I have something of a confession to make: I ruined E3 for everyone else. Last year’s castrated and mismanaged show was my fault. The ESA’s decision to make the show invite-only and exclude a wide variety of small or independent companies is a result of my actions. The show’s questionable status today, with companies fleeing the ESA and refusing to attend E3, can be blamed on me. I wrecked E3 for the world, and I’m sorry.
I was shortsighted, you see. In the days when the internet had begun to take root as a magical fountain of non-stop gaming news and information, I heard of a strange land called the Electronic Entertainment Expo. It was here, I learned, that game companies would reveal their secrets to a chosen few. Yes, those of us on the outside could adequately revel in the secondhand delivery from our gaming outlet of choice, but it wasn’t the same as the stories I’d heard. Pictures would appear online, depicting this dazzling pixelated Mecca, where games could be played ahead of release, where giant Marios roamed free, and where friendly booth babes would frolic amidst a neverending rain of free T-shirts and keychains. These were the tales that filled my head with wonder — which were only reinforced by that one guy in the EB Games who claimed to have been there last year. Oh, how we all wanted to be that guy, and to have also gone there last year.
Then, in 2003, the intervening hand of the divine came down from the heavens, and delivered the greatest gift of all: A friend who worked for a game developer. And then, this friend delivered the even greaterest gift of all: A spare invitation to E3. I couldn’t believe my eyes — access to E3 was supposed to be for the gaming elite; restricted to industry professionals and media only. It said so right there on the website. And yet, here was this generous company, so overflowing with invitations to the show, that they were just giving them away. I felt like Charlie Bucket, holding the last golden ticket on Earth.
One obstacle remained, however; though my invitation was genuine, E3 still would not grant me entry to the promised land unless I were an industry professional or a representative of the media. That was when I committed my vile, unspeakable act — so blinded by my own enthusiasm, so tempted by this glimpse of paradise, so unbearably close to my prize that I could taste it, that I forsook my ethics, abandoned all thought of how I might be affecting others, and spat in the face of God…
…and I lied.
At the time, I was employed by a small television station, working evenings to bring two nightly news broadcasts to the eager residents of a major American metroplex. But I was no “media representative,” oh no — I was no investigative journalist, or intrepid photographer, or handsome anchorman with a soothing voice and a face beloved by the elderly. No, I was a booth grunt. My job was to sit in a cramped room, surrounded by mixers, broadcasting equipment, panels, monitors, and keyboards for hours at a time, and flip a switch whenever the reporters were on-screen so the viewers could see their names. The most investigative part of my job involved making sure “Schwarzenegger” was spelled correctly each evening. I was as much a representative of the media as a hospital security guard is a medical professional.
But E3 didn’t know that. And so, when I showed up at registration, a TV station pay-stub in one hand and a form that said “News - Television/Broadcast” in the other, the poor, trusting E3 staff accepted my ruse. I donned my ill-gotten badge, and entered the show, inwardly cackling with pure malice. Throughout the day, my guilt grew as I pondered the consequences of my actions. Thanks to me, there was now one less $35 parking space that might have gone to a more deserving car. My spot in the various lines might have kept one other actual reporter from seeing the newest games and systems. The T-shirts and demo discs that I claimed might now be unavailable for those who had travelled so far for such prizes. My visit to Kentia Hall might have filled the third-rate developers with false hope.
Yet, for all my misgivings about my fraudulent E3 visit, I repeated this despicable act twice more, attending the show again in 2004 and 2005. We all know the end result of that — E3 caught on to my scheme, and closed off the show to all revelry, restricting attendance to a closely-monitored invite-only crowd. My only way in, now, was to get an actual job in games journalism.
Folks, I’m really, really sorry. I really and truly am. I cheated the system, and went to E3 when I shouldn’t have. E3 has every right to be mad at me, and I can’t say I blame them for changing things around so I couldn’t come back without going through proper channels. I ruined E3 for everyone else, and I hope you can accept my apology.
I totally wouldn’t have done it if I had any idea that 54,999 other people were going to do it, too.
July 11th, 2008 at 4:39 pm
Haha! That is hilarious. It really is a good article.