I hit twenty-six last week and, suddenly, I feel old. Really, old, depressed and tired. “My skin’s losing its texture, I’m putting on weight”; the complaints are real, but the motivation behind them is a maudlin introspection. All the usual complaints of middle age stem from a fear of death, or at least a fear of not having achieved all that you could.
And I feel old, because of the young people in my industry. At least I should, as I met one just now who was only seventeen, but actually most of them are my age or older; I’m the bottom tier, and they’re all ageing with me. There’s something horrid about some of them as well, who see this career as a passport to better things, to fame and immortality; you know my thoughts on that (for those who don’t, avoid la peur.) I feel ambition to be filthy, especially ambition by the credulous, leery and stupid. I don’t mind justified ambition, the few people I meet (like the sparkling Leo Tan) who are ambitious and talented I respect and wish the best to. It’s the mediocrities hauling themselves up by ambition in the absence of the talented that really get on my nerves.
Anyway, I could claim fame and fortune. I could self-promote. This week I’ve organised three (maybe more, we’ll see) world-exclusive reviews of games that are going to make tens of millions of dollars for a console that’s not even out yet. There’s a bit of self-promotion. I couldn’t care less though; I just want to get the job done, make a good magazine, write some bad puns and get back to my books and MMOs. (And, possibly, socialise a little). Is that too much to ask?
Oh, yes, I’ll be playing City of Villains as either The Man-Bat or The Ludocrat, if anyone’s interested.