Had to track this down after seeing that a work of (god help us) New Games Journalism about Metal Gear Solid had been published in The New Yorker and hailed as “the greatest piece of video-game-related writing of all time”.
It’s not a *bad* piece of fiction by any means, and clearly peppered with details of great personal significance to the author, though it also, I have to say, piles on in its elongated opening sentence alone an almost-parodic checklist of motifs you would expect a critically acclaimed piece of millennial diasporic ethnic literature published in the New Yorker circa 2020 to have:
- an Earnest, Nonthreatening author avatar
- whose thoughts we are privy to in a Didactic Stream of Consciousness
- who is Poor, yet Scrappy
- and torn between a thoroughly Americanized identity and his Third-World, Old Country Roots
- with a Big Ethnic Family
- as represented by a Disapproving and Traditional yet Haunted Father Figure
- who is Oppressed by Whiteness, Capitalism and America
- as dramatized through the consumption of a Lowbrow Nerd Fetish Object (about which Kochai can freely lie or exaggerate without his New Yorker readers being any the wiser)
This is, again, all in the first sentence, before the story proceeds to namedrop Allah and Harry Potter Hagrid, insert Pashto words into English sentences as signifiers of Ethnic Authenticity, delve into a magical realist narrative of MGSV transporting the protagonist into a ghostly confrontation with Generational Trauma, before describing war as “strung together by the invisible wires of beloved men who will die peacefully in their sleep” in yet another ponderous, comma-intensive paragraph-length sentence.
It’s all very MFA program A+ content, very technically proficient, and hey, it *does* capture something sort of interesting about video games as tools of reliving/revising memory-spaces and immersive mirrors of social alienation, along with familial tensions that I’m sure are very real for many diasporic communities. But also, like, this is a *little* hacky, right? Are we allowed to say that? If boomer and Gen X white men writing brilliant but self-destructive literary alter egos wallowing in the liminal fringes of late capitalism is a worn enough bit to fashionably complain about, surely the woobie millennial victimized-by-the-white-man diaspora kid with an identity crisis story has worked more than hard enough to catch up? Do we not think the writers telling stories like this in the New Yorker are ferociously conscious of their audience? Is this not a smidge performative? Like this is speaking someone’s truth out there, I’m sure, but we’re not truly obligated to call it the pinnacle of the written word, are we? Please?