A long time ago, Roger Ebert wrote that he believed video games could never be art. He later changed his view, and eventually arrived at the conclusion that he should have never brought it up. Unfortunately, he did, and because I'm in touch with the zeitgeist, I've written a letter to Mr. Ebert, explaining just what I think of him and his taste in art.
Dear Mr. Roger Ebert: Kindly fuck the fuck off.
A long time ago, you said you didn’t believe video games could be considered art in the foreseeable future. That may be the most pompous, idiotic thing I’ve ever heard someone say, and I’ve listened to Bill O’Reilly speak for more than 30 seconds. Do you really not believe that The Legend of Zelda is art? Do you really not believe that Final Fantasy is art? Do you really think that Mario and his friends aren’t art? And those are just the mainstream video games. There are so many more that were probably suggested to you by your readers. Jesus Fucking Christ, if you truly believe that video games can‘t be art, kindly fellate a shotgun.
You must believe literature is art. You obviously believe movies are art. You’re a movie critic for god sakes (You may refer to yourself as a film critic, but that is pure, pretentious bullshit. You write pretty about moving pictures and get paid for it. Don’t get a swelled head.)! So why is it so hard for you to believe that a video game can be art? You say that the fact that player affects the game precludes it from being art. How is that so? As you mentioned Clive Barker saying, it allows the player to experience a wider range of emotions. In the end, I’m not sure you have a reason for disliking video games. At the risk of sounding standoffish, I feel you’re being a snob. You tell us that you would gladly destroy all the video games in the world to save the works of Shakespeare. You tell us that a person who values a great video game over Huckleberry Finn is a fool. This is nothing more than cultural classism. I assume this is how art critics, those pretentious buffoons, felt when Jackson Pollack was first dripping paint on canvas.
So I’m sorry Mr. Ebert. Until you can come up with some stronger reasoning then “they’re not Shakespeare or Twain,” I won’t be able to take you as anything more than a real life representation of Abe Simpson, afraid that a camera flash had stolen his soul. Fuck. You.
Sincerely, Atique Virani
Ebert has been rebutted much better than this, by much better writers. My personal favorite is Michael Swaim's piece in Cracked.com.
