Although still heavily associated with teenage boys, the majority of gamers are actually adults, a growing percentage of which are women. Some studies put that number at just under 50 percent (although it’s worth pointing out that those studies use an admittedly broad definition of gaming, including those played on mobile devices—and I think most serious gamers wouldn’t consider Candy Crush a part of their culture). But as the gaming industry has grown—both conceptually as well as in size—it has also fractured: it’s now possible to classify gamers as either casual, core, or hard-core, even though none of those terms have agreed-upon, universal definitions. What we’re seeing as a result of all this change, I think, is a kind of internal culture war.
Gamergate is the most obvious and recent example of that war, and it has snowballed to encompass a wide array of seemingly unrelated issues, from accusations of corruption in video game journalism to alleged collusion between video game developers and reviewers to widespread concerns about misogyny in the industry. What’s made Gamergate so explosive, in fact, have been the allegations of harassment and abuse directed at a small group of women in the gaming world. Since I’m neither a developer, a professional reviewer, or a gaming journalist, I’ll leave the political discussions to other people—nor do I want to weigh in on what should or should not be represented in video games themselves; some of my favorite games, including Call of Duty and Grand Theft Auto, are often the most maligned by the mainstream press, anyway. But I do think it’s pretty clear that a small yet vocal contingent feels the gaming community has been hijacked by “outsiders.” There’s a battle for authenticity raging; hence the accusations about who is and who isn’t a “real” gamer, who loves gaming for its own sake, and who’s just faking it—for attention, to be cool (because in some circles, gaming is cool now), or to cash in.
Interestingly, this same debate is also popping up in the larger world of YouTube. As the site has grown, it too has fractured: small content creators (who work alone, with no funding—exactly the place I started from) are often pitted against the “big YouTubers,” people (like me, now) who run partner channels, who might produce sponsored videos on occasion, and who generally pull in large numbers of views. Big YouTubers are sometimes seen as inauthentic simply because of their popularity; the more views we receive, or the more we may branch out into new genres of content, or the more YouTube itself publicizes, promotes, and supports its largest contributors, the more likely we are to be accused of having sold out.
What’s unfortunate about debates like these—aside from the fact that they’re just flat-out unwinnable—is that while each side hurls insults at the other (in the wake of Gamergate, for example, we’re seeing the word gamer being used as a pejorative all over again; we’re right back to suggesting that anyone who likes video games must be a misogynistic, lunkheaded caveman), some truly awful behavior is being normalized. I worry about how easily things escalate from an anonymous comment posted in a chat room or in response to a video, to a more personal attack directed at someone’s Twitter feed or private email account, to more extreme activities, like harassment, hacking, and doxxing. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve read comments online—about myself and about other people—wherein the author writes a variation of the following:
“I’m just joking.”
“I doubt she’ll ever see this, anyway.”
“She doesn’t care about her viewers; she’s only doing this for money.”
“I don’t actually mean I want her to die.”
“I don’t actually hate her.”
“It’s harmless.”
And for the most part, it probably is harmless—all of us gossip, and I know that the vast majority of people who make lewd or even vaguely threatening statements online do not actually wish harm on the subject of those comments. But it is a slippery slope. And unfortunately I’ve seen firsthand what it’s like when that line gets crossed.
It happened about a year ago. It was late—after midnight—and I was headed to bed with my then boyfriend when his cell phone started to ring. We tried ignoring it at first, but when we realized the caller wasn’t going away, he answered. It was a representative from our home security company; the guy on the phone asked to speak with me. “That’s weird,” my boyfriend said, a concerned look on his face. He handed me the phone.
“Hello?” I said, sitting up a little in bed.
“Ma’am, I need you to hang up and call the police department immediately.”
“What?” I shouted. “What’s going on?!”
“Just hang up and call the police. You need to call them right now.”
I didn’t have a clue what the problem was, but I wasn’t about to wait around to find out. I hung up and called the police; after living a relatively public life for so many years—after seeing what can happen—I have them on speed dial. I explained to the woman who answered that I had been instructed to call, but that I didn’t know why. I wasn’t sure if there was some kind of emergency, or was something wrong? But as soon as I gave her my address, she flew into crisis mode: “Is everything okay? Do you need an ambulance? Are you hurt?” she asked, the questions flying out of her mouth, rapid-fire.
“No?” I said, still confused. “I’m fine. I was sleeping. What exactly is going on?”
“Is there anyone else in the house with you?” she asked.
“Yes, my boyfriend is here. What is going on?” I repeated.
“Is he okay? Does he have any weapons or anything?”
“What?” I said again. “No! He’s fine. He’s sleeping. What. Is. Going. On?” I asked for a third time.
The woman was not interested in my questions. “I need you both to walk outside with your hands up, okay? There will be officers there to greet you.”
She actually said “greet you,” by the way—I remember that very clearly—as if we were going to have some kind of friendly get-together with the members of the police department in the front lawn of my apartment building. At that point, my heart was thumping out of my chest and I kept casting suspicious looks at my boyfriend, like, did you do something? What in the hell did you do?
We walked outside with our hands up, as instructed—though, of course, I was on the phone the entire time—straight into the arms of five police officers poised outside our home, guns drawn. I looked to the left, then to the right—the entire street had been shut down, barricaded at either end. Just as I’d finished counting the number of black-and-white patrol cars lining the block (ten), a group of officers ran by, straight into the house. My boyfriend and I were each patted down and searched for weapons. Once the cops were able to determine that the scene was safe, that there was no emergency, they finally told us what had happened: an anonymous caller claimed that my boyfriend (whose name the caller knew, almost certainly because of his online presence) had killed me, was about to kill our children (despite the fact that, of course, we didn’t have kids), and there was a bomb inside our home. We’d been swatted.
We were lucky, for many reasons: that the incident was over before any news media could arrive on the scene; that the cops, who had been suspicious about the call from the start, didn’t feel the need to break our door down (when they tried to return the original call and couldn’t get through, they figured—correctly, as it turns out—that the “emergency” was likely a prank; rather than break our door down, they kept trying to reach us on the telephone instead); that—in a moment when adrenaline is pumping, weapons are drawn, and confusion abounds—no one was hurt. But as I looked around my neighborhood, I saw how many people had been affected, far more than just my boyfriend and me. Snipers were positioned on the roofs of the adjacent buildings; the cops would have had to gain entry to countless homes, waking people up in the middle of the night, telling them God knows what. Obviously, prank calls like these are a massive drain on public resources, as well as wildly expensive—as much as ten thousand dollars per incident. I can only hope that no other actual emergency was occurring somewhere i
n the vicinity at the same time, the victims of which would have been endangered by the fact that half the police department had been called to my house, for nothing. I’ve known people, however, who weren’t so lucky: the same thing happened to someone else I know, only the raid was considerably more violent; someone in that house was knocked so forcefully to the ground (because he was briefly mistaken for an intruder) that he had to be hospitalized for a fairly serious concussion.
Swatting, of course, is not a new phenomenon, but it has spread into the gaming world—our experience was linked to a rash of prank calls associated with members of a particular gaming community. I want to point out that this had nothing to do with Gamergate, and it is in no way indicative of the broader gaming culture—these are individuals who are willfully and purposefully breaking the law—and when the people perpetrating this kind of behavior call themselves gamers, we all lose.
Look, I was posting videos on YouTube within six months of the site’s launch. I joined Twitter before most people knew it existed. I was the 103rd person to sign up for an Instagram account (out of 300 million monthly active users). But you don’t see me screaming at everyone to get off social media, threatening people because they’re not “real” content creators, accusing people of using Twitter only because it’s popular now, or suggesting that people who join Instagram this late in the game are only doing it to get attention. Furthermore, I want people to use these platforms, to learn about and enjoy new media, for no other reason than that I love tech. Likewise, I would never suggest that I am any more or less of an authentic gamer than somebody else. I may not identify as a professional gamer, but I love gaming all the same. I welcome anyone into the fold who wants to love it, too. I want more people to play games, not less. It doesn’t have to be an “us” versus “them” kind of argument: there is not a limited supply of video games or Twitter accounts or YouTube channels in the world. What we say to each other—even when it’s anonymous, even when we think no one is paying attention, even when it’s online—matters. Words have meaning. I’d rather us all win.
• • •
Speaking of welcoming anyone into the fold, my grandmother Grayce—the same woman who used to watch TechTV with me in the afternoon after school—has jumped on board with just about everything I’ve been doing. We got her set up with her first computer (a green iMac) years ago, hooked her up to Facebook, signed her up for Twitter, and unleashed her on the Internet. Any time a new social network comes out, she is on it. Although she still wasn’t a gamer (unless you count, like, sudoku as gaming), she did once march into a local GameStop and try to buy an Xbox because she wanted to watch the Call of Duty event I was hosting. I tried to explain that she could just stream the show online, but she definitely went in there and started telling all the employees that they had to watch the upcoming Call of Duty Championships because her granddaughter would be on it. Not long after that, I just gave her one of my old Xbox consoles. Sure enough, the next time my sister Jenna went over for a visit, she found our grandmother playing the game I had left inside, Call of Duty: Black Ops. My grandmother was playing Black Ops. Jenna dutifully sent me some Snapchat proof, and I knew my work there was done.
• • •
I had no idea the ways in which video games would have a profound effect on my life—beyond just the enjoyment of playing them—but I have gotten to know so many people in the gaming community, on the developer side, in the competitive and professional worlds, and just regular people I meet at events and tournaments and online, and they are some of the most creative, passionate, and enthusiastic people I know. I’ve gotten the chance to work with the Call of Duty team and Activision Publishing a lot in particular, hosting a number of events, even shooting a small role in the Call of Duty: Black Ops 2 live-action trailer. It’s pretty incredible when video games have so influenced popular culture that award-winning directors like Guy Ritchie and actors like Robert Downey Jr. want to participate in these kinds of projects. The trailer, by the way, features a chain of “players” sneaking up behind one another and yelling “Surprise!” before trying to take out their respective targets. I spent a day on set—pretending to throw a combat axe in some guy’s back—but my actual line of dialogue was recorded in-studio, in a process called ADR, or “automated dialogue replacement.” You’re supposed to say the line lots of different ways, using lots of different inflections, so that the director can choose the most appropriate delivery. I swear I said “surprise” fifty different times—I said it joyfully, seriously, menacingly, quietly, loudly, in a whisper, in a shout. Finally I had to be like, guys? I’m out of ways to say this one word. I got nothing else.
We have come such a long way from those old-school graphics and boxy controllers that so many of us grew up with. Remembering what it felt like to sit in that too-small rocking chair, chomping on Nintendo snacks, gives me an even greater appreciation for the incredible technology, artistry, and storytelling that goes into modern video games. But the originals will always have a special place in my heart. So you can imagine my response when I received an email from someone at Nintendo asking if I wanted to interview Shigeru Miyamoto—general manager at Nintendo Entertainment Analysis & Development and creator of some of the most iconic and beloved video game characters in history, including Mario, Donkey Kong, Zelda, and Star Fox—to discuss the impending release of Mario Maker and the upcoming thirtieth anniversary of Super Mario Bros. One of the hardest things I’ve ever done is to try and play it cool on the phone when I called the woman back—“Uh-huh . . . uh-huh . . . yes, that sounds fine . . . yes, I think I’m free.” Meanwhile I was running around behind the scenes like, “Clear my schedule! CANCEL EVERYTHING!” I couldn’t believe this was real life. I actually cried.
We shot several videos, one of which was just a straight interview. The others featured me, Mr. Miyamoto, and Bill Trinen, senior product marketing manager at Nintendo, playing Mario Kart 8—which was surreal, and also kind of high-pressure; I have poor eyesight even with glasses or contacts and the television was positioned on the far side of the room. Between being nervous and excited and pretty much blind, I didn’t exactly put in my best performance. Meeting him, though, was a dream come true. It would be hard to find a child born within the last thirty-plus years whose life that man hasn’t touched. And if that doesn’t say something about the power of video games on our lives, I don’t know what to tell you.
* * *
I. I actually just downloaded The 7th Guest from the Internet so I could play it again for the first time in years. Verdict: amazingly nostalgic. Also, still creepy.
ALMOST FAMOUS
I WAS STANDING ON THE red carpet at the MTV Movie Awards, camera in hand. It was my first big Hollywood gig, and it was 2009—the year Twilight hit theaters—so there was a particular kind of frenzied excitement in the air; Robert Pattinson, Kristen Stewart, and Taylor Lautner, all of whom had just catapulted to mega-stardom, would be in attendance. So would the cast of Harry Potter, on hand to share an exclusive sneak peek of the next film in their wildly popular franchise. Pretty much every major star in the business, in fact, was due to show up, and reporters from all the big press outlets had been setting up cameras and mics for hours. Rickety metal bleachers—spectator stands—which had been erected for the sole purpose of stargazing, were now filled to capacity with picture-taking, sign-wielding, screaming teenage fans. From my position near the end of the press line, twenty or so feet from the venue’s stage door, I could just make out the first few celebrity arrivals. I watched as a steady stream of famous musicians and movie stars exited their vehicles, waved to the crowd, and began making their way along the carpet, drawing closer and closer to me with each step. And that’s when I realized I had a problem.
I didn’t have the slightest idea who any of these people were.
I mean, sure, I could pick, like, Denzel Washington or Will Ferrell out of a lineup, but the girls from The Hills? The cast of Gossip Girl? No way. I’d just never been all that up
on the Hollywood scene, and other than watching TechTV in the afternoons, I didn’t spend much time in front of the tube growing up. To me, people like Leo Laporte and Alex Lindsay and Steve Jobs were celebrities. So, as I stood on the carpet with a rep from the company that had invited me to cover this event, I surreptitiously pointed at some of the most famous people in the world and confessed, “I don’t know who he is. I don’t know who she is. I don’t know who that guy is, either.” I thought three MTV interns were the Jonas Brothers.
Luckily, I had a group of giddy young girls to help me—they’d positioned themselves behind me (incidentally, behind a thick row of hedges, too), hoping to get a better view of the stars right before they ducked inside the theater. Every time someone I didn’t recognize approached (which was pretty often), I’d look over my shoulder and shrug, and they’d scream out, “That’s the dad from Twilight!” or “That’s the guy from Transformers!” At some point, after I got tired of shouting out a bunch of names in the hopes of scoring an interview—“Peter!!! Tyrese!!”—I just started yelling “Yay” at people. I literally just screamed “Yay!!” at Ed Helms from The Office. It was awkward.
I, Justine: An Analog Memoir Page 15