Conflict of Interest

In a newspaper, the lines are clear. You can be paid by a company for advertising space. Advertisements must either be clear in their advertising message OR if they are deliberately designed in such a way as to appear similar to the news content of the paper i.e. an 'advertorial' they must be clearly labelled as advertising.

If a conflict of interests can be shown to have graced a newspapers pages, it can damage that newspapers reputation, both with its audience, and within its industry.

At the present time, video-game 'journalism' seems to have none of the checks and balances that journalism requires to have any validity in modern society. The audience is too immature to stand up for their rights as consumers, or the content of journalism, and the corporations and 'journalists' know that the industry they work in is immature, and is looked down upon by so many other industries and popular culture, that they can get away with bloody murder.

At the moment, video-games 'journalism' is a production line where games get stamped with a quality rating. This rating is determined by two things:

The opinions of the reviewer (good)
The money and marketing thrown at them by the publisher (bad)

These numbers are meaningless, but consumers still fall for them, and companies use them (idiotically I might add) as a metric for the performance of development teams.


Newspapers are paid for by advertising and the consumer. If newspapers are seen to behave in ways seen as unethical, then readership falls, and therefore advertising revenue falls (advertising revenue is based off the number of people who read it). It is in the newspapers best interest to provide unbiased reporting.

Video-game 'journalism' is paid for PURELY BY ADVERTISEMENT. How much money they make is based on how many hits their websites get. How many hits they receive is based on how many hits they get from search engines. How many hits they get in search engines is based on how much they spam related content. That's why there are 150+ (o.0) videos of Mass Effect 3 at IGN.

Why are there so many news features on 'Bioware's artistic integrity'(regarding the complaints over endings in Mass Effect 3)? Its not because the websites care, or even understand what is at issue, its because its a 'hot topic' that gets hits. Many of these articles are FOR Bioware's artistic integrity. Are they so stupid that they don't realize EA and Bioware suckered us in with false advertising about decisions impacting the ending, and how it would be more than an A, B, C choice? No. It's because controversy gathers more hits and comments, and because they want to stay chummy with the companies that pay their wages. The big game websites may as well be on the payroll of the big corporations.

Gamers need to stand up for their rights. Problems with a product, problems with bias in journalism, need to be spoken, and spoken loudly. As things stand the corporations and journalists are riding roughshod over us. The few voices who speak out are labelled 'whiners' and 'entitled' and 'conspiracy theorists', even having a discussion of these issues is grounds for thread closure on Bioware's 'social network'.

The media and corporations taking advantage of consumers isn't conspiracy theory, IT IS WHAT THEY DO. IF we let them.

Demand impartiality in journalism. Demand your rights as a consumer. Ignore review scores. If you want to know about a game, seek out criticisms, don't just buy the corporate line wrapped up in 'review' clothing.

Chris Priestly: Community Coordinator

In his own words:

BioWare's Community Coordinator "Evil Chris Priestly works at the BioWare main office in Edmonton Alberta. Besides laying down the law on the BioWare forums, he also gets to play the best games in the world before the rest of you. =P

We are open to valid criticism, but there are far too many lies and outright falsehoods here such as the ridiculous accusation that we buy reviews. That is enough BioWare/EA abuse.

Thanks for your erronious opinion.


Analysis:

Gloating is acceptable professional behaviour for someone in a customer service position (What makes it worse is the 'best games in the world' are anything but these days).

I'm sorry Chris, can you define 'valid criticism' for me? Would that be criticism YOU think is valid? You do know what criticism is right? Here is an example if you don't: this article.

Again, Chris, do you understand what an opinion is? Explain to me how you can have an erroneous opinion. Then while you are at it, explain how erroneous is spelled.


Opinion:

A moderator obsessed with his own self-importance? On the INTERNET?!?!

Jokes aside, Chris acts quite unprofessionally, for someone in a customer service position. He is a fine example of how horrible Bioware and EA are at customer service.

*Sorry, almost forgot, saying that a company that pays for reviews is grounds for thread closure? You don't like having your authority questioned? You pay for ads don't you? On gaming websites? That review your games?

I'm disgusted at EA and Bioware

Ray Muzyka has the audacity to tell CUSTOMERS that 'they will not respond to *destructive* commentary.'

I'm studying management, and when I told my class that an executive said that negative comment on his product was unacceptable they all burst out laughing.

Chris Priestly, Bioware 'Community Coordinator' has the audacity to shut down a 400 page forum thread criticizing EA and Bioware's complete lack of respect for its user base (as shown by their constant PR nonsense), on the grounds that suggesting they buy reviews from media outlets is ABUSE.

Aside from the fact they have bought advertising space on most major websites (therefore paying for reviews, indirectly or not), it is not an unreasonable speculation considering the current video-game 'journalism' climate.

We, the consumer, are being told by this COMPANY that our negative reaction to their product is abuse, and that our negative reaction to the way they treat their customers is abuse.

EA AND BIOWARE ARE NOT THE VICTIM HERE, WE ARE. They used false advertisement to sucker in fans of a five year franchise into a 'finale' riddled with bugs, where no choices matter, and they taunt us with screen of text saying that they'll happily take more money off us. False advertisement is against the law, and speaking out on it is your right, protected by law.

I'm afraid now to post my legitimate concerns over this title on their website for fear I will be banned from their 'social network' for abuse, when all I want is what I deserve under the laws of business transactions in most countries.

The video-game industry, and the video-game media, are just as accountable as any other industry or media. They have the same responsibilities.

Instead, they take advantage of us. They take advantage of the fact that the video-game medium is seen as an immature joke by the popular media, and too immature in their attitudes to DEFEND THEMSELVES. They milk us for all we're worth, presenting us with false advertisement, trying to manipulate our opinions through their PR spin, bought reviews and reviewers, and selling us broken products, then telling us to shut up and deal when we complain (I'm sure they are also using other PR tricks like whisper marketing, but I guess saying that would be abuse too?).

I'm tired of it. I knew it was just a matter of time, when I heard about EA's acquisition of Bioware. It seems that time has come.

I'm sorry.
I'm sorry I bought into the hype and promise of an epic, golden age, science-fiction, space opera, RPG, trilogy where your choices mattered.
I'm sorry that what was delivered to me was an unfit for purpose, modern action sci-fi, reality tv show in space, 3rd person shooter, railroad to a nonsensical cookie cutter ending.

I'm certainly not sorry for all the 'abuse' you copped for it, or the revenue you lost.

'Art' is not a licence to violate the law, the contract between a customer and a business, or the faith that you built up with no intention of following through.

Hold the Line!

Mass Effect 3: Hold the Line

Please, make your voice heard about the many and varied issues with the release of Mass Effect 3. Many people have paid for a product that is buggy, unplayable, and with story and game mechanics contrary to the marketing and expectations for the series. Look how sad Captain Kirrahe looks about it...

Hold the line.

Glitch in Mass Effect 3 deserves song!

Can't read my,

Can't read my

No it can't read my Shepard's face

(Reapers gonna kill everybody)

Can't read my

Can't read my

No it can't read my Shepard's face

(Reapers gonna kill everybody)

S-s-s-shepard's face, S-s-shepard's face

(Mum mum mum mah)

S-s-s-shepard's face, S-s-shepard's face

(Mum mum mum mah)

I wanna roll with them a hard crew we will be

A little scanning's fun when you're with me (I love it)

Thermal clips just are not the same without a gun

And baby when it's love if its not blue it isn't fun, fun

Oh, oh, oh, oh, ohhhh, oh-oh-e-oh-oh-oh

I'll get TIM hot, show him what I've got

Oh, oh, oh, oh, ohhhh, oh-oh-e-oh-oh-oh,

I'll get TIM hot, show him what I've got

Anaasází Sunrise

I wrote another story for an open submission... sadly it was rejected... :_(

But you can read it here! Below, in its entirety, my short story: Anaasází Sunrise

"I know not if you can hear me, but I have bound your wounds. You have lost much blood, and may not live to see the sunrise."
Tepujueche poked the fire with a stick, his eyes peering into the darkness that enclosed their small camp.
"I found you on the trail from Mesa Verde. Perhaps you are of the Wetherill tribe, stirring up spirits of the ancient ones in the Cliff Palace."
The cowboy stirred with a groan, and Tepujueche turned to look at him. Propped against a tree, bandages dotted with blood, the white man did not awaken. Tepujueche sighed.
"We thought your kin were gone from the homes of the ancient ones. Wetherill and his tribe opened the ancient places in Chaco Canyon. These places were made by the ancestors. Long ago all these lands were owned by the people of the cliffs. Navajo call them the ancient enemy. They call them Anaasází."
A sudden gust of wind brought stinging dust to Tepujueche's eyes, and the fire flickered madly. Tepujueche looked again at the cowboy, vision blurred by tears of irritation and fear.
"Your tribe has awoken the ancients. You will be lucky if you die before they find us. The stories of my tribe tell that they thirsted for blood as we thirst for water. They came from a far away land where the blood of their enemies cascaded down the temple steps and the rivers ran red. They built great cities like those from which they had fled. They conquered the local tribes, sacrificing the men and taking the women. The great cities grew larger every day."
Tepujueche stared at his shaking hands, dark silhouettes against the brightness of the campfire. The story brought back memories of childhood. The elders told the old tales, while the children listened with wide eyes. Sometimes Tepujueche dreamed that the white men were the ancient ones, come back to reclaim their long lost cities.
The Ute tribesman reached for his medicine bag, and withdrew four peyote buttons. His calloused fingers felt the fuzzy skin of the cactus as he brought the first button up to his mouth. Biting into the hot, sweet flesh of the peyote provoked the memory of tobacco smoke, and faintly he heard the peyote song, distant and trembling.
"May the gods bless me, help me, and give me power and understanding... and protect our spirits from the ancient ones."
Out in the dark a coyote howled a call to the rout. Tepujueche waited for the note to rise, and for the pack to yip and yelp their assent, but the cry tapered out unanswered. Silence brought the darkness closer, so Tepujueche continued to speak to the white man. "Traders came from faraway lands, for the ancient ones were skilled weavers and builders. Many were drawn to the great power of the ancients, for they were proud warriors. Some came to participate in grand holy festivals, singing and dancing along miles of sacred roads. The ancients shaped the land, praised the gods, and made their sacrifices. But the burden of so many upon the land was great. Food became scarce, and the air became dry. The ancients spilled more and more blood offerings, but the gods were not appeased. Soon they turned upon themselves; great battles were fought for resources, slaves and sacrifice. More and more blood was spilled, but still the land grew barren. The last of the ancients, mad with power and crazed by their own actions, began to eat the flesh of their enemies, and when there were no enemies left to fight they turned on their kin. The old ones consumed themselves in an orgy of blood and violence."
Visions of blood and death wavered above the flames. The cowboy's chest slowly rose and fell and Tepujueche watched as a trickle of blood emerged from beneath the bandages binding the rancher’s head, leaving a trail of burning crimson as it picked a path over his bestubbled cheek.
Figures extruded themselves from the flame, ancient Anaasází warriors in full warrior regalia. Around the fire they danced. As each warrior passed through the cowboys outstretched legs the rancher visibly shuddered, but did not awaken. The sound of drums, the earth’s beating heart, oozed from the ground around the fire, keeping time for the capering revenants.
Two priests emerged from the flame, dragging between them a young girl. She wore a layered ceremonial smock, adorned with intricate beadwork and fans of feathers. She kicked and screamed, but the priests were unrelenting. The robed figures dragged her to a flat rock before Tepujueche and bound her to it with ropes of coiled fire.
The Ute tribesman, unable to move, watched as the priests drew glittering obsidian daggers. The fire seemed to catch on the surface of the wicked knives, sparks running along their knapped facets. The knives plunged downward, glinting madly as they slashed the girl’s ornate costume. The eyes of the dancing warriors lingered over her naked form. The tiny figures gamboled obscenely to the cadence of the spirit drums whilst thrusting their weapons fiercely into the air.
Tepujueche now saw that she was only a child. Tears of molten gold ran down her tiny face. Faster and faster beat the drum, faster and faster the dancers whirled and cavorted. The priests chanted and the warriors thrust their spears. The girl cried out and as she did, her eyes locked on the Ute tribesman.
"Tepujueche!"
Again the knives flashed, but quickly they were dulled by blood. The dancing warriors whooped and yelled as the priests defaced and extinguished the young girl.
The girl’s body now a bloody ruin, the priests roared at the sky, demanding that the gods return life to the withered empire of the Anaasází. The priests returned to the fire.
The warriors' dance faltered as they greedily eyed the desecrated body of the girl. As one the figures descended upon her, tearing at her flesh with their hands and teeth, gorging themselves on her raw meat.
Tepujueche wanted to scream. He wanted to swat away the vile specters, stomp them into the ground, but still he was frozen, forced to watch a horrid spectacle, the dying convulsions of an ancient empire. In their madness they had refused to relinquish power, even on the cusp of death. They had sacrificed their own people in a futile attempt to perpetuate an untenable existence.
Tepujueche felt whatever bound him slip away, and he gasped for air. Tears were running down his face, and when he looked to the unconscious rancher he saw tears there as well. Tepujueche had no doubt that the cowboy had borne witness to the same vision.
This time when he looked out into the darkness, the darkness looked back. Tepujueche didn't think there was enough fuel to keep the creatures back until sunrise. He could feel them circling the border between light and darkness. He swept the area around the fire, searching for anything that might fuel the fire, and not daring to waste what little he had to make a torch. He could hear them, their husks rustling out in the void, the snap of their teeth, and the rasping gurgles that could only be the bastard descendants of speech.
Tepujueche returned to the fire, and looked up at the stars.
"One hour until dawn."
Tepujueche ate the last of his peyote, and emptied the contents of his medicine bag into the fire. The camp was suddenly filled with the mingled aromas of tobacco and medicinal herbs.
"I'm sorry I could not do more for you cowboy. When the fire dies I will fight. If we are overwhelmed, I pray for us both that our spirits find their rest."
Tepujueche tried to coax a little more from the dying remains of the fire. The Anaasází were getting closer. The first of the pre-dawn light lent an ethereal glow to the horizon, but Tepujueche didn't think it would be enough.
The last of the flames flickered and died leaving smoldering coals. Tepujueche poked desperately at the fire. The embers stubbornly refused to reignite.
Suddenly he was slammed hard from behind. The remnants of the fire cooked the bare skin of his chest. He felt the claws and teeth of the Anaasází tearing at his arms and back. Tepujueche bellowed with fear and anger as he surged to his feet, rounding on the gurgling, snapping abominations. He drew his hunting knife from its buckskin sheath, cold white man’s steel glinting in the predawn light. Warily he eyed the creatures, waiting for them to make a move.
The first claw that extended towards him he severed at the wrist. Black ichor spilled out of the desiccated stump. The other two pushed their wounded comrade out of the way. Tepujueche thrust his blade into the heart of the second, but the monster only cackled and continued its assault. Tepujueche yanked on the knife, but its blade was wedged fast in the shriveled chest of the ancient warrior. On failing the second pull, Tepujueche released the knife, and prepared to face his unnatural attackers hand to hand.
It felt like someone had set off dynamite in his skull, the pain was incredible. He vaguely remembered having some kind of horrible dream. The last thing he could remember was riding the trail from Mesa Verde to Mancos. He opened his eyes.
Tepujueche lay on the ground, his eyes staring unblinking at the last of the morning stars. Three horrible creatures, one missing a hand, and one stuck with a Bowie knife, hunched over the fallen Indian. The gibbering figures had disemboweled him and were feasting on his steaming entrails.
Now the cowboy remembered everything; the feeling of being followed back from Cliff Palace; being knocked from his horse by shadowy figures; the half-heard stories of the Indian; the horrible dream about the poor girl.
The rancher reached for his Colt Frontier.
The one with the bowie knife stuck in its chest leered at him and cackled menacingly.
As the first rays of sunlight stretched across the top of Mesa Verde, Richard Wetherill shot himself in the head.

Solar Falcons

This is a Space Marine chapter I created on the spur of the moment for a messageboard.

A successor chapter of the Raven Guard, the Solar Falcons.

Their battle barge was swept away by a warp storm during the turmoil of the Age of Apostasy, and they emerged from the warp in the early 40th millenium. They have a strong distrust of the Ecclesiarchy, and are themselves distrusted by the Inquisition for the amount of time they have apparently spent within the warp. The truth is the warp storm displaced them through time, and to them only seconds passed before reversion.

They do not have mucranoid or betchers glands, sharing this deficiency with their predeccessors. Like the Raven Guard, a mutation in their melanchromic organ causes their skin to become paler with age, but their eyes and hair do not turn black as the Raven Guard's do.

The chapter favors ship to ship boarding actions, and excel in close quarters fighting, as well as the use of Thunderhawks and Caestus Assault Rams to breach enemy vessels and installations.

The symbol of the chapter is a black falcon on a golden starbust. Their armour is black and white quartered. They favor chainfists and melta weapons.

The chapter is fleet based, the battle barge Tertius Asturaetus is their fortress-monastery.

Battle Cry: The Solar Falcons honor their lost brothers by calling out the names of the fallen as they charge into battle.

I'm actually writing! And posting!

I am currently writing a short story submission for an anthology called Dead Rush, a collection of horror/western short stories.

My story features ancient spirits disturbed from their rest when treasure seekers invade their once great city.

Researching the Indian tribes and old towns of the mid-west has been really interesting, and I'm having fun putting it all together.

I've got until Feb. 28th to get it done. Better get back to work!

On a side note, I posted on Greg Bear's website to let him know how much I love his books, particularly Halo: Cryptum and Halo: Primordium. I really must write up proper reviews on here to truly show my appreciation, although I think I'll have to read them both again first!