Review courtesy of Ben John Smith (Contact Ben)

“Game On – I AM the fucking game, pal.”

Jesus, I hate public transport.

After feeding a fist full of silver into the system, I sit next to a junkie mother with a pram and a 14 year old kid playing hooky. Every seat has a spare next to it, even if it means standing up, people will do anything to avoid any kind of alien interaction. There is a seat covered in paint; making an Italian woman squeeze between two elderly ladies having a chat, better to inconvenience them, than herself. I was gutted to have paid the six dollars fifty for my ticket ($6.50), but when a steak handed-meat head inspector asks for my ticket, I thank sweet baby Jesus I did. That fat red faced fiend would have twisted me in two and sent months of abusive debt collection letters, and that’s not something today needed. Today would be hash cookies and cheap coffee, dry eyes, low lights and the underbelly of the nerd.

Today, it was game on.

Melbourne’s federation square’s ACMI (Australian Centre for Moving Image) building will be showcasing a Mecca of video-game history, with its “Game on” expo. Showcasing the greatest games ever made running until the 13th of July, open daily 10am – 6pm, with late night Thursdays, strictly for the hard core.

It’s a Monday so the weekend crowds won’t be around; it should give me more space and less waiting time at the machines. I follow the blue pixilated Mario clouds to the entrance, and a 19 foot leaping Mario statue punches the air at my arrival. School kids in grey blazers push around the streets and squirm onto the stairs. I'm loving the vibe, blonde girls with modified uniforms get their photos taken with Nintendo’s messiah, sticking out their tongues and skimming peace signs. The young boys squeak with enthusiasm, they knew this day was coming for years. The long lonely nights of tiberium sun, pitfall or prince of Persia, finally recognised as art; or at very least acknowledged. “Here's the real Mario” says a handsome kid with thick blonde hair.

He means the mario64 version, which would be relevant too his age, but he is still a phoney, and pounced on quickly by a small fat kid with glasses. This is his terrain now and sarcastic passive-aggressive quips are his forte’, armed to the teeth with credibility.

“You probably played as peach in Mario cart with your cousins.” He says aloud and while the rest of the class laugh, the teacher grapples with the situation. He’s stressed in the way only a situation like this could stress a man, other people's children; an arcade of video games. Another boy puts his hands in the air and gives the crowd his best “Giggity giggty goo”. But the moment here belongs to the fat kid, kudos to you fat kid.

I pay my fifteen dollars from a sweaty wad of cash and take a leaflet. And then I see it. The warm luminescent aura, glowing blue and white from the bottom of the stairs behind me. Beckoning me with visions of squashed frogs and invading space aliens. As I float towards the light like a moth, an angel rips my ticket and with eyes I don’t look into tell me to enjoy my time. Was she kidding, I was in heaven. The idea was simple, the concept was brilliant. A long room, peppered with arcade booths, television screens and console games. I couldn’t focus and my mind was wild, I stumble towards the first game I see which is honestly, and ironically Pong. It’s beautiful, I thrash three or four kids (3 or 4) without even looking at them, and with no congratulations or conversation at all. The sounds around are typical, midi tunes and coin collection pings, resounding with the “which is the jump button” from the parents with their children. Let me give you a hint lady, it's one of three (3) possible buttons on the master system controllers. I recently watched Fistful of Quarters so I shuffle towards the King Kong box, expecting to see a line of challengers and Steve Wiebe pushing the million point mark. Instead, a emo kid with blond streaks in his black hair is on about 150,000, standing at the bottom of the screen with a barrel hammer. Centipede is taken by a father and child mashing at the pads, so I take in a few original promotional posters, each one offering “full colour screens! Live interactive action! Hours of playable fun!,” god, if only they knew how right they were. The exhibitions are great, maybe one of the only exhibitions you could see and have owned one or two of the exhibits, or maybe there’s one in your closet right now. The memories that flood back from the Atari logos and front loading Nintendo cartridges are warming. Good reminiscences with probably more of a percentage in my life-time than I'd care to admit. The real treat here however, is the rock star games grand theft auto section. Liberty cities entire mission listing and consequence progression plan is mapped out on post it notes behind a glass shield. Concept art and the amazing vector designs give the gang at rock star the well deserved recognition as leaders in the industry.

A smaller more cramped section is for online games and something creepy keeps me away from it. People who play Sims online make me edgy, almost uneasy.

Of course the Wii tutorials are full of children waving their wands around furiously at the huge projection screens in front of them. The neatly dressed old man supervising tells me the screens are projection just in case one of these “little dudes” lets go of the wand, they won’t have to fix smashed plasma. It looks fun, but I’d have to be drunk to play this kind of thing in public, especially in front of this rabble. But looking around the rabble is disappointing. The hip school kids must be in the briefing rooms, theory they know before the practical they have lived. Where are the family guy quotes? The Alf T-shirts and cos play girls? This is all wrong here, this isn’t the way I remember it. Who is this cool dude with dreadlocks playing fifa? Where are the stoners and star trek nerds? I must travel to the heart of his beast, the one last impulse, the multiplayer halo network. Only four (4) screens on a cube of televisions running Xbox 360 link-play skirmishes glows in the centre of the room. There are two soccer mums playing with their kids, and it hurts to watch, so I busy myself with a few quick rounds of frogger.

When the family of four (4) leave, the entire skirmish is empty, so I casually strut forward and clench a control, awaiting any brave challengers. It’s not long before I'm joined by a middle aged man with a flannelette shirt, a small boy, maybe 13, with a red transformers shirt on. Another teenager stands across from me with his girlfriend in tow, she’s got a T-shirt that says “my boyfriend's out of town”, which makes this guy look like a chump either way. The fire fight is vicious as I'm chased around the screen by player 2, popping head shots, as I lay suppressing fire from behind a moss covered stone. Every now and then player 1, coloured white, will pop up in front of me and in a blizzard of machine gun blasts shoot at the sky or feverishly throw grenades in the small room we share. I usually beat him to death or stick him with blue flare. Every time he dies the old man next to me grunts painfully, and then laughs like he’s not really that eaten up about the whole thing, but he is.

After three rounds of player two manhandling my ass to me, I crack the shits and throw my hands in the air.

“Fuck! Who is player two, its you, isn’t it…” I say, to no one but the focus of my frustration.

“I Am.” Says the little boy, holding his hand in the air, unafraid and proud as a motherfucker.

“Well done dude, well done.” Befuddled, and like a confused old man, I don’t say anything more and make my way to the gift store, pride detached.

On the way home I stopped in at the comic store to look for something trashy, something to do with zombies, it hasn’t been a great day and I'm confused with this culture without kings, or rules or authority. The shop is silent as people in waist coats, suits and comfortably sensible shoes. I'm browsing through the low brow art and a lady who looks like Hilary Clinton excuses her self and garbs a copy of “Creative Essence”.

I pass the porn and wrestling section quickly and pick up a copy of “XXXOMBIES”, which I love. Where else can you see a naked nurse eat a dead baby? I also get a new edition of Ralph Steadman illustrating the 50th year edition of Animal Farm. I'm bumped from behind and I drop my comic, the man ignores me.

“Fuck man, keep your eyes on the game, this is Melbourne.” I say, and with good reason.

“Hey, fuck you kid . . . I am the game”. Yeah, he said that. He pays and quickly leaves and I'm left in the isle of Marvel figures and a soft core porn video bin, featuring Lindsey Dawn, holding my comics and a stupid expression.

Maybe he’s right.

Am I still the game?

What the hell were we playing?

Did I win?

How did I, a twenty four (24) year old kid with a Mohawk get left so far behind these nerds and pushy suits? I think I fit somewhere between the man with the flannelette shirts and the kids playing Wii. Hanging on with grim death rigor mortis grip to a culture I probably never fit it, but was scared as hell on missing out on.

Something that could be so much, god damn, fun . . .