Final Fantasy XIII arrives tomorrow, and I am ambivalent.

It's not a case of console envy. I don't mind that my machine of choice won't be able to render individual reflections on Cactuar needles, or whatever. I'm sure I'll be able to endure these supposed visual abominations without therapy.

It's not the silly protagonist names either. Lightning, Snow, B.A. Baracus: these are the characters I’ve learned to expect and embrace since first exchanging promise rings with the Final Fantasy franchise in middle school.

It’s not the characters. It’s their voices I can’t stand.

At the gates of Genre, Saint Pong-paddle awaits. Newly minted video games must register their official genre here.

Being two-dimensional and rather dated, graphically, St. Pong-paddle cannot handle a feathered quill and instead bounces a square cube into the appropriate category. It's a fun way to stay culturally relevant, at least until the inevitable HD remix of Pong.

The day's categorization has already begun. Modern Warfare 2 approaches first, warily checking the horizon for snipers before clicking the left stick to rush to the gate.

St. Pong-paddle says, "Soldier, I really shouldn't have to ask, but for the record: What genre are you?"

Modern Warfare 2 replies, "I'm a first-person shooter. Bang bang, tango n00bs!"

"Of course you are," says St. Pong-paddle, and knocks a cube into the FPS box. Modern Warfare 2 goes prone and crawls through the gates.

The door cracks open.

"Why do they have to make those horrible noises when you kill them?" she asks. "All that squelching and roaring and hissing. It's noisy!"

I'm not really sure how to answer, but try anyway. "They're zombies. That's what they do. I'm in the middle of fixing the problem. They need to be shot in their stupid zombie faces. See?"

I point to a zombie hanging out by its lonesome on the helipad, and shoot it right in its stupid zombie face.

She grimaces. "Yeah, see, that's the other thing. So much shooting. Can't you find silencers for your guns? It's really loud, and I’m trying to sleep in here."

"No silencers in this game. Maybe in Left 4 Dead 2, if you're lucky. Haaa!” I stop there, frozen like a tongue-snagged Survivor by the glint of homicide in her eyes. I drag myself backwards, away from the edge.

"You know what, maybe I'll just play Puzzle Quest instead—the wonderful blend of puzzle and RPG that knows when to shut the f*ck up."

She smiles and goes back to bed, just one thin wall away. The uproarious undead are safe—for now.

Sony may boast that they own the living room, but more likely it is the living room that pwns the console. The living room is generally understood as a shared place, an area set aside for social gatherings and relaxation purposes. It's a high profile space that sees a lot of traffic flow. People gravitate towards plentiful seating and the usual abundance of entertainment options and, of course, they default to the assumption that this is where they 'should' spend most of their time at home: living, in the living room.

When this busy, centralized area houses a medium that is intensely insular, perhaps the most selfish screen-god of the media ecology pantheon, there may be conflict.

There's a fork in the road, and the doe-eyed, spiky-haired mute pauses to think. He leans on his gigantic sword, frozen in indecision. Left, up through the craggy rocks? Or right? He has time to contemplate: No beast will attack while his feet remain firmly planted on the path. The world waits for him. If he does a jittery little dance, however, or paces back and forth, they will come. Oh, they will come. And his friends will appear from nowhere, swiftly murder the monsters, say something pithy, and leave, as they've done hundreds of times.

Neither path seems more promising than the other. There's no sign of rest along either route. No light. The hero doesn't understand why, but every time he sees a pillar of light he rushes to stand in it, to savor its glow. They make little chimes when he approaches, a song of greeting. "Hello," they seem to say. "Everything is safe now." The pillars of light wait for him everywhere: city streets, mountain passes, the depths of dungeons.

The hero would know what to do if this familiar sight lay along either path. First he would rush to embrace the light. Then he would backtrack and take the other road. Because, inevitably, there is treasure there. He would find a weapon somewhat better than the one he wielded, or a healing item to add to his enormous stockpile of goods. And, more importantly, there would be a dead end: a definitive signpost pointing in the opposite direction. The hero's curiosity would be sated, and he could proceed onwards past the saving light with confidence.

Before one can take satisfaction in the correct path—and there is always a correct path—they must first exhaust all alternatives. This is the Way.

"Good morning, Chrees-uh Teacher!"

The greeting rang shrill in my ears, puncturing through a horrendous hangover. It was a sunny morning in Seoul and ten kindergartners were awaiting English instruction. They were about to be disappointed.

"Guys, Chris Teacher went drinking with your alcoholic dads last night, so I'm just going to take some personal time dying over here. Why don't you draw me a few nice pictures?"

They stared at me, unsure. It was their second week of class. I was still looking for a way to jar them out of their nervousness, to push beyond rote parroting into actual communication, clumsy or otherwise. If I had to play that awful CD of chants and songs one more time...

"Draw the picture," I reiterated, leaning weakly against the whiteboard at the front of the classroom. The ceiling fan rattled and cut a swath through the silence.

I grabbed a marker and sketched Street Fighter's Ryu hurling a fireball at an evil-looking soju bottle. "See? Like this. Only throw some English words in there too, so I can show your parents how much you're learning."

Hi. I'm Player One. This is my friend, Player Two. He can't say anything because he doesn't have a mic, but I assure you: He's sitting right next to me on the couch. Player Two doesn't own an Xbox, so he comes over to use mine sometimes. I'm generous like that, because -- and let me whisper here -- He's kind of poor.

I'm a gamer. You can tell I'm a gamer because I have a fat stack of games over there, and the hardware to play them with. Ownership is access. Access is practice. And man do I practice.

Check out my Gamerscore. Yep, I earned all of those points. Except for the co-op achievements, which Player Two helped out with. When I say "help", I mean that he usually gets lost and falls to his death in a bottomless pit somewhere while I complete objectives. But he's getting better. Under my supervision, Player Two is almost ready to graduate to normal difficulty. I'm so proud -- It's like he's my very own newbie-baby.

Sadly, I'm not sure you can call Player Two a gamer, though. Are you a gamer if you don't buy any games? I haven't read any reviews lately that gush about "a stunning experience for the dude who drops by after school." Exciting multiplayer action is an important bullet-point on the back of the box, but we all know who those reviews are for: me, Player One, the guy who may-or-may-not break out the credit card at Future Shop next week.

Oh, now Player Two's all mad, says he knows way more about video games than I ever will. He reads Kotaku every day, like a big nerd. Well why aren't you any good then, huh Player Two? What's your Gamerscore?

Enough chit-chat. It's Halo time. Player Two, you'll be using the bottom screen as usual. No, your controller isn't broken. That one is just a little ... wonky. From the time I got robbed in Peggle. Accidentally threw it against the floor there. You can see the divots in the hardwood. It still works fine, but you need to make sure to always aim a bit to the left.