So E3 2019 confirmed many revolting suspicions of mine about our current episteme of unveiling, of bringing to light, of shining a light upon the dark and dreary (non)entities of “fake news”, “paid actors”, “feminist infiltrations” and so on.
Beginning on the side of disaffected gamers at the staged and scripted construction of E3, I quickly reversed my position, into one of alignment with the script, the corporate body, the absurd, overwrought, spectacle of corporate community (read: brand) building, because here at least, the E3 media machine recognised itself as a script, a media event, an artifice, a desiring-machine. In this regard, E3 was a self-conscious entity, where all the “paid actors” knew they were paid, where all the “staged events” knew they were staged, where all the pieces of the facile spectacle knew precisely what they were, how they’d continue to be what they were, and what being what they were was going to bring about — a fucking spectacle. The question of authenticity did not matter to E3, and because it did not matter, it was exorbitantly more authentic, in all its obscenity and frivolity.
On the side of the disaffected gamer, of chat, of the multitudinous community of individuals with nothing in common, there was an utter lack of self-consciousness and a pathological obsession with pointing out the “script” of the other, the “fake gamer girls”, the “sjw sellouts”, the process of corporate interpellation, without once seeing its own interpellation, its own script, its own ideology. On the side of “real gamers” was a total externalisation of consciousness as impotent paranoid rage, a directing outwards of thoughts and emotions at the phantom of a nightmare made real through vocalisation. In their ressentiment, the alt-right could not see their own idiot script, literally being created by themselves, as they repeated the same phrases over and again. They could not see that they constructed their paranoia into an ideal being, simply so they could pummel it, and in pummeling it, keep it alive as an unconquerable phantasm. They did not see how much they relied on “sjws” and “scripts” for their own sense of authenticity, an authenticity that did not arise from self-affirmation, but from the denouncement of the other, from solipsistic impotence, from ascetic retreat into a realm of mechanistic fantasy and code.
And so, despite the gamer’s total dissatisfaction with the conspiratorial spectacle before themselves, they kept watching, not so that they might finally witness a moment of authenticity — of vérité — but precisely for their continued experience of lack. It is this lack, after all, that defines them. E3, as a pathological ritual of disappointment then, confirms what the gamer already knows, and in confirming what they already know, confirms them as the (psychotic) bearer of a total knowledge (incapable of knowing anything).
Where E3 presented something, gamers could only react to nothing. Trapped in phantasmic automation, the gamer could only flee themselves as a projectile stream of vomit, an emptying out that sent all the terrors of male being to circle like jet fighter vultures, apparitions of a Jungian conspiracy from the womb of beginnings that would dive into their interstitial tissues and peck quietly at their chromosomal Y, their genetic phallus, until a castration so total and complete lulled them to sleep. Little did the gamer know they had been asleep all along, and that the vulture had been of their own making.