently between the two structures, deaf to the rushing wind that whistles around me. I could go on about the beauty of the view, the unbearable brightness of it all, the overwhelming sense of speed. I could let flow an unending gush of cliches about the lightness of the flight or pontificate about the perceived lack of gravity, but none of that applies at the moment. My blood freezes at the peak of my jump. My muscles tense, tightening themselves for the oncoming impact. The bottom drops out of my stomach as my heart pauses.

My arc winds down and, where there should be ground and gravel and halting, there is instead empty space and a sickening downward pull. I look up and I see that traitorous ledge move further and further away from me, mocking me with its stoic facade.

If only I hadn't panicked. If only I had taken that extra step. If only I could go back and change it all.

If only?

'Dear Mrs. N.'

The script is my own. The shaky composition betrays the writing implement, one of those disposable BIC ballpoint pens that my mom was so fond of stocking my backpack with. I haven't used one of those in years.

'This is a small token of appreciation from your Class of 1995 ... Thank you very much for your support. We wish you all the best. Don't forget about us!'

Hm.

The dedication is puzzling. I'm looking at my 8th grade yearbook and, instead of finding a modest assortment of autographs and well-wishes, I'm looking at a dedication written to my 6th grade teacher.

I remember signatures. I remember a 7th grader telling me to visit, to “be nice to all us Jr. High Schoolers” if I did. I remember phone numbers meekly offered, lifelines through distance and time. I didn't make that up. Did I?

Much like other here-unnamed members of the site, I've never been much of a gearhead. The thought of digging into a car to change out gummy oil or retune sparkplugs excites the Manlyparts of my gray matter, no doubt. But my family's auto maintenance motto has always been “take it to the mechanic.” And so, I spent the better part of 24 years with a kind of dignified respect for our four-wheeled friends.

I considered cars to be strictly utilitarian entities: Beasts of burden whose primary role was to transport a person (or a persons) from Point A to Point Q in as efficient a time as possible, with as little loss of life as able. They had bells and whistles, to be sure – power windows, tinted glass, moon/sun/noon roofs, cassette players – but those were creature comforts meant to ease your relationship with the thing, to make bearable the time spent traveling. The outside was largely irrelevant. So confident was I in this Substance First approach that my first-year college roommate nearly threw a Chilton's manual at me when I mentioned that BMWs were “ugly, overpriced, and boxy”. (They still are.)

As with most things in life, my girlfriend was all-too eager to show me the errors of my naive ways.