Split-Screen :: The Game-Geek’s Daily Read

by Guest

Hello, my name is Guest. No, not Ace, not Axe, not Slasher, Dasher, Masher or Flash Forward. My name is Guest. It has always been, and might always be. Like most of us who never got to choose our names, Guest was not my name of choice, it bestowed upon me. Once upon a time I too desired the glamour of being Nero, Hero, Sub-zero; but after so many years of being Guest I have come to terms with my moniker. It seems appropriate. Guest – a recipient of hospitality; a transient, yet distinguished visitor who leaves few traces of visitation.

Much like an orphan who is not named by his parents, but is a victim of the mood of kindly sister at the juvenile home, I was anointed Guest the first time I ever played on a console – which brings me to my first confession. I have never owned a console. Ever. Not an Atari, nor a Sega, or a Playstation – I didn’t even have a Gameboy I could call my own. The PCs I owned were all too slow to support any real games and the soundcard usually conflicted with the mouse driver, or the modem or practically any other peripheral that it could engage with, so I only played at the houses of friends – and so I become Guest. Later on, when consoles could support multiple profiles, it just seemed wrong to have a whole profile to myself and so it began.

On the surface, being guest always seemed like a bit of drag. Guest was always the wet-blanket. Like an Indian name in an all-white Ivy League, it sort of marked you out as different. You were so unimportant, you didn’t even have your own name. And Guest never really unlocked any gamer points – so you invariably got the suckiest characters. Guest usually joined games midway, so never really knew what the story was, or where the secret powerpacks, torque bows, hammers, swords and grenades were kept. Guest never got any real special powers as he was AWOL at the time when the benevolent god of “unlocked achievements” was hands out goodies. Guest never got to be Master Chief or Marcus Fenix, he was always Dom Santiago, or the Arbiter, or the little guy with the default character face.

After a point it started affecting play. Guest didn’t charge up to mutants and saw them in half with the Lancer, he hung back providing cover with his chain gun – rushing out occasionally to help fallen comrades. On other occasions he stood shivering as a horde of enemies aimed the combined arsenal of three universes and four haloes at him – an anonymous meatsheild who deflected attention while the Namers (Named Gamers – simple see?) stood on high rocks in heroic poses and destroyed the oncoming hordes with uber-powerful weapons that Guest would never even get to touch or feel, let alone use. Only too often The Namer missed and Guest watched on helplessly as his character died a slow and painful death. But who cared about Guest – he didn’t even have a name. Just another unreported roadkill.

At times I played out little fantasies in my head: Guest wasn’t just some film-extra-cum-stunt-double, he was so cool and so subtle and so secretive that no one even knew his name. He was like The Wolf in Pulp Fiction. But then, The Wolf was called “The Wolf”. Lucky bastard.

Maybe the Guest is like the proletariat of the gaming world – biding his time, doing the donkeywork, taking the punishment, standing in the shadows while Marcus triggers off the bomb, while the Masterchief saves the universe, yet always knowing that this Guest may fall, but a thousand others shall take his place, knowing that one day the revolution shall come and Guest shall inherit the world. We are everywhere, in every console, on every log on. Till then you can stand in the limelight Namers. You can have the torque bow; you can fire the tank, you can fly the hornets. But remember, one day Guest shall rise and strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger, and you will know my name is the lord. Till then Guest shall skulk in shadow: Always The Wolf – just in Sheep’s clothing.