you're never gonna guess how i feel about this one gang

i love my girlfriend very much but she is very bad at kirby golf. Keeby is now my girlfriend. I apologize in advance.

[ Recommended by maradona as part of this list! ]
As one of the key contributors to the brand identity of Sony’s gaming wheelhouse, Naughty Dog has centered itself as a pillar of prestige gaming, an ideologue pristinely focused on scavenging pop cultural landmarks on a relentless tear to put video games on a creative pedestal, sullying the individuality inherent to the medium in favor of some perceived notion of being considered “art”. Where we find the studio now, aping Indiana Jone’s blockbuster exploits in Uncharted and cutting surface-level highlight reels of post-apocalyptica in The Last of Us, exists primarily as a production house for wannabe-films in the name of cinematic gaming, but tracing back through the history of the developers work shows off a lost pedigree. Severed from the modern image of today, the Naughty Dog of the mid 90s was a beast cut from a different cloth, a proponent of the infamous Mascot Wars that defined the generation.
While the adage doesn't ring true today, the common knowledge of the 90s held that console exclusives and brand identity were the sword and shield brandished by the gaming industry. On the hallowed ground of internet forums, the nu-playground politics of the console war were waged equally in tech specs and pretty faces. By the time Sony entered the fray the battlefield was already established, with Sega and Nintendo locked in an eternal struggle for relevance. Competitors had risen, fallen, and been cast aside, but Sony remained as the last man standing against the twin behemoths. The dual-sided clash saw fit to tear the fate of the console market asunder, rendered desolate in the shockwave of mutually-assured destruction… Until he, the bearer of Sony’s curse, rose from primordial depths. Branded with the mark of enmity, the flag-bearer of PlayStation’s campaign cast a mocking shadow over the decade. Born into strife, with the serrated edge of the attitude era gripped tightly in his paw, Crash Bandicoot dug into his trench, grubby paws grasping for cultural leverage.
Mel Blanc-ian, a comic centerpiece made as much as a figurehead, Crash was the perfect scapegoat, an idol to cherish and ridicule in equal measure. A jester on the battleground of the modern technobandit, the mascot of yore breathed life into the indefinite scuffle that is brand identity. Becoming synonymous with genres and companies all their own, mascots, especially those in the realm of the mascot platformer, became analogous for not only the series and franchises they encompassed, but for the consoles they inhabited as well. Sega had Sonic, Nintendo had Mario, and Sony, fresh out the gate, had Crash Bandicoot, the mass-production beast forged by the wreckage of a thousand prototypes. The role, aside from poking fun at corporate rivals, was purely accessory, but as touchstones in the memories forged in the scorched earth of Gamefaqs forums, the mascot became an inescapable notion.

Years have since passed, and the Mascot Wars have drawn to the close. While some, the ever stalwart, cling to delusions of supremacy, the giants of the conflict settled into uneasy truces. With the three leaders co-mingling, interweaving, the tribalism of the past decades remains spoken in hushed whispers. Sega's great defeat in the Summer of 2001 saw the colossus fall, not by Nintendo's hand, or even by Microsoft's emerald super-soldier, but at the blade of Sony's masterwork, the PlayStation 2. With the fall of the esteemed leader, the war flickered, faded and died. However, for every victory, the heroes of the past are just as easily forgotten: with success coordinated in equal part by masters of tactical espionage and gods of war, the mascots that defined history were brushed away, hardened cynicism overtaking the endearing face of plucky spirit. Crash, Sly, Croc, even the maligned Gex, all shunned by the tides of time.
The era defined by the mascot has long since passed. Yes, false idols clammer to the throne, halls besieged by Hat Kids and Yooka-Laylees, but the original generation has faded, gussied up only to be showboated in recollections and remasterings. The soul, flickering against the growing cynicism of the game industry, now rests as post-ironic detached nostalgia.
…none of this has anything to do with the actual game of Crash Bandicoot, and that’s because there’s very little to say about Crash Bandicoot. Like any property in the 90s that uses the aesthetics of tribal villages, shockingly racist! Literally my only comment on the content of the game itself. ¯\(ツ)

It has OTG Throw Combo infinites and Infinity Plus Frame Wakeups, yet the greater FGC are too scared to consider a real future with Best of Best


so it's a game about a "guy" who
- Spends time with escapist fantasies
- Sees a girl and thinks she's the coolest ever and never thinks of her again
- Is VA'd by a person with a feminine voice
- Dresses like a boymoder, and
- Doesn't have a father figure
and you're telling me it's NOT trans

Wolverine could be considered the gayest of X-Men

Which Backloggd user actually completed the game "Quiz & Dragons: Capcom Quiz Game" before putting down a score for it?
1. MrProg
2. Maradona
3. Wil Smith
4. Squigglydot

Why Can Shitrom Make Marbins

The Assassination of 64th Street: A Detective Story by the Coward Maradona

It’s always going to be weird to me that this is the game that acted as the lynchpin for so many experiences in my life, both essential and easily avoidable. For all intents, its fine, right? It’s Kirby, still coming into his own, but identifiable as the super tuff pink puff that everyone with an ounce of good taste adores. Discussing the actual advancements of any Kirby game is a fool’s errand for all but the most studious of scholars in Dream Land, a topic already worn weary by a thousand writers before me. Plain and simple, this game matters less in the physical reality of what it is and isn’t, and more by where it resides, as this near-constant companion through my memories.
Dream Land 2 settled as permanent iconography, fragmented moments sculpted in grey-matter marble, pristinely preserved and gravely decayed. It was a series of monochromatic rainbows illuminating otherwise melancholic recollections, an eternal love that, even in its greyscale trappings, glowed in vibrant light. It was the life-or-death duel against the celestial duo, Mr. Shine and Mr. Bright, outside of a Wal-Mart in South Colorado, the endless attempts to dethrone the Dede-despot after school… It was lackadaisical searches for Rainbow Drops, late into the night, while talking to loved ones. I don’t want to pretend it’s more than it is, a story of a rose-tinted little guy and his Adorable Animal Friends™ (and Gooey), but perhaps it’s that same simplicity that ensures a presence in my mind.

Never forget. At any time, the Panel de Pon ruling class will silence you, they will eradicate your voice, they will render you unable to speak or express yourself, lest you be brought to a quick and malicious end.
Rise, humble laborer, ever-steady soldier of the working class. Build the brick walls that will shield you against those in power. Stage the Tetris Attacks that will levitate your disenfranchisement, and construct the foundation of a Puzzle League of your own.
In the face of evolution, do not hinder yourself by the restrictions of old, the classical repainting of history. Do not limit yourself to the predecessors of old; rise to the challenge of new experiences, lest you be cast aside by the waves of time.


some bitches will ask you to play a game and literally install this

Subsonic steps bound off of idyllic tiles, a steadfast one-two sprint. Clasped tightly in his hand, divine intervention is executed by the thunderclap of .500 magnum, a heavenly send-off alternating between the gentle coaxing of automatic fire and the definitive blade of retribution. Closing in, denizens of hell launch bioluminescent bombardments, lethal brimstone sending you down a path 10,000 feet under. As if born to die, the demons are dispatched as quickly as they rise, beings materialized, analyzed, and pulverized within nanoseconds. Speed and focus become one, repetitions on idealized concepts pointing towards sublimity. Your holy arms holstered, your sanctified sword sheathed, you cast your sight upon diamond excellence, an eternity encapsulated in the blink of an eye. Now, beyond the safety of three-round bursts and lead ripostes, you see her.
Her heliotrope hues leave psychoactive cigarette burns; if true angels drive one to madness, her presence in Heaven is well established. Like sewing needles piercing taut eardrums, her voice spikes out, an aural trepanation. More lethal than chambered rounds and heavy ordinance, she implants in your brain the same innate fear that courses through you as you enter convention halls, the same fight-or-flight micropanic as the first step within a college’s Japanese Culture Club, for she is the eidolon of modern otakudom. When you breach the seal on Neon White’s world, what resides underneath isn’t the long-forgotten Y2K Japanimation mecca, but a puréed distillation of the wretched refuse of anime fandom, the Anitwitter and r/animemes congregation speaking in post-post-ironic references, where every man is either a razor-edged twink or a hulking himbo, and every woman either an e-girl yandere or a wannabe mommy-dom that covets humanized mediocrity. Buried under the pretense of being “by freaks, for freaks”, the reality of Neon White puts you in the nightmarish scenario of living through the dreams of the most typical of indie weeb softboys.
Such is the loop of Neon White: for every moment of precise platforming bliss, an hour of Young Thotticus making your amygdala fire on all cylinders, a century of watching history’s straightest couple verbally hate-fuck, an eon of remembering Tumblr-Sexy-Man-ified Junkrat saying “you were my Sasuke!”, an eternity of knowing that the core message of the game is that you have a moral imperative to forgive those who abused you in life, lest you literally go to Hell. Both sides of the equation, fraught and unstable, struggle to maintain a semblance of balance.
When Ben Esposito, Enemy of the People, claimed this project as a game “for freaks”, it masks the reality of what Neon White stands for. Decked in the style of the forums of yesteryear, Online Signature UI and Neocities buttons intact, with a heart beating to the 200bpm pulse of breakcore, the aestheticism of pre-Web 2.0 culture is broken by the asphyxiating smog of The Modern Anime Fan. Sincerity and passion die at the cross of venomous disingenuity, nailed down by ironic detachment and love in the key of “Waifu of the Month”. The work of Angel Matrix, the latest in rebrands of Esposito's predictable shtick, axes even the most optimistic of readings: Neon White is the new face of pretension, wearing the oh-so-relatable mask of an adored time for the sake of drawing attention, not out of love, nostalgia, or passion. Soullessness masquerading as soulful.
and someone please tell the writers that run-on sentences don’t read as like, relatable or quirky. It just looks bad. It’s like, your job to Make Text Read Good. come on.