Sundance On Your Grave
“Halo Video Time” is a thing that happens, a real thing, and its importance is equal to the game itself. The more prolific “directors” - Gabriel, Kiko, and Robert - will often leave the evening early to go edit their films and get them up on the share. You can still see them on; you know what they’re doing.
As a group we’re really of two philosophies, which break rather cleanly into “home” and “away” designations. A nontrivial percentage of our Halo play is against ourselves, a social party game, like Twister with shotguns. We have a proprietary spreadsheet that tracks performance and associates a discrete Squadmark™ with each player that we use to create optimally hostile environments. It works well.
When the first few people drop out for the night, there is a core group of us that want to “take it on the road.” I’m not especially good at Halo, but I’m absolutely drawn to the biochemical roller-coaster that is the online matchmaking grudgefuck. Shooting my friends has an analog in the playground wrasslin’ of yore. Playing online has that barely contained Cimmerian ethos; I would have done it anyway, but now they’re giving me hats for it. I will earn the hats. Then, I will wear them. The hats will be worn, and I will be better for the wearing.
In either scenario, events which are pleasant or invigorating or ironic are collected automatically by the device. You can them whip them up in the editor until they have achieved the proper texture.