But something occurred that day that was far more instrumental and self-defining than any game experience I've had since, although I wouldn't know it for decades. That day, I chose my first gamer tag. Now, this was long before such a thing really existed of course. Gamer tags in those days were mostly unimportant, apart from the critical entry at the top of a high scorer list, gamer tags were a formality. We didn't put much stock in them. In fact, more often than not we simply entered AAA, or if ambitious, ASS, just to get it over with. 

My gamer tag MIK started as an accident. I tried to enter MIKE, but ran out of room. That's right, only three spaces. I had already hit "ok" before I realized I was screwed. And before long, MIK had appeared on enough high scores amongst my friends, that to change it to my actual initials, MPK, would be to leave behind an insurmountable legacy on video game consoles everywhere. I remember actually considering the change one day, deciding against it because I realized, at around 10 years old, that if anyone ever traced back video game records in an archeological dig, or alien assessment of the remains of human kind, that MIK would have to remain an unbroken record or the whole history of my gaming exploits would be broken. This was video game genealogy. 

So to this day, on every Sega Genesis console, every mall arcade game and Six Flags across Pennsylvania, N64, Xbox and Golden Tee I've ever touched, I remain MIK, ignoring the fact that consoles now allow about 14 letters or more for a gamer tag entry. The legacy remains intact. 

But today, as I scan the convoluted lists of gamer tags in a waiting room for Modern Warfare 2, I'm subtly aware of the generational divide that has occurred. From the cryptic ,:TF|iikerapin to the in-your-face, tea-bagging style of [Jelly]FaceFhuk, it seems most users these days see gamer tags as a form in disingenuous self-expression. Gamer tags have been pushed to the limits, creatively speaking, but also to the point of such commonplace, disembodied grotesque-ness, that even these more offensive and "intimidating" names go unnoticed. 

This departure from a gamer tag representing a real person reflects the distance between the gameplay and the game player. A far cry from controlling a race car or a pong paddle, high scores no longer directly relate to high-achiever in our physical world. Today's games are an abstraction that allows users to adopt a virtual personality, wreak havoc on other disembodied players, and hump their faces when they're dead. We're simply exploring the extremes of our new permissions. These gamer tags seem representative of the lack of constraints on our new experiences. I hit the wall when I tried to enter a fourth character to complete MIKE. These kids can't seem to generate enough ideas to fill the space they're given, and so they fill that space with personal meaning or absurdity, depending on their creative capabilities and connection to the game.

It's a bit overwhelming at times, looking at this wild wild west of personalities and techniques present in massive multiplayer games. Don't even get me started on the uncomfortable issues with teamspeak. But one thing's for sure, I'm always relieved to see my buddy Doug (tag: DUGC) sign on, a guy who still feels regret that his life-long gamer tag of DUG was already taken, forcing him to add the treasonous C to the end and cut himself off from 20 years of gamer legacy. Hopefully whatever alien race excavates the treasures of our world's gaming history will stumble upon a link between DUG and DUGC that will reunite his proud achievements under the single banner of victory it deserves. But until then, MIK and DUGC will have to endure the constant disrespect of BlueberryCobler. Seriously, to be that good there's no way he has a day job.