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Gestures and Measures

  • Reading time:6 mins read

Yes, I think that’s a decent way of looking at it. All these new, supposedly more “friendly” control schemes aren’t really acting as such. They are still forcing new players to remove their preconcieved attachment to, say, swinging a tennis racket, and replacing it with a more standard video game approach in order to get anywhere. They’re essentially just pushing buttons, in the end.

That’s not an issue with the Wii as such, I don’t think, as much as it is with the dumb, overly abstract way things are being designed. What I’ve noticed is that few Wii games either detect the Wiimote in realspace and realtime (as Boxing and Baseball do) or simply use the Wiimote for what it’s worth in added nuance (like an analog stick or trigger, only way more so). Instead, they’re just replacing buttons with gestures and canned animations. It’s frustrating to see — and not even so much as an end product as in what that product shows about how unable game designers currently are, en masse, to wrap their heads around the bleedin’ obvious.

Red Steel is a pretty good example. Instead of giving the player a sword and a gun, and letting him gradually learn how to use them properly — teaching new techniques and whatnot as the game progresses, staggering out “assignments” of sorts (not literal ones) over the game’s story, to allow players to get accustomed to some key concepts of swordfighting or shooting or mixing the two — you tell him to move the controller like this to make this animation happen, and maybe earn new gestures as the game progresses. What the hell? How could you possibly screw this up?

Though this is one of the more obvious examples, you’ll see this problem in pretty much all Wii games currently available — and indeed, in Gamer and press discussion about the system. You can see people straining their imaginations to figure out something to do with the system, and it doesn’t work. Either you get gimmicks or you get phantom buttons. Digital do-or-don’t.

It’s… really not that hard! The Wii really suggests two things: added nuance to traditional games (instead of just doing X, you can do X in any number of ways; the way the game plays changes dynamicly to match your body language) and giving the player true first-person control, for all the subtlety that implies, with a minimum of abstraction, over a certain range of motions. The advantage here is the ability to explore concepts with an organicity impossible with just a digital player involvement — again, making people really learn how to use a sword (more or less) rather than simply pressing buttons or making gestures to cause an on-screen character to do something.

Instead of the player’s avatar developing and learning new things as an abstraction of progress, and instead of learning complex arbitrary and abstract gestures (like moves in a fighting game), the player himself or herself physically learns how to produce difficult, subtle actions that have a tangible result in the gameworld to whatever degree of skill the player posesses.

Imagine a fighting trainer. The wiimote is exchanged for four sensor bands, strapped to each of the player’s wrists and shins, as well as perhaps a belt to provide a center reference point (and perhaps force feedback for when the player receives a blow). The game gradually metes out concepts to the player — not just to improve mechanical technique and to teach new maneuvers; also to improve the way the player mentally contextualizes all of this. It could to some extent teach the art of fighting as well as the science — or at least a reasonable enough facimile for verisimilitude. Likewise, completely new skill sets with no real-world parallel could be devised for the player — so long as they were produced and could be reproduced in a believable and nuanced way.

Games that involve physical concepts would use the Wiimote physically, as above; games that involve more abstract or intellectual ones would use it more abstractly — closer to how we normally think about playing videogames, except with an added layer of capability. Press forward to walk; tilt the controller subtly forward to jog or run forward; tilt it subtly back to creep; tilt it left or right (while still holding forward) to sway or dodge in those directions. The way this should be balanced, the player shouldn’t be expected to physically, consciously tilt the controller so much as the game should respond to slight changes in the player’s posture — those little subvoluntary movements that we make when we want the avatar to behave in a certain way — go faster, hold back, watch out! Excite Truck sort of tries to do this, though it doesn’t seem to be executed as well as it could be.

Likewise, a whole range of related motions could easily be mapped to a single button — much like the state-shifting afforded by shoulder buttons, except intrinsicly analog. Press the button to execute a punch; when pressing the button, move or position the Wiimote this or the other way way to punch in different ways for a subtly different effect. Flick the tip up for an uppercut, say. Imagine the way a Silent Hill 2 or a Metal Gear Solid could take advantage of this subtlety and flexibility — the way it could read into the player’s body language and movement patterns and extrapolate a certain level of psychology from them, to make unseen behind-the-scenes decisions.

This is a pretty damned important breach we’re crossing, here — and we’ve been given a decent, if somewhat rickety, bridge. Yet so far people are just laying the bridge on the ground and using it as a replacement for a sidewalk or a new kind of a bed, or trying to figure out really clever pieces of playground equipment they could turn it into. I kind of hope people get more smart, before the novelty wears off.

Horii Himself, Out.

  • Reading time:6 mins read

Yeah. This doesn’t completely surprise me, except in the sense that it actually happened.

Handhelds are a better place for introverted, focused experiences. (See Metroid II.) In terms of the mindset involved, playing a handheld is like reading a book, whereas playing a console is like watching TV. Again, look how perfect Dragon Warrior is on the Game Boy — how much better it is than on the NES. Also: having a lengthy “novel” game makes more sense if you can pick it up and put it down at leisure, rather than being forced to sit in one place and stare at a screen for hundreds of hours. Leave the consoles for flash and fun; visceral stuff. Like the Wii, say.

Also to consider: as great as DQ8 is, there are two major abstractions left that seem kind of contrary to what Horii wants to do with the series. For one, the player controls more than one character. That’s a little weird. For another, it’s got random turn-based battles. Honestly, that doesn’t seem like part of Horii’s great plan for the series. It never has; it’s just been something he’s settled with until now.

So yeah. The DS seems like an ideal place to put the game. What’s really interesting is the multiplayer aspect — which I didn’t expect at all, yet which again sort of makes sense, depending on how it’s implemented. If players can come and go at will — join each other or set off on their own tasks, each with his or her own agenda — it’ll work. If there are too many constraints to the framework, keeping people from just playing the damned game whether their friends are around or not, it’ll be a bit of a downer.

I’m kind of undecided what this game means in the end. On the one hand it seems likely it’s meant as an intermediary step while Horii works on Dragon Quest X for the Wii. Considering how far along this game seems to be (implying it’s been in the works for at least months, maybe a year), it seems like it’s part of a long-term plan. Also considering that the sword game seems basically like a testing bed for a new battle system… well, do the math. And yet, there’s this issue about the DS actually being the most suitable system out there right now (in terms of market saturation, the nature of the format, and the qualities it has to offer).

Maybe it’s just the most suitable platform for Dragon Quest IX in particular, for everything he wants to do with the game. If X is going to work the way I think it might, it’s going to pretty visceral and showy — demanding a home system. One in particular (that being the most visceral available).

Basically, every game Horii makes appears to be just another approach to the same game he’s been trying to make for twenty years. He never quite winds up with what he wants — though lately he’s getting a little closer. From what I can see, this is just one more angle, allowing him to capture a certain aspect of his vision that he hadn’t been able to before (perhaps at the expense of some other elements, that he’s already explored). So, you know, right on. These details seem worth exploring.

The next game… maybe it’s time to assemble? See how all the pieces fit?

The thing that I dig about Dragon Quest is that, whatever the surface problems, the games are visionary. It’s a strong, uncluttered vision that all the games reflect even if they don’t always embody it. As “retro” as they seem, they’re not just crapped out according to a formula; they’re each trying to achieve something that’s way beyond them — meaning an endless pile of compromises.

I find that pretty encouraging. Not the placeholders; the way Horii isn’t afraid to use them, while he roughs out everything else. And that he doesn’t let them distract him; he just devises them, then discards them when they’re no longer of use. He keeps chugging along, going through draft after draft until he gets it exactly right. It’s a very classical disposition. Very honest, at least to my eye.

He’s a lot like Miyamoto, except Miyamoto sort of gave up a long time ago. And Miyamoto’s vision isn’t quite as focused (though in turn, it is broader than Horii’s).

The one problem I can see with going from turn-based to real-time battles is that the battles in Dragon Quest — I don’t think they’re really always meant to stand in for actual fighting, as much as they’re a stand-in for any number of hardships and growth experiences that a person like the player might encounter in a situation like the quest at hand. Some of that might be actual battle; some of it might be much subtler and harder to depict in a game like this.

Keeping the battles turn-based and separated from the wandering-around makes the metaphor a lot clearer as a compromise, rather than as something special or important in its own right. Changing to a system that makes the game actually about fighting loads of monsters… I’m not sure if this is precisely the point he’s looking for. Still, it’s a trade off. Get more specific somewhere, you have to lose a nuance somewhere else.

I wonder what other sorts of difficulties or experiences could be devised, besides semipermeable monster walls holding you back. Ones that would add to (or rather further clarify), rather than detract from (or muddy), the experience. And preferably that wouldn’t be too scripted.

I’m thinking a little of Lost in Blue, though I don’t know how appropriate its ideas would be, chopped out and inserted whole. Still, general survival issues seem relevant: having certain bodily needs (and maybe psychological ones — though who the hell knows how to address that) that, though not difficult to attend to, cause problems if you don’t. So in the occasions you do run into real immediate difficulty (battles, whatever), you’ll be in far greater danger if you’ve been pressing yourself too far; if you haven’t sufficiently prepared. Likewise, injury might be a real problem — so the player would have to think carefully, weigh cost and benefit, before charging into dangerous situations.

Not pressing out would mean you’d never learn more, get better, stretch your boundaries. Being foolhardy would get you killed. Same deal we’ve got now; just more nuanced.

I’m sure there are other ways to do it. Maybe more interesting ones.

It could be I’m reading in some things that aren’t overtly intended. Still, I’ve never felt the battles were as important as what they stood for. They’re too straightforward. They’re used too cannily, as a barrier. The trick, again, is whether there’s an interesting and functional way of more literally representing what they might stand for. I dunno. Maybe not! At least, not right now. So all right, violence. Fair enough.

The Trouble with Lisa

  • Reading time:2 mins read

Finally a pretty good Torchwood episode. Though each of the previous three was better than the last , last week’s height was a respectable mediocrity. Now we’re basically on target with what I expected out of the series from the start. Aside from the story and tone details (A snappy pace! Enough plot to fill an entire episode! “Adult” content that doesn’t feel completely gratuitous!), finally we get some decent characterization going on! For the first time, there’s some chemistry! Even Dr. Sato gets more to do than usual, here — which isn’t to suggest a lot.

And amongst all that, it’s probably the best Cyberman story ever produced. (Which isn’t to suggest a lot!)

Actually, that leads to odd thing: despite this episode being the biggest, most obvious crossover yet with the parent series, it’s also the first one that seems to project its own personality apart from Who. Perhaps it was being set almost entirely in the Hub, mostly using elements introduced in the previous episodes — and the Who crossover, though involving a traditional monster, was directly tied to established Torchwood lore. From the pizza to the Canary Wharf incident to Ianto’s background, to Jack’s intense hardness, for once this series feels like it’s got its own mythology.

Now that I know the production team is capable of living up to some of the series potential, I guess I can be a little harder on it. Given that this is what I had always imagined as an “average” episode of Torchwood, I’ll be expecting a lot from now on.

Boundary Scout

  • Reading time:5 mins read

My brother has been hounding me about how to recreate that crazy mysterious glitchy feeling from old NES games, and this whole time I’ve been telling him that I figure it’s impossible. But uh, I guess not!

Apparently the trick is to actually focus on making it seem mysterious and glitchy!

Well, the focus here is on the glitchiness — mostly because I think that would be a cool-n-subversive way of doing things. I think the real point is in the kind of thoughts and emotions and behavior that those glitches trigger in people who are prone to pick at them. I think all of those qualities are very close to the ideal purpose and potential of videogames in general.

It’s that feeling of breaking through the boundaries of an established system — of the suggestion of unknown yet possibly grand potential hidden somewhere beyond the mundane, that you — as a free agent and very clever person — are specially qualified to unlock.

The way a person might break through the boundaries could be mechanical or emotional or intellectual. Some of the best touches in some of the best games borrow from this principle. See the scanning in Metroid Prime, how it comes directly out of the themes at hand, then ties everything together, hinting at a sort of order and coherence and reality to the entire Metroid series and everything in it that you never really suspected before. Yet it never shoves the stuff down your throat; it’s just there for you to put together on your own — much like all of the abstract stuff in the original Zelda and Metroid and whatnot, except deliberate and intellectual rather than incidental and material.

And then there’s Riven.

I think my point with the overt fake-bugginess was to exaggerate and glorify the whole pointless search process that we go through — poking the edges of the scenery, seeing what’s possible within the world, experimenting, and only rarely being rewarded with anything for our effort. And when we are rewarded it feels cloying and false, like those dumb treasure chests that have to be at the end of every single cul de sac in every single dungeon, to overtly reward you for going down and simultaneously make you feel obligated to go down every one.

It’s working on the suggestion that maybe this behavior has a real purpose behind it after all, that sometimes — just sometimes — there’s something magical and special and completely unprecedented to find. And the point to that is to bring into light that whole behavior, that whole mindset — which, again, I think is implicitly what videogames are made to suggest, yet which I don’t feel is often really addressed for all (or even much) of its potential.

I think this mode can be addressed in less gimmicky ways, even if the gimmick is maybe one of the clearest ways to illustrate it. The problem is that a videogame has to work on a couple of levels at once. It needs to have a completely workable status quo, that feels solid, that the player is convinced is meant to be solid, for the player’s subversion of that status quo to mean anything. There’s a lot of psychology here; the player shouldn’t know immediately whether he’s supposed to be able to do what he’s doing, and that it has been accounted for; just that, for whatever reason, he’s able to.

Beyond the psychology and the multiple layers to keep track of, the game of course has to be designed and programmed as well as possible, to avoid unintentional exploits. So there’s a certain level of virtuosity required here.

…

Maybe I’m overstepping the line a bit, in defining the importance of these characteristics. The basic nature of a videogame lies in the causal relationship between the player and the gameworld; the basic potential lies in the narrative ability of that causal relationship (what it means for the player to act, given the established boundaries of the gameworld). The natural mode of player action is to explore those rules and challenge them. I suppose it doesn’t follow that the player need subvert a status quo as-such; it’s just, this is a good way to illustrate that mode of player interaction and its narrative and emotional potential.

The player should feel free; that he is at all times in control over his immedate decisionmaking, and that through his decisions he is just perhaps blazing into unknown territory, doing something nobody else has done, having a unique and visceral personal experience that’s entirely generated by his own free will. Half-Life 2 is great at making the player feel clever and subversive for doing exactly what the game is expecting.

I think it’s a misdiagnosis of this quality that has led to this sandbox nonsense (most recently reined in and made less inane by Dead Rising), and sense that players want “freedom” in their games.

…

I’ll get back to this. Will post what I’ve got now.

Tying into the previous post, sort of…

  • Reading time:2 mins read

I also think it’s a bland way of explaining the eighth’s regeneration – “Oh he died in a war”. I like to think of the Time War as a bit more complex than that.

I believe the word you want is “mythic”. That’s one of the big reasons for the War being there: it creates a new myth, putting everyone — old and new viewers — on the same level, and suggesting unrecountably grand and mysterious things, creating a new wonder, a new quest for knowledge, a new drive for the show to realign it with its original appeal. Also, curiously enough, the War serves to “fix” the arguably unsatisfactory resolution to a lot of the original mysteries by ditching the Time Lords and Gallifrey, the revelation of which earmarked the end of the show’s original era, and the start of something arguably less intriguing.

Doctor Who’s about the travel; not the destination. Soon as you stop and resolve something, it becomes real; mundane. The magic’s gone, as is any driving force it provided. Which isn’t to imply that you can’t create a new driving force — since that’s just what Davies did. And what ho; it worked.

I just don’t know if fact can do any better than legend, for something like this.

A completely unsaleable idea

  • Reading time:3 mins read

A vague concept came to me a couple of hours ago:

Take a game that, ostensibly is… this one thing; it’s of a particular genre, with certain goals — and it’s entertaining enough, if mired in its genre and a little buggy. If you’re so prone, you can poke away at the seams all over the place, and get effects that probably aren’t intended. The first model that came to me was something like a…

Side note: Wi-Fi DS or Wii Pictionary could be interesting. Not for this, necessarily; just had the thought.

Anyway. Something like a video board game; an adaptation of a very famous Game of Life clone that you’ve never heard of, or a Mario Kart or Mario Party clone. Something vapid and small in imagination and ambition, though diverting. The kind of trash that builds up on the store shelves and you never think about, though maybe with a little more personality and irony about itself.

Then if the player happens to be bored enough — happens to keep picking away at the discrepancies, at the bugs and exploits, happens to keep veering out of bounds, he’ll wind up… out-of-bounds. And then the real game will begin. If not, the dippy little game, with its goals and rules, is all you’ll ever see.

As for what’s out there, I don’t know. It could start off just seeming like an error — the Metroid Secret World sort of effect. Random garbage that it’s interesting to screw with. Then keep picking through the garbage, and eventually there’s something grander beneath that. Like you’ve just emerged from a dungeon into the blinding sunshine. And it just keeps getting more and more mysterious. There’s no explanation for any of this; you have to piece it together on your own, through exploring and continually picking away at the edges of what’s possible and observing and filing things away in your head.

What would be even better is if the initial part of the game had some kind of license — say, a videogame version of Jeopardy! or some other known quantity — to further cover up what’s really going on.

And then put the game out and say nothing. And see how long before someone finds the secret, and word begins to spread. Then see the noise grow and grow, and paranoia develop about the glitches in every other game under the sun, as people wonder if they lead to anything secret and special — the way we used to, twenty years ago when we didn’t know any better.

…

I don’t know. I think it would be kind of neat. If impractical. It would require a Kenji Eno or some other funster, to take charge then sit in the background and not be credited.

“Grown?! What bollocks!”

  • Reading time:2 mins read

The TARDIS is clearly engineered in the original series (just look at it!)

According to Davies in a DWM column, the TARDIS interior can be “skinned” rather like Winamp — which is probably a function of something like a chameleon circuit, I’ll wager to speculate. Though not ever stated before, this seems at least consistent with the established lore — especially given how easily various Time Lords seem to reconfigure the insides at will.

For the rest of your argument — well, uh. There’s nothing to say there’s no element of engineering in TARDIS construction. If anything, a TARDIS seems largely an artificial construct — one that involves a certain controlled organic development, presumably for the most basic architecture and… “spirit”, if you will. Then things get bolted onto that, taking advantage of more overt Time Lord technology, like the chameleon whatsit and the console controls and whatnot.

I don’t see anything particularly far-fetched for a stage of controlled organic engineering, especially given how far ahead Gallifreyan technology is. If anything, it sort of makes sense, given how complex and seemingly random the darned thing is. The Time Lords never seem to have absolute control over the machines — which probably is due in part to their treating them completely as machines (if partially organic ones), under their will. The Doctor seems relatively unique in having come to terms with the apparent sentience of his TARDIS — though even he often forgets that he’s not always so much in control of the thing as giving it general suggestions.

That his TARDIS is so persnickety — so insolubly “broken” — might, and here I’m wildly speculating, be a result of its will having become much stronger than usual for a TARDIS. It’s too spirited, and doesn’t always obey orders just because they were given by its “owner”. Thus, it’s broken. A flaw in its system. Sounds very Time Lordy to me. There are parallels in many other works of fiction, of course. Popular anime in particular (Ghost in the Shell, Eva) keeps coming to mind.

It’s-a Heem! Again!

  • Reading time:3 mins read

So far, New Super Mario Bros. isn’t as annoying as I expected. Kind of flavorless, yes. Well-made, though. Some nice ideas in here.

I like how they’ve stripped down everything except the mushrooms, fire flowers, and turtle shell — and then refocused the game so it’s basically all forward momentum. There’s plenty of stuff to dink around and find; that’s kind of peripheral, though. The overworld map pretty much drives the point home: it’s a straight line from the first level to the final castle, with only the occasional tangent to access an alternate route or a special item. The levels themselves are much the same. And the way the secret routes and items are hidden is nice and old-fashioned; reminds me of Mario 1 and Sonic 1.

Likewise, the focus on Mario’s size-changing is interesting. In past games (except Mario Land), there’s never been much point in being small. Here, not only is being small occasionally of value; you can also be smaller than small. And to trade it off, you can be bigger than big. Conceptually, it’s definitely got its stuff together; this is kind of like how Gradius V focuses on the Options. In execution — well.

The problem, as Toups pointed out earlier, feels like a lack of confidence. That seems to be an issue with a lot of Nintendo games these days. A shame. I mean. With more confidence in its own ideas, Wind Waker could have been really amazing. And again, whoever conceived of this game was a really clever person. You want to revive an imporant series, you break down what defines it and you build upon that. In this case, you focus on Mario’s growing/shrinking ability and on forward momentum; ditch all the suits and playground design and as much clutter as you can get away with, then slowly build back up with an eye toward the central themes.

Even the level design is often quite snazzy. Same with the very limited treasure hunt aspect, and how that ties into the world map: spend the coins however you like, whenever you like; go back and dink around to find the other coins whenever you feel like it. No pressure to complete everything; to the contrary, the game’s constantly pushing you forward. Yet it allows leeway if you want to explore. Again, sorta reminds me of early Sonic. Heck, Mario even runs like Sonic now.

Partly because of all that, I really wish this thing felt less generic. Less… cardboard. Whereas Gradius V and OutRun2 almost supplant Life Force and OutRun, this comes off more like a tribute game than something important in its own right.

EDIT: Actually, I want to say it reminds me a lot of a milquetoast follow-up to Super Mario Land. You’ve got some of the same ideas in it: better use of Mario’s size and working it into level logistics; more thematic enemies, and levels with memorable one-time quirks. I keep expecting the fireball to work like the Power Ball, and bounce all over, allowing me to collect coins. Instead, it just creates coins. (Not sure of the in-game logistics there. I think the Mario Land model would have fit better.) What Mario Land has that this doesn’t is a bizarre and quirky personality of its own, allowing it to stand as a response to Super Mario Bros. rather than just a new take on it.

Rose = (Susan + Ian + Barbara) x 2005

  • Reading time:2 mins read

Somebody like the Doctor – an ageless, lonely wanderer – he can’t be that desperate can he? You would think that with his wisdom and experience, the last person he would want to get his leg-over with was Rose.

Since that’s the same thing as love, yes.

Rose “saved” the Doctor when he was at his most vulnerable, his most miserable. Therefore, he became attached to her in a way he rarely allows himself to become attached to others. She became attached to him because, well, she’s a silly little kid and he showed her the world. Though in the short term they bettered each other, eventually the two of them had to part ways — for reasons illustrated in both School Reunion and Girl in the Fireplace (the one on Rose’s end; the other on the Doctor’s).

The Doctor’s fixation on Reinette, if anything, helps to illustrate the nature of his relationship with Rose. All it takes is that rare person at the rare moment who can break through and touch him, and he’ll latch onto her. Rose did it by being stubborn at the right time, then worming under the Doctor’s skin, showing appreciation, nurturing him. By giving him a certain regularity, and a family of sorts. Reinette did it by literally crawling into his head, seeing things that he normally doesn’t show anybody. When he lost Reinette, and he reacted that badly after having only known her for a few hours, that set up just how much of an effect it would be on him when Rose left.

At least Rose is safe, though. In a way he gave her what she always wanted, before he came around — and what he could never have. Though the TARDIS will feel very empty for a while, the Doctor will… well, not get over it. He’ll put it behind him, though; chalk up the sadness to just one more illustration of his curse — how alone he innately must be — and move on. It’s kind of like ditching Susan all over again.

I don’t think we’ll see him that ga-ga over another companion. I get the feeling the Doctor isn’t about to be so dependent on anyone again, if he can help it. At least, that’s the way he always used to work.

Dalek Bay

  • Reading time:5 mins read

Unless I missed something, I don’t think the location being called Bad Wolf was a revelation.

One way to read it — and I think perhaps the way intended — is that this beach is the original “bad wolf”, explaining the phrase getting scattered through time last series. This is what Rose was really trying to tell herself, in the moment when she could see all of time and space: she saw that this was the end of the road; the precise time and place that will allow her to “get back” to the Doctor and say her farewell, and so she scattered the clues backwards to lead her there. The earlier “bad wolves” are all backwards echoes of this.

Either by coincidence or design (on Vortex-Rose’s part), the situation in Parting of the Ways works as a really good early metaphor for the true “bad wolf” situation that will arise one series later — a metaphor aided by the “DÃ¥rlig Ulv” business. (Dalek = bad! Yuk yuk!) Though maybe Vortex-Rose also meant it as a trail to lead her back to the Doctor in that moment and create herself, that now seems like a secondary effect.

I mean. She could have used anything, any phrase to lead herself back there — and yet instead of any old phrase from out of a hat, she chose to use the ultimate “you can get back to him” phrase. This suggests that the phrase was less intended to get her to that precise moment (since, hey, she was there already!) than it was to impress unto herself its future significance. Which in a sense is slightly less paradoxical (and arbitrary) than the action seemed last year.

Still a little weird, of course.

EDIT:

Because what’s presented on-screen and in the dialogue of Bad Wolf/PotW clearly indicates it?

All that TARDIS-Rose says there is “I take the words, I scatter them” — at which point the words on the sign literally rip off the wall and fly off. Clearly the latter isn’t meant as a literal depiction of her transforming those particular physical objects into the Platonic forms they represent, and then scattering them — so I don’t know that it really means anything other than as an illustration of what she’s talking about: scattering the words “Bad Wolf”. Not neccesarily those particular tangible letters that she ripped off the wall; just the words themselves. Nowhere in the episode is it stated that the words originate at the station.

Because it’s the only way the plot arc makes sense?

Now, that’s clearly not so. Again, the arc would make more sense (and be more dramaticall fulfilling) if the words had some significance beyond simply the name of the owners of the TV station. Even within the episode, everyone assumes the TV station’s name is just another instance of the “repeated meme” (if you will). And frankly, the entire situation feels unresolved: why was the company called “Bad Wolf”? Well, it just… was. So why did Rose latch onto the corporation name as a “code” to send through time and space? Well, she just… did. The connection is tenuous and not really satisfactory. This isn’t an elegant place for a causal paradox.

Now, had the name an actual origin — were it to actually mean something significant to Rose or the Doctor (or better yet the relationship between the two of them — then we’d be onto something. Then the plot arc would make a little more sense, and it would be a little more satisfying as a piece of drama.

What to some degree makes the most thematic sense is if the original “bad wolf” is the final one, which is then projected backward. And as it turns out, this “bad wolf” is probably the most significant individual instance of all, as it refers to a time and a place at the end of everything where Rose can find the Doctor — where that last dimensional anomaly happens to be located.

Logistically, there is no reason why this could not be the origin of the phrase — and I don’t see how, as a retcon, it particularly complicates the events as played out before. Again, Rose had access to all of Time and Space. She would therefore see her entire arc with the Doctor; she would know when she left him, and would know the significance of that last meeting where they admitted their love for each other. TARDIS-Rose is, to an extent, a being formed of pure love for the Doctor — therefore, “I am the Bad Wolf: I create myself” makes sense in that context. Likewise, “Bad Wolf” as a message to spread throughout time to lead Rose to the Doctor carries a great metaphorical weight that would not otherwise be present.

It’s not impossible, either, that the bay is just one more thing she renamed way back in Parting of the Ways — except, why? Again, it just becomes arbitrary. If she was able to look forward enough to randomly rename the bay back then according to the name of the owner of a TV station, then how is it any less plausible that in looking forward that is where she originally found the name? Again, thematically that has the greater dramatic resonance; it’s not really any more complicated; and I don’t recall anything in either series that would logistically negate it as an option.

I will gobble you up… pretty boy!

  • Reading time:2 mins read

Yeah, that was a pretty big improvement on The Unquiet Dead. I’m not sure why everyone got his and her face back at the end. There wasn’t even a line in there, that I heard, to justify it. (Why are their faces taken anyway? And how do they breathe? You just need a sentence!)

Sort of a weird episode, with the social commentary. Mix of nostalgic nationalism and commentary on the unfortunate social concepts of the time. The whole “faceless drone” thing as a result of television seems… pretty intentional. In a Twilight Zone sense. TV aerials looking like swastikas and all. Neither glorifying nor damning the period. Just.. noticing.

I think it’s intended that the kid might be gay, though it’s… not made clear, since I guess it’s not important.

The Father’s another sorta Roald Dahl adult.

The Tenth Doctor does have a sensitive tongue, doesn’t he.

Too bad they didn’t work in that Logopolis reference. It could have been shortened: “It’s nothing… I just have this thing about broadcast towers.” Then he shakes it off, and continues. It could have worked. Needn’t have been distracting.

I also thought it went by a little too quickly, much like — say — Tooth & Claw and The Christmas Invasion. It’s written to the format more well than last year’s, though. The tone and internal pacing, in particular, were much, much more well-composed. It’s a fun piece, with little except that weird plot point against it. Certainly better than most of the series two episodes, so far. I’m looking forward to the next Gatiss episode.

As for the production: as much as I love The Third Man, I find myself agreeing with some people that the camera here could have used a carpenter’s level in a few scenes. There are times to get all impressionistic; there are times when it’s just distracting. It’s a pretty minor quibble, though. Most of the artsiness was put to practical effect.

So. After Girl in the Fireplace and School Reunion, I’d say this is probably the strongest episode of series two. That says more about the other episodes this year than it does about Idiot’s Lantern. Still, there we are. The Twilight Zone factor and the handsome direction are the big plusses here.

Mercury Fluid Links

  • Reading time:2 mins read

It’s pretty clear how the Ninth Doctor had to die for his sins (speaking in a narrative sense) in order to be forgiven and reborn. Heck, primarily just to forgive himself by becoming a completely different person. The problem is, though the Ninth Doctor was a right bastard at times — careless even — he was guilty as hell about it, and the past effects of his arrogance. He just couldn’t help his behavior. He spent his whole “life” trying to compensate for it. Now the Tenth Doctor is a new man. He’s cast off that weight, and isn’t beating himself up anymore. He feels free to do whatever he wants. And that means pulling out all the stops the Ninth Doctor had on him — acting like he’s got a sort of a mandate, now that he’s been reborn. Yeehaw, nobody can stop me now! Top o’ the world! It’s like he hasn’t really learned at all. Nine hundred years of phone box travel, and he’s still a little boy.

That has to be set off somehow. He has to seriously grow, as a person. And it looks like that’s what Davies is doing, this series — especially with the “questioning beliefs” business in The Satan Pit and elsewhere, and being forced to confront Sarah Jane and other issues. It’s like a road lined with signposts saying “slow down; curve ahead”. And if he doesn’t heed them — well. He’ll learn sooner or later.

The Grail

  • Reading time:1 mins read

What do you look for in an RPG? What should it accomplish for you? What should it feel like to play it?

It should inspire me in such a way that I feel hundreds of hours of inane plotting and longing-to-be-retired game systems are worth slogging through. Generally that inspiration takes the form of “there is something amazing out there, somewhere — and lots of lesser wonders, that are up to me to realize”. And I should feel like every one of those discoveries (material or not) is a victory won, in its own right. A personal accomplishment.

Actually, uh. That’s the way I approach just about everything in life. So.

Buttoning Down

  • Reading time:8 mins read

What if the GBA had had two more buttons, as people kept asking for at the time? What difference would that have made?

You know, aside from fighting games, I don’t see what use the extra two buttons would be. Few games really use more than that for anything significant, and if they do they’re often rather clumsily designed. The GBA has two shoulder buttons that rarely get used for anything much.

Even now, how many DS games use the extra buttons to any particular effect?

As much as I enjoy certain fighting games, I find it kind of stupid that they’re always used as an excuse for a million buttons and a standard layout for controllers. If people want to play fighting games, they can go buy a fighting pad — which most people who are serious about the genre, which includes most people who bother with it, do anyway.

Of course, you can’t easily do that with a handheld. Still, what are fighting games on a handheld besides a novelty? NeoGeo Pocket aside. Which has… two buttons.

But the shoulder buttons are awkward to use, so perhaps that’s why. Anyway, games don’t have to use every button on a controller. Don’t more buttons just increase the available options?

Shoulder buttons aren’t really meant to be action buttons. They’re basically useful for state issues. For changing the nuance of the face buttons — much as with holding up to use the secondary items in Castlevania, versus simply mapping it to a third button.

The more you can abstract the actions, the better. If you’ve got an attack button, try to put all direct attacks on that button. If you’ve got a jump/propel bodily button, try to put everything jumping or flying or swimming or whatever-related on that button. Context (including the context of state-shifting buttons like triggers) narrows down the verb, so the player doesn’t have to think about it.

That’s kind of the idea behind Ocarina, with its context-sensitive jumping and junk. It just wasn’t implemented too well there. RE4 does basically the same thing, except it gets it basically right. In that case, “A” is basically the “DO SOMETHING” button — and what you do is determined entirely by circumstance and what other buttons you’re holding down.

In this light, the point about few GBA games using the shoulder buttons still holds. Between the two shoulder buttons, that basically gives you six face button functions — and yet how many games take advantage of this?

But using the shoulder buttons for state shifting isn’t practical. And besides, a diamond layout lets you pretend the buttons are a second D-pad, for all that implies. And again, isn’t it simply better to have more available options, even if those options are rarely used? Having fewer buttons limits the types of games you can create.

Let’s not be silly. State-shifting is not only practical; it’s one of the only significant concepts in control design to be introduced in the last fifteen years. I’d love to hear what makes it impractical.

Though I guess it’s nice, using the face buttons as a second D-pad is an incredibly specific and imperfect use, that is almost never implemented. Though I might adore Bangai-O, this argument is just as silly as saying every system needs six face buttons so people can play Street Fighter properly.

Of course having fewer buttons limits the possible variety of games. Which is why the PS2 has so many more kinds of games on it than the NES does.

…

As for the “more choice = inherently good” argument: not really. Arguably so at best. See older relatives, who get confused when there’s more than one button on a controller. See the Brain Training game for the DS, that asks people to ignore all of those strange, extra buttons on the system. The most important element in any videogame is an intuitive interface — something that anyone can pick up and quickly understand. An ideal default interface will also offer flexibility on a game-to-game basis, meaning it can’t be too specialized.

The other benefit here is that the fewer input options there are, and the more intuitively they are designed, the more care and consideration developers have to put into control design. Sure, some people will always screw up their work no matter what help they’re given. Might as well rein in the margin for confusion as well as practicable, however — if just for the sake of the end user.

Of course, the question is one of balance. How little functionality is too little to be functional, and how much functionality can you include before you generate clutter — therefore distraction and confusion — in the name of very specific implementations?

State-shifting address this issue elegantly by providing few options then tiering them to accomodate extra depth, for those circumstances where it is desired or required. Think of it in terms of a reference tool. Is it more ideal to have every possible item you might want to read about all on one page, or do you want to break it down into categories, then subcategories? The more you want to know, the more specific the knowledge you desire, the deeper you delve. No clutter. No noise. No distraction. Or a significant reduction in all of this, anyway.

Here are a bunch of games that (arguably) require two joysticks, so ha! And see, I didn’t even mention a FPS yet! And I’ll pretend not to mention fighting games either because you clearly hate them so much!

Yes, exactly. So what?

Mind that I like just about every game you’ve mentioned. Almost.

But you said there were barely any games like that! So there’s a bunch, and I can keep on going! What else are you going to dismiss just because it doesn’t fit into your ideal scheme, huh?!

Look, it’s the same fighting game argument again: Street Fighter uses six buttons, so every controller must have six buttons or else you can’t play street fighter! Except weaker. I’m not dismissing the existence of fighting games or first-person shooters or these random and rare double-joystick games you seem so fixated on; I’m dismissing their import in dictating an idealized default input method, specifically because of their specialized nature.

Again, if you want to play fighting games it’s easy to buy a fighting game controller that’s more suited to the genre than a standard pad ever could be. If you want to play FPS games, a standard pad will never be ideal for them anyway, conceived as they are for a completely different control scheme, so there might as well be a specialized controller to better facilitate them.

I mean, hell. Ikari Warriors wasn’t even designed with two joysticks in mind; it had a rotary stick, the purpose of which was to allow strafing. A more accurate compromise there is using a shoulder button for strafe-lock. Chu-Chu Rocket’s control scheme was a compromise to start with; the game would be better suited to something like a stylus or a mouse interface.

Beyond the stylus, the DS also has the internet thing going — making for an even more ideal Chu-Chu platform.

Which kind of illustrates the point that not every game is suitable for every platform, and no single input device can account for every special demand. There will always be a compromise, and the question is as to where to draw that line.

What you’re asking for is an all-in-one device that accounts poorly for every possible variable, and not only will that never be entirely satisfactory on its own right; it’s also the wrong approach to a deeper problem. By this logic, what else should the average controller include? Should it rattle when you shake it, to make Samba De Amigo more feasible? I’m sure if the feature were included, Kojima would find something to do with it. And then of course it would have to be included in every future controller, or else if Kojima’s game were ported to that system it wouldn’t play exactly right!

Just, come on already.

The question is perhaps both easier and more difficult for handhelds. It’s easier if other platforms are available, that offer different potential. It’s harder in that you can’t just switch controllers so easily. Although, actually, I can think of some ways around that as well.

In the case of the GBA, the question is whether two or four buttons are more ideal. In the long run, given how few games even used the triggers for anything of note, having only two face buttons certainly didn’t seem to hurt it too much, or to constrain too many developers. Would the extra two buttons have done any harm? Well, from what we’ve seen it doesn’t look like they’d have done much good. And, you know, omit needless buttons. Complication for the sake of complication does little save muddy the water.

The four buttons work as a concession on the DS because the main focus is on the touchscreen. The oversupply of buttons helps to balance that off and encourage pedantic gamer-types just as the touchscreen draws in non-gamers. The GBA doesn’t have a mitigating factor, so there the buttons would just be buttons.

Right, like anyone would get confused or put off by two extra buttons.

See, the problem here is that you’re a gamer.

The Method

  • Reading time:5 mins read

So.

* Zelda 1 and 2.
* Dragon Quest in general.
* Riven.
* Shadow of the Colossus.
* Metroid II.
* Half-Life 2.
* Phantasy Star II.
* Metal Gear Solid 3, in particular.
* Lost in Blue.
* OutRun.

There is a common thread to all of these. It has to do with the gameworld, and the player’s method of interaction with it.

Stacking boxes to make your own path or eating the parrot in Half-Life and Metal Gear are the same as the magic wand in Zelda 1 or the structures in Wanda that serve no apparent purpose except to look at them, climb on them, stand on them, ponder about them. Building a spear in Lost in Blue is the same as gaining that level or buying that copper sword in Dragon Warrior, as finding a heart container or a boomerang in Zelda, as making that leap of logic in Riven, about that device halfway across the island.

The technique names in Phantasy Star are the same as the number system in Riven, as the clues in Zelda, as the Erdrick lore is in Dragon Warrior, as the artifacts are in Lost in Blue. And these are the same as the boxes and the parrot and the spear and the boomerang.

These are all different approaches toward the same, or similar, ideals. Player progression relies on personal growth and curiosity. Within its own laws, the gameworld is responsive to nearly all actions allowed the player. There is a strong focus on trial and error. On exploration on both the micro and macro levels. On pushing the limits of the gameworld to see what happens, and maybe being punished half the time. On intuitive leaps of reasoning, within the given laws. On patience. On innate appreciation of the intangible within a greater scheme.

The laws and structure of the gameworld are a framework filled with an open question. Rote progression is never a problem, and yet the purpose never particularly lies in the plot. Or in completion. Any story, any imposed goals are simply excuses. MacGuffins. They’re there to get you out the door. To give you an anchor, a point of reference. Maybe a path to walk down. The real joy, the really important material, comes in the unimportant treasures of providence provided by the player’s presence in the gameworld, by interfering as an outsider in a self-contained system.

The player, as Link in the first Zelda in particular, is not particularly meant to traverse Hyrule. He has no weapon. He has no defense. He has no health. There is no path specifically laid out for him, and yet there is a certain logic to be exploited — inconsistently, though consistently enough. At no point does the game call for the boomerang, or the wand. The game can probably be beaten without the sword, if the player is so inclined. Yet the tools are there to be made use of.

The world of Riven is alien to the player, and presents a barrier at every turn — and yet there is a logic behind it all; a reason why everything is where and as it is. As an outsider this lack of familiarity is an initial barrier. Later that same outside perspective and status puts the player in a rarified position. The simple joys of Riven come again from a whimsical turn of that same relationship with the gameworld — from sitting on a sun-baked stone stairwell, listening to the birds and the insects and the surf below. Imagining the coolness of the shadows and the moss on the stones. Appreciating what would go unappreciated were the player to belong here. Finding one’s own treasure in a broader system.

And yet none of these games are wholly open. Unlike Morrowind or Fallout or Baldur’s Gate, there is a clear and immediate structure. There is a limit to the options available to the player. The rules and the logic of the worlds are all simple and compact. There are only so many actions. There are only so many items. There are only so wide a world, so many levels, so many set pieces, so much of a variance in direction. There is a specific ultimate task before the player, a specific direction to move in. Save the princess. Learn about these Biomonsters. Figure out what’s going on in this world. Defeat the Metroids. Survive and maybe escape. Defeat the Colossi.

The secret to success in all cases is in understanding the reasoning of the gameworld, and the method of understanding — as in life — is experimentation. It is in the quirks, the exceptions, the trivialities — that with no clear explanation — that the searching mind finds the most wonder and curiosity. And it is in these quirks that such a mind imbues the most meaning, specifically for their lack of meaning, their lack of purpose. Their lack of structure, and all it implies about the gameworld and the player’s presence within it.

It is in these imperfections that we find beauty and we find reality. In which humanity and therefore something we identify as truth shows itself. In which we see hints of a structure or a randomness beyond our comprehension, that is greater than us, that is greater than our mission and yet that leads us to our fate. It is here that we find significance, that we find meaning, that we find verification for our continued efforts.

It is this which drives us on.