highlights

On the role of role

  • Reading time:5 mins read

See. The big advance in FFX, as far as the series goes, is in narrative and all that it relates to. The game system underneath is just the same as always — one that leads you to dissect it in such a way as you do; to think about its characters and overall world in Pokemon terms. Some of the relative sophistication is dulled by holding back and masking the player’s involvement with Game, lowering the relationship between player and character to trainer and racing pony.

That ain’t a healthy relationship. It’s akin to the horce-race coverage of local elections that you will see on the news. The point isn’t who’s ahead, and what numbers they can come up with; the point is the issues at stake, that have a broad or specific effect upon us, upon our world.

What is required here is a whole shift of our frame of reference, of our expectations.

The question is, what specifically or generally might illustrate a place to shift it.

As far as the relationship of a character and his world, I like the image of Shenmue, crossed with the likes of Elder Scrolls or Fable. On a level.

How, then — to take that as-is, for the moment — to integrate this with a game system, game world like those in FFXII? What else would be required? To strip away the mask that numbers and statistics and superimposed gimmicks present, and to put yourself in the position of the characters you control and face, what is missing? This is a subtle question; it deals with psychology more than anything. What do we need, to make our lives meaningful, comfortable, believable? What is real, what is false, on an internal level, and why?

The challenge is to come up with some framework which will allow the player to directly channel whatever the answers might be, without the architecture getting in the way, emotionally. This is not a matter of simply taking away the superficial elements that you happen to enjoy, but to be rid of the very reasons why you would want to prop yourself up with them. I’m pretty sure, were such a thing to exist, you would have no reason to lament the loss of the system; rather, when presented with the alternative, you would be wondering why you had been leaning on it for so long.

Me, I don’t have the answers. I’m just watching.

Thing is: if you go back to the origin of these systems, the pen-and-paper RPG, and you play the game correctly, the stats stand in for abstract or complex ideas: how much damage a person can take before dying, and how likely he is to hit a monster; values and properties that would otherwise be difficult to keep track of. The purpose of these statistics is to enable everyone concerned to deal with complex situations and conflicts, which might arise during play. The intended focus is upon the interaction amongst the players: upon picking a role, and thinking within it and within the world presented to you by the narrator — the DM. An RPG is about exploring an alternate life. The rules do not dictate; they empower.

This is, of course, not how people always play it; for many people, the organizational system — a tool which exists to make the experience easier to manage — has become confused with the game itelf, transforming the system into a bureaucratic trap, and the process of playing an unhealthy exercise in tunnel-vision. And that’s the whole problem we’re discussing.

These systems are a convenience; they only exist, in principle, to enhance the core ideals at stake in the experience. If the systems are no longer doing their job correctly, then let’s find a new structure that will work with contemporary technology to address those ideals; that will be a tool instead of a distraction, once more.

The question is raised: “If, however, you remove all of the systems that people have come to associate with the RPG, will a game still be recognizable as such?”

I think so. Again, it all depends on burrowing back down to the essence of what an RPG is trying to illustrate. If it’s there, people will feel it.

A decent comparative model might be our definitions for different genres of fiction: tragedy, comedy, farce. Each of these has a specific definition, which tends to be tied to a certain combination of defined human emotions and certain models of human behavior, desire, and ambition. The colors can be combined in any way you desire, clearly; such is the manner of life.

Nevertheless, there are certain keys to the RPG which are not present in the shooter, in the (closely-related) adventure game, in the platformer. There are certain real human traits that these genres exist to placate, stir, or simply acknowledge. It might be helpful to dig up what these are, if we are to do much of human meaning with this medium. Then we can build with them.

Actually.

I think I have hit upon why videogames remain an immature form of expression: the focus remains generally upon the method of execution rather than the underlying themes.

In other media, genres are generally classified in terms of what they have to say about life. In videogames, genres tend to be broken down by the actual game mechanics — by the process, rather than the goal. This is rather a shortsighted approach, akin to the way one sees life as a child.

I think this is something to revise, someday.

[For more discussion, see this thread.]

The Shooting

  • Reading time:4 mins read

In a sense, the interaction in a shooter is about the most basic interaction available in the medium. You reach out and touch your environment by sending out a “ping”; a probe. As you mention, the shooter is the original videogame — starting with SpaceWar. Even Pong operates on a similar principle, really. It’s just… backwards, kind of, in that the “bullet” is coming toward you, and you’re trying to catch it. (I don’t quite like this model as much.)

All through the medium, shooting more or less equates to exploration. In Metroid, you test the walls, and get a feeling for your environment, by shooting at them and it. In Asteroids and Centipede, your shooting shapes the very gameworld.

It was something of a revolutionary leap to switch away from this mechanic in Pac-Man and Donkey Kong and Super Mario Bros. — that whole thread that I was mumbling about before. In that model, you’re no longer pecking at the environment from afar but personally running around and punching and gobbling and jumping through it. Sort of interesting to tie this into what I was saying earlier. Not sure how it all goes together.

…

Mizuguchi went back to a rail shooter for Rez for a reason: he wanted a clean slate; to strip away all of the junk we have piled on top of the medium for the last few decades, and make the most basic videogame he could, that would still be palatable to a contemporary audience. There’s nothing more basic than a shooter. This is ground one, for videogames. Everything else is built on, or exists in rebellion against, this mechanic. Mizuguchi then tried to find just how much he could express with this mechanism — to show, in part, that it’s not the game system which necessarily drives a game, on an artisic, on an emotional level. Also, just to show how much can be said with how little — and thereby to ask why we have come to tend to express so little with so much.

This is why I like Rez — just the whole way it disassembles our whole notion of the videogame, and shows how it might be used more well than it has been.

I’m really curious what his next step might be.

Parts of the above, combined with parts of what I said about Gradius V

Again with the objectivity

  • Reading time:2 mins read

On a certain level, you could argue that Super Mario Bros. signalled one of the most drastic changes to the superficial in the history of videogames.

>That’s only true if you fully accept the maxim that All That Is Important Is Gameplay, defining all other aspects of presentation and style as “superficial”.

No, it isn’t.

Super Mario Bros. introduced a bevy of new(-ish), and useful, gameplay concepts. It introduced little new in terms of character or story, over games that had existed long before.

The most significant problem that the game fleshed-out into the form we see it now, is the one first popularized in Pac-Man: preference for a rigid pre-established world template, to explore and master, over a more complex series of dynamics, as in, say, many of the earlier works of Ed Logg, where the player’s actions determine the nature of the gameworld, and thereby the future of the game.

I’m being simplistic, sure. There are plenty of counter-examples you could find, were you so inclined, of previous games with this structure. There is plenty you could provide to argue that this concrete storybook objectivenesss was the direction that games were moving in anyway, or that this is where they always sat. And for that matter, Super Mario Bros. is not so much a culprit here as is the whole design culture that it insipired. But there you go. Super Mario Bros. more or less shaped the modern videogame. Most of what exists now does because of the concepts in that game.

Of course, this is how games became popular. First Pac-Man, then Super Mario Bros. You give something obvious to latch onto, emotionally. There’s nothing wrong with that in itself. It’s a natural creative impulse. I just kind of wish that games had gotten a little further before this objective quality took over, overriding so much potential for abstract potentiality.

…

This is also, to a certain extent, why I so dislike the Super NES, and why the Zelda series has been a bore to me after the second game. I just wish developers would quit giving me overt toys to play with, within a specific framework — action figures and playsets — rather than a framework where my presence actually makes a difference.

I would like to matter.

Frickin’ Fantasy XII

  • Reading time:7 mins read

It’s one of those laws. If you say anything negative about Final Fantasy, you’re just asking for trouble. To be fair, the complaints I have gotten have generally been civil. I just haven’t had much patience to reply in any helpful manner.

>I see gameplay in an RPG to be a bonus if it is really great gameplay.

If a game is designed well, it is designed well. This genre is developmentally stunted, as a whole. The reason you say this is that you have not seen what greater expressive potential would be possible, were the design philosophy intrinsic to this genre as mature in its development as it could be, at this point in the overall history of game design and in the evolution of game hardware. Pretty much anything is possible now — yet developers have not yet caught up with this potential; increased their ambitions to fit it, and find a new set of limits of expression within the medium; preferring to stay with the same limited design decisions that they have, more or less, been using since the 1980s — decisions which were instituted at the time merely because of the inherent limitations in technology and in design theory at the time.

This is a problem in all genres. It’s just that RPGs are the most prominent example. In a broad sense, they have not grown to fit their bigger shoes. Developers are more or less doing the same dumb things they always have, out of habit — or out of a lack of understanding for what these design concepts originally stood for, or why they were instituted. Or because the audience itself has not matured enough to ask for something more substantial.

You must understand that videogames are not what they could be, artistically. There are few developers at present who are actively trying to explore the expressive power of the medium; the rest are content with absentmindedly churning out reiterations of games which have already been made dozens of times in the past — games which worked, once, in a specific context. They might have even been clever for their time, for the solutions to contemporary hardware and design problems that they happened to find. What so many people fail to understand, however, is that those solutions are relevant within a specific context — timeframe, developer, hardware — alone.  The solutions that Shigeru Miyamoto found and applied within Super Mario Bros. were ingenious for that moment, for that game, for that history. They were an evolution of ideas that Miyamoto nurtured through several previous games: Donkey Kong, Donkey Kong Junior, Mario Bros. Although some of the principles that he developed in that game — such as his general concept of level design, whereby the game implicitly teaches you how to play it without ever telling you what to do, as such — will probably always be applicable in one sense or another. Others are inherent to that game, to that one man. They are his ideas. Anyone else who uses them as-such — who just takes them and sticks them into his own project, without understanding why the ideas existed to begin with — is making a big mistake. Those parts of that project will be false, because they do not come from the subject at hand. They do not grow out of what this second person is attempting to accomplish. They are an easy and proven solution, yes — yet within their context. This new person, with this new project, has created a new context. And that new context, especially with knowledge of what has come before, demands a new series of questions and demands a new series of solutions which evolve from the demands at hand.

Here. Take a look at what Toru Iwatani has to say. It’s interesting.

http://www.insertcredit.com/features/gdc2004/iwatani.html

The techniques that Yuji Horii created for Dragon Quest are great for Horii and for Dragon Quest. They are his own ideas, which suit what he is personally trying to accomplish. The gameplay choices he makes are perfect for his games. Outside Horii, the situation is different. The question has to rise: what are we trying to accomplish here, and what is the best way to realize that, given current technology and what we understand so far about the potential of game design? If, in the case of, say, a Final Fantasy game, our goal is to tell a story, then how rich a story can we tell? What kind of a story? What manner of game design would lend itself most well to what we wish to accomplish within that story? Ideally, the game design would be invisible. You would not distinguish between it and the ultimate goal of the project — because the design itself would come from that goal. It would be designed in order to facilitate that goal. The game design itself, the game play itself, would be part of that story, and the story would come from the gameplay.

It’s not like this is hard, today. Take a game like, oh, Metroid Prime. The goal in that game, really, is exploration: communication with the environment. To facilitate this, the game is set in a first-person perspective. That way, you’re left looking at the game world rather than Samus’s ass. The game has a rather profound story to tell, yet to do this it draws from the main goal of the game, and from the established gameplay decisions. It is in the process of playing the game, and of inspecting the environment, learning about the game world, that the story unfolds.

Although story is secondary or tertiary in this particular framework, and it evolves organically out of the more primary elements of design, without interfering with them, you see the structure. There is no reason why it cannot be turned on its head, such that the gameplay, the overall design, evolves from the story. If that is the primary goal. Of course, that means that the game design would depend on just what the story is; what its own focus is; what the writers hope to get across.

If a gameplay decision does not lend itself to the ultimate goal of the project, directly or indirectly, then it probably doesn’t belong there. It’s the whole deal about too many strokes spoiling the painting. Even more so when the strokes are misjudged to begin with. Or when they are put in place just because that’s the way it’s always been done, or that’s what people expect, rather than because that’s what the painting calls for.

As long as developers continue to cram their ideas into existing, prefabricated molds — which describes most of the persistent mechanical facets that people have a tendency to associate with the RPG genre, in favor of the more integral goal of the genre (mainly, showing the personal growth of one or more people through a set of difficult trials, and what effect their actions along the way might or might not have on the world around them — thereby, with luck, expressing something meaningful about the nature of life) — they will be stuck in a creative rut. They will not grow as artists. The genre will not grow. The medium as a whole will fail to mature.

What I was trying to say, in that preview, is that Final Fantasy XII seems like it might be one big step toward pulling the genre as a whole out of its current rut. Toward making people /think/ about what constitutes an RPG — or just a videogame, in general — and what what they’re really trying to accomplish.

The rest was just a bit of passing commentary, to help explain why I said that.

Final Fantasy XII

  • Reading time:1 mins read

by [name redacted]

I have never been all that hot on Final Fantasy. A few games in the series have managed to amuse me, on one level or another. In general, I am bored by what Square has continually tried to accomplish with this series. I feel often that they have gone in the wrong directions, for the wrong reasons, and have as a result — given how much political influence they have within the design community, and how misdirected and conservative their design philosophy has been — been largely responsible for the lack of substantial evolution in the Japanese console RPG genre which they helped to popularize. They just set a bad popular precedent, for the rest of the industry to follow. And follow, you know the industry will. Biohazard was another problem; Mikami is now on his way toward fixing it. Now, though, I think Square might be on its way to joining Capcom in this trend toward repairing a whole genre.

( Continue reading at Insert Credit )

Sunder Land, where all is asunder

  • Reading time:4 mins read

I just beat both scenarios of Silent Hill 2: Restless Dreams in one day. In one sitting, really. I first had to play to where I left off in the PS2 version, although that took an atom of the time it did the first time. (I notice that James no longer comments, of a map of the United States, “It’s a picture of something. I’m not sure what.”) Perhaps I was in a better mood or perhaps I was just prepared; the goofy world-logic did not distract me as much, today. Instead, I was distracted by the atmosphere and narrative. This really is a sophisticated game, artistically; one of the most-so I have encountered. Although it falls short on the actual game mechanics, that’s okay. Its mind is elsewhere.

I think I actually respect this even more than the first game, although they are rather different in their approaches and intentions. Where Silent Hill 1has its crushing sense of fear, that makes a person think twice to play it in the dark — or even to play it at all, at times — this does something more subtle. It is about all-encompassing, numbing sorrow and guilt — with all of the haziness and tempermental bursts and aimlessness and self-effacement and strange obsession that come with it. It is a portrait of a man willfully falling apart. A trip through his head, as he fights to either self-destruct entirely or to confront his demons and accept what he has been unwilling to accept. Whatever brings an end to the murmur. The entire game is focused around illustrating that picture.

A common enough theme in literature. In videogames, not so much. It’s too adult a depiction of pain. The scope of the game, by which it does illustrate this theme, is far more ambitious than I am used to. The original Silent Hill deserved enough praise just for being bright enough to understand how fear works better than any of its contemporaries. That seemed like a stroke of genius. This… is something else entirely.

Then Silent Hill 3 seems like an attempt to go mainstream with the series. It plays (and, in general, feels) much more like Biohazard than either of the first two games do. It tries to directly follow the plot of the first game, and to provide some more stable answers about just what this “Silent Hill” place is — something that really did not need to be done. It has a sassy, sarcastic lead. The music is more oriented toward pop, over the metal machine of the first game and the drones of the second. It’s just so… polished, and pretty, and palatable. Then The Room is supposed to follow after the second game, in some respects. I… well.

I guess I should reserve comment until I have seen them through. Something just feels a little unnecessary here.

Anyway. I am making progress.

A while ago, Justin Freeman made reference to a list of the top five (or was it “only five”?) significant games in this hardware generation: Metroid Prime, Metal Gear Solid 2: Sons of Liberty, ICO, Rez, and Grand Theft Auto III. He said “Maybe Silent Hill 2” — although that would make an unusual five. I’ll throw it in. I will also throw in Ikaruga, Wind Waker, and Virtua Fighter 4: Evolution. These nine games seem, to me, to be the sum of all of note that we have learned this generation. I have yet to find a tenth candidate.

Some will be surprised that I include Wind Waker, given my attitude toward the game. Some who know me better will know that it is precisely that attitude which puts the game on the list. Evolution finally comes through and admits what a meta-fighter Virtua Fighter has always been, as a series. It says some things about fighters, and about videogames, and the way we interact with them in a broader sense, that should do some permanent damage if you think about it too hard. And Ikaruga is, frankly, one of the most perfect and elegant game designs around — one which helps to illustrate on a base level, along with Rez, what videogames are, at their spine — and one which demonstrates the “pure” videogame (that is, videogame-as-design) at its most ideal. There is a level of truth here that, although related to the games of the early ’80s, could not exist in any previous hardware generation.

I might talk about this all in more detail, later.

Or. Maybe not.

Iconoclasm

  • Reading time:5 mins read

This is a note to myself, for later reference, on the ICO thing.

I climb a ladder, and walk along a raised pathway supported by arches and pillars. The pathway ends in a door that opens when I stand on a pressure plate in front of it. I walk through. I walk across another parapet-styled bridge, to stumble through a side entrance into a room. The main door to the room — a big, solid wooden thing — is closed. To open the door, I climb a ladder to a platform near the ceiling, jump to a pipe which juts out of the wall next to the platform, sidle hand-by-hand along the pipe to another platform, which happens to be positioned right where the pipe turns off and ends in the wall again. On the other side of this second platform is another pipe, that runs straight across the room, toward a parallel platform. I again hang from this pipe until I reach platform number three. Here, I find a third pipe, parallel to the first, which leads to a fourth platform. This platform also happens to be in front of a window. I walk through the window, and climb down another ladder which does not quite extend to the ground below. I will not be able to climb back up it, once I drop. Next, I open the door by pulling a nearby lever. I then go back in, grab Yorda by the hand, and leave.

This is all clever level design. It uses my character’s abilities well. It is clear what I have to do. On a technical level — one of pure mechanical design — there are no problems. The situation is even to be commended, for the ingenuity in its scupture.

However, as far as world-logic goes: huh? The game seems to want to suggest that the game world is a real place, with a certain reason to it. This is why it gives me pipes and ledges and windows and comprehensible architecture. Yet the only function this architecture holds is to be traversed by the player character. The back-entrance to the room could have any explanation. The pipes, although arbitrary, are similar in this respect. What, however, about the two (latter) ladders? The platforms? Why are they placed just where there is a break in the pipes? The ladder surely is there for no other reason to reach that first platform — which serves no purpose but to allow access to the pipe/platform “puzzle” (as it were). The window needs no reason — yet what of the drop-off ladder which leads from it? There is no access to the window other than the pipe, which I assume no one but the player character would have reason to hang from in order to reach that far platform. There is no way up to the ladder from the ground below, nor would there be reason if there is no way down from the inside. And what of the lever to open the door? Unless the room serves no purpose but to keep someone in, there is no practical reason to put a single lever on the outside of the room. Yet that is an unlikely purpose for the room, because of the back entrance.

All of this might sound like quibbling — yet it is in leaving room for questions like these that the game world betrays itself. And it is so unnecessary. Only a few extra details would be necessary to give context to the game world. Don’t make it so easy for the player. Or don’t just give a single route. Put some more pipes in the room, which don’t just lead to the exit. That one happens to, will seem arbitrary. Rather than the convenient ladder, force the player to find his own convoluted way up to the pipes. Let him notice the pipes through his own observations and then devise a plan for maybe using them. And rather than putting a single lever on the outside of the door, give the door an internal switch. Just make it broken. Or, perhaps, put a bar on the inverse, that the player must remove. That would be adequate. Either get rid of the platforms or find some other rationalization for why that geometry would be present. Turn them into hay lofts, perhaps. Or maybe force the player to swing from one pipe to the next. Maybe have one pipe break off, when the player puts his character’s weight on it, allowing him to swing to the next — which will itself creak, and maybe pop a rivet, but not collapse. Or devise some other scheme. It’s not hard.

This is my issue with the game. It can all be rationalized, sure. Should I have to rationalize it? No. Is it appropriate to make up my own connections? I fear not.

The game does far more right than it does wrong. It’s just, it is an experiment. And this is one of its lessons.

I should have gotten the horizontal stand.

  • Reading time:3 mins read

So, I now have a PS2. However, it chooses to patronize me. When I put in The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring: Extended Edition: Disc One, the system complains. It asks me if I really want to play such an inappropriate movie. I insist that I do. It asks me for a password. I enter zerozerozerozero. The movie plays. I go into the options, to change the parental settings… and it doesn’t allow me access.

I shall have to do research here.

Shinobi is rather entertaining, so far. I don’t know what people are complaining about, as far as difficulty. I kept falling to my death on one section, although that was due mostly to my own stupidity. I do know that the dub could… use some work. I wonder how the original acting is. Hotsuma’s inherent envelope of cool stoicism is shattered somewhat whenever he opens his mouth and a high-pitched, bored American voice burbles out.

The PS2 memory card browser utility is interesting. I like how it applies old PSOne saves to 3D tiles. I like even more the way PS2 games can use polygonal models for their icons. Lament of Innocence has a little, animated Leon. Standing next to him is a slightly-chibi K’, from The King of Fighters 2000. Next to him is a blow-up of his fist, from KoF2001. All different sizes and shapes. Eccentric!

I also got a second controller for my Gamecube — an orange one, to replace the orange one on the old Gamecube that my old roommate from college, Matt, used to have. It will be of aid in future Monkey exploits. Now that, you know, I have people to play with.

What a novelty.

It seems the one E3 feature I have yet finished (I assure, more soon pend) has gotten slashdotted. Although this is common for some other writers, it is a first for me. So. One more item on the checklist.

I received two emails in a row, in response to the article. The first, from the person who informed me of the slashdot link, is titled “Contrats on KOF:MI article being slashdotted!”. This is a good title, to help me sort out the message from all of the others with titles like “tuft blustery” and “all i want is.. dumbbell abdicate” and “Generic Phentermine is just as good!” Thing is, the message just after it is titled “Congratz 2 a real player”. That one was also in response to the article, although from… someone else.

It is time to eat burritos.

I think tonight I will probably finish the next article. It’s just. I take a while to do things.

More on Ico and “World-Logic”

  • Reading time:2 mins read

Not only does a game like this at least attempt to be interesting and wonderful, but it’s failures are the kind that are going to teach us what makes gaming work, and what doesn’t. It’s going to elicit thought. In many ways, this is better than the games that get it completely right.

The only part I disagree with there is the example.

Ico…

Well, once I am done with it, I intend to write something on it and Silent Hill 2, illustrating some common problems in execution (particularly when it comes to level design and world-logic).

Why are bombs always provided in Ico‘s world, right near something that I need to blow up? Why has the castle been smashed up in just such a way as to allow me exactly one possible route through it? Why does the entire world feel like it is laid out just to take advantage of my character’s abilities?

A game like Super Mario Bros. does not need to explain these things, as on the one hand the game is so clearly surreal — and yet such situations tend to make up the game’s own persistent reality.

Metroid Prime got around these questions with a rather startling bit of insight that also helped to explain and contextualize every other game in the series. Even Lament of Innocence gets away with some of its contrivances with its claim, right near the outset, that “this is all a game” to the villain; that Leon’s quest has been specially put before him for the amusement of the final boss.

Ico plays well, as a game. It is wonderfully-designed. Its world is the most intriguing I have encountered since that in Riven. The problem is, it is transparent as a game. It is too focused. In the same way that you wonder why James can’t just step over a police line in Silent Hill 2, you wonder why Ico can conveniently make his way through the levels as he does; why everything is left out for him. The two games sit on different sides of the same issue, to a similarly disconcerting effect.

There is… more.

Galaga, Fear, and the Power of Four

  • Reading time:6 mins read

Galaga is a refinement of a refinement of Space Invaders. It is entertaining and well-made, if a bit limited. Shots are slow.  The ship is slow.

The game does not really build; it progresses level-by-level, in a slight variation of the classic model: each level is a little harder. Galaga does throw in some variation, and the occasional bonus round. Nevertheless, the structure is the same as Pac-Man: you conduct the same task over and over. In this case, you clear the screen of enemies.

Tetris works on a different dynamic level, one more akin to the likes of Centipede. The world is constant and malleable. There is cause and effect. Just by virtue of playing the game, the game world itself is altered. Every choice you make will affect the future dynamics of that play session.

Unlike the overused shooting formula of Galaga and Centipede, however, Tetris puts the player in direct control over the environment: the playing pieces are the very objects which form the world. On top of this, Tetris randomizes the pieces that it allows the player, for his building. In this way, it forms something of a poignant model for life. We have liberty to build what we will with what we are given; depending on our skill and preference for risk, we can organize our world however we wish: build up pressure and risk of failure, or keep a steady release for lower rewards yet more assured success. Even the wisest and most expert of us, however, have only that liberty; we do not have full freedom, as there is only so much we can control in our lives. There is always an element of fate, or luck, thrown into our own structured determinism. We can usually see ahead a bit, to our next immediate task — yet beyond that, there is no telling what the world will throw at us, and ask us to deal with.

To play Tetris is to be in touch with one’s self. To play Galaga is to defensively distance one’s self from the world to the end of a barely-adequate gun barrel, and resign one’s self to the tireless, repetitious onslaught of a vindictive world in hope for the occasional small reward and a possible note in history, earned through one’s own sheer resiliance to harm.

Tetris, to me, seems a far more fundamental and organic parallel to the human experience, than any shooter is likely to be. Then, perhaps I am too optimistic.

An oppressive fear is the primary motivator in a game like Galaga. I am getting tired of fear. As I get older, I am less interested in hiding. I find it far more useful to deal with what the world gives me, as it comes, and in my own way.

The world truly is what you make of it.

Could this be said of all shooters, at their cores? And what does that say about shooter fans, in general? Are we all just afraid of some unnamed evil?

Perhaps. There is a sense of isolation and sadness that I feel in this kind of a stab at interaction. Almost a resignment to the overwhelming futility of life; there is no other way to deal with the world than to peck away at it as it flies at you, and try to come out unscathed — or even superficially on top, for a moment or two. Yet, that is generally only when you have killed everything else in the world — or, anyway, have cleared away more than anyone else.

Though it really depends on the game. As I mentioned, Centipede and Asteroids have an element of malleability in their game worlds. Although you still just peck away at the outside game world, your deeds do have an effect. You are clearly a part of your world. Your firing, in these cases, operates like a probe. There is, in a sense, a slight feeling of epiphany here in that the results of the player’s interaction is contrasted so clearly with the limited nature of those probes. Even the smallest action is relevant, in some way. Tetris is, in its way, the evolution of this thread.

Scrolling shooters add another element, that alters and enriches the dynamic somewhat (although this complicates the matter to make the message somewhat muddier to me, at the moment). The modern shooter — typified by Mars Matrix and Ikaruga — is so abstracted that it has come closer to the Tetris model of dealing with the world. It is, however, somehat more carefree.

I… there is noise here. Hard to think.

Oppressive fear could be said to be the primary motivator in everything in life. Even Tetris. But maybe I’m just being too pessimistic.

Yes. I suppose the point is, how do you react to that fear?

Are you saying that Tetris itself is an evolution of Galaga and Space Invaders, in that it gives players more freedom over their world? Or did you mean something else entirely?

Spacewar/Space Invaders -> Asteroids/Centipede -> [something] -> Tetris

It is not so much about what level of control the player has over the game world, as it is about the level of attachment or detachment that the game emphasizes. What control is offered, is reflective on the individual in accordance to the significance of the player’s actions, and indeed presence, within the world. It is an existential problem.

Pac-Man branches off in a different direction from the likes of Galaga, and pretty much founds the original principles behind the Japanese videogame aesthetic (later adopted and expanded by Miyamoto, Yuji Hori, and others). With Pac-Man, videogames went through an iconographic objectification process. On its own, that is not so bad. I am rather unfond, however, of the side effects it has had in the hands of those who do not quite understand the principles behind the change, and who tend to take that surface as-is, as the reality of the medium. That is… problematic.

On the other hand, I wonder how much further we can venture down the introspective route. I suppose the best way we can find out is by turning back and exploring what we have forgotten for the last two decades or so.

In a way, Rez is like a new abstraction of Centipede. I am curious where else this strain might go.

The Secret of Pac-Man’s Success: Making Fun First

  • Reading time:2 mins read

by [name redacted]

The radios were on the seats, this time. Most of the radios remained in place. On the screen to the right, An isometric illustration of Pac-Man greeted newcomers. A scruffy middle-aged man fumbled behind the podium. Brandon and I chose seats close and to the right of center. When most of the seats were filled, the man behind the podium turned on his microphone; it was Iwatani. He introduced himself, and his topic, in an English which might have carried him through the lecture, were he able to keep it up.

He wasn’t. To fill in the language gap, Iwatani was given a tag-team of feuding translators. Every few minutes, one woman would trade off for the other. It was a little bizarre to listen to, as it was clear that neither translation was as accurate or well-phrased as it could have been. One of the women tried at least three times, and ultimately failed, to pronounce “Galaxian”. Neither seemed to notice Iwatani’s well-organized slides, which almost narrated his lecture on their own. According to Brandon, who chose to listen to the Japanese channel on his radio, there was a point when one of the translators shouted at the other to “shut up”.

( Continue reading at Insert Credit )

The Evolution of a Franchise: The Legend of Zelda

  • Reading time:2 mins read

by [name redacted]

We arrived late; the conference was already half-over, and the crowd had spilled to standing-room-in-the-hall-outside-the-conference-room-only. An Asian woman with a nervous smile asked us if we wanted headphones — sort of like what people wear during international debates. “Channel two is English” she said. I had no trouble setting my radio to channel two, or turning it on, or even adjusing the volume. Somehow, though, it still refused to work. Being the tall one, Brandon suggested I wedge myself just inside the door. I could see over everyone’s head. Eiji Aonuma stood on-stage, pontificating as if on a PBS special. To his left (and my right) was a large screen, showing a clip of Link, from The Legend of Zelda: Wind Waker, running through the first few scenes of that game.

I turned to Brandon. I pointed toward my radio. Brandon pressed the power button. He adjusted the volume. He fiddled with the antenna. Then he shrugged and began to turn away. A moment later, he grabbed the end of my headphones and plugged them into the radio. My ears began to melt with Hell’s very own translation. I seized the radio and spun the volume dial to half of what it was.

When my senses recovered, Aonuma was talking about all of the little, insignificant details in the Zelda series, and how they bring reality to the game. He spoke of the difference between reality and realism. “To Miyamoto, reality is far more important,” Aonuma explained. This seemed fair enough, if a bit obvious. He then took the time to give several examples of just what reality means in the context of a game like Wind Waker.

( Continue reading at Insert Credit )

Out of the frying pan, into the SIMULATED COCAINE BUSINESS

  • Reading time:3 mins read

I have an Xbox. It is huge. I’m using it as a platform for my Dreamcast. The main reason I got it is that it came with a bunch of software that I wanted anyway, and which on its collective own, even at a discount, would have cost about the same as I paid for it AND an Xbox. What I didn’t realize, though, is that I got a SPECIAL BONUS prize not even mentioned in the auction: ten digital tracks of what I assume is the top of the top of contemporary white suburban trash metal. The person from whom I got the Xbox did not bother to name his custom soundtrack, so I have renamed it “NOOOOOOO!” for my further convenience. Somehow I cannot bear to throw things away (especially if they’re free and special, as this soundtrack so clearly is), so it remains on the drive.

Although I have no clue what I’m doing, I begin to understand the appeal of the recent Grand Theft Auto games. I was vaguely familiar with the first two. They were silly and kind of dumb. Mister Lemming And Company really did something else with GTA3, though. It is hard to wrap my brain around how much work went into the most unlikely details. In Vice City (which, from about an hour’s play, I don’t enjoy as much), I spent more time listening to a seemingly-endless parody of public radio than I did running people over. Now that’s entertainment!

Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic is… reminiscent of a BioWare game. It is, alas, more contrived and a bit less flexible than I expected, yet the portion I have experienced is not without joy. For its part. I wish I could say the same of JSRF. I did not wish to believe what I had heard — as the trailers made the game seem so pretty! And Hideki Naganuma is not a man to argue with. And the soundtrack contains the remix of Guitar Vader’s “I Love Love You”! I mean. How could the game go wrong? By not being fun, I guess. What happened here?

Well, I know what happened. Or I know how the game feels about what happened, whatever it is that happened. I won’t get into that at the moment, however.

Sega GT is a car game. I don’t understand car games. I set it to play Oingo Boingo while I crash my realistic car all over a series of vaguely attractive race tracks, lose money, and slowly crawl into video poverty. I am sure this must entertain someone.

And. That is all I will say on that matter, for the moment.

Wait, no it isn’t. When I first began to play Vice City, I tried to be a nice guy — and yet I did not quite understand the controls. I wound up punching a hooker in the face. This seemed to excite my mother (who had lingered nearby, out of curiosity) to no end. She yelled at me: “Hit her again! Hit her!” When I complied, this still was inadequate. “There’s another one! Hit her!” I planted my character’s foot into the face of a hooker ascending a flight of stairs. The hooker flew in a slow, steep arc and crashed to the landing below, in a pool of blood. Money scattered everywhere. “THINGS!” my mother cried. “GET THE THINGS!”

…

I’m not sure I have a comment for that.

Omit needless words

  • Reading time:1 mins read

After some months and numerous delays, I have finished reading Strunk & White’s The Elements of Style — all 85 pages of it (102, with the glossary and introductions). It seems that doing so required that I spend two weeks in parts unfamiliar and two hours on a bus with broken headphones. Despite the uncertainty which, on cue, descends upon me as I descend back home, I feel both relieved and delighted by the advice in this volume.

An excerpt; see if you can guess at the root of my fondness:

Flammable.     An oddity, chiefly useful in saving lives. The common word meaning “combustible” is inflammable. But some people are thrown off by the in- and think inflammable means “not combustible.” For this reason, trucks carrying gasoline or explosives are now marked FLAMMABLE. Unless you are operating such a truck and hence are concerned with the safety of children and illiterates, use inflammable.

My having read the book also gives me a more solid introduction to the gerund.

The next time I am insane, I might revise my entire backlog of articles, such that they no longer horrify me.

I have been suggested to post this. I will post this now.

Relativity

  • Reading time:3 mins read

With (what appears to be) the untimely return of Geese, it occurs to me that the best way to illustrate the SNK universe is to use a number of parallel timelines. They often cross-reference each other, to the extent that the events in any one probably are reflected elsewhere — yet they aren’t necessarily equal in all cases.

It’s clear that KoF, FF/AoF/Buriki, Kizuna, and Last Blade all take place in a wide interrelated universe. It is implied in a number of places that Samurai Spirits is part of the same universe, even though it doesn’t much affect anything outside itself. (Nor does Last Blade, really, aside from the fact that one of the characters is supposed to be related to Eiji.) And yet — as some people have observed in the past — the series are not always compatible. And it’s getting to the point where one can’t easily just chalk it down to revisions, retcons, and errors. Perhaps it’s best to think of this universe as comprised of many threads wound together, that happen to touch in many places.

So if one were to make a coherent SNK timeline, one would perhaps do well to have — for example — a certain colour-coding scheme. For all practical purposes, one may assume that events outside of a certain colour label probably happened in the others, as long as there are no conflicts — and yet this is not necessarily the case. This allows a loose-tied, undefined ongoing continuity and prevents battles over issues such as the apparent revision of the Art of Fighting timeframe for the sake of King of Fighters.

Anything outside of a given series, one can either ignore or assume is present in at least some form — if not precisely the one specified — depending on the circumstance.

So in the King of Fighters continuity, it appears that the events of Real Bout never occurred — at least, as things stand now. Even in the Fatal Fury continuity, Real Bout Special and RB2 never occurred — yet some of the characters introduced there appear elsewhere (like during the NESTS saga). And yet something comparable to Fatal Fury 1, 2, and 3 must have occurred — and it looks like Mark of the Wolves is probably supposed to occur in some form.

What makes this all a little weird is that MotW is supposed to take place in New South Town — which, one would presume, would have been constructed after South Town was destroyed (at least in part) in KoF2000. Yet in 2003 (from what little has been revealed), the old South Town appears to be just fine — Geese and all. Maybe each KoF era needs its own colour code, as there are other weird continuity issues to distinguish the three plot arcs so far. Still, up until 2003, things tended to fit pretty well without much qualification — AoF aside.

Hmm…

This is all an exercise in organization, note. It does not pay to be too literal with things of this sort.