Yes, I am the typical nerd who plays computer games (still!) and in the little world of PC video gaming, there is an ongoing religious debate about scripts. No, I'm not talking about the latest 150 pager that every waiter and busboy in LA tries to slide underneath the toilet stall of Spielberg. These are little text files that reconfigure your controls, or do some things for you. Not a lot mind you, but just enough to make those one one side of the fence yell "OMG YOU HVAE TEH COMPUTAR DOING j00r Werkz FOR j00!!" and the other side saying "IT's jes PERSONAL PREFERNZ!!!".
Like all religious debates, this one is both tedious to outsiders, and one which is completely unprofitable to enter.
Forthwith I give my personal reasons for not using gaming scripts. I hope you enjoy it. Even if you aren't a gaming nerd.
The only reason I don't use scripts (besides the fact I"m notoriously lazy), is that I have, in my mind, an eternal fear.
I'm going to some swanky dinner at, say, the Marriot. There is a crooner reminiscent of Dean Martin on stage, the candles are set low. Suddenly a dull roar comes from Conference Room D (The Evergreen Room). Everyone in Ball Room C (Sierra Madre) try to concentrate harder on their overpriced food, and attempt to enjoy this one scant evening away from the kids, their mortgage, and crush of rush hour traffic.
Another roar, this time, not so dull. The tinny overture from some retro 8-bit Famicom game starts up. It cuts through the crooner's rendition of 'That Lady's a Tramp', the pianist misses the chord change, badly.
"SOMETHING MUST BE DONE!" screams a lady in borrowed furs and faux pearls. The tension has become too much for them, a murmur arises.
The crooner stops. He addresses the audience with a commiserating snarl, "It's probably, GAMERS." Someone else in the ballroom lets out a high sigh and faints. To everyone's consternation, it's a portly gentlemen with a profusion of neck sweat.
Someone in a well-worn out suit and a strained look of appeasement shuffles up to the stage.
"I'm so sorry for the noise. But, as you have all guessed, it's a, " he uses air quotes, "LAN Party. They say that everyone else in this hotel can shove it unless someone can best their champion at Cyber Mage."
"I raise my hand tentatively. I... I think I can."
I'm ushered into a room. It's dark. It smells of sweat, pizza, and stale Red Bull. The glow of 134 LCD screens is all the illumination there is. From here and there I can see sick rigs and ironic shirts. I'm seated at a PC that has been modded to look like Helm's Deep.
"Are you ready?" whispers someone over an unseen loud speaker.
"Wait! WAIT!! I... I play much better with my scripts... it's, it's what I'm used to."
There is a hush.
"You can use whatever scripts are already on the box."
There is an endless, anguished scream. Only after I've been admitted to the psych ward do I realize it's coming FROM MY OWN MOUTH.
Like all religious debates, this one is both tedious to outsiders, and one which is completely unprofitable to enter.
Forthwith I give my personal reasons for not using gaming scripts. I hope you enjoy it. Even if you aren't a gaming nerd.
The only reason I don't use scripts (besides the fact I"m notoriously lazy), is that I have, in my mind, an eternal fear.
I'm going to some swanky dinner at, say, the Marriot. There is a crooner reminiscent of Dean Martin on stage, the candles are set low. Suddenly a dull roar comes from Conference Room D (The Evergreen Room). Everyone in Ball Room C (Sierra Madre) try to concentrate harder on their overpriced food, and attempt to enjoy this one scant evening away from the kids, their mortgage, and crush of rush hour traffic.
Another roar, this time, not so dull. The tinny overture from some retro 8-bit Famicom game starts up. It cuts through the crooner's rendition of 'That Lady's a Tramp', the pianist misses the chord change, badly.
"SOMETHING MUST BE DONE!" screams a lady in borrowed furs and faux pearls. The tension has become too much for them, a murmur arises.
The crooner stops. He addresses the audience with a commiserating snarl, "It's probably, GAMERS." Someone else in the ballroom lets out a high sigh and faints. To everyone's consternation, it's a portly gentlemen with a profusion of neck sweat.
Someone in a well-worn out suit and a strained look of appeasement shuffles up to the stage.
"I'm so sorry for the noise. But, as you have all guessed, it's a, " he uses air quotes, "LAN Party. They say that everyone else in this hotel can shove it unless someone can best their champion at Cyber Mage."
"I raise my hand tentatively. I... I think I can."
I'm ushered into a room. It's dark. It smells of sweat, pizza, and stale Red Bull. The glow of 134 LCD screens is all the illumination there is. From here and there I can see sick rigs and ironic shirts. I'm seated at a PC that has been modded to look like Helm's Deep.
"Are you ready?" whispers someone over an unseen loud speaker.
"Wait! WAIT!! I... I play much better with my scripts... it's, it's what I'm used to."
There is a hush.
"You can use whatever scripts are already on the box."
There is an endless, anguished scream. Only after I've been admitted to the psych ward do I realize it's coming FROM MY OWN MOUTH.
Comments
Monky : your bid to add some current events to this discussion both horrifies and confuses me.