Grand Romantic Delusions Chapter 05: The Agent

         Katie abruptly left the registrar's station after pretending not to have the required paperwork, or to even understand what was going on around her—the language barrier and all. What was with that guy? How had she missed with him?

          After all her careful preparation, working on her "chance meeting" with the target, he had completely blown her off. Her "Svetlana" character had never failed to hook a man before. Usually her eyes and smile alone were enough to get a man to at least talk to her. Hell, every other man in the BMV was making eyes at her. Could he have known? Impossible! Hanlon had been very careful—they never met at the lab, so O'Keefe would never have seen her there. Besides, the man struck her as kind of goofy—she doubted very much that he even so much as suspected he was being watched.

          O'Keefe had seemed to be obsessed with the frumpy woman ahead of him in line. Maybe he was just realistic enough to know he wouldn't have a chance with a woman that looked like Svetlana. She had practically thrown herself at him, though—that had always been enough to make men lose logic altogether. So why hadn't it worked with him? She might have to try a different tack.

          Sergeant Michael Hanlon, USMC, Ret. was everything one would expect in a former Marine. That is to say, he was clean and neat, he had perfect posture, and he was utterly diligent in his duty. He was an honorable man who did his job to the best of his ability, and even at his age he could probably kill you before you even had time to fully form the words, "Oh shit!" in your mind, let alone say them out loud. Unfortunately, very few of the people around him had anything like his sense of professionalism. Frankly, he thought most of them were idiots, though he would never say so out loud.

          Katie McEllern stood stiffly before him. She had never served in any armed forces, but she knew this meeting was nothing less than an inspection.

          "You came highly recommended," he began. "But I never heard of you before last week."

          "That's the way it is in my line of work, Mr. Hanlon. If I do my job right, very few people know I've done anything at all."

          "So how am I supposed to tell the difference?" He paced around her where she stood. "And you will address me as Sergeant, Sgt. Hanlon or Sir. Mister Hanlon is my dear departed father, God rest his soul."

          They were in the middle of a hotel suite. The meeting had been arranged for here because Sgt. Hanlon didn't want Katie to come into contact with the target before she had all the details.

          Katie stepped outside and quickly scanned the parking lot. There he is. Seth O'Keefe was getting into an older model Camaro. It was light metallic blue and rusty, the driver's side door coated in primer. The license plate was "S3CR3TS" and on the back were several bumper stickers—most of the Heavy Metal Band Name variety, and one which read: "Labelle Research: We Know What We're Doing, So You Don't Need To."

          He backed out of his space and drove towards her. Quickly she turned to her left and walked past a flower shop and then a music store. She stopped and watched the reflection in the window while pretending to look at a collection of instruments. She noted that the hood of O'Keefe's car was also covered with primer. West-siders, she thought. Do they ever finish what they start?

          Once he passed her, she made her way across the parking lot to her own car: a late-model white 4-door Honda Accord—about as inconspicuous a car as one could find. They'd sold hundreds of thousands of the things, after all. She would have to catch O'Keefe's attention some other way. Perhaps after casually bumping into each other one or two more times she might convince him that Svetlana was his "destiny" or some such nonsense. She'd have to play it carefully, though—if he suspected he was being watched, running into her too many times too soon might set off alarm bells in his head.

          As she pulled to the end of the parking row, O'Keefe suddenly sped by, going the opposite direction from the one in which he'd left. Hmm … curious, that. What's his hurry? He hadn't so much as looked in her direction, so she decided to tail him—all the way to the library right next door to the shopping center where the BMV was located.

          "We think we may have a security leak at Labelle Research. That's something I will not tolerate."

          "And so you want me to plug your leak?" Katie replied, "I can do that."

          Hanlon handed her a folder. "O'Keefe is the name. Seth Davis O'Keefe. He seems to have taken an unusual interest in the labs."

          "And curiosity is not something you encourage—at least not outside the scientific staff." She took the folder and sat on the couch. "Please, make yourself comfortable … Sergeant." She motioned to the chair across the coffee table from her.

          The sun was just rising, but her room on the 14th floor faced west. The red-gold light was beginning to stream between the other, taller buildings in the area and create an intricate interplay of shadows and reflections on the river. It was a beautiful autumn day in the Midwest, with bright skies and just a few large puffy clouds floating about. Katie could get lost on a day like this, were she outside, but for now—down to business.

          She leaned forward on the couch and opened the folder on the table in front of her. There was a picture of an average-looking guy with medium-length blond hair, sideburns and a soul patch. He had light grey eyes that gave his face a sort of empty look. There was a data sheet attached:

Seth Davis O'Keefe

2500 Cortona Rd.

Columbus, OH 43204

Birthday: September 24, 1983 

Sex: male                    Race: caucasian

Ht: 5'10"                      Wt: 170

Marital status: single

Education: 2 Years at CSCC, no degree

Department: maintenance

          O'Keefe parked his car out away from the bulk of the cars in the lot. What? He's afraid to get a scratch on that beat up old piece of shit? She noticed that the passenger door was a darker blue than the rest of the car—the rest that wasn't primer, that is. She watched as he checked that his doors were locked and then made his way to the library. He had a large book in his hand. It appeared to be the book that O'Keefe and the frumpy woman had been discussing in line at the BMV. Holy Shit, she thought. He's trying to track that woman down!

          Katie parked her car nearer the building and went inside.

          O'Keefe was standing at the counter arguing with a library clerk. It seemed the library didn't just give out information on who had checked out what books.

          "But this is important," he was saying. "I think this woman's friend is the love of my life. Don't you understand? Don't you have a single romantic bone in your body?"

          "I'm sorry sir," replied the librarian. "My hands are tied."

          O'Keefe slumped. "Fine then." 

          He turned to walk away when the librarian interrupted him.

          "Sir!"

          O'Keefe turned back, hopefully. "Yes? You changed your mind, and can help—"

          "No," he replied. "But I can't let you leave with that book. It's library property and you're not the patron who checked it out."

          "How do you know that? Did you look in the computer and see who did check it out? Who was it?"

          "No, sir. You just now told me you didn't."

          "Oh … yeah." He turned and bolted for the door, the librarian yelling after him.

          Katie stifled a laugh and hurriedly turned towards the nearest display shelf. She doubted O'Keefe would notice her in his desperate rush for the door, but she didn't want to take any chances.

          She turned to watch him push his way out the door and stumble into the parking lot. He dropped the book in the process, doubled back, picked it up and ran for his car. 

          Katie walked back outside, casually. O'Keefe almost fell once again and then spent several seconds fumbling for his keys and dropping the book once more in the process. He unlocked the car and dropped the keys, as well, before picking them back up, along with the book and getting into his car. He almost slammed his own leg in the door, he was in such a rush. And he never once stopped to look around him. If he had, he'd have realized that no one from the library was chasing him.

          The car started and O'Keefe pulled out of the lot with a squealing of tires. He screamed by the library and into the shopping center parking lot. Someone in a pick-up truck had to swerve and stop to avoid him as he pulled out on to the main street and headed west as fast as he could, the blare of the pick-up's horn behind him.

          What an idiot, Katie thought. Could he really be involved in industrial espionage?

          "Wait … this guy works in the maintenance department?"

          "He's basically a janitor," said Hanlon, finally sitting down. "We know we have a leak, and believe it or not, he's our most likely suspect."

          "So … he never graduated college, never married, and he's native to the area. Seems an unlikely candidate."

          "Well, it all seems to check out. We run down records on everyone who applies to work for us. Though …"

          "Though, it's always possible his records have been doctored," she finished for him.

          "Yes—that." Hanlon continued, "And it's always possible someone else got to him after he came to work for us."

          "A competitor, you mean. Like another research lab?"

          "Maybe. Or, possibly even a foreign agent."

          "So … you think the Chinese or the Russians or someone might be using the janitor to get top secret information out of your government-contracted research facility?"

          "Or, the Israelis, yes."

          "The Israelis?"

          "Oh, yes. There are projects at Labelle that would definitely interest them."

          "Such as what?"

          "Well, obviously, I'm not at liberty to divulge that information. To be honest, I'm not exactly privy to all the goings-on in the research department myself."

          "Aren't you the head of security?"

          "Yes, but there are some things even I'm not allowed to know."

          "I see."

          They sat in awkward silence for several minutes. Katie shifted uncomfortably on the couch, looking over the target's file, while Hanlon sat in his chair, still as stone.

          Finally, Katie said, "Well I would suggest I start by either making contact with him or running my own background check."

          "However you wish to handle it. My sources tell me you know what you're doing."

          "Your sources are correct. You know my fees and expense arrangements?"

          "Yes—they're fine."

          "All right then. I'll take the job." They both stood and reached across the table to shake hands. "I'll have the contracts sent over this afternoon and will begin work in the morning."

          "Thank you, Miss McEllern."

          This day had been nothing but a waste of time. Perhaps it was time to do a little more background work.

Grand Romantic Delusions Chapter 02: The BMV

PART II:

I stole a nervous glance at the woman now behind me in the queue. She was rather tall, with dark, well-coiffed, medium-length hair. Her smooth skin was of a fair complexion. She was wearing a white tank and a short jacket with a matching mini-skirt that showed off her long legs. She looked like she must exercise - but just enough to keep in shape without getting all muscly or anything. Or losing her considerably shapely figure. A lot of the other men in line behind us seemed to be staring at her. Pigs.

She also had brilliant green eyes that seemed to light up the whole room when she smiled. Which she did. At me.

I turned back to the sweatshirt-wearing woman in front of me. She was still playing peek-a-boo with the little girl.

"Anyway," I started again. "What were we talking about? Vampires? Oh! Wait. 2012! So, do you really think the world is gonna end in 2012? I guess that's what a lot of people are saying. My friend told me that his pastor said it was right in line with some stuff in the Bible, too. I don't really understand all that prophecy stuff, myself, but I thought I might go to church with him tomorrow, just to hear what they have to say."

Despite her best efforts at playing hard-to-get, she couldn't ignore me any longer. She turned back to me.

"No," she said. "I do not, even for a minute, think that the world is going to end in the year 2012. If there were something disastrously wrong with the planet, or the sun were about to explode, or if we were about to be hit by an asteroid or something, I think NASA or JPL, or the ESA or some scientists, somewhere would know about it before your local pastor."

"Yeah," I countered, "but what if the Mayans are right and there's a secret planet that's dark, so the telescopes can't see it, and that's what's going to hit us. Or maybe that's when the aliens promised the Mayans they'd return, and when they get back, they're gonna be pissed that we haven't mended our ways, or something, so they're gonna wipe us out and take our planet."

Oh no! I was arguing with her! That's not at all what I wanted. I'd have to find some common ground again!

"Do you have any idea," she asked, "how crazy that sounds?"

I was stunned. She continued, "If there's a dark planet out there that telescopes can't see, just how do you suppose the Mayans would have known about it? And besides, there are no Mayan prophecies about dark planets. You're getting your doomsday scenarios mixed up. Then again, it seems everyone else in the world is, so why not?" She threw her hands up in frustration.

I noticed that a couple of the Registrar workers were putting up "Out to Lunch" signs at their stations. That should slow things down a bit. I felt a wave of relief. I had little more precious, precious time. Women are fascinated by men who can carry on an intellectual debate. Maybe I could spin this in my favor, after all ...

"OK, but what about the aliens?" I asked.

"What about them?"

"I mean, what if that's why the Mayans ended their calendar in 2012. Because of aliens."

The woman behind me must have been listening, because the interjected at that point. She sounded a bit ... Irish? Or French. I wasn't sure. Who can tell the difference between all these crazy foreign accents, anyway?

"I have heard that calendar ends because it is begins of new age of peace." Greek, maybe?

We both turned towards the woman who had so rudely interrupted us.

My dream-girl responded before I could say anything. "What the hell does that even mean? New Age of Peace. Pfsh! Suddenly people are going to stop fighting over wealth and power, and everyone's going to start sharing, and then some mystical race of space aliens is going to come on down and Buy the World a Friggin' Coke?"

The dark-haired woman tilted her head to one side, her eyes narrowing. "I don't know. Is just something I heard on the tele-vision." The way she said television, it sounded like two words. Definitely French. Or maybe Russian.

"Besides," the first woman continued, "the Mayans "ended" their calendar in the same way the calendar on the wall over there "ends" on December 31st."

She was actually using finger-quotes now. How quirky and adorable! I think I really like that kind of thing in a woman.

"It doesn't mean the world's going to end," she went on. "It means you start a new calendar. A new year. Or, in the case of the Mayans, a new calendrical cycle. Or do you panic every year when you get to the last page of your calendar?"

I had to step in and fix this, and fast: "OK. You're probably right. I was just theorizing, you know ... because of your book."

The man with the two girls was called up to one of the two stations that remained open at the counter.

"Have I mentioned how this isn't my book?"

"NEXT!" Oh no! I was too late. Unless the guy with the kids finished in a hurry, my moment was slipping away. The woman in front of me turned on her heel and went up to the counter.

The woman behind me said, "I do not know what she is angry over. I think new age of peace be nice for good change."

"Uh-huh," I said, dismissively.

She continued. "Do you no think so? Or you be thinking the aliens coming?" She gave me another one of those smiles.

"I dunno," I replied to her. "We were just talking, is all." I turned back towards the counter again, straining to hear what the woman in the sweatshirt was saying to the Deputy on duty. She was being very quiet, but I thought I made out the name ... Dessoshin? Fezozchin? What the hell kind of name was that?

Thankfully, the Registrar repeated it. "Mary Sue Defozchin?" He'd obviously had had a tough time hearing her, as well. So her name was Mary. I decided that was my favorite name. I still couldn't quite get a handle on that last name, though ... Dechoshkin?

Mary handed the guy some paperwork. It looked like a simple tag renewal, so it probably wouldn't take long. Unfortunately, the guy with the kids was renewing his license, so he would take some time. And I was there to renew mine, as well.

Jesus help me, I thought. That woman there has your mom's name, and I think maybe she's the right one for me. Please help me out here, OK, Lord?

"You seem a smart man, and I like to hear you opinion." That had to be some kind of Eastern European accent. Maybe she was Polish or Lithuanian or something. "I buy coffees, you talk to me about this? I have not many friends in America, as I am just moving here for school."

The woman behind me just would not leave me alone! Still, I didn't want to appear rude.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but I'm really busy this afternoon. Good luck making friends, though." I looked her up and down. No ... she wouldn't have too much trouble making friends. Any other day, I would have accepted her offer. But not today. Today I had a mission. A mission named Mary Sue Defaozzchinin. Or something. It was destiny. I could feel it.

"Sir!"

I turned back towards the counter. The man with the two girls was standing in front of me. It was the man behind the counter addressing me, though.

"Would you mind watching that man's daughters for a moment, so we can take his license picture?"

"Um ... sure?" I didn't know what else to say. Besides, Mary was bound to be impressed. Women like men who are good with kids.

The man told his girls to stand there with me, and that he'd be back in a moment. He walked down to the other end of the counter where the photo station was set up.

The man behind the counter then motioned to the woman behind me.

"Ma'am, you can come on up here. We'll help the gentleman in front of you after those girls' father is done."

The dark-haired woman gave me a little sniff as she passed me. I guess she didn't take rejection well. This was just great! Now there was another delay. I'd never get out of here in time to catch up to Mary.

There was now an elderly gentleman behind me. He looked like a stereotype. He was grey and wrinkled and looked about five feet tall, hunched over the way he was. He wore a red Cardigan over a white shirt and the kind of grey pants that you'd have to call slacks. In one hand he held a cane. In the other were his registration papers and a grey fedora with a feather in the band.

I turned back to the counter quickly, before the man could try to engage me in conversation. You know how old people can get when they have an audience. Besides, I had these girls to attend to. One of them started pulling on my shirt. The other grabbed me by the hand. Hers was tiny and sweaty and sticky. Ugh.

The man behind me started playing peek-a-boo with the smaller of the two girls, using his hat to cover his face. Why does everyone always want to play peek-a-boo with little kids? Do the kids ever get sick of it? I mean, how long can that remain even a little bit fun?

After a couple of moments, the girls' father came back, freshly-minted license in hand. He mumbled a thank you at me, and took his daughters. Come on, lady, I thought at the Serbian woman, or whatever she was. Hurry up!

Then it was all over. Mary walked away with her new license tags and registration packet, and headed out the door. Maybe it just wasn't meant to be.

"Next!" The woman behind the counter was waving me forward. I walked up and took my wallet and papers out of my pocket. That was when I noticed a wad of bubble gum rolled into the bottom of my t-shirt. Thanks, girls.

I handed everything across the counter, and said, "I need to renew my license." I willed myself not to cry. I wouldn't give the Slavic lady the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

The woman on the other side of the counter barely even looked at me. "Is your address still the same?"

"Listen," I said. "I don't want to wait in line again, but I need to be able to find the woman that you just helped. Would you please give me her name and address?"

The woman looked up at me. "Are you serious?"

"Yes."

"No!" She replied. "I can't do that. It's illegal and unethical."

"But you don't understand! It's destiny! Mary and I ... we are meant to be together!"

"Look, sir. I don't care about your destiny. My job is to renew your license and send you on your way. If you want to go chasing after her, I can't stop you, but you'll have to wait in line again."

I looked behind me. There were at least thirty people in the queue now.

"But ..."

"But me no buts, mister!" She wasn't going to budge. "This isn't some kind of movie where the rules don't apply and everyone is expected help you find your true love. This is the BMV."

The dark-hared Slovenian at the next station was looking at me as if I'd lost my mind. Maybe I had.

"All right," I sighed, resigned to my fate. "Let's do this."

"Is your address still the same?"

"Yes."

We then went through all the standard questions. She told me to look through the eye-testing machine for my vision test. When I stepped up to the machine, I spotted it. Mary's copy of Twilight of the Gods. She'd left it right on the counter next to the eye tester! Oh, Joy of Joys!

After my vision test, I carefully slid the book off the top of the counter. Here it was ... the clue I would need to find Mary. She'd have to come back after her friend's book!

I would find her.

Oh yes, I would.

Are Video Games an Art Form?

I know I'm a little late to this party, but I've been busy. I've been mulling this topic over in my head for a while, too, and now I just feel the need to get it out on virtual paper.

Roger Ebert, some time ago, made the statement that video games could never be art. In response to this, Kellee Santiago of thatgamecompany gave a talk at a TEDxUSC event taking the opposing view. Ebert, unusually, felt the need to respond to that.

As usual on the Internets, a shitstorm arose in the gaming community and everyone from Gabe & Tycho at Penny Arcade to G4 TV's Adam Sessler to "Yahtzee" Croshaw have posted responses. Responses have ranged from outraged disagreement with Mr. Ebert to agreement on certain points and others basically wondering why anyone gives a rat's ass.

Well, I certainly don't kid myself that I belong in company of those people above, but I still have my opinions. For what it's worth, here they are:

First off, we sort of have to define just what art is. Andy Warhol's quip about most Americans thinking it's a man's name notwithstanding, I think art can be appreciated and defined by anyone ... but people will always have their disagreements about that definition. I think of art as a process (or product of that process) of arranging elements (whether visual or auditory, or whatever) in order to elicit an emotional or sensual response in an audience. I believe art can be the work of one individual or of a collaborative process.

Most importantly, though, we need to remember that whether something is art or not, does NOT determine its quality or value. There is good art and there is bad art.

Let's take one of my favorite paintings as an example: Nighthawks, by Edward Hopper. (I'm sure you know the painting, even if you don't recognize the name. Just do a Google Image Search.) I think pretty much everyone would agree that this is an example of art. Now, take the crayon etchings of a 2-year old that's up on the refrigerator of a typical middle-American home. Very few people would argue that the child's art is objectively the better of these two works. (Some might argue over purity of expression, or some such, but I'm not going there.) Most people would also consider both of these works an art form.

Similarly, the prehistoric etchings on cave walls have a certain beauty in their lines and are very expressive, but the objective technical quality doesn't compare to Leonardo Da Vinci's work. And furthermore, take a look at different forms and styles like the surrealism of Magritte or Picasso's cubism. These are all art. So is the spoof of Nighthawks featuring Elvis and Marilyn Monroe and James Dean. What about the Velvet Elvises and Dogs Playing Poker and the Unicorns with Rainbows being sold out of a van on the corner? I think most people would consider those art. Mostly bad art, yes, but art nonetheless.

I believe most people consider the act of storytelling to be an art, as well. Storytelling can take many forms: verbal communication or sign language, drama (stage & screen), literature, or sequential imagery (comics). And once you move from someone's individual vision, you're moving into collaborative art.

Mr. Ebert says he tends "... to think of art as usually the creation of one artist." I'm not sure why he brought this up, because he almost immediately shoots the concept down by providing examples of collaborative art: a cathedral, a tribal dance - though he goes on to claim that the dance is made up of individual choreographers. "Everybody didn't start dancing all at once." I find it odd that he neglected the most obvious form of collaborative art in our modern society - the field in which he works professionally: Film. Modern film is a collaborative art. Not everyone who works on a film is an artist - there are technical people and all sorts of behind-the-scenes workers involved - but there are many artists involved: writers, directors, actors, designers of props and sets. The end result of their efforts, both artists and non-artists alike - is a film - which I think most people, Mr. Ebert included, would consider a work of art. Maybe not all films are really "art" in their purest sense. But I think the medium itself is an art form. Sure there are some really lousy films out there, but that doesn't mean they're not art. They're just bad art.

So, I think we can dismiss the idea that art must be the result of one artist's singular vision.

One of Mr. Ebert's biggest issues seems to be with the non-static nature of video games.

Our modern method of photography didn't exist 200 years or so ago. At one time it was a new technology. An argument could be made that photography isn't an art, because all you're doing is pointing a tool at something that already exists and pushing a button. You're just mechanically producing two-dimensional representation of something from the real world, using a technological tool. Of course, anyone who's seen and been moved by the photos of Ansel Adams or Alfred Stieglitz or even Mathew Brady's portraits and documentary photos of the American Civil War will disagree with this argument. Photography is definitely an art, and I think most people today would agree with me. At one time, however, that wouldn't have been the case.

Motion Pictures didn't exist until just over a hundred years ago, either. If photography is an art form, does the non-static nature of movies make them not art? I'm guessing that Mr. Ebert would agree that motion pictures are an art form. Maybe he wouldn't consider all films art, but he certainly wouldn't say, as a result, that motion pictures could never be art. Of course, once a film is printed and shown, the film itself is identical for all the audiences viewing it, so in that sense, motion pictures are static.

So there's an argument - since each "audience" or player of a video game experiences the game differently, the game cannot be art.

But what about live drama? Each performance is slightly different from each other performance, even if working from the same script and using the same props, actors, backdrops, etc. Even tougher to categorize is improvisational theater or performance art, or dance, or live music. These performances of art are never quite exactly the same, even in cases, such as choreography and music, where the artists rehearse repeatedly to make each performance as similar as possible. How about improvisational jazz, or "jam" sessions? Does the fact that the various musicians are reacting to one another (and even the audience response) in real time make the performance no longer art?

And what about the audience? I believe that art exists in stages - there's the artistic concept, the execution of the concept, the presentation to the audience and the audience reaction. All of these are parts of art. And all of these can exist within video games. A video game can certainly elicit an emotional response in its audience. Sometimes it's curiosity, or wonderment, or simply frustration with the game, but there is an emotional response. And some games - especially story-based games - can invest the player/audience with emotional reactions every bit as deep as a film or book or play.

Mr. Ebert also has issues with the fact that one can win or lose a game. As he admits he has never played a video game, I will cut him some slack for such an ignorant statement. (Though I have to wonder why a person with pretty much zero knowledge on a subject, would feel the need to offer opinions on it without exposing himself to it at least a little bit!) I have played games where there is no win or lose state. Take The Sims for example. That game is simply a simulation. Sure there are goals within it, but even if you fail at them, the game just keeps moving along, and the story you're creating within it doesn't stop, either. I've also played games where, even though player death is possible, you get to re-load and continue the story. So even though there may be multiple fits and starts in the story line, I know, as long as I keep playing, I will eventually get to witness the whole tale unfold. Prime examples of this include BioWare's CRPG games, such as Mass Effect or Dragon Age. These games tell involving stories, that keep the player playing just to see the tale unfold - these are stories to rival or even exceed many of the stories told in to-day's cinemas.

Just as an example: when you watch a movie that involves the main character being faced with acts of brutality, you find yourself hoping that the hero manages to overcome adversity and put an end to the situation. In Mass Effect 2, there is a scene on a penal ship where there are some nasty and abusive activities going on. As a player I found myself disturbed by this and hoping that I would get a chance to right the wrongs being committed. Now, just because I have a certain amount of control of the character, and because I can chose, to some degree, the order in which certain events happen, does that artistically invalidate my response as an audience? I don't believe it does. My emotional response as a player was the same as it would have been watching the same scene in a movie, or reading it in a book. The only difference is that there is a certain interactivity involved. This is called audience participation, and it certainly doesn't invalidate the artistic merits of a live theater performance or improvisational theater. When the Blue Man Group interacts with its audience, it changes the performance. Does that suddenly mean the whole endeavor is no longer art? Of course not!

I think Mr. Ebert just can't get his head around the fact that video games are a new, interactive art form. It's a form that is just too different, and too outside his realm of experience for him to see the artistic merits within it.

Does that mean all video games are art? No, probably not. Just as maybe not all photos are art, and maybe not all motion pictures are art. I wouldn't call Tetris a work of art, necessarily. It's a clever and addicting game, but probably not art. I would say most strategy games aren't art. They're more akin to board games - though there can certainly be artistic elements within both.

But some games are art. And that's where I have trouble with Mr. Ebert's statement. It's just such a dismissive, blanket declaration to say that video games can never be art. And coming from a man who has never played a video game, it comes across as disingenuous.

I don't think that's his intent, though. I think it's simply a case of an opinion borne of ignorance.