It's even funnier when you consider the fact that their idea of "real writers" write slop that would make 1980s GI Joe episodes look like Shakespeare meets the Ancient Greek Playwrights, while their idea of "professional game designers" churn out so-so games with shit game-testing that ensures the games are barely finished when they hit the store shelves, requiring entire GIGABYTES of patches to make the game run decently.
Just look at modern Obsidian, Bioware, and CDPRed, for instance. Or look at Fallout 76's launch and how Bethesda handled that dumpster fire when it first came out.
Of course, it's not like writers for fan mods like Fallout: Frontier do any better. But writing your own D&D campaign, fan fic, or original story shouldn't be discouraged, either.
In his hollow, soulless, robotic mind, the amount of money that goes into it and the size of the company that created it is directly proportionate to the quality of the PRODUCT.
All artists are just machines, woodchippers that grind money, which is raw goodness, into art, which is goodness that's in a form that can be enjoyed by the masses. If it's expensive, it's good. No questions asked. That's why he worships professionals and scorns amateurs.
Money isn't something you use to pay rent. It's magical energy that determines the objective worth of anything you create. A published writers is not superior because of his skill or experience, but because of the dollar aura that floats around him transmuting everything he touches into gold.
I can tell you he would keep a billionaire's nail clippings on a pedestal while consigning the Hampton Throne to the flames.
He doesn't have eyes or ears or a brain, all he has is a little money counter with an apple logo on it where his soul ought to be.
If you paid me a million dollars to squeeze out a sloppy turd on his desk and I offered it for sale at a 300% markup price, you can bet my ass he'd snarf it down faster than a hot brownie.
To be fair, they also consider people, who disregard their passion projects and would rather leave the room than to humour them, their friends, so, what are the chances they'd actually come up with a relatable world you can enjoy
Assuming he ever had a concept of friendship to begin with. What a sad, materialistic little bugman he is.
The feeling of being stomped on at the bottom of the hierarchy has been so deeply ingrained in him that he can't imagine a world without it. Just imagine him ingratiating himself to his fellow bugmen who can think of nothing more important than how their taste in entertainment looks to their corporate overlords.
He distantly remembers a time when none of this mattered, the unbridled creativity of his halcyon childhood, the spirit of which he purged from his soul for just another inch of social status from those who would disrespect and discard him like a piece of trash. I'd almost feel sorry for him if he wasn't trying to drag everyone down with him. And for that crime alone, I afford him no sympathy.
He's sacrificed his capacity to imagine... for what? Imagination, as far as he's concerned, is a privilege only reserved for those who have been permitted to do so by a sufficiently large corporation. The plebeians who dare seize these powers lack the sacred wisdom of Hasbro and the unparalleled sagacity of its Marketing Research Team, for the two gods combined understand the tastes of every sane human being who has ever lived. And thus those sacrilegious peasants only capable of bringing forth unsightly abominations which amuse only them.
His very existence is a tragedy and a comedy, and most of all, a walking insult to humanity.
This asshole is a symptom of a larger problem in American society today: A hatred for imagination. Just having an imagination is stigmatized as weird. To people like this, you must be mentally ill and/or on drugs if you have an imagination. It's sad and makes me wonder why our society thinks like this.
It's born from an obsession with being seen as mature by your peers and society at large. Anything that isn't sufficiently bitter and miserable enough is nothing but kid's stuff at best, or the ravings of a murderrapist at worst. For that reason, I have leagues more respect for those DeviantArt degenerates than the insects who lash out at any form of creativity that goes beyond their paradigm of acceptable rebellion.
It's weird, but that doesn't mean it's bad. We should have learned this lesson when we wiped the floor with the Religious Right, but history repeats itself yet again. The west has yet to divest itself from the notion that art cannot be inherently evil. Perhaps in a hundred years we'll begin to stop blaming the things we make and the people who make them, but rather ourselves and the societies which made us.
I could make this small souled bugman the antagonist of a children's book. Enter Mr. Everybody, a psychic demon hellbent on assimilating every last person on earth into his hive mind, so he can always be morally right by saying "Everybody knows that!", as if appeal to popularity and corporate cultural authority ever meant anything in the first place.
