Stuffy intellectual types periodically point to the naming systems employed by popular videogames as being evidence of their lack of artistic worth — asserting that no cultural artifact of any value would refer to itself by a moniker as gauche and tawdry as “Assassinatortron Reckoning: The Juxtaposition“, “Corpse-Humper 4: Tea Bags at Dawn“, or “World of Tanks”.
Well, ladies and ladies-with-penises, as a counter-argument to such blanket dismissals of our beloved industry, I present you with Bulletstorm. How could a name of such lithe, velvety texture, of such evocativacity (yeah it’s a word) represent anything other than a work of pure, transcendent splendour?
I mean, look at it. Bulletstorm. A storm of bullets. While playing this paean to the destructive capabilities of man, bullets will literally hail down upon you. Other bullets will zigzag across the sky in bullet-shaped lightning forks. Bullets will clog up your gutter and start leaking through that weak point in your ceiling that you always meant to get a man out to look at but never did. The bottoms of your jeans will soak up bullets as you walk, and your ankles will be all bullety for the rest of the day. Your cat will dart in through the cat flap, shaking bullets from her whiskers, and spend the next two hours treading bullet-prints across your quilt and that hand-penned letter to your childhood sweetheart you were writing.
Then, one morning, in a Kafka-esque twist, you will awaken to find you have become a bullet. Your family will disown you. The world will be repulsed by you. Your father will load you into a giant rifle and fire you into the sky, for you to fall back, in some distant land, as an unnoticed fragment in another player’s bulletstorm, thus illuminating the circulatory and melancholic nature of existence.
Videogames, man. Videogames!