Ken Levine. I wank off to your philosophical wanderings and universal construction in BioShock. You are a good man. Full of win. Now you’re further full of win, and uh, a gooder man with your latest musings on PS Move.

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[pixelation | weekly gaming column every wednesday]

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If I twist my body with the Kinect, the ladies dance. If I tilt my body with the Kinect, the cars swerve. If I give the Kinect the finger, will it also tell me to go fuck myself?

Do you know what’s easier than voice activating something? Pushing a button. Do you know what’s easier than flipping through menus with your hands? Pushing a button. Do you know what’s easier than motion controls? Finger controls.

The thing I like(d) about video games was that they used to let me escape my flabby, flaccid body. I didn’t have to be aware of the extra weight I carried in my arms, and I didn’t have to be aware of my jowls when I banked around a corner in Crazy Taxi.

I was a fat teenager, and video games were escape. Hopping and shaking and tilting and whirling, all these actions draw me out of the immersive environment. They make me all too aware of my shitty, stinky, corporeal shell. My fat meat husk, the thing which I am trying to escape.

With video games I’m trying to travel to worlds all too far away. All too unreal. All too beautiful to exist within this world. I’m trying to travel to places where aliens are real, mushrooms make you grow, and space exploration isn’t a pipe dream for lead feet mouthbreathers

I’m trying to escape. Not pivot and perform ballet.

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