By Jenna Remley
Note: This was originally published on July 9, 2019, through the now-defunct Tinyletter service.
Approximately two years ago, I began
regularly tuning in to livestreams in which employees of the video game
and culture website Polygon played the infamous battle royale game PlayerUnknown’s Battlegrounds (or PUBG).
This regular Tuesday livestream was titled Awful Squad, referring to
the team’s relative lack of proficiency at the game. There was a
rotating cast of players, consisting mostly of Polygon’s video team with
other employees sprinkled in. The streams would last a couple hours,
typically beginning with the Awful Squad playing a number of normal
matches, where they tried to outgun and outwit 24 other teams in order
to be the last ones standing. The last half of the stream was usually
spent in custom games, sometimes open for fans to join, taking the base
rules of the game and then adding absurd new constraints to make the
game more comedic.
I’ve never played PUBG, and I’ve
never been particularly interested in trying it out. I don’t generally
like first-person shooters, and just thinking about being pitted against
other online players makes my palms sweat. It’s not my kind of video
game. Yet I spent a couple hours in front of my laptop each week,
watching a group of strangers play it. Even a few months previously, I
would have been skeptical about spending my time this way.
When I was growing up, playing video games was a communal experience.
I did play some games on my own – edutainment on the family computer, and years later, games on the Wii my parents bought as a Christmas gift. But more often, as a kid, I played games with my friends and family. I’d go over to my neighbor’s house and we’d spend hours playing Super Smash Bros. Melee, using it alternately as the fighting game it’s intended to be, and as a vehicle for imagining and acting out fictional scenarios. At my cousins’ house we’d sit on the floor in front of the GameCube, taking turns playing Animal Crossing or racing each other in Kirby Air Ride. While I did spend a fair amount of time with a controller in my hands, I was equally likely to just be watching the screen as someone else played. We’d comment on the game, making jokes, giving advice, and learning from each other.
When I was growing up, playing video games was a communal experience.
I did play some games on my own – edutainment on the family computer, and years later, games on the Wii my parents bought as a Christmas gift. But more often, as a kid, I played games with my friends and family. I’d go over to my neighbor’s house and we’d spend hours playing Super Smash Bros. Melee, using it alternately as the fighting game it’s intended to be, and as a vehicle for imagining and acting out fictional scenarios. At my cousins’ house we’d sit on the floor in front of the GameCube, taking turns playing Animal Crossing or racing each other in Kirby Air Ride. While I did spend a fair amount of time with a controller in my hands, I was equally likely to just be watching the screen as someone else played. We’d comment on the game, making jokes, giving advice, and learning from each other.
The first game I remember that I enjoyed watching but not playing was 007: Nightfire, a James Bond first-person shooter. We’d play it whenever we saw my cousins from L.A., using the split-screen multiplayer mode to wander around a map and try to shoot each other. I was not good at this game. Playing it wasn’t much fun for me, because I’d invariably come in last place, beaten by my more talented family members. But I had a lot of fun watching my cousins and brother play, seeing them sneak up on one another, my eyes flicking from one corner of the screen to another and tracking their movements. Each match was its own drama, my family using their wits and skills to defeat one another.
Over the years I’d continue spectating gameplay at my house – watching with bated breath as my brother took on a difficult boss in a Zelda game, or coaching over his shoulder as he played an online Flash RPG. I enjoyed playing games on my own, but it was also fun to do it with other people, to collaborate on a puzzle or laugh at silly dialogue or simply encourage one another.
I started watching Awful Squad not because I was particularly interested in PUBG,
but because I liked the players. I had discovered Polygon through their
YouTube channel, and fell in love with the strange and hilarious videos
they created alongside informative video game coverage. The members of
the video team were funny and kind and entertaining, so I was drawn to
the livestreams in order to see more of them. Their personalities and
chemistry, and the ways that they interacted with the game, made every
match a mix of comedy and drama. I cared about the Awful Squad doing
well because I cared about the players. I loved hearing their banter and
watching them try out silly things, pushing at the boundaries of the
game’s capabilities.
On top of the jokes and interactions of the Polygon employees, there was a secondary community built among the audience. Each stream was accompanied by a live chat for the viewers. While I rarely chimed in myself, there was still a feeling of camaraderie among the fans – people making their own jokes based on what was happening in the game, chatting about shared interests, flooding the chat with f’s to pay respects when one of the on-screen players was eliminated. I was spending a couple hours watching funny, talented people play a game in their own goofy ways, and I was part of one huge group chat commenting on the people and events onscreen that we were all invested in. We were all, in a metaphorical sense, sitting on the floor around a TV screen, coming together to watch our friends play a video game.
On top of the jokes and interactions of the Polygon employees, there was a secondary community built among the audience. Each stream was accompanied by a live chat for the viewers. While I rarely chimed in myself, there was still a feeling of camaraderie among the fans – people making their own jokes based on what was happening in the game, chatting about shared interests, flooding the chat with f’s to pay respects when one of the on-screen players was eliminated. I was spending a couple hours watching funny, talented people play a game in their own goofy ways, and I was part of one huge group chat commenting on the people and events onscreen that we were all invested in. We were all, in a metaphorical sense, sitting on the floor around a TV screen, coming together to watch our friends play a video game.
Awful Squad officially ended in June of 2018. Since then, I’ve watched livestreams less frequently, sometimes by Polygon and sometimes by other YouTubers I follow. Awful Squad introduced me to the concept of watching livestreams, reminding me that video games, like any other medium, can bring people together. A video game can be a vehicle for an experience entirely outside of the game – uniting a couple hundred people for a few hours, talking and laughing and learning as they watch others play.