Imagine a small enclave nestled in the rustic anonymity of a faraway land. Spring comes late with torrents of snow-melt threatening to inundate the unsuspecting citizens of this haven. Boots are the ideal shoe wear and shorts the hoped for ideal. Now imagine the mechanics of a mysterious cult laboring quietly against this innocuous backdrop. From here, these devotees carry out their critical missions to the greater world. Imagine cloistered halls and ancient hallways whereupon treads the soft shuffle of the initiated and privileged few. They call themselves "Gaming Print Journalists." Though part of a greater journalistic whole, these few disciples form the inner circle of a more exclusive elite that includes book, music, film and food "critics." They are the self-proclaimed dungeon keepers of truth, the exuberant heralds of precious arcane technology, and the guardians of public naivety.

I was one of these rarified acolytes and, though foresworn to uphold the tenants of the Sacred Computer Gaming Print Journalism Society (SCGPJS), I am here to rip away the veil of secrecy and bring to blessed light their forbidden knowledge. I pray to Daikatana that my efforts are not in vain.

Of Secret Handshakes and Decoder Rings

Given the keys to the gilded doors, once entered, the soul is swiftly muffled and the pretensions of the once down-trodden ego are given full reign. Whispered: "Here be the secrets and tools to invoke the demons of merciless critical analysis. Here be the sudden gifts of righteous pronouncement. Here be the imprimatur to sack and pillage without conscience." They carry Letters of Marque from the Grand General Editor Asmodeus, who would intone: "For the edification of the mewling masses." And they gleefully cut a swath of biting metaphors, sweeping generalizations, cryptic asides, acerbic comparisons, intellectual banter, historical banalities, and, if all else fails, the catch-all shorthand for all things foul: "It sucks." And because it is all written down upon the processed flesh of trees, wrapped in non-biodegradable plastic, and displayed prominently on your neighborhood supermarket magazine rack next to Time and Sports Illustrated, it had the aura of respectability. Of truth.

Oh what a malleable thing, this truth. Dispense it in driblets, cover it in bright colors, twist it to conform to lowered expectations, hide it behind secret handshakes, and pass it along in engraved code. We had the answers. We were the experts. Believe us. Trust us.

The Secrets of Reviewing

I must confess that I had the time of my life.

Carnivores 2
Games poured into our coffers like mana from heaven, each praying for mercy before the smirking Star Chamber. Gaming PR reps (mostly treated with feigned interest but considered lower than a toothpick sucking, polyester-suit wearing salesman at Billy Bob's Used Cars) inundated us with assurances that their game was surely in the running for "Best Game of the Year." And in most cases we shook our heads solemnly in migraine producing disbelief. "Carnivores 2?" "Can the people who buy these even read without moving their lips?" "Give it to Brother Byron, he's a member of the NRA…"

"Royalston Ellebert over at Games Review Online 4 U gave it five stars," Brother Byron would call from his chamber. "But you still can't field dress your kills."

But we all knew that online reviewers were one step above bellybutton lint. Oh we were so proud and lofty and completely sure of our superior insights and literary skills. We were professionals. "That schmuck over at GRO4U couldn't write even if Denise Richards promised a night of ecstasy for a 300 word preview of Redneck Racing."

Next: "99% of everything is crap..."