This came across my inbox yesterday, not entirely sure what you want to do with it. I met the guy briefly at a conference last year - he seemed a little deranged at the time, but nothing compared to this. Maybe you should have a read through before deciding whether you're interested in accepting it - despite what he claims, I never committed to anything. In fact, I distinctly remember telling him to go away one stage.
I don't know the guy, and if anyone says I do, they're lying.
Evan
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Dear Messrs,
As discussed, enclosed is my personal account of the recent conference. My fees are also enclosed, which I'm sure you'll pay forthwith as agreed with your intermediary. Should you be interested, perhaps we can come to some ongoing arrangement - my rates are included, expenses additional.
Yours in confidence,
John.
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The room pulsed like a sweat-drenched exercise junkie, bass so strong it practically twisted my stomach. I'd been here for all of twenty minutes, and I hadn't even yet seen so much as a preview. The lines around the demo machines were twenty deep, and if I was going to get anything worthwhile, I was going to have to move fast.
I cast around, looking for a victim. I grabbed a ten year old as he stumbled past, lost in the glare of the lights.
"What's your opinion, kid? Is Sony's capital investment in Blu-ray going to present a credible threat to Nintendo's long-term dominance?" He just looked at me, snot dripping out of his nose. "Come on, I need a quote - I need flavour! This stuff has to be in by tonight! I have deadlines, you know!"
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a rat-faced woman making a beeline towards us. "Be quick, kid - this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for fame and fortune. Do you know who I write for?" This seemed to spark some response deep within his cromagnon countenance, but before he could say anything, she was on me.
"What are you doing to my child!" she screamed in my ear. "It's OK, I'm a journalist!" I yelled back, cramming my press pass into her face. She smacked my hand out of the way, scooping her brat up in the process. "Show me where he touched you!" she screamed. This was rapidly creating bad juju - people were starting to pay attention to us. The kid paused, then stuck his finger up his nose.
Momentarily thwarted, she turned her attention back to me. "Who are you?" she hissed at me.
"Nobody!" I shouted back at her, discretely moving my press pass out of sight. "I'm a cop! I was trying to protect your kid, lady! See that guy over there? The one with the microphone? He's a pusher - he was trying to give your kid a copy of Manhunt."
As she swung around, arm raised to beat the man with her bag, I escaped into a nearby auditorium and grabbed a seat.
(Ed. - What follows is the verbatim output provided by John's Twitter service)
The guy next to me is drawing a penis on his DS. Wait - a correction, it's a self portrait. Iwata is coming on stage now.
The Sony fanboys are preparing an offensive - they're arming their rifles as I write. Iwata's saying something about hating people who play online - the crowd's loving it. They're eating up every word. He just pulled out what looks like a hula hoop. Apparently it's the next controller for the Wii. He's swaying with his Mii live - they crowd's about to lose it.
The Sony fanboys are starting to move - they're mounting a flanking maneouver, trying to take Iwata out before he can see them. The bloodlust's mounting - the air tastes like rust. Wait - two men dressed as Mario and Luigi just took them out. It's getting ugly - the crowd's calling for blood, and Mario's lost his moustache. Sonic's standing in the wings, biding his time - he's never liked Mario, and now he's getting his comeuppance.
The Sony fanboys have been crushed. The blood's pooling in the aisles, and Iwata's been totally oblivious to the drama through this entire thing. He's been playing to the crowd the entire time, and the crowd loves it - he just got high score in WiiHoop.
Must leave now - everything's shimmery white, and I'm starting to hallucinate. All those people in white jumpsuits are starting to look the same.
(Ed. - End of Twitter)
The music was getting to me. Remixed midi tracks and mismatched mod files - the bleeps and bloops of a deranged age. I shoved my press pass in the face of a monolithic bouncer and headed straight for the bar in in the VIP lounge, desperate for something to blur the edges. Before I could get there though, I was grabbed by a wild-eyed freak.
"Do you know anyone?" she cried in my face.
"What do you mean? Who sent you?" I shouted as I pushed her back.
She stepped back, picking at her hair. Now that I was closer to her, I could see that she'd been there far too long. Game groupies are like that - they go from conference to conference, picking up developers, in it for the game, not the games.
"Have you seen Levine? I know he's here - I read it on a forum! I want him to show me his Big Daddy!"
I slapped her across the face. "This is journalism, damnit - it's serious! Who do you think you are?!" She laughed, drooling down the front of her sweat encrusted Mario t-shirt. I grabbed her giftbag and left her gibbering in the corner, moving on to try and track down the instigator of this fracas.
As I regrouped and made a revised assault for the bar, a man in a cheap brown suit spilled scotch down my side. He spun and faced me.
"Who sent you?" he hissed, malice in his eyes.
"No-one - I'm looking for something," I said, not quite sure what I was hoping to find.
"Sure, what do you want? Banner ads? Front page coverage? My wife? My kids? Everything's for sale at the right price." I backed away, a deep-seated fear building in my gut. "Are you insane? Why would you say that?" He cackled to himself, walking towards me, "It's true! Everything must go! I have rugs too - do you want a rug?"
"Look man, I just want some quotes. You can keep your wife. How much for the daughter?" Before he could answer, I had second thoughts and tried to distract him. "Where do you think the industry's going?"
Sensing he'd just lost a sale, his eyes dulled over almost immediately. "Who cares - I run a games site. We just sell adspace - we don't write about this stuff." He yawned.
"Don't you have writers?"
He looked at me with surprise. "Writers? Who needs 'em? Keeps our costs down, and besides, the publishers write all the copy we need. We sacked everyone last Christmas - we just take interns now. They work for free. We keep our single remaining editor locked up in the basement so there's someone to finalise copy. He tried to escape a few times, but he's stopped since we stepped up the beatings" He paused.
"Who are you again?" Barely restrained hatred appeared in his eyes. "Are you a writer? Does anyone know you're here?" He started walking towards me.
I backed off, hands raised. "Me? No - I'm a developer. I keep a blog."
He eyed me suspiciously. "That sounds like writing to me."
"It's nothing of the sort - I make stuff up for fun and link to what other people write. It's been a little slow - I'm only getting a few million clicks per post."
His eyes glazed over again. I sensed this was an opportune time to leave - before he had a chance to notice, I threw a free USB drive into the punch as a distraction. As he spun and instinctively leapt towards the splash with his fangs bared, I slunk away.
As I left, I could see the groupie groping at Levine. I'm not sure whether it was lust or terror in his eyes.
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Maybe this is the problem - attention draws attention like a decaying dog draws flies. Everyone comes in with the best of intentions, but as you watch your well-heeled friends go on well-deserved trips to Bermuda and Bangkok, the rot sets in. The hatred builds, and that first kickback tastes like air to a drowning man. The first callback from PR, that first adoring fan, the first free lunch, and eventually, that Holy Grail of gaming journalism, your first trip to the Tokyo Game Show. Avarice in Akihabara. Before you know it, you're freebasing press releases and mainlining junkets.
All it takes to resist is integrity, transparency, and honesty. That and strength of convictions.
But when you get right down to it, who wants to be strong?
Time to wrap this up - my taxi's here. I'm off on an all expenses paid trip to cover '08's Q4 lineup in the French Riveria. All in the name of journalistic integrity and good press coverage, of course.
Yours most respectfully,
John Caucus.
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