What Makes a Game Review a Game Review?

An anonymous reader writes "Kotaku asks Do Game Reviews Have to Be Puerile? in a short editorial about the state of game reviews. The article points to a recent story in The New Gamer about Silent Hill 4 as an "experiential piece of writing about the emotions and thoughts that swirl through a gamer's head as they play a game over time" The Kotaku article ends on this note: 'The problem with many reviews is that both their writers and readers expect a formula. They don't want to be challenged, instead, they want to have the ideas swirling in the writer's head synthesized and explained. But critical thought, in its truest form, should be something that inspires others to think critically, not just accept what has been handed to them.' What are your thoughts on game reviews? Do they need to have scores and a summary of what's good or bad about the game to be counted? Is experiential commentary more or less useful than a breakdown of the game's design?"

Comments

Re:Simple

[antifoidulus]

Mario and I became quite close over the ensuing days and months. He became like a friend to me, he would do whatever I ask of him, and all he wanted in return is a nice mushroom or flower and he so desired to avoid getting hit on the head by a hammer. We spent many a long summer night together, you know the kind where the air just kind of hangs there and the crickets are the moons only companion.
It was in the heady days of my youth that I first discovered Mario. I was at a toystore with my parents when, underneath the glowing halogen lights, and above the pristine reflective floor, I saw him. It was in that austere environment that I fell in love for the first time. Although he was wrapped in plastic, that round face and bright eyes called to me. It was as if he was saving himself just for me. I decided then and there that I would not leave without my beloved. I screeched, "Mommy, mommy, I need Mario!". At first she resisted, perhaps out of a misguided notion that a boy does not need a greasy Italian video game character as a friend, but she eventually found out that there was no consoling me and politely requested the game from the pimply face teenage store clerk.
The whole ride home my heart palpitated with anticipation. "It's real! It's real!" I kept on repeating as I rocked back and forth in my mother's 81 Ford station wagon, you know the kind with the wood paneling and guady interior. What innocous surroundings for my dear...dear Mario. I clutched the box covered with twilight and screen shots to my chest dearly and rocked back and forth. Come to think of it, maybe my mother was right.
Home was a split level in a planned community in pretty much any northeastern city you can think of. We lived in the back of a cul-de-sac where everyone knew what toys everyone else had. As we pulled into our driveway next to the spotlessly manicured lawn my mother opened the garage door. Finally, the last gate to pass before I could finally get to know my precious Mario. Unfortunately, much like the real gates of heaven one has to pass by Saint Peter first. In this case, my Father...
"I thought I told you to rake the fucking lawn!" he bellowed.
"But dad....Mario...this is the most important day in my young life!" I pleaded.
"I am going to pretend I didn't hear that" he replied as he threw a rusty rake into my chest, causing me to drop the treasure I had so carefully been clutching.
"Finish and you can do whatever you want." he said coldly as he went inside.
After about an hour that seemed like an eternity, I asked him to survey the job I had done. He said that it was acceptable, but that if I don't start doing a better job, I'll end up a failure in life. I tried to comprehend the statement, but there was Mario afoot. I slid open the glass door and stepped inside the kitchen. It was a cramped space with slightly dingy tile floors, a refigerator that ran too loudly, and a microwave that just flashed 12:00 over and over again. The picture of imperfection. I walked past my doting mother who was making stuffed cabbages for dinner. Not very Italian, but we are Polish. I guess some people just cannot get over their roots.
I tore open the box with the veracity of a lion ripping open the side of a gazzelle. After taking a second to marvel at my dream machine, which had not 1 but 2 different shades of grey on it, I thought, "Nintendo", that is Japanese. Imagine, a totally alien culture, a country that my nation had gone to war with not 40 years ago, was now the home of the manufacturer of dreams come true.
I was sitting there, staring at the box on top of the plain brown carpet, in the plain living room, 7 feet high, about 4 times that long and wide, with the plain floral print furniture, the plain tables, the non-descript lamps. It's comfortable, but a dangerous kind of comfortable. The neutral shade of green painted haphazardly on the walls called for one to relax, but to never leave. The throwpillows in the love seat comforted you but mocked you at the same tim