Every third week in May something strange happens in the Los Angeles Convention Center. For three days a virtual electronic orgy begins and ends inside, with the newest video game technology, interactive software and cutting edge hardware presented—stuff that won't be on the market for years. However, don't get it confused with Vegas's business-focused Consumer Electronic Show or San Jose's geek-friendly Game Developer Conference.

The Electronic Entertainment Expo, or E3, is like the CES show's evil spawn, or the repressed animus of the GDC let out to play. It's almost as if 15-minute celebrities, booth babes, industry suits and high-tech nerds were trapped in a cage and forced to interact. And there's liquor, too.

E3 was started eight years ago as an attempt to make a video game conference that was as cool as people thought video games were. The result was a flashy, LA-based, alcohol-tinged conference criticized as being a testosterone-filled, superficial, adolescent wormhole. It was an instant success.

I first attended E3 in 2001, the year that they supposedly "calmed things down" (the scantily-clad go-go dancers, it seems, were moved over into an adjacent lot). It's hard to get an E3 pass. All attendees must have an official reason to come, and I officially came as Editorial Consultant of a now-defunct video game magazine, and as a result, I officially came with an official assignment: cover Sony's new Playstation software. I was used to being a freelance writer, so I wasn't too keen on being told what I had to write about, at least not when attending a conference with a million and one stories. After all, I attended the CESs and the GDCs, interviewed lots of people in the game industry, and at one conference had to write my main feature—and a good one at that—at 3 a.m. after consuming too many spirits at the afterparty. I knew how to meet a deadline.

Thinking about my E3 2001 experience reminds me of a story that may or may not be true: I was recently told that when a high priest entered the place of worship alone and attempted the dangerous act of saying the real name of God—which only a chosen few knew—fellow priests would wrap a rope around his waist so they could pull his body outside of the palace just in case something ugly happened, which it often did.

My lame assignment, it seems, was my rope. Fifteen minutes into E3 I forgot my assignment, why I was there and, despite my cheap name tag, who I was when someone asked. The conference starts with many of the 60,000 attendees waiting outside the doors, lined up shoulder to shoulder like cattle anticipating the slaughter. The countdown begins—"3, 2, 1, E3 is officially open!"—and we all run because the person behind you is running and you really don't want to stop.

Entering the actual main conference hall was like entering a Nintendo Employee's nightmare. We poured forth past a 20-foot tall Mario robot, a replica of Nintendo's plumber mascot, and around loud dancing girls with purple hair pushing the latest dance video game, and further past the indoor half-pipe where skating god Tony Hawk and Playboy bunnies would mingle with the drooling attendees. And then we'd wander around some more. And then some.

Like an electronic Bermuda Triangle, there is no set plan when you enter E3—and if there was a set plan, you forgot it. "Have a beer!" they call. "Take a picture with a dominatrix!" "Meet the winner of ABC's Survivor!" Etc. Etc. And etc. They keep it at three days for a reason.

The main purpose of the event, however, is to preview the latest games to the media so that the public will be ready for them when they're released six-to-eighteen months after the conference. As a result, entering E3 is like sneaking into a mammoth arcade after hours when all the games are free.

Last year's highlights included Sony's beautiful Playstation 2 racing simulator Gran Turismo 3 A-Spec, the first major round of games for Nintendo's GameCube and Microsoft's XBox, and Sega's official entry into the software business after years of creating its own hardware.

This year's highlights already started last week, with Microsoft and Sony both dropping the price of their next-gen consoles by $100, matching the price for Nintendo's $199 system (although Nintendo just reduced theirs to $149 in response). E3 2002 will be crucial for Microsoft: last year their games were weaker than Bill Gates weightlifting. As for Nintendo, it has an opportunity to usher out excellent franchises that were missing last year, like Mario, Zelda and their classic adventure series Metroid. Sony, however, is the best of the bunch, still riding high on Konami's espionage thriller Metal Gear Solid 2 and the surprise hit of last year, Rockstar Games's Grand Theft Auto 3.

With all that said, I really don't know what to expect from this week's conference. I don't really have a "rope" this time (My Gadfly assignment is to cover what happens at the conference... whatever that may be). It may be an event parallel to the Playstation 2 riot-simulator State of Emergency—people running and screaming looking for an exit, or an entrance, pandemonium, cats and dogs living together—or it may just be the average E3 conference—which means chaos anyway.

Let the games begin!