Sometimes I think the word "good" should be striken from the English dictionary. It's not real - there's no "good" or "bad". There's "popular" and "unpopular", but since when did popular opinion count for anything? If popular opinion is anything to go by, I need a haircut, a new wardrobe, a better social life and a new sense of humour (and I need to stop posting Bebo blogs). Yet here I am, and here I stay. Am I bad?

When it comes to stepping out to do something in the world, as many of us are preparing to do, it would pay heed to remember these things, because a lot of us will be doing things that, at first glance, might require talent.

Wrong.

Talent is a bonus. Talent is a flavouring. Talent is the fancy roasted garlic mayo in the back of the fridge - only handy if you have something to put it on. Talent means absolutely nothing if you don't do anything.

If talent was what it took to get somewhere in this world, pop music would not exist. Beyonce would be wailing horribly in a karaoke bar. Uwe Boll would just be some crazy german. Asylum Movies wouldn't exist. It doesn't take talent to get anywhere in life, it takes determination and dedication.

Do you want to make games? Make some games. It doesn't matter if they break every two seconds. It doesn't matter if people don't enjoy them.

Do you want to write? Then write. Don't fuss over your perfect novel. Don't analyze what you write. Just fucking write.

People are so incredibly unique, yet so often predictable. There's a chance that, in everything you do, there might be someone, somewhere who like it. So don't just stand there with everything in your hands - throw it at the wall and see what sticks.

Unfortunately, I'm struggling to fill my dissertation to the required 6,000 word limit. This is perhaps due to my dogged resistance to meet the draconic whims of an outdated system of education, but it is certainly not made easier by the work of the ruthless censor's pen. I present to you here what would have been the 6th chapter of my dissertation, had it not been removed by fools who do not wish to peer into the madness within.

Chapter 6: In Consideration Of The Old Ones

In my study of the recollections of gaming, I have considered many aspects of the human psyche and how recent studies in the formation and handling of memories might affect my results. I have shown how I will compare the findings of my research to current hypotheses on the core concepts of "fun" and how they relate to the design of the core elements of games. In this chapter, I would like to take time to consider a deeper element of the human psyche - that which relates to the unspeakable, the unnameable, and the indescribable in the human condition, the elements of the soul which are and always were in control of mighty Cthulhu.

"The sciences, each straining in its own direction, have hitherto harmed us little; but some day the piecing together of dissociated knowledge will open up such terrifying vistas of reality, and of our frightful position therein, that we shall either go mad from the revelation or flee from the light into the peace and safety of a new dark age." (Blackwood, A., 1926)

Past studies have shown that we, the bipedal ape-descended forms of man, are not the true power on earth, but hold less weight than the shadows of the mighty old ones, who sleep in the depths, beyond the inky veil. They lie there, waiting, as we stride mighty in our dominance, ignorant of the dreadful fate that awaits us.

In examining the concepts of “fun”, we have already considered Ralph Koster's theory that fun is “an exploration of possibility space”, a theory echoed by Katie Salen and Eric Zimmerman in the text 'Rules Of Play', where they that “play is free movement within a more rigid structure”.

This theory of play, when combined with our admittedly vague knowledge of the vile blackness that lies at the heart of existence, shows us then that play may in fact be a metaphor for our own doomed existence. If the concept of play is taken to be an abstracted form of learning – as Koster put it in his original 2005 presentation “Why Games Matter” - “the feedback the brain gives us for absorbing patterns for learning purposes” - then perhaps we can see how games can help us to deal with the unstoppable tide of suffering and destruction which awaits us when Cthulhu awakes from his centuries of slumber in the dank, soulless abyss. Perhaps what we perceive as “fun” is merely an attempt to stave off the madness of knowing what truly lies within the heart of man, and the terrible, unspeakable things of which he is capable?

Warren Spector, in his 2007 University Of Texas lecture notes that in designing environments for players to interact with “total freedom is not the goal”. In order to understand why, we must examine the darkest of our desires – that one which cannot be described through our own language, for there are no words that exist to describe that we could not possibly understand – the call of Dagon, the dark urge, the itch on one's soul that stretched from the darkness within all of us, reaching out to drag us asunder into madness. Is The Call the reason, then, that we do not truly seek freedom, but an illusion of it? Could it be that, as games as a method through which we might shield ourselves from the truth, this desire to be controlled – especially by some unseen hand of “The Designer” is, in fact, evidence that now we are beginning to realise our true place as merely the slaves of The Old Ones, their tools, their desires made flesh to walk upon the planet until the stars align to bring them bac

Don't ask me how. I was supposed to be having a nice little break, just some coffee with a friend and back to work on the dissertation, then out of nowhere comes dinner, three bottles of wine, a crashed stag party - next thing you know, money has changed hands and some foreign girl is waving her jiggly bits in my face.

I don't even like strippers. The stench of 15 layers of perfume is nauseating. There's no sense of thrill or conquest in seeing them naked, and I've been on the Internet since I was 12, its fair to say I've seen ALL the boobies. So why do I seem to always end up there?

The most obvious reason is because its somewhere I haven't exhausted. In 28 years in this town, I've been everywhere and seen everything that you can do on a night out in Dundee, and so this sleazy little corner-shop of live action nakedness is the only place I have left that I haven't *quite* gotten bored of yet (although I think I'm on the verge of it now).

There's something else though.

It could be that I just like to challenge morals every now and again. I've never been one for not doing something just because I'm told not to - nor am I someone who does things automatically because they're "bad". I like to make informed decisions regarding these things, and sometimes all it takes is a little step back from something to make you think "Hey, there's no reason this could be wrong at all!"

(In the case of strip clubs, they're only degrading or dangerous when they're unregulated and coerce women into working in them - which, as far as I know, does not apply to the one I've visited a good couple times now. No-one is making these women sell their services, and while I'm sure its little more than a job to them, they carry out their work with a confident enthusiasm that says they enjoy what they do for a living. Sure, I'm in no doubt that they have confidence issues, that they probably only feel comfortable taking their clothes off for money due to their issues with emotional connections stemming from some broken heart or abusive ex-boyfriend, but at least these girls channel their neuroses into money - and making others happy in a safe, healthy way. Before you condemn them, think about the millions of girls who find other ways to let out their issues ...)

On the other hand, perhaps what draws me to these places is the air of libertine sexuality. I've always felt I tread a horrid unpopular middle ground between moral chastity and sleazy debauchery. I'm all for sexual liberty, so long as its considered in moderation with some element of emotional content. Just as Liquid seems like a hot night spot if you pour enough cheap Perry down your neck to cover the smell of sweat and spilt booze, and chase it with enough tequila to make everyone seem vaguely interesting, maybe the right level of inebriation is all it takes to strip the sleaze away from Private Eyes and make it feel like the underground, post-hippy love shop I've always dreamed of hanging out in. Only without any of the burlesque dancing, or art shows, or philosophical conversation, or live music or pretty much anything other than girls taking their clothes off. And they do it for money, not love. So, in fact, its nothing like that.

Maybe then, its the lack of competition and tension. Even if you don't subscribe to it, there's a male culture in any public evening venue that feels like a herd competitiveness. Its not something you think about, but night clubs bring out a sort of mob instinct in even the best of us, and even at our most zen there's a nagging sensation of competition, a stress to look your manliest. But the great thing about strip clubs is that they take that out the air - the women there are there to do one thing, and they'll do it for anyone. The playing field is leveled. While most would put them at opposite ends of the moral spectrum, there's probably more acceptance in a strip club than a gay bar. After all, it doesn't matter what you l