My blog on getting a job in game-writing was too long so I split it up. The main article is here. Okay, this is where the bullshitting ends. Everything above was about getting your foot in the door, without having to prove anything. But your samples are what you’ll need to get the actual interview
Game narrative is insanely competitive which means microeconomics kick in. There’s an excess supply relative to demand, which pushes the price paid for an average service wayyy down. So do you really want to do this?
…Out of the countryside came a great golden, godlike youth whose extraordinary mutant powers, combining the world’s oldest and newest methods of survival, promised a new and superior type of mankind…
The ‘disappearance’ of auteur game designer Sam Barlow only increased our interest in his latest work, PERFECTION. Rim Magazine has secured the world-exclusive first review of what might be Barlow’s last project – and the game’s ambiguity raises uncomfortable questions about its creator and the media’s complicity in his fame.
So, the second Southern Reach cycle book then (the previous book being Annihilation which was the source for the film with that bear). An alienated special agent is assigned to the base that borders the Area and struggles to achieve anything… Whilst the first book was obviously strange and excellent (though it is fuzzy in my memory,
I had to go to the hospital a few weeks ago, so a doctor could put a camera up my urethra. There was a very small chance that what he found was going to be the death of me…
In moments of solitude, my mind, once far-ranging, now only homes in on one phrase; “mi amo”. I don’t speak Italian or any of the Romance languages, save Latin, so I don’t know what it means, but I’ve a feeling that my hindbrain /thinks/ it knows what it means; “my love”. I mumble it to
Ritting Rattling along underground in a vicious humour, all around me are temporarily like me; none can see the blue of the sky. The tube disgorges beneath Kings-Cross and we all barrel out, the stick-wavers, the 20-20s and me. There’s probably some of my kin around too, but we never make eye contact, head for
A made-up face that speaks of hours in a frilly bedroom dancing around to hair brushes, giggly from half a glass of stolen wine. What’s she doing in the city at two in the morning, with her mate begging the bus fare from a stuttering banker? Yeah, she says. With her huge eyes, soft face,
Well, here we are. The rain’s falled in love with my window and left sickles of watery kisses all over it and its romantic sister, cold, has started to make inroads on me. I can feel her flirting as I sit here, running long frosty fingers across my flanks, paying careful attention to my knuckles,