pubs
Aderack: I’d like a game with a goomba as a main character.
Smiley: I think Grand Theft Auto did that.
Aderack: SO IT DID
(November 7th, 2004 @ 1:55am)
>The logic of the fiction in MGS2 is broken to jarring effect often throughout the game. I understand that Tim’s article states that this is the entire point. However, I would argue that that is not a point at all.
Sure it is. Well, not on its own.
The issue at play here is a kind of a meta-understanding. A defamiliarized awareness of the nature of a particular form, as it were. Or a self-awareness within that form (which is itself a form of defamiliarization). This is exactly the way that we understand our world; by taking it out of context or by summing it up in unexpected, yet somehow logical, ways. This is also how humor works.
There is, therefore, a certain built-in level of humor. There is a certain built-in level of insight about the nature of everything that is happening, as it happens. If it all serves to make some interesting observations, then the project is a success.
If you will, that subjectivity is the whole damned idea here. It’s a big part of the process of defamiliarization. It’s a big part of deconstruction. Understanding the nature of that subjectivity, on (of course) a subjective basis.
A game like MGS2 works because of the questions it raises about the nature of the videogame, about our interaction with the videogame, about our expectations of a videogame. On its own, you might consider this obnoxious. On the long term, these are questions that need to be asked — because there aren’t a lot of people asking them. Asking us to look at what our assumptions are.
If all you want to do is be entertained (that is, to have your expectations met), then you’ll have a problem with this. If you are really interested in the medium, its nature and its potential, you will greet questions like these with a certain level of delight.
I, for one, didn’t care at all about Metal Gear until a bit of MGS2 was spoiled for me. Until I began to hear about to what degree Kojima went out of his way to fuck with his audience. Then, suddenly, I was transfixed. I had a new level of respect for the game, and for Kojima. Because he’s using his established power to force his audience to think. It would be one thing if the game were some little-known release with no media attention. Kojima had the limelight, however. So rather than just cash in, he decided to do something useful with that power. That, right there, is a part of the game. It’s not just the code, or even the game’s relationship with the player. It’s the wealth of expecations the player already has, going into the game.
If the game pisses people off, or confuses them — good! Frankly. It should. That means it’s doing part of its job. And that just adds to the experience for anyone who is in a position to giggle at what Kojima has done. To see the implicit humor on all of its levels; to see just what Kojima was trying to comment on; to think about what that might imply about videogames, and our relationship with them, in a broader sense. Some of those people might go on to make other games. Or at least to greet future games with a more critical eye.
It’s games (and stunts) like this which help to expand what videogames Can Be, simply by forcing us to look where we never would have thought to look otherwise. Some of us are annoyed because there’s nothing but a blank wall and a stagehand where we’re looking. Some of us are intrigued for the same reasons. It’s the latter who are targeted, and it’s the former who help to illustrate the idea for the latter. It’s just as well. They serve a purpose, too — in furthering that understanding and in heightening that humor. They just serve to make the joke, as it were, all the bigger and more profound.
It’s the sheer, high-level irreverence that gets me fired up. I get the same sensation out of observing MGS2, and the reaction to it, that I get out of a Marx Bros. movie.
If you know me, you will know that this is one of the greater compliments I can give.
(November 6th, 2004 @ 4:46pm)
Someone asked why videogames — that is to say, console games — tend to be so sought-after by collectors, when PC games more often just fade away when their time passes. I’ve covered this before, in some form. Here it is again, though.
PC games are ephemeral. Console games are not. The latter feel real; concrete. The former are kind of disposable. You install them, you uninstall them. You’ll never have a standard experience. In a few years they’ll never work again. Magnetic media decay, and quickly. Cartridges, not so much. Now that everything’s on CD, the lines are blurred a bit.
I think it’s a similar question as to why VHS isn’t as collectable as DVD and cassettes aren’t as collectable as LPs or DVDs. They don’t feel as permanent. They aren’t an investment in the same way, because you don’t know if you will be able to rely on them when you feel you need them.
The whole idea of the collector is to amass trinkets which he will be able to refer to at whim. Often they are kept in as pure a condition as possible, just to preserve them for the future. Every addition is sort of like an addition to one’s extended being. One more exterior node to the mind, or personality. One more anchor to stability. One more reminder that one exists, that there is a certain order to life.
We collect because we want to capture life. Hold onto it forever. It comes from a deep inner need. Anything which can decay is a problem, from this mindset.
Of course, videogames themselves are an ephemeral phenomenon. If anything really does exist in the way we perceive it, videogames fail to do so except in the electrical space between hardware and the player’s mind. Once the electricity is gone, once the infrastructure that supports them is gone, videogames will also be gone. What physical remains remain wil be irrelevant.
Still. We all play our little games in life.
(November 4th, 2004 @ 12:40am)
