I’ve gone through the several hundred posts I wrote this year and picked out ten of my favorites. Here they are.

The Knights of New Vegas: How Obsidian Survived Countless Catastrophes And Made Some Of The Coolest RPGs Ever

Definitely the longest piece I wrote this year, and probably my favorite, this article tells the story of Obsidian Entertainment, a company that’s been through a hell of a lot.

Confessions of a Teenage Xbox Hacker

My interview with Juvi, a teenage hacker who I watched get into someone’s Netflix account with nothing but a Google search and a phone call.

DOTA Dispatch: Watching People Play Video Games For $1.6 Million

Watching a million-dollar video game tournament is exciting on some levels and excruciating on others.

How To Break Final Fantasy VI

Ever wanted to get General Leo in your FFVI party without using cheat codes? Here’s how.

As Fans Say StarCraft Is Dying, Blizzard Plans Big Changes

Examining the world of competitive StarCraft from multiple perspectives.

Why We Love Persona 4

Escapism, really.

Valve Is Bringing Steam To Your TV Today. Watch Out, Consoles.

The world’s first public look at Steam Big Picture.

Man Loses Xbox Account To Thief, Gives Thief Virtual Smackdown

Getting hacked isn’t all that unusual, but how often do you find your hacker bragging about it on an Internet forum?

Metacritic Refuses To Pull Negative Review That GameSpot Admits Was Factually Inaccurate

I particularly liked this story because there’s no one good answer to the central question. If an outlet pulls a score, should Metacritic pull it too? I still don’t know what I think.

The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey: The Kotaku Review

Sometimes you’ve just gotta review The Hobbit.

This is an extremely exciting opportunity for me. As one of the biggest websites in the industry, with a gigantic, loyal readership that includes just about every gamer on the planet, Kotaku will be a fantastic platform for my work and an excellent place for me to write, learn, and report. In other words, I can’t fucking wait.

I’m stoked to start working under new editor-in-chief Stephen Totilo, whose writing I have followed and respected for a very long time. I’m also psyched to be able to work with and learn from the likes of Kirk Hamilton, Evan Narcisse, and the many other experienced writers and reporters at Kotaku.

Though I can’t say I’ve loved every story that Kotaku has posted over the years, that didn’t stop me from wanting to be join the team — in fact, it’s part of why I wanted to join the team. Kotaku is a forum for a diverse variety of unique voices, and much of its success has drawn from its willingness to publish things that other gaming sites wouldn’t necessarily publish. Sometimes it’s progressive. Sometimes it’s radical. And sometimes, it will publish stories I don’t like or agree with. That’s okay. That’s part of the fun.

Of course, this new position means that I have to relinquish my role at Wired.com, which I will miss quite a bit. Working with Game|Life editor Chris Kohler has been nothing short of fantastic, and I’m eternally thankful both for the opportunities he’s given me and the sheer amount of knowledge that he’s hammered into my brain. To any aspiring writers or journalists out there, you should know that working with him is the best education you can get.

But I leave Wired.com with plenty of great memories. Like the time I spent three days talking to researchers and professors to try to figure out why media personality Carole Lieberman said videogames cause rape. Or talking to GameStop employees across the country about the terrible ways in which they treat their products. Or pissing off a large chunk of the Internet when I told the world to relax about that Dead Island trailer.

Chatting with Monkey Island creator Ron Gilbert about Game Dev Story was an absolute delight, as was talking to industry experts about how to make videogames more accessible to handicapped gamers. I had a blast thinking about auteur theory in videogames and going through endless YouTube clips to dissect the way game designers approach cut-scenes. Writing and reporting for Wired.com has been a wonderful experience.

But now it’s time for a change. Starting Monday, I’ll be moving from the not-so-fancy office in my living room to Gawker’s super-fancy office in SoHo with the rest of Team Kotaku NYC. So here’s to chasing new stories. Here’s to a new adventure. And, sadly, here’s to having to wear pants to work.

Later this afternoon, writer Richard Goodness posted a rebuttal titled “‘Your Story Sucks’ Sucks,” in which he refutes many of my points. It’s a great read, though I disagree with much of what he says. But there’s something I’d like to clarify.

Goodness writes:

I find a lot of critics have a difficult time separating content from style. To The Moon might have a well-crafted storyline, but the focal characters are such insufferable patchworks of memes and tics and poorly-wrought dialogue that I find myself alienated from them. Dragon Age 2 may have some excellently-drawn supporting characters, but the plot they find themselves in doesn’t add up to much and actively seems to downplay player choices. Dead Space 2 has some scary setpieces, but its insistence on overconvoluting the plot, plus its complete lack of interest in its own setting, leaves the game feeling very slight. Metroid: Other M, a game which controls beautifully and is filled with meaningful, challenging combat, is constantly interrupted for a condescending, frayed storyline which may or may not be seriously misogynistic.

This is something of a condensed version of exactly what I’m advocating: the analysis of narrative using more critical language. Goodness claims that I’m veering too far into the land of optimism, calling my piece “a masterpiece of complacency,” but I would argue quite the opposite. My point is that we should be fighting for harsher criticism than “this is good” or “this is bad.” Those are not the questions we should be asking.

So what should we be asking? How about: How does this story make me feel? When is it most effective? Does its setting fit its themes? Do its characters have clear motivations and desires? Does its plot follow a coherent path? How does it fit into Joseph Campbell’s monomyth structure? How does it integrate player interactivity? Do the player’s actions contrast with the narrative? Can the player fight against the story’s current? Is it worth the player’s time?

Point is: Calling stories “good” or “bad” is anathema to sharp criticism. Saying things like “the story could be better” or “most game stories are shit” does nothing but exacerbate that issue. Let’s all strive for more effective storytelling — but let’s do it the right way.

“It’s always baffling that so many people place so much importance on the story of a video game when game stories are near universally shit,” he said.

While Twitter is regularly filled with sweeping generalizations like this, Andrew’s statement rubbed me all sorts of wrong ways. “Game stories are near universally shit.” What does that even mean? How can a 30-year-old form of media that has told tales in myriad forms, from the text-based enchantments of interactive fiction to the melodramatic zippers of Japanese role-playing games, be “near universally shit”?

I don’t want to pick on Andrew, here: Many, many videogame critics and fans have made comments like that over the years. I’m sure I have too. For every game that tries to tell a story, there’s a gamer saying its story sucks or a review making declarations like “the story could’ve been better.”

The problem with these sort of statements is that they simply don’t mean anything. It’s okay to strive for more engaging narratives, but unless we’re willing to acknowledge that storytelling is a nuanced and multifaceted craft as complicated as videogames themselves, our criticism isn’t accomplishing anything. Stories are too personal, too varied, too subtle to lump into ridiculously definitive categories like “good” and “bad.”

We enjoy stories because we enjoy the emotional investment of connecting to a character’s goals and desires. If we’re not connected, it’s easy to dismiss a story as “shit” without trying to recognize why. A story could be worthless to us for any number of reasons. Could be because we’re feeling grouchy that particular morning or we just can’t relate to a given protagonist. Maybe we’re just sick of World War II games. Or we want more muppets.

These might be legitimate gripes, but they’re also personal ones. It’s too easy to scoff at a piece of narrative without trying to understand how other people might find some sort of meaning in it. It’s too easy to throw around a term like “this story sucks” without pointing out why it didn’t grip you. It’s too easy to act like stories can be measured on a scale from 1-10.

Take Dragon Age II. I attacked BioWare’s latest RPG for feeling rushed and disjointed. I couldn’t connect to the characters, I thought the settings were mundane, and I found the climax meaningless because it didn’t seem to be affected by any of the choices I’d made.

But plenty of fans and critics were inspired by the game’s flawed cast. They were enamored by Varric’s friendship, Isabela’s confidence, Merril’s naivety. Should I ignore that and call the story “shit” because I found nothing appealing about it? Stories are too important to be treated with that kind of disregard.

JRPGs are another easy target: It’s easy to criticize the silly plots common to games like the Final Fantasy series, which are often filled with mawkish moments, bizarre proper nouns, and unequivocally hammy dialogue. But to call those stories “shit” is to belittle the people who can empathize with love or revenge or betrayal, no matter the trappings. Sometimes, even the most ridiculous plot can make you feel something real. And who among us has never fallen in love with a silly story?

As somebody whose primary interest in videogames is exploring their narrative potential, I have found myself falling in love with many games’ stories over the years, from Suikoden II to The Secret of Monkey Island to Planescape: Torment to Earthbound to Xenogears to Zork Zero and countless others. Each story has its own appeal, its own pull — and sure enough, its own weaknesses.

Ultimately, it is poisonous to analyze narrative with the same absolute language we might use to talk about a phone or a set of steak knives. Stories are not good. Nor are they bad. They’re just stories.

I get it. You’ve got obligations. You have to appeal to a broad audience. Your references can’t be too niche or obscure. You have to keep people watching. You have to appease advertisers and wrangle exclusive deals out of game publishers. I don’t envy your jobs.

But after watching the 2011 Spike TV Video Game Awards this Saturday night, I can’t help but wish you’d try a little bit harder not to embarrass the people you’re trying to entertain.

It’s not hard to find the root of the problem here: You think we’re dumb. You think your audience is so stupid that they’ll be amused by YouTube rants and health potion gags. You think we get our jollies out of watching girls bite cupcakes off conveyor belts. You think videogame references make a good substitute for humor.

Worst of all, you couldn’t care less about what you’re showing us. You don’t care about the games or the people who made them. As Joystiq’s Justin McElroy pointed out on Twitter, “If they don’t give a shit about the awards, why on EARTH should we?”

When you dedicate minute-long segments to the likes of will.I.am and Kevin Jonas while breezing through 10+ award winners in a 20-second montage, it’s hard to believe you care about your videogame awards show. When you parade around more actors than game developers, it’s really hard to believe you care about your videogame awards show.

I can deal with the unfunny jokes. You want to make tired Alec Baldwin references or force host Zachary Levi to say things like “Your urine is magical,” OK. I don’t need to laugh.

But half of your show was dedicated to slapstick. When you weren’t showing game footage, you were shoving nonsensical gimmicks down our throats. You were putting the spotlight on D-list celebrities and YouTube stars. You were making fun of “social gamers” for being anti-social. You were keeping a cow backstage so you could reference FarmVille.

You had a grown man in a military outfit pretend to put his balls in a Call of Duty developer’s mouth because he took too long on stage.

So maybe you don’t care about quality. Maybe you want to stop by, show your exclusive trailers, earn some ad bucks, and then crawl out, leaving slime on the walls and bile in our throats. Maybe you just want to show five or six awards and spend the rest of the time filling space with as many cheap gags as possible.

Except you’ve proved that you can do things right. Your gorgeous, fluid Zelda montage was deftly presented and properly treated. Not only did you give us a lovely cameo by the venerable Shigeru Miyamoto, whose appearance can wrest a smile out of even the most jaded gamers, you showed him the respect that he deserves. You guys totally nailed it.

Then you had Charlie Sheen come out and ask where the chicks were.

Is this really how you see us? If you think gamers are tuning in to watch Charlie Sheen make lewd comments, you’re both completely naive about your audience and totally out-of-touch when it comes to celebrity relevance. The fact that Charlie Sheen was available to present at the Spike TV Video Game Awards should have probably tipped you off.

I am a male between the age of 18 and 30. I know many other males between the age of 18 and 30. We all fall into your key demographic. Trust me when I tell you that not a single one of us thinks it is funny or entertaining to watch Felicia Day slice fruit hurled by the cast of Workaholics. Not a single one.

Why can’t we see developers talk about the games they love? Why can’t we watch industry auteurs celebrate their craft? Why can’t we hear from people who are more interested in honoring videogames than resuscitating dead TV careers?

Here you were, Spike VGA producers, on national television, with the opportunity to show the world that the videogame industry is not solely composed of profane 16-year-olds and humorless manchildren. Here was your chance to demonstrate that videogames are culturally significant, artistically important, worthy of an awards show that lauds what gaming can do and what it can become.

Instead you just shoved your balls in our mouths.

Venture Beat: “…the most rich and compelling single-player experience in video gaming history.”

Eurogamer: “…the discoveries and side quests that pepper the map become compelling explorations…”

G4TV: “The main quests, as compelling as it is, is only a modest portion of the quests to be found in the game.”

CVG: “But, more than any of those things, it’s an adventure; an escape into a compelling world of myth and magic.”

Forbes: This is the biggest, most detailed, fully-formed fantasy RPG ever made, constantly surprising and utterly compelling.

GameSpot: “Lots of compelling, self-contained stories to experience in addition to the main one.”

GameSpot: “You could follow the story, of course, which weaves a compelling tale that casts you as a dragonborn…”

The Adrenaline Vault: “…it was Oblivion that took large steps in implementing a compelling core plot without disrupting the persistent world around it.”

Dallas News: “…it paves the way for changes that I think are compelling…”

stuff.co.nz: “The Nordic world of Skyrim offers a staggering cache of content, remarkable storytelling and wholly compelling encounters.”

The Maneater: “The faction quests are also compelling and rather high-stakes.”

BradNicholson.net: “The witches in this game are by far the most compelling enemies in the game.”

Bethesda: “…fights are more visceral…”

G4TV: “It doesn’t hurt that the combat finally has a visceral kick.”

IGN: “Oblivion received ample criticism for loose combat mechanics that lacked a visceral feel.”

The Escapist: “…the visceral joys of combat.”

Team Xbox: “As a whole, the combat itself feels a bit more visceral in Skyrim as opposed to its predecessors.”

RPG Fan: “Other RPGs released this year have better stories, sharper graphics, and more visceral combat.”

VGChartz: “…every action you take in the world feels solid and visceral.”

Thumb Culture: “…you get to see the destructive spells and visceral combat you’ll be able to get your hands on come tomorrow.”

Delta Gamer: “It has never had the best, most visceral combat in any RPG.”

Game Revolution: “…that the was the most visceral moment of my time with Skyrim.”

Robo Awesome: “What’s more is there are highly visceral kill animations.”

Gamers Kit: “Combat in Skyrim is changing that and more visceral as well as tactical.”

Computer Active: “This is the most visceral of all the games.”

Updated: 11/16/2011

Den of Geek: “Now, combat is much more visceral, and has more meat to it.”

CBS News: “The addition of dual wielding has changed spell casting into an aggressive and visceral experience”

UGO: “Combat is brutal and visceral.”

Wanderson75.net: “The inclusion of Fallout-style kill cams make ending combat more visceral”

Common Sense Media: “Parents need to know that The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim is a vast, open role-playing game with missions involving bloody, visceral violence”

Vagary.TV: “Skyrim, in at least one way, introduces a new contradiction. The story is engaging, at times visceral…”

The Lone Gamer: “…the combat looks fierce and pretty cool- the addition of finishing sequences makes them all the more visceral.”

See, sometimes in the drunken stupor of my day-to-day existence, I forget that gamers hate reading just as much as reviewers hate playing games. Every second spent reading a game review is a second they could instead spend doing far more interesting things, like complaining about DLC on message boards.

Enter the review score, that glorious integer that helps prevent nonsense like “critical thinking” and “intelligent discussion.” Thanks to these scores, there’s no need to read reviews — all you have to do is scroll down the page a little bit for an instant evaluation of any game’s content.

So how do we come up with these mystical numbers? Reviewers typically pick one of several possible methods:

Go With Your Gut

“This game feels like an 8.7,” you might say to yourself. This is a perfectly valid feeling. If you are a douchebag.

For those of us who aren’t assholes, there are other options.

Throw a Dart

This is the most common technique that reviewers use to score their games, though not everybody uses a dart. Some of us use dice; others use random number generators. Exceptionally talented critics can think of random numbers off the top of their heads, though that method is dangerous due to the inherent bias involved.

Note: If anybody ever accuses you of being “bias,” the best way to respond is by calling them bias back and saying they’re too bias to even know whether you’re bias or not, so there.

Ask for Money

It’s pretty easy to convince publishers to give you money in exchange for high review scores. Just send them a quick note — and don’t forget to be subtle and cover your tracks. Here’s a good example:

From: Jason Schreier
To: PR Person
Subject: Review score?

P.S. Have you ever noticed how convenient PayPal is? Boy, I love my PayPal account (which is coincidentally the same name as this email address). It is so great.

Don’t Put a Score

This is a great way to get people to stop visiting your website!

Crowd-Source

Why work yourself when you can outsource? And why outsource when you can crowd-source? Just ask your Twitter followers or Facebook friends or NeoGAF denizens what they think a game’s score should be. Average out the answers and bam, you’ve got yourself a score.

Wait for Other Reviews

This is the best method because it allows you to get the most web traffic. Just look at what other reviewers are giving the game — this will usually fall in the 7-9 range — and give it an extreme score on one end of the spectrum. If you’re feeling particularly ballsy, try a 5. Don’t go any lower, though. You wouldn’t want to offend anybody.

And no matter how you choose to summarize your reviews, please don’t forget to balance out your scores. For every 9, be sure to dole out a 7. Then people will see how critical you are. (Bit of industry lingo for ya: we call the best reviewers “critical hits.” This is because they’re really damaged.)

They usually add long, rambling sentences about their work history or education or some other nonsense that I can’t be bothered to read thanks to my busy schedule of reading websites about fantasy football. Then they ask for tips and tricks, as if I’m some sort of Nintendo Power hotline for game reviewers.

I can’t blame them. You see, writing reviews is awesome. Everybody wants to do it.

So here’s my tip: Don’t play videogames.

You see, playing games takes a lot of time. Time that you could spend doing far more interesting things, like flossing or reading books about how to become a writer. And there are so many games out there, you’ll never even come close to playing them all — so why even bother trying?

“But how can I write game reviews without playing games?” you might ask.

Good question. Fortunately, I’ve devised an easy, plug-n-publish template that you can use for all of your videogame reviews, a template that most of the big websites already use. Cut and paste this form, fill out all of the blank spots, and soon you’ll be well on your way to writing videogame reviews. You’re welcome.

VIDEOGAME REVIEW FORM

[TITLE] isn’t the type of game you’ll love. Nor is it the type of game you’ll hate. It’s the type of game that delivers a solid, yet flawed experience that you’ll enjoy if you enjoyed games like [SIMILAR GAME] or [KINDA DIFFERENT, BUT STILL SOMEWHAT SIMILAR GAME].

When I first started playing [TITLE], I didn’t know how to feel. It reminded me of my time as a carefree teenager, when I would spend hours and hours absorbed in the enthralling world of [SIMILAR, BUT OLDER GAME], killing monsters and solving puzzles. Except this one isn’t as good. But I kept playing, and soon enough I started to really enjoy [TITLE], despite its flaws.

You start off in a lush setting. The aesthetics are great, keeping you engrossed and absorbed as you explore the environment and navigate obstacles. However, the textures are sometimes blurry. Also, the music could have been better.

The main character, a [GRIZZLED/NAIVE] [WARRIOR/HERO/SPACE MARINE] with a bone to pick, is a fascinating look at the human experience. His voice acting left something to be desired, but his characterization was great. Overall, he is presented very well.

Though there is not a lot of replay value in [TITLE], there are some achievements and you’ll be able to collect lots of items throughout the game. You can even play several mini-games, which are usually fun albeit repetitive.

[TITLE] is a good game. It has its flaws, but overall it is a visceral, compelling experience with solid gameplay that fans of the [GENRE/SERIES] will really enjoy.

[NUMBER BETWEEN 7 AND 10]

Note: if you need more words, just add a personal anecdote about your arduous struggle with a terminal disease. If you don’t have a terminal disease, make one up.

8:32am – Actually wake up. Promise you’ll go for jog tomorrow.

8:33am – Check email. Browse message boards. Pour very large mug of coffee. Tweet something about how coffee is a writer’s life blood.

8:34am – Check for retweets.

8:37am – Check for retweets.

8:40am – File complaint to Twitter saying your account must be broken, as you assume you must have at least 20 retweets by now but none are showing up.

8:52am – Start working on first writing assignment of day. Brainstorm ways to turn it into list.

9:08am – Food break!

10:12am – StarCraft II break!

11:00am – Search YouTube for “puppies being stupid.”

11:01am – Giggle.

12:04pm – Continue working on first writing assignment of day. Tweet something about how you love your life because you don’t have to wear pants to work.

12:07pm – Check for retweets.

1:00pm – Lunch break!

1:32pm – Start mentally planning out what you want to do for dinner. Google “interesting recipes.” Google “interesting, cheap recipes.” Google “recipes for writers.” Google “ways to improve ramen.”

1:35pm – Google own name. Google names of high school enemies. Feel smug about how many more results you get.

2:03pm – Call and interview source. Turn on voice recorder so you can play Minesweeper instead of typing up notes.

2:35pm – Start second writing assignment of day. Send email to editor asking if he’ll cut down the word count in exchange for more pretty pictures.

3:02pm – Enter heated Twitter debate about nature of journalism. Google names of people who disagree with you. Silently judge them based on how many followers they have.

3:45pm – Wonder how long it would take anyone to notice if you keeled over and died.

3:53pm – Start drinking.

4:02pm – Can’t write while drinking. Take break to play videogames.

5:30pm – Continue working on second writing assignment of day. Rephrase sentences to optimize SEO. Imagine yourself winning Pulitzer for Best SEO.

6:55pm – Tweet complaint about how there’s never enough time in the day to do everything you want to do.

7:30pm – Dinner break!

8:05pm – Start drinking again.

9:30pm – Start working on personal writing project.

9:31pm – Start trying to see how many times you can spin desk chair without puking.

9:40pm – Puke.

9:50pm – Start working on personal writing project.

9:51pm – Count number of hairs on your arm.

10:01pm – Lose track. Start over.

10:20pm – Tweet something about how the day of a freelance writer is never over.

10:21pm – Go to bed.

10:30pm – Check for retweets.