Dec 10 2013 - 2:00 pm

One man's epic quest to beat every video game worth playing

Thousands of people are watching Jayson Love sit on the couch in his basement, though the specifics of his location are not actually clear
Kevin Morris
Dot Esports

Thousands of people are watching Jayson Love sit on the couch in his basement, though the specifics of his location are not actually clear. He appears in the lower-left corner of their screens, with an Elvisian coif of black hair and a video game controller hanging loosely between both hands.  

Like a professional sports commenter tasked with narrating his own pickup football game, Love’s delivering a running, step-by-step dialog over what's happening in the rest of the screen: a direct feed of the video game he's playing. On this day, it's I Wanna be the Guy, an indie homage to classic, super-hard 8-bit side-scrollers like Mega-Man.

Behind Love, in the real world, is a green screen. In front of him are two expensive computing rigs, one running the game and the other video-streaming software. From his home in Billings, Mont., millions of bits of data are flowing along networks of wires that crisscross the U.S., eventually arriving at the servers of Twitch, a video game streaming company based in San Francisco. Passed through Twitch's proprietary software, those bits instantaneously resolve themselves into the form of live video, which on this morning—6:30am Love's time—more than 6,000 people are watching.

At the moment, conversation has shifted to entirely non-game topics, something that's bound to happen during an eight-hour broadcast. Some of Love's fans, who pay a small subscription fee to be able to chat with him in a running dialog next to the video, are delving into the merits of various Batman movies.

Love, 34, good-naturedly tries to take part, even as he navigates his character up walls lined with pixel-sharp spikes and the occasional, chocolate-colored floating platform.

"I can't even try to hold a conversation right now," he says. His character bumps into one of the spikes and explodes into a shower of pixelated gore. "Though Batman is my favorite thing right now." Game over. He restarts the level. The Batman debates continue.

This is Love's life. Every day, he heads into the broadcast studio otherwise known as his basement, loads up a game and streams it via his Twitch channel. There, he's better known simply as "Man"—a shortened version the show's name, Man Vs. Game.

While he's living what he calls his "dream life," Love is also driving a burgeoning revolution in how the Internet generation understands and interacts with video entertainment.


The biggest story in the entertainment industry over the past few years has been the mass migration of the TV audience to the Internet. Netflix and on demand services like Amazon Instant have gobbled up a massive audience, many of whom are sick of the wallet-busting cost of cable and the endless onslaught of commercials. But while the press focuses on industry-wide changes and upheaval, another story has gone largely unnoticed: the rise of the online video game broadcaster.

In August, Felix Arvid Ulf Kjellberg, a 20-something blonde Swede better known as "PewDiePieleaped to the very top of YouTube's most popular channel list. Kjellberg's specialty is to unleash a blistering fast and absurdly silly narrative (punctuated by with the occasional high-pitched squeal) while he plays video games.

In YouTube's list of most-viewed channels, music stars dominate, most notably Rihanna VEVO and Justin Bieber VEVO. But the only other recognizable theme in the list are gaming channels, including a pair that specialize in content from indie hit Minecraft (SkyDoesMinecraft, with nearly 7 million subscribers, and comedy team Yogscast, with about 6.3 million) and the machinimist channels Rooster Teeth and Machinima.

Meanwhile, the professional, competitive side of gaming—where players battle in tournaments for money prizes, otherwise known as eSports—has carved out its own, separate chunk of the massive online video audience. Major eSports tournaments see millions of viewers at a time, including more than 32 million who watched the final match of something called the League of Legends Championship Series last October. Twitch, the site driving much of this traffic, has 40 million unique visitors a month watching broadcasts from 600,000 people.


Love sits quite unintentionally on the vanguard of this viewership revolution. A 2005 graduate of Minnesota State University, he'd planned on turning a degree in East Asian studies into a career in Japan. He applied to the JET program, the most well-known English teacher placement program in East Asia. But despite the fact he already spoke passable Japanese (as an undergrad he'd studied abroad in Tokyo), the JET program denied him. Love soon discovered that a degree in East Asian studies wasn't particularly useful in the job field, living as he did in the vast Minnesota plains, just a few miles east of Fargo, North Dakota.

Soon, he moved back to his hometown of Billings, Mont. where found work at a home security company. (If you lived in Billings and your alarm went off during this time period, there's a chance you spoke to Love on the phone.) That was followed by a stint at a tire garage and a rotating selection of other jobs. Basically, Love's professional life was in the hands of his temp agency.

"I was in despair," Love tells me via a Google Hangout chat, the green screen behind him hanging like a tapestry."I was incredibly depressed. I was on the verge of quitting or getting fired."

Then one night as he was falling asleep, he had an idea: What if he started an entire show where the entirety of the action and drama derived from watching him attempt to beat video games? For most of us, a late-night pipe dream fizzles away as fast as it appears, but something about it sunk deep into Love's psyche.

It wasn't just an idea. It was the idea.

Back before Twitch, streaming was a complicated affair, requiring special video cards and software and hours of labor to put a set up together. Love remembers going to a local Walmart to buy a big green tarp to lay out behind him, followed by hundreds more dollars on the equipment and a month spent mastering the set-up. Then, when everything was all ready, when we finally loaded up his first game, turned on his camera, and broadcast his mug to the world via early streaming site, no one was there.

"I remember almost having a panic attack," Love says. "Going into the bathroom, staring myself down in the mirror, psyching myself up."

The solution? Just pretend the audience was there. "I was faking it til I made it." he says.

This was all while working other jobs and maintaining a relationship with his girlfriend, Tawny Picard, whose father, a real estate developer, rented out an apartment to the coupleLove, who's legendary among fans for his spotty memory of the games he's played, nevertheless remembers the moment he told Picard about his idea:

"We went to this shitty local Mexican restaurant called Dos Machos—Americanized Mexican food that we both loved. I said, 'Honey, I have this idea for a gaming broadcast that i want to try to do, and i want to make a living doing it.' She said that 'sounds awesome'"

Meanwhile, he streamed in between shifts at a "string of soul-sucking retail jobs," even as he played to largely empty rooms. There were a few early, curious visitors, however. Adam Gefre, a student at Boise State in Idaho, remembers browsing the gaming vertical of, where he found Love's stream at the very bottom of the very last page. Around the same time, Cindy Martinez,  from the Bronx, N.Y., loaded up his channel—after also finding it on the very bottom of the last page. In both cases, Love immediately shouted out their names and started up conversations—with him talking and fans like Gefre or Martinez typing. Both came back, day after day.

"It always felt like you'd show up in the chatroom and he'd see your name," Martinez recalls. "And he'd make you feel like you were an old friend who'd walked back into his house."

This ability to keep one eye on the game and one on the chatroom wouldn't change even as the show began to balloon—and perhaps it helped it grow. Gefre, who's gone on to create the Man Vs. Game archive to catalog every game Love has played, says that as much as he loves interacting with and watching Love, nowadays the biggest draw to the show is the community that's crystallized around Love's personality.

Social media has brought celebrities and fans in close proximity before, but while those platforms provide an opportunity to occasionally interact with fans, they're not exactly intimate: A tweet is about the most ephemeral connection you can imagine, and social media rarely provides the chance to interact with celebrities while they're actually in the midst of entertaining. Streaming's social dimension sets it apart from other types of video entertainment. Love's fans feel like they know him, and one huge appeal of the show isn't so much the action, but the real and almost emotional connection between the star and the audience.


It took me just a few minutes watching Love to empathize with all this. The morning he's playing I Wanna be the Guy is a Friday and I desperately need to start work. But every time my mouse hovers over the little close window 'X' button, I can't seem to click it. The more I watch,  the more I find myself rooting for Love. As inane as it sounds. I want his little pixel dude to clamber out of the spike pit. I want to see where he goes next, and more importantly, I want to see him win. That's exactly how Love imagined it when he dreamed up the idea three years ago.

"The whole hook, the whole idea of my cast is the drama of watching games," he says.

When spun off its gaming vertical to Twitch, Love went with it. As Twitch grew to become the premier streaming site for gamers, so did Love's channel—or as he describes his relationship with Twitch, "the high tide raises more boats." Nowadays, 129,000 people have favorited his channel (an equivalent to a subscription on YouTube), and he's viewed nearly 27 million times. 

"It's mind-blowing to me," Love says. "And it's not all lazy—me just sitting around playing a game, blathering. To me, if you're doing it right, you're completely drained by the time you end your cast."

Earlier this year, Love finally started earning enough from his streaming that he no longer needed to look for work. "Casting," as its called, is now his full-time job. Without revealing specifics, Love says he's making more now than he ever did before. The money comes largely through Twitch's partner program, which lets him share a slice of advertising revenue, and also from the subscribers who pay for special features, like the ability to take part in the chat room. He also runs a small retail store, where you can buy Man Vs. Game-themed items, or "manchandise," as Love calls them.

Last October, with the pine-dotted slopes of the Rockies looming as a backdrop, Love and Picard got married in a ceremony at Chico Hot Springs, Mont. In attendance were a few members of the Man Vs. Game community—including Gefre and Martinez.

"It was amazing to meet him and them for the wedding," Martinez says. "It was one of the best weeks of my life." The community had crowdfunded her plane ticket.

Screengrab via YouTube

Today - 9:19 pm

Overwatch players honor friend with heartfelt send-off

The tribute was organized by a Philippines-based gaming collective.
Nicole Carpenter
Dot Esports
Image via Blizzard Entertainment

Processing the death of a friend is never easy. But it can help to grieve where you spent time together—even if that happens to be the battlegrounds of Overwatch.

When the team at games website Too Much Gaming lost their beloved colleague Willem Den Toom, they took to Blizzard Entertainment's Overwatch to express their pain. Using Toom's favorite Overwatch heroes—Pharah, Reinhardt, Symmetra, Zarya, and Lúcio—and Hanzo, the group of friends coordinated rocket launcher and fire strike sendoffs toward Overwatch map Eichenwalde's moon as a gun salute for their friend.

"Wherever you are, may the payload be always moving, the point always contested, no one trickles out, and may there always [be] a healer on your team," Toom's friends posted to YouTube. "We miss you, big guy. This Play of the Game is for you."

Toom suffered a heart attack and died at 35 on Jan. 16, Too Much Gaming editor Carlos Herdandez told Mic. "He was loved by many and his loss pretty much struck waves in various communities in the gaming community here in the Philippines," Hernandez said. "Overwatch was the one game that we play together regularly after a long day. It's one of his favorite games." Honoring Toom in Overwatch was an obvious choice for the group.

The video ends with each player sending off Hanzo's dragonstrike ultimate, unleashing a continuous stream of swirling dragons toward the moon.

H/t Mic

Today - 9:07 pm

After pre-season updates made the Jungle worse, Riot says ‘oops’ and promises to fix it

Riot’s dev team explains why the state of the jungle is so broken and how they plan on dealing with it.
Aaron Mickunas
League of Legends Writer
Image via Riot Games

During the League of Legends pre-season, Riot made big changes to address some glaring issues within the Jungle. But it only made the situation worse.

In somewhat of a “My bad!” moment, Lead Champion Designer Andrei 'Meddler' van Roon explained what backfired with the jungler role. In his post, he comprehensively lists all of the reasons that the jungler might just be the most broken role in the game (sorry ADCs!).

The community has been complaining about the state of the jungler for a while now, but this is the first official answer we’ve seen from Riot on the matter. Riot said it very simply, and very directly in the Nexus post.

“We believe jungler influence over game outcome is too high.”

So what exactly is wrong with the jungler?


Perhaps the most significant issue with junglers before the pre-season was that farm-obsessed junglers became much too powerful. Monsters were too easy to kill relative to how great the rewards of gold and experience were. The dominant tactic for junglers became out-farming the enemy jungler, and whoever fell behind ended up hindering their team dramatically.

Back then, the rest of the team would attempt to help their jungler get ahead by getting an early kill on the enemy jungler, setting back their progress considerably. The team began to revolve around the jungler. This was a contradiction to how the jungler had been perceived in earlier seasons—as a supporting role designed to gank and help their teammates in lanes do well.

Riot wanted to fix that, so it lengthened spawn times on monster camps and made them harder to kill (but increased the rewards the camps give to compensate). The idea to push junglers to gank more than they farmed worked a little too well.

Not only are junglers ganking too much, but they also survive way too long. With new tools like the Honeyfruit plant and gaining health back with every smite, junglers just won’t die. They are able to farm more camps for more rewards and gank more lanes without losing enough health to warrant going back to base. This led to junglers gaining too much experience—with level advantages on lanes that they’ve never had before.

Game agency

The term “game agency” has been tossed around a lot lately. First, with the current feelings that ADCs are going through, and now, with junglers.

In a basic sense, the term “game agency” in this case is just another term for a role’s identity within the game. What purpose do they serve, and is it unique enough to feel important? The issue with ADCs right now is that they don’t feel important enough to the state of the game to have a unique identity (aside from being Lee Sin’s punching bag).

Junglers, however, have the opposite issue. Junglers and jungle champions have an identity, but it’s such a strong, outstanding identity that it overshadows the unique strengths and weaknesses of the other roles. They have too much raw power. It’s to the point that laners have become afraid of making moves on their lane opponents unless their jungler is preparing to gank, when normally they would only hold back if they knew they were outmatched.

This has something to do with the extreme rate at which junglers gank now, but combining that with the high sustainability, high damage items, and high level scaling makes for a frightening amount of power for one role to have.

Plans to reduce the overall power of the jungle have yet to be announced, but Riot did confirm that the plan is to knock the role down a few pegs.

So what can be done?

Well, Riot is taking responsibility for all the power it’s given the jungle role.

It is administering some short-term solutions, including lowering jungle experience rewards, cutting sustain across the board, and increasing the damage that jungle monsters deal.

Junglers won’t be able to live in the jungle for the first 10 minutes of the game without heading back to base, they won’t hit a huge power spike by leveling harder than laners can on jungle camps alone, and they won’t be able to gank quite as much.

These solutions likely aren’t the long-term solution. There will still be junglers that can clear the jungle faster, and we may just end up where we were before the pre-season—Farming Simulator: Jungle Edition. Farm-frenzy junglers could rise to the top, but luckily, it likely wouldn’t be quite as bad this time.

A long-term plan is in the works, and hopefully Riot maintains its clear and open communication as the situation progresses.