Four years. For over four years I've been doing this games journalism gig. That's the length of a US presidential term; or the time between World Cups; or the time it takes you to get a degree from University. God, some people have met the love of their life, got married and maybe even had a kid in that time. In sort, it's not a time to be sniffed at. And after years of doing anything, you have to step back and take stock. What am I achieving here? Is this all really worth it? Does any of this matter?

There's a little something called 'New Games Journalism' that has been doing the rounds lately. Apparently it has surfaced a few times before, but this is the first time I noticed it, and it has been recking my head since. The impetus for it all is this article: 'Bow, Nigger', a brilliant and gripping account of an experience the writer had with Jedi Knight II: Jedi Outcast, a rather unassuming and generally panned game. Exactly when the article was written I don't know, but games journo Kieron Gillen later followed up with an attempt to define NGJ, and give some direction to the future of games journalism. More recently, a couple of weeks ago to be exact, These Damned Machines Are Killing Me gave an unforgiving critique of modern games magazines, a point picked up by a column at the International Game Developers Association's site and a Guardian blog last week.

The point is: we game journalists are going to have to face up to our responsibilities to the medium, and take a serious look at the way we do things. It's not easy, I know.

Self-criticism is hard enough for me to do (I can't help but cringe every time my English teachers write negative comments on my work � ridiculous, I know) but this requires something more: a real reflection on why I'm here and what I'm doing.

I love writing about games, let me just make that clear. I think it matters, I think videogames need good coverage, and serious, mature treatment by those who do the coverage. The problem is, I don't think even I deliver that. A few weeks ago my Mathematics was talking to me about what I was doing at University, assumedly hoping I'd follow his subject. "English, " I replied, greeting a small frown. "What are you hoping to do with that?" he asked. I wanted to tell him about games journalism, about how the medium was ripe for people passionate enough and talented enough to force it forward, about how I was having a great time working at one of Europe's more popular games websites. But I didn't. I just mumbled something about looking to write, and stuck my hands in my pocket.

I was embarrassed about what I do. I was actually embarrassed about the thing that I love. And I hated myself for it � what is wrong with me? How could I tell anyone anything about games journalism when I couldn't even admit to it? How could I ask fellow writers to treat their art with maturity, when I wasn't sure I was taking it seriously? So this article is not a rant at the practices of other games journalists (the ones I know are hard-working, under appreciated, decent folk), but some attempt to make sense of how we're doing things.

What's scary is how clinical and standardised games journalism has become. Flip through magazines in your local shop and you'll see the same basic setup all around � opening column; news; previews; reviews; and a few features. Games move along these lines from conception to final judgement, all conveniently structured to relieve you of having to think about the game yourself. Most websites aren't much better; the game's announced in a news article, screenshots become available, it gets previewed and then eventually reviewed.

And then? Well, not much. After the review stage we disregard the game from journalistic practices, relegating it to the back of our minds only to drudge it up again in some sort of 'History Of' feature or those inevitable 'annual awards'. It's a point that has been made elsewhere � few other forms of media journalism chuck their subject matter aside so quickly, and after so much anticipation. That's because there's no time to slow down. Everyone's looking ahead to the next big title, and then the one after that. We're perpetually tunnel visioned; we have no time to stop and take a look at the things we're writing about.

This dominance of precedent and convention has festered into how we write reviews too. They should be the crowning piece of what we do; a thoughtful exploration of the artistic experiences that form the basis of what we write about. But they're not. More often than not, they're generic and crushingly formulaic. Compare different reviews and you'll generally see the same pattern, the same sections on graphics, sound, gameplay etc. and a whole menagerie of numbers at the end. We have become slaves to convention, and in the process forgetting the most important things about games: how they relate to the player.

All games are different. Some more than others, obviously, but they are. The inadequacy of most games reviews is in their failure to recognise this, and the assumption that all games can be marked with the same criteria. That is nonsense. What's the point in marking something like Resident Evil within the same parameters as Crazy Taxi, or Gran Turismo, or Wario Ware? How can that be justified, when they all aim to deliver completely different experiences?

Strict structure works for soulless supermarket products when you're trying to decide which ready-made chicken meal has less fat, but since when were games simply products? They are pieces of art; they are the creation of, usually, people passionate about showing you and me a good time, about trying to get us to feel some sort of emotion. The most important questions that are to be asked about a game are; how does this make me feel? How does this make me think? What kind of state does it put me into? What experience do all the different components of the game culminate in?

After all, the reviewer is a real person. Behind that text is someone with feelings, someone with particular views on life and games, a being who is probably the highest calibre of life the universe has ever seen, and, if you believe in that sort of thing, created in the image of a freaking God. We are, in short, incredible beings, with lives full of strife, pathos, joy and tragedy.

But when we sit down to deliver our verdict on games, creations of equally amazing beings, we take a backseat, we relegate ourselves to mere observers of this new product in front of us. Graphics? Oh, they're pretty good. Sound? Decent too. Gameplay? Yeah, "superb", addictive stuff, some new stuff in there from last year's version. Individuality is out of the window; personality is never contemplated.

And by personality I don't mean inserting predictably witty comments or the like, I'm talking about an account of how the game affects you. What it means to you. That's what 'New Games Journalism' is all about, and it may just be the means to break videogame journalism out of its rut.

At this point, though, we encounter a problem. Sceptics of NGJ will argue that the above is placing far too much emotional weight on games, which, frankly, aren't that deep. Fortunately, such a blanket statement is bollocks. But we do have to accept that, as much as we may love games, many are soulless products, offering little besides an annual update to tired gameplay or filler for when there's nothing on TV.

The other criticism of NGJ is the apparent arrogance that comes with it. By placing emphasis on the writer's own experience there is a danger that ego could supersede the game itself, which would be detrimental. The line between personality and self-indulgence is a fine one, but we must dance with such possibilities if we are to achieve something.

But to completely abandon the accepted way of doing things would be silly. There is still some merit in it.

One of the reasons the standard mode of games journalism has been able to survive relatively unchallenged so far is that, in some way, it works. Most people who pick up a games magazine don't want a writer's tale of his journey through conquered worlds; they want to know if they should buy the new Pro Evo or the new FIFA. They want the latest information on Metal Gear Solid, or some cheats for GTA: San Andreas. They want an easy look at the games ahead, and if the ones out this week are any decent. And that is perfectly fine. Catering to these needs is perfectly fine.

There's nothing inherently wrong with games journalism acting as a buying guide; people are only concerned because this style has been almost universally accepted as the norm, with little breakaway from it. We have few alternatives to it; that's the problem. There will always be a need for drab, formulaic writing, but there is also a need for insightful, different treatment of games. We're simply getting too much of the former and not nearly enough of the latter.

The reasons for this aren't entirely sinister. It's not like games journalists are deliberately holding the medium down; it's just easy to fall into the same old routine. With the daily drudgery of website updating and the stifling power of accepted conventions, original, inventive writing can suffer. It's hard to think outside the box when it's this cramped or, to be honest, this comfortable.

But we have to try, because the more games journalism stays the same the more stagnant it'll get. All forms of writing must evolve or they become irrelevant, and that's when it gets dangerous. With Future Publishing's practical takeover of the UK magazine market imminent, and most of the top websites adopting a similar set-up and style, this hasn't been as important as it is now.

A few things before I finish though: I realise that CE caters mostly to the 'buying guide' mentality, so I might come off as hypocritical. But I don't really care. I also realise that I am not nearly good enough a writer yet to fulfil what I appear to be demanding off other journalists. But, again, I don't care. We all need to start somewhere.

Time to break free.

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