@Jacksons Let me rephrase that to "Western bias" to exclude Assassin's Creed. Everyone knows that the only games that win anything at VGA are the most popular games featured on X-Box or PS3. Super Mario Galaxy 2 was considered the best 3D Mario game of all time, yet it didn't even get nominated for overall game of the year? Come on. Starcraft II wasn't even nominated for best over game of the year? Please, Starcraft II is by far the most internationally appreciated game on this list. A a far and away majority of these games that win are typical Western games. They involve highly detailed graphics with extensive realism. They're most often shooters or involve killing and violence. They're most often mature titles. I'm just so sick of the American market, it's the same shit year after year with a different name stamped on the top, not that Eastern games aren't the same (right Final Fantasy?).

So, the VGA only judges American made games right? Either that's the case or there is an extreme bias.

That rules are meant to be broken...


wait..?

Oh man, Ninjatown was hands down one of the best DS titles. Fantastic fun. Read my review: http://thechez.net/2009/12/15/ninjatown-review/

The Flying Phallus because I would dick everyone out of the sky.

It was a cold January night in the middle of the country with my pride in my fist and my mercy forgotten long ago. I left him there, on the ground, lifeless. My only concern was the throbbing pain in my knuckle like a like an failing heart giving its last few beats before it burst. Each dull throb brought forth new red. Crimson streaks painted my hand, in a beautiful pattern compared to the disaster I just created. Part awe, part respect, jaws dropped, hearts pounded, and motions froze as onlookers feared similar fates. I turned myself toward the door as if nothing had ever happened. My boot thundered onto the floor like a signature that would leave indelible marks on their eardrums. The cold steel of the door handle grew colder as the only thing in the room colder touched it, me. I turned the handle methodically and stepped my way outside in the freshly fallen snow. I made my resolution. As I stepped outside, my boots made an imprint in the snow that night, that first day of the year. It was deep, defined, and packed. It was a print that would remain with you forever, even when the snow melts away.

It was a cold January night in the middle of the country with my pride in my fist and my mercy forgotten long ago. I left him there, on the ground, lifeless. My only concern was the throbbing pain in my knuckle like a like an failing heart giving its last few beats before it burst. Each dull throb brought forth new red. Crimson streaks painted my hand, in a beautiful pattern compared to the disaster I just created. Part awe, part respect, jaws dropped, hearts pounded, and motions froze as onlookers feared similar fates. I turned myself toward the door as if nothing had ever happened. My boot thundered onto the floor like a signature that would leave indelible marks on their eardrums. The cold steel of the door handle grew colder as the only thing in the room colder touched it, me. I turned the handle methodically and stepped my way outside in the freshly fallen snow. I made my resolution. As I stepped outside, my boots made an imprint in the snow that night, that first day of the year. It was deep, defined, and packed. It was a print that would remain with you forever, even when the snow melts away.

It was a cold January night in the middle of the country with my pride in my fist and my mercy forgotten long ago. I left him there, on the ground, lifeless. My only concern was the throbbing pain in my knuckle like a like an failing heart giving its last few beats before it burst. Each dull throb brought forth new red. Crimson streaks painted my hand, in a beautiful pattern compared to the disaster I just created. Part awe, part respect, jaws dropped, hearts pounded, and motions froze as onlookers feared similar fates. I turned myself toward the door as if nothing had ever happened. My boot thundered onto the floor like a signature that would leave indelible marks on their eardrums. The cold steel of the door handle grew colder as the only thing in the room colder touched it, me. I turned the handle methodically and stepped my way outside in the freshly fallen snow. I made my resolution. As I stepped outside, my boots made an imprint in the snow that night, that first day of the year. It was deep, defined, and packed. It was a print that would remain with you forever, even when the snow melts away.

It was a cold January night in the middle of the country with my pride in my fist and my mercy forgotten long ago. I left him there, on the ground, lifeless. My only concern was the throbbing pain in my knuckle like a like an failing heart giving its last few beats before it burst. Each dull throb brought forth new red. Crimson streaks painted my hand, in a beautiful pattern compared to the disaster I just created. Part awe, part respect, jaws dropped, hearts pounded, and motions froze as onlookers feared similar fates. I turned myself toward the door as if nothing had ever happened. My boot thundered onto the floor like a signature that would leave indelible marks on their eardrums. The cold steel of the door handle grew colder as the only thing in the room colder touched it, me. I turned the handle methodically and stepped my way outside in the freshly fallen snow. I made my resolution. As I stepped outside, my boots made an imprint in the snow that night, that first day of the year. It was deep, defined, and packed. It was a print that would remain with you forever, even when the snow melts away.

It was a cold January night in the middle of the country with my pride in my fist and my mercy forgotten long ago. I left him there, on the ground, lifeless. My only concern was the throbbing pain in my knuckle like a like an failing heart giving its last few beats before it burst. Each dull throb brought forth new red. Crimson streaks painted my hand, in a beautiful pattern compared to the disaster I just created. Part awe, part respect, jaws dropped, hearts pounded, and motions froze as onlookers feared similar fates. I turned myself toward the door as if nothing had ever happened. My boot thundered onto the floor like a signature that would leave indelible marks on their eardrums. The cold steel of the door handle grew colder as the only thing in the room colder touched it, me. I turned the handle methodically and stepped my way outside in the freshly fallen snow. I made my resolution. As I stepped outside, my boots made an imprint in the snow that night, that first day of the year. It was deep, defined, and packed. It was a print that would remain with you forever, even when the snow melts away.