Edited by Radiant G and Quin Martin.
Summer Game Fest is frozen in place. Geoff Keighley, gamer in chief of the event, noticeably walked back expectations a few days before the show. In person, he stays in his strange limbo, self-appointed hype man and industry custodian. Frankly, the balancing act still doesn’t suit him.
The main presentation has learned from 2023’s hiccups, but even that doesn’t feel like enough. We’ve lost so much in the past year. But the money comes in, so it’s mostly business as usual at Summer Game Fest 2024. The bar is on the ground. The least Geoff can do is step over it. But that all comes later. Right now I worry about arriving on time.
Last year’s recap: I Went to Geoff’s Summer Games Fest Presentation and I’m Still a Hater
Morning Glory
I ride an early morning train into Los Angeles. “Just in case something goes wrong,” I tell my husband while buying the ticket. But nothing major does. I give a stranger accurate directions on the renovated Metro E line but mix myself up, disembarking a stop too early. One train transfer and six stations later, I claim my belated prize: a giant chile verde burrito across from the pink K line stop. After resting in the busy calm of the restaurant, I step out to board my last Metro bus to YouTube Theater.
Someone nearby in a solid pink t-shirt curses at their Android under their breath. The screen keeps flickering out as they poke at it. “Do you have a pen?” they ask me at the bus stop. I do—the only way I’m taking these notes down later—so I lend it with the passable writing surface of my notebook. “Thanks!” they say after scribbling the number from her phone screen onto a business card. Feeling useful, I glow a bit. I think I’m getting the hang of city solidarity.
I am sitting in the morning
Suzanne Vega, “Tom’s Diner”
At the diner on the corner
I am waiting at the counter
For the man to pour the coffee
Bean There, Done That
The Metro bus deposits me at the midpoint of SoFi Stadium. It looks like a mangled metal bean at this angle. I’m on the opposite side of YouTube Theater, but at least I don’t have to snake all the way through the NFL headquarters parking lots this year. As I pass nearby houses, I snap a picture of an ominous yard sign tacked to a tree—”Is There Life After DEATH? JUMP THIS FENCE AND FIND OUT!!” It has a silhouette of a large dog, so I decide to skip that experience for today.
Most of So-Fi Stadium’s turn-ins are blocked off by cones and fencing, wasting most of the expansive parking spaces. The sidewalk is still accessible, so I walk right through. I see the outline of Kia Forum a few blocks over, so the gamers and their cars must be elsewhere.
Gardeners nod and say hello as they tend to plants at the stadium’s outer ring. One planter isn’t in the best shape, long strings of greenery drooping to the ground. I stop to take a selfie next to a Chargers logo. Further up the street, I screech to a halt as one of the road sign LEDs blinks out “YOUTUBE PARKING STRAIGHT.” Happy Pride month, I guess. Despite my efforts, it’s impossible to accurately photograph.
Backpack Battles
Eventually, I join the long line to enter YouTube Theater. It’s 12:30 PM, thirty minutes before doors open, and the queue stretches around the curve of the stadium. “Backpacks won’t be making it in today!” a security staff member bellows down the line, glaring at my small commuter bag. I bristle. I even double-checked ticket instructions this morning, and I’m well within the size limit.
More trouble brews further up the line. The security woman sighs as she pulls some of us aside to a white folding table. “No backpacks.” I mention the size limit in the ticket instructions, but she insists. “But his bag looks pretty small,” another employee calls from the entrance. She reluctantly looks through my light purple backpack, inspecting my travel-sized Alka Seltzer packets for a few moments, and waves me through. I’ve never been so glad to be slightly emasculated. Larger and larger backpacks enter the theater behind me. Someone clearly ran the logistics of starting on time and surrendered the fight.
Captive Audience
We pour through the inner doors and find our seats. I’m an early arrival, so I take a few pictures of the stage without incident. I settle down against the seat cushions and start scrawling notes. More people excitedly file in. A man behind me introduces his friend to a rowmate as an EVO competitor. “I lost to a [E.]Honda player named Burrito Lord last year,” the friend sighs. (I check the Street Fighter 6 brackets for Burrito Lord later, but SundayBurrito is the closest I can find.)
Phones and cameras glint under the lights. A woman in an orange crop top and cute pigtails looks into a DSLR lens two rows up and does four rapid-fire intro speeches, adjusting her pose and delivery each time. Her camera partner quickly takes a seat beside her after the last shoot, the theater lights dimming. The woman flicks through footage on the camera screen, smoothing her hair with one hand. I pop in my complimentary foam earplugs.
Crowd Control
The audience roars as Geoff Keighley walks onstage. He maintains distance, doing the minimum amount of crowd work and camera time. Lenses slowly rotate towards us and then back to Geoff, giving people only a few seconds to notice themselves on the big screen and wave. Another presenter pops into the audience, but Geoff stays away.
Geoff is still not prepared for our full attention. He grimaces apologetically through two front-loaded announcements. Return to Arkham—momentary applause—in VR! After a long wait, Kingdom—a spike of excitement—Come Deliverance 2! No audience razzes afterward, but these blunders dampen the fun. A lone gamer in the crowd cheers at the second Samsung ad of the night. The rest of us laugh, releasing the breath we were holding.
There’s a woman on the outside
Suzanne Vega, “Tom’s Diner”
Looking inside, does she see me?
No, she does not really see me
‘Cause she sees her own reflection
Viewer Retention
Geoff actually shares the stage this year, with only a few fumbling interviews. CuriousJoi—a streamer and woman of color—livens up the segments she announces with candid asides. Development personnel talk about their game without anyone hovering in the background. Titles from notable solo developers get more weight.
I sit up in my chair exactly three times: one, when Half Mermaid confirms they’re collaborating with Brandon Cronenberg. Two, when Civilization VII is announced. Three, when I realize that Innersloth’s Victoria Tran (one of gaming’s best community managers) is here. Geoff’s opening speech about the state of the industry feels leaden, but Innersloth’s concerted push for indie funding is startlingly genuine.
Announcements drift by as my energy drains. The woman in the orange crop top takes pictures of trailer splash screens for social media. I pay mild attention to the stage when she lifts her phone up and lower my eyes for a moment when she leaves it in her lap. A necessary compromise. I’m overstimulated even with the earplugs. Inconsistent volume levels make some videos boom across the theater while others simply fill the room.
What Summer Game Fest Costs Us
The presentation’s only traditional celebrity cameos are in an excruciatingly long Supercell mobile game commercial. Ken Jeong is heckling an office worker in a chicken suit. The audience adopts the restless quiet of a school assembly. I can’t stop picturing the dollar signs attached to Geoff’s presentation. $250,000 for a one-minute trailer. $350,000 for one and a half. $450,000 for two.
The advertisement just keeps going, so Supercell must have paid an eye-watering $550,000 for two and a half minutes of airtime. Having more eyeballs on a star-studded mobile game ad doesn’t seem worth it to me. Maybe to Geoff, who presumably signed off on it.
But Summer Game Fest exists to fill the commercial vacuum that E3 left behind. This is the price Geoff pays to host a big show in Los Angeles twice a year: he hovers awkwardly between industry personality and commercial mouthpiece, only able to publicly form commercially viable opinions.
Any culture and camaraderie that happens around Summer Game Fest is a side effect, the natural result of gathering talented games and media professionals in one place at one time. This could happen anywhere. It’s easy to forget that in a post-E3 world.
Freezing Point
Geoff’s presentation ends, and we pour out of YouTube Theater. The clouds from this morning have vanished. I start the frantic process of returning home. Unlike my arrival, I don’t have time on my side. After a few false starts, my husband and I coordinate a haphazard route back to Union Station. My walk to the bus stop goes past the Kia Forum, where a line of people in jet-black clothes stretches through the parking lot. Sweat creeps down the back of my undershirt.
The 5:30 bus is packed. I stand for most of the ride, bracing my weaker leg against the step behind me when the driver brakes. My transfer to the silver J line is just as crowded. After almost tipping over, I find an empty seat. My timing is extremely tight if I want to make the 6:10 Amtrak. I sprint the rest of the way into Union Station, huffing and puffing as I reach the train platform. My Amtrak isn’t there. I frown, then board the cheaper regional train across the way instead.
Our planned departure time passes without comment. Finally, the intercom crackles. There is a “track closure” due to a “freight train incident involving a trespasser.” It’s the cold language of deflecting blame. The same voice you hear when layoffs are announced, when a studio closes. But this time it’s because a person was hit by a train. I hate that I know that voice and can’t untangle it from my work. The Federal Railroad Administration finally increased the minimum crew size for freight trains in January. From one crew member to a minimum of two. Two people for an entire freight train.
Left Unsaid
It’s nearing 8 PM. I message old coworkers as I wait for news. One is mired in coverage, the other is juggling industry mixers and future appointments. My husband sends a link: every regional rail passenger affected can redeem a $50 Uber voucher for alternate transport. I hesitate, then click through. The voucher is good until midnight. Neither coworker can do dinner.
I bite my lip, conflicting emotions bubbling to the surface. I’ve been tight-lipped about the circumstances of my trip—an old Southern habit of keeping quiet when I’m hurting. A hard one to break. I could use the voucher to venture further back into town, and then maybe find someone I know. Push through the frustration and fatigue. Three years ago, I would have. But I freeze up when I think about walking in where I’m not invited. I’m sweaty and hungry and tired. I don’t have the chops for this.
After sending my old friends a few polite apologies, I book an Uber home. I can’t say what I want to, so I write it down here: “Financially and mentally, I’m not doing so hot. I still haven’t fully healed from the layoff. Want to see you because I still care about you. I’m scared.” We merge onto the highway. I think of them and hum the wordless hook of Tom’s Diner under my breath. Da-da-da-da, da-da-da-da. There has to be a better way. I hope I find it.
