59297-terminator2_576pyxurz

Farewell posts are for herbs

There are two ways that writers on the internet announce career changes: either by tweeting about how they found out they got laid off, or by publishing a grandiloquent “farewell post.” You know the type: endlessly generous, ruminative, peppered with musings on the industry and hyperlinks to the writer’s greatest hits. It is a way to assemble a legacy. “Stay tuned for my next adventure!” these posts conclude, shared on Twitter with “CRYING” or “THIS WAS DIFFICULT” or “Announcement!” It is a grand exercise in personal branding, writ in humblebraggery, and it is for herbs.

Today, though, is my last day at Kill Screen, and as this day approached I felt the fell compulsion. I do not want to be a herb. I thought about just sneaking out the backdoor, fading softly into the internet and reemerging somewhere else in a few days—that always worked in college. I thought about passing along some larger musings on the future of videogames or the nature of editing online. I thought about commemorating the many happy memories I have at this company, or pinpointing the writers and editors whose work here has inspired me, the dozens and dozens of friends I’ve made, or somehow reasserting the fundamental value of Kill Screen’s mission. I wondered if I could just fucking torch the place, you know—name names, drop thermonuclear subtweets—or if I could do that thing where the newly unfettered writer acts like they are at last free to espouse their opinion on topic X. BioShock sucks! PR is bad! Jamin is a werewolf!

All of these are bad ideas. They are for herbs. Editing is a job. Dentists do not fill a goodbye cavity. If you like Kill Screen, I have good news: tomorrow it will still be Kill Screen. If you don’t like Kill Screen, I also have good news: tomorrow it will still be Kill Screen.

I won’t be here, though. See you around, and be good to each other.