Where’s The Fun Button?

"FFFFFUUUUUUUUU-N!!"

Australian gamers now have reason to wipe the Mountain Dew from the bum-fluff on their chins and smile. After years of campaigning, the Australian government has finally said ‘yes’ to an R18+ classification category for video games. This means the games that were previously deemed a little too mature for a ‘mature’ rating can be sold to adults rather than banned outright. It’s the official, legally-recognition of video game’s growth into adulthood. Finally, the lawmakers can see video games no longer a toy… but a fully-fledged form of media. Great! Right?

Well yes, but it’s prompted me to realise something. Something that would make the gawky 12-year-old version of me shake his bowl-cut head in devastated betrayal.

Games are just not fun anymore.

Fun is frivolous, carefree and enjoyable. It’s frolicking around sprinklers on a hot day, sliding around linoleum in socks… almost breaking a rotator-cuff trying to bounce a bouncy-ball into orbit… that’s fun. Repeatedly witnessing your gory, simulated death in every twisted, horrific and physically-realistic way imaginable… that’s a little different.

‘Fun’ seems to have slipped down the ladder of priorities of those who produce video games, well down below ‘profitability’ and ‘technical showboating’. It’s as if every game simply must be a virtual portal into another world, a world where every detail of minutiae is pored over. Somewhere, ‘fun’ lost out to ‘immersive’ as the one-word answer to: ‘what should a video game be?’

So, immersed we are. Immersed in worlds that do their best to deceive our senses with realism, blockbuster spectacle and ultra micro-management.  It’s Call of Duty here, Skyrim there… video games today are so damned complicated. They’re not the pastime of yesteryear you could nonchalantly pick up and enjoy, no – they’re binding commitments that seize huge tracts of your already-scarce attention span and ‘immerse’ you in a world of stress and emotional bombardment.

Nothing more fun than getting knifed in the ear!

Boot up Modern Warfare 3 for some happy online gun-slinging and in no way does the word ‘fun’ come close to describing your first encounter. You’re thrust into a chaotic warzone armed with an impotent spud gun and no idea what to do. The dozen other player are all 14 years old and armed to the teeth with weaponry devised by Satan and a vocabulary that would make Gordon Ramsay cry into his couscous fritters.  And no matter what, they’ll kill you. They’ll shoot and stab and kill you some more before you even figure out what button you press to cower in a bunker and sob. It’s ruthless, frustrating and downright demoralising. Worst of all, because your ‘noob’-ness is on display for all to see thanks to the levelling-system, you attract every single bullet, rocket, grenade, throwing knife and goddamned apache airstrike on the battlefield. Oh and every blunt, spiteful insult…you WILL be the victim of brutal verbal hate crimes, of that there is no doubt. ‘Fun’ doesn’t really materialise until you’ve endured several dozen hours of being repeatedly murdered – and frustrated to the point you’ve almost smashed your controller through your own face.

That’s MW3 – the game that took just 16 days to rake in $1 billion revenue.

Then there’s Skyrim. A game that, unfortunately, has addicted me with unrelenting force… get it? Probably not, because the only people who might get that are chained to their Skyrim slave-master, promising themselves for the 37th time they’ll go outside ‘after just one more quest… just one…’  That or they’re dead; in a dank study littered with Pringles crumbs and half-finished bottles of Pepsi – their pallid corpses lit up by the flickering load screen of the vampire-filled Cronvangr Cave. Grim.  But again, it’s hard to really describe the game as ‘fun’.  Skyrim is impressive, it’s interesting, it’s engaging – sensationally immersive for sure… but is ‘fun’ the word you use to describe the experience where you spend most of your time trekking about, stealing cabbages from barrels? How about endless conversations with characters who sound like a cross between Arnold Schwarzenegger and the Swedish chef from the Muppets? It depends on how much you love cabbage and puppets.

It can be too overwhelming.

Virtual baked potatoes? My favourite!

The old days – it’s always the old days – were simpler. I do miss those days when video games were two-dimensions – pixels and beeps, but we played them anyway. The decent downloadable offerings are few and far between, and even handheld gaming is getting lost in technological mad science. Perhaps I’m drunk on nostalgia, but nothing surpasses the modest charm of those 8 or 16-bit console games that I grew up with. You had three buttons: run, jump and punch. That’s how you got by.  In everything. There was no stealth mode, no micro-managing, no morality-meters and no agonising over the customisable length of your character’s goatee hair… just baddies to jump on and lava to jump over. Run, jump, punch. It takes about six buttons and two cracked metacarpals to run in a video game today. Or worse, you actually have to run and jump yourself.

I suppose that’s an ironically verbose way of saying that simplicity is an underrated quality these days. We wrongfully assume ‘simple’ means ‘primitive’, or’ inferior’. But not everything thing has to shatter the boundaries of what we think is possible. Sometimes simplicity is the more efficient gratification, It demands little, but can yield the same pleasure as something far more complex. It doesn’t matter if you reach your goal by jumping across colourful platforms, or by single-handedly taking down battalions of enemy soldiers from the back of a burning helicopter… if you win, you win. Do we really have to work so hard for a little fun?

It’s time I holstered my Akimbo P90 SMGs and blew the dust off my old Sega Megadrive.


Word Up

I hate ‘puritans’ of language. Hate is a strong word, but I really do. You know the type, the pretentious stormtroopers of the grammar Nazi party: the feckless, condescending jerks who seek desperate intellectual credit by spouting endless nonsense about their false passion  for and knowledge of The English Language.

I’m not talking about those who respect correct spelling. I’m talking about the smarmy ones who peer down their beaks at anyone whose Facebook status is missing a comma and wince whenever ‘who’ is used instead of ‘whom’.  They clutch their little orange Penguin Classic paperback tightly and find joy in their pompous judgement of texts. It is of zero importance to them that something reads enjoyably or naturally or poignantly. It can be so overwrought and tedious your eyes would tear up and refuse to read it, but so long as it is cleansed of demonic split infinitives, non-reflexive pronouns and (gasp) stranded prepositions, then it gets their stamp of approval. Well, to these people I repeat the withering retort that may or may not have been said by Sir Winston Churchill: “This is the kind of tedious nonsense up with which I will not put.”

There is nothing wrong about being passionate about language. I love it, it’s a fascinating phenomenon. But it’s just so fascist to think the joy of language is to sniff out the zee radicals and punish them in zee manner befitting zee crime. I believe the true joy found in language is its artistic malleability. The written word yields great power when used cleverly, not necessarily correctly. Churchill’s quote demonstrates this deftly, cheekily – utterly brilliantly. True mastery of language is not to adhere to linguistic law but to bend its supposed boundaries and rules to craft a message with wit, intention and impact. The message is always more important than immaculate grammatical piety. Think of the ‘spoon’ scene in the Matrix. There is no spoon. Of spoon, there is none. Cut to Keanu Reeves’ vacant expression aaaand there it is. It all makes sense now.

Words and punctuation are just the materials to create language. They are imbued with their own meanings and purposes, but they are there to be manipulated, reshaped – reforged. Language is alive. It evolves over time, it empowers those who use it and it defines the culture they live in. But it can only do so if it’s able to move as nimbly as society itself. Worrying over correctness of words is like sheltering a child from the world; safeguarded from evil, but denied the opportunity to grow and flourish. If you really loved language, you’d let it be free. You wouldn’t allow it to perish, imprisoned on the pages of stale dictionaries and reference tomes.

So, if I casually slip in a ‘totes’ mid-conversation without a need to explain its meaning – where’s the problem? New words come, old words go. Words have to change. They need to adapt so they can continue to survive in the vibrant ecology of language. We naturally decide what sticks; we adopt the terms and idioms that offer us enough sense to improve communication and reject those that don’t. Why did so many English words shed the letter ‘e’ from their posteriors? Why is it that Americans and British use semi-colons differently? For the same reason our modern banter is a delicious, steaming casserole of leftovers from ancient Greek, Roman, Celtic, Viking and Germanic speak: you cannot quell the course of nature.

'Sir, I'll remind you it is a serious offence to expose your dangling participle in public.'

Sure there must be something keeping us from falling into complete linguistic anarchy – but it’s self regulation. I believe the rules are ‘should’ not ‘must’. It’s not engineering – you build intangible structures with language, not bridges that could buckle and fall into the sea and claim thousands of lives with it. The only thing at risk of collapse is meaning, but that’s a relative concept.

If we insist on composing a list of rules, they should be flexible enough to change too, when the time is right, or when someone shows us a better way. William Shakespeare cared not for Propere Englishe. He wrote for his audience: the great unwashed, the toothless and uneducated. His words today are vaunted today as the absolute epitome of English eloquence and mastery of phrase, and perhaps that’s because in the 16th Century there were no defined rules of grammar.  In fact, its the shoulders of the Bard and contemporaries such as Sir Philip Sidney and Christopher Marlowe (who some believe was Shakespeare), that carried the English language into a new era – to it’s very own enlightenment. These literary pioneers enriched language by expanding the vocabulary, giving words more life and purpose. Nouns and verbs meshed; phrases were coined; words were invented, extended, inverted and upended. The number of words Shakespeare is responsible for introducing to the English tongue is something in the region of 2,000. It’s staggering, and it confirmed his place as one of the most important people in English history. But today, as the English language sits wrapped and bound with more locks and shackles than even Houdini would dare wear, anyone daring enough to experiment with words so liberally is a linguistic heathen.

Well, besides the fact that  no-one can ordain themselves the right to police language, I think the language pedant’s problem has nothing to do with their love of language and pain at seeing it tampered with. It’s that they are scared of the fact that they really do not have control over something that’s used to apply some sort of class superiority over others. Education is the foundation of class-division in a Anglicised society; centuries ago it was having an education at all, these days it’s about exclusive schools and the supposed quality attached to that. Proper English, it seems, is a projection of this educational superiority, not talking like a commoner and all. But, like all nobility in history, they fear the peasantry. Land barons forever dreaded the day they’d awake to peer out their castle window and see the entire townsfolk lined at the crest of the hill, hoisting pitchforks and baying for blood. Well, that innate fear of uprising exists within the pretentiousness of the language pedants. ‘The commoners are after our words and heaven knows what atrocious evils they will commit upon them!’

Well, as long as peasants with pens continue to mangle, mutilate and maim the English language, I’ll indulge the apparently sadistic pleasure. Language is rad, like totes rad.

And here, doing it a shitload betterer than I, is Stephen Fry making the same argument.


Of Pirates and Whales

The Sea Sheppard activists are fighting the good fight, but is it the right fight? 

Summer in Australia means four things. Beach, cricket, beach cricket and the ongoing crusade of activists against Japanese whalers. Every year a fleet of Japanese whaling vessels voyage south deep into icy Antarctic waters to harpoon a quota of Minke, Humpback and Fin whales. Given the International Whaling Commission’s (IWC) moratorium on commercial whaling and Japan’s tenuous excuse of ‘scientific research’, it’s no surprise that continued Japanese whaling is one of the most thoroughly-opposed issues for conservationists around the world, let alone in Australia, whose shores are nearest to the harvest.

It plays out like a periodic naval epic. Animal Planet even filmed it and called it Whale Wars. The Japanese flotilla, replete with security vessels and whaling ships venture far into the Southern Ocean, stalked by the Sea Sheppard Conservationist Society’s fleet. Confrontation is inevitable; ships are damaged and then both sides accuse each-other of reckless life-endangerment. And while it’s Master and Commander all the way, we get no closer to putting a definitive end to harmful whaling.

The Sea Sheppard Society crew, led by a tenacious and very direct man in Captain Paul Watson, are the self-appointed saviours of the marine mammals. They argue that the IWC is too weak (despite the ban on commercial whaling, more whales are being killed each year by Japan, Norway, Iceland, Denmark, Russia and the United States), governments are too slow and that other conversationalist groups such as Greenpeace, are too futile. According to the mission statement, Sea Sheppard “uses innovative direct-action tactics to investigate, document, and take action when necessary to expose and confront illegal activities on the high seas.” They fly a Jolly Roger, coat their ships in camouflage livery and imagine themselves as fierce ocean crusaders. It’s clear Sea Sheppard activists embrace the pirate image they’ve fashioned for themselves.

But pirates they are not, even though the media tosses that term around a little too loosely. They are obstructionists and saboteurs. They’ll use near any means available to them short of direct violence to grind whatever operation they oppose to a halt. Some of the gambits ordered by Captain Watson against the Japanese whaling fleet, in a campaign they call (with just the most subtle cheek) Operation Divine Wind, include disabling propellers with cable; tossing butyric acid bombs (fart bombs, essentially) and blasting water cannons (a defence also used by the whalers). In the past, Watson has gone as far as intentionally scuttling target boats with ram raids and limpet mines as they sat in harbours. Watson was even accused in 2010 by a former skipper of ordering the sinking his own ship – the $2 million Ady Gil no less, to “garner sympathy with the public and to create better TV” after it sustained damage from a dramatic collision with a Japanese ship. It’s an extreme and more often than not, completely illegal path treaded by Watson and his followers. Some claim it borders on terrorism. Watson doesn’t even try to shrink away from such accusations, “There’s nothing wrong with being a terrorist, as long as you win. Then you write the history,” he said back in 2002.

Watson’s attitude is that of a vigilante apostle of mother earth. To him, the protection of the whales and other besieged creatures around the world is a duty more urgent than the law usually allows. He’s a divisive character; labelled a hero by some and an arrogant egomaniac by others. He’s cocksure, intelligent and savvy, putting as much effort into leveraging the media as he does captaining his ships. He’s a man who instructs wannabe eco-warriors to lie and exaggerate if necessary to capture a headline. He learned that from Ronald Reagan. His cause is noble, however, even if he isn’t; and he is succeeding in reducing the number of whales being killed. What he is not succeeding at, though, is bringing this issue any closer to ultimate resolution. In fact, if anything, it only drives the root of the problem deeper and firmer into the ground.

Here, we nearly all agree whales should not be hunted. But is it really any different in Japan? It’s true that Japan is a nationalistic country prided on tradition and whaling is deeply woven in its cultural fabric. But it’s gross oversimplification to say Japan are out to preserve historical cultural delicacies. Several reports indicate there is actually very little demand for whale meat in Japan. A traditional dish maybe, but certainly not a staple in Japanese households. An opinion poll obtained by Greenpeace in 2008 suggests the Japanese public are far from overwhelming supporters of whaling in general. Specifically, 71 per cent of those surveyed opposed whaling beyond Japanese waters. It’s extremely difficult to find definitive information on public perceptions of whaling, which seems to point to one thing. Japan is a modern superpower, remember, and tradition doesn’t oil the cogs of a superpower – but the dirty grease of money, power and politics does.

In December 2010, the world caught a glimpse of corruption within the Japanese whaling industry, and resultant exposure of the Tokyo Two case intensified scrutiny from both outside and within the country. It’s alleged that the entire operation is rife with embezzlement, political favours and other such corrupt nonsense commonplace in bureaucratic industries (remember the Australian Wheat Board?). There is simply too much money and political deals invested in Japan’s whaling industry that it’s impossible to drop the anchors and call it a day. What’s rarely pointed out is that part of the reason Japan survived and flourished after its post-war decimation was its modernisation of commercial whaling. Equipped with Western technology and permission, commercial whaling provided desperately-needed cash, food and jobs. It was solid bedrock that permitted other industries such as electronics and automobiles to boom. Japan’s fisheries ministry is one of the most important, home to many a powerbroker, so protecting its economic interests in continued whaling is a smart move for career-minded Japanese politicians. What coal mining is to Australia, whaling is to Japan, Public opinion of ethics or conservation is of secondary value to jobs and the economy. And of course, there are filling cabinets in parliamentary offices stuffed with contracts, deals and promises. Any rhetoric about tradition and history is used to stir the Japanese public on side, or at least distract it from conversationalist sympathy. Commenting on activists, Japanese officials declare them to aggressors; foreigners meddling in Japanese affairs – attacking loyal Japanese workers. All of a sudden, the whales are forgotten and it’s war again. East and West at loggerheads again – the West reprimands the East and the East defiantly resists foreign will imposed upon it.

Which brings us back to our so-called pirates. What we have are a rough and tumble group of militant partisans for whom action and idealism come before rationalism and conciliation. They’ve appointed themselves the vanguard against an issue that is a mind-scatteringly complicated mess of money and politics and law. And both sides paint a picture of war on the high seas – where whales are no longer the gentle leviathans of the ocean, but moral territory, a principle to be quarrelled over. As Paul Sheehan from the Sydney Morning Herald stated, “The great flaw in the environmental movement is the sanctimonious belligerence of so many of its protagonists, the lies and exaggerations, and the assumption that they are above the law and can disrupt and destroy the businesses of other people who are operating lawfully.” He’s dead right; the Japanese are operating lawfully, albeit on preposterously thin ice. Back in March 2010, the Australian Government announced (under pressure from the public) that it will take Japan to the International Court of Justice over the lawfulness of its whaling operation. It will test how thin that ice really is. This is a glacially-slow process however, far too slow for the zealous Sea Sheppard crew. They say the longer they wait, the more whales are killed. This is also true. But the longer they continue to up the drama in their audacious crusade, the more the tide of opinion will turn against them. The more laws they flout in the name of the whales, the more distance they place between the general public who want to the do the right thing – but want to do it the right way.


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