Two... Weeks...

The whole PS3 pre-order madness thing is something that I'd not dismiss out of hand - after all, I proudly slapped down a pound to pre-order a copy of GTA San Andreas not so long ago - were it not for the silliness of the whole thing. The tipping point came with this Kotaku post, which just rubbed in the combination of obsession and futility - a queue of some 200 people stretched over around 300 yards with a number of huge queue-jumper-tempting breaks all lining up for a pop at one of only 100 consoles at a store in New York. I guess what it comes down to is how good can a console be?

Accepting that this is the most facile post I've ever made and that, simultaneously, it marks me out as not a true gamer (something my Xbox's blog (see right) could have told you a long time ago) I still think it's interesting that a medium which continues to hold up pretty but frustrating curios such as Shadow of the Colossus as "art" still bears all the hallmarks of a reason-less hysteria akin to the South Sea Bubble or Dutch Tulip-mania. Moreover, the fact that a large number of buyers seem intent on flogging their brand new PlayBrevill 3s on ebay underlines the fact that videogames aren't a brave new medium of expression but simply a cold ugly way of making cash.

Admittedly films (cf Star Wars) and books (cf Harry Potter) are guilty of the same thing, while the only way visual art tends to make news is when a painting sells for a particularly thick wad of fivers. Nevertheless it seems that video games tend to be represented solely in terms of consumer demand and the "shifting" of "units". Unless Rockstar are involved. Then it's all rape and bullying.

Thing is with film and books there seems a point to it all. There's a goal to the queueing. A resolution. A need satisfied. Lucky PS3 purchasers will get a tasty doorstop which will play about three mediocre launch titles and a handful of blu-ray movies (presumably at resolution so sharp it will carve the human eyeball in twain). As pay-off for several days camped out on a pavement somewhere, with only fellow obsessives for company, each willing to slash your throat as soon as look at you for a shot at the shiny glossy black prize, that seems pretty lame.