myst

NextGen’s Top Ten Years In Gaming History

  • Reading time:30 mins read

by [name redacted]

Originally published in some form by Next Generation. I was asked not to include 1999 or 2000, because the Dreamcast was perceived as a low mark in the industry rather than a high one. I was also asked to include the previous year, to suggest that we were in the middle of an upswing. So… that explains some of the selections.

In videogames, as in life, we tend to get things right about a third of the time. There’s one decent Sonic game for every two disasters; one out of every three consoles can be considered an unqualified success; the Game Boy remake of Mother 1 + 2 was released in one out of three major territories. With the same level of scientific accuracy, one can easily say that, out of the thirty years that videogames have acted as a consumer product, there are maybe ten really excellent milestones, spaced out by your 1984s and your 1994s – years maybe we were all better off doing something out-of-doors.

It kind of makes sense, intuitively: you’ve got the new-hardware years and the innovative-software years, spaced out by years of futzing around with the new hardware introduced a few months back, or copying that amazing new game that was released last summer. We grow enthusiastic, we get bored. Just as we’re about to write off videogames forever, we get slapped in the face with a Wii, or a Sega Genesis – and then the magic starts up all over again, allowing us to coast until the next checkpoint.

Girl in the Fireplace

  • Reading time:4 mins read

Well. That… certainly broke the template. There always was the potential to do something like this with the schow, and in forty-some years they never did. This is kind of like a revelation.

So this is what you can do with a time travel story.

It’s like… a Treasure game, the way it’s using the series concept. It’s like this is what the show’s format has been meant for all along, and it just hasn’t happened until now.

I like also how all the writers seem to be fighting to inject new, random bits of continuity and “mythology”. Christmas, you get the hand. Here, you get the Doctor turning his “mind meld” powers on a human. Then you get all the business about “Doctor” just being a title, like “Madame de Pompadour”, and it hiding something dark and secret.

We’ve been getting the “Doctor Who?” jokes since last March, and all through the new series the Doctor keeps dodging the question of who he is. This is the first time some real importance has been tied to the question, though. That the audience has been given the cue: “That’s a good point. Who is he, anyway? What’s his deal?” It all goes back to the beginning. One of the big, important unresolved issues that kind of got forgotten after 1969 or so.

Curious thing is, all through the ’80s and ’90s there was an attempt to bring the question back up again. John Nathan-Turner, the producer during the ’80s, addressed it by putting question marks all over the Doctor’s clothes. (“‘Doctor WHO’ — get it?!”) Then Andrew Cartmel, the script editor during the final couple of seasons, had this plan for suggesting that all we knew was wrong, and that the Doctor was way more than we’d ever imagined. That plan ended when the show ended, though the novels and stuff all through the ’90s took it in some seriously strange directions.

This isn’t clothes-deep, though. And it isn’t attempting to rewrite history. It’s just bringing attention back to the realization that we really don’t know who this guy is, outside of what we’ve witnessed. We don’t know what’s driving him or why. Though it seems we know a lot, it’s all just details. He’s a Time Lord. He’s been wandering for nine hundred years, basically on his own, separated from his own kind. Somewhere over the last couple hundred years, all the other Time Lords died out. Though to an extent it doesn’t make that much of a difference, as he was always alone anyway. At first he was hiding from his own kind; now he’s just… used to hiding. He even hides that he is hiding, with all of his adventures and attempts to do right by throwing himself in without a thought of caution, and the parade of assistants he’s enlisted. Then he always just moves on. Never bothers tidying up. Goes back into hiding, in his little box, outside the universe.

* * *

I think the best line — well, exchange — in this was between the Doctor and MdP:

“This is my lover, the King of France.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m the Lord of Time — and I’m here to fix the clock.”

Somehow, framing the story so you can also see him as sort of a fairy tale character from Madame de Pompadour’s perspective, and so you can see the weird logistics that fall into space then — well. Cripes.

I mean, it makes sense. For her and everyone there, he’s like a sprite or gnome, who keeps popping in and out of the world. And it just so happens that he’s the lord of time. So of course he’d be there to repair the clock. And of course the menace would be made of clockwork. That’s the only way it would make sense, his being there. And of course the only time he does appear is when the clockwork droids do — when the clock needs fixing. And of course they’re no real menace, because he’ll always be there, like the tooth fairy.

Somehow all that business is solidified in one brief exchange. He becomes a myth. A small, personal myth.

And in a sense, he’s not much more to us — even though he’s (effectively) been there through our whole lives. Forty-three years, actually. (Hmm.) On a practical level, he’s no less a mystery.

New Earth (2×01)

  • Reading time:5 mins read

Okay, I can see why Davies thought of swapping the first two episodes. That was a kind of weak beginning. Not bad; just… it was a bit of a mess. It reminded me of The Long Game, kind of. And The Two Doctors — the later bits, especially. Not really sure why, aside from Chip.

My favorite bit was the pre-title sequence, especially the bit with Rose saying goodbye as the Doctor warms up the TARDIS again after — apparently — four months. In the commentary they talk about how the Doctor was probably living with the Tylers the whole time since Christmas. Curious.

After that, pretty much every major plot element and/or device lost me completely. The one body-swap is reasonable enough. What’s the impetus for all the other swaps, though? Why was Cassandra turned to a bit of fairy dust who can flit around at will? Besides it making the writing easier, that is? It doesn’t mesh with the elaborate procedure behind the first transfer.

Then the zombie patients. Okay, they can spread every disease known to man just by touching you. Fair enough. And yet if they’ve got thousands of diseases apiece, why are they cured by a handful of random serums yanked off the shelf? Just by being splashed with them? And why can they pass the cure on to other zombies (again) just by touching them?

And that’s just the immediate plot. Don’t get me started on structure.

This is the first time I’ve really been frustrated by a RTD script. I’m just… perplexed by this whole thing. There are so many nice little scenes in this episode, few of which are given space, most of which are basically throwaway. And aside from Boe saying he’ll say something more important later, we come to the end of the episode not really a bit further along than we started.

Obligatory. I guess that’s the key word for this episode, and most of its contents. A shame, as there’s such invention in the actual execution. I hope we see the catnuns again, for instance.

Ah well. The next five episodes should be an improvement.

EDIT:

New Earth didn’t actually make much sense. Which isn’t exactly a prerequsite, of course. It’s just a weird way to start the season. Especially since… how much actual Rose Tyler did we get? A few minutes’ worth? It feels like the kind of thing you’d give your actors somewhere in the middle of the season to keep them from getting bored.

And yeah, I think Davies would have been better off sticking with the gloomy conclusion he originally intended. Especially in light of the reason for the change — guh. It just doesn’t seem like he spent a lot of time on this one. It needed another draft or something. It says something also that it was directed by James Hawes, the guy behind The Empty Child and The Doctor Dances — since, you know, that was so excellent. And this is just… okay.

I think, frankly, it’s the weakest episode of the fifteen to date. The frustrating thing is that it’s got so much nice stuff in it. With a little fussing, it could have been a lot better. Some of it simply structural. It seems a mistake to reveal Cassandra at the beginning, for instance, instead of at the moment Rose discovers her. I don’t see any purpose to doing it earlier. You could have the spiders and their POV, and leave it at that. People will figure it out, if you want that foreshadowing. And it just gets clumsier as it goes along.

You can tell that this thing was rewritten to serve all kinds of different purposes, much like Long Game was. It’s just confused as to what it wants to accomplish. Originally Boe was to die here; then Davies decided to hold that off until next series. So having him here is… nice, but kind of beside the point of the episode and ultimately kind of fruitless. As executed it doesn’t even really set up a decent mystery; you’re just left thinking “huh”.

If he’s going to move it to series three — which he apparently did as soon as he knew there was going to be one — then take him out altogether. Refocus the episode altogether. Don’t keep the kibble. Likewise, frankly, the Cassandra thing is kind of wedged in. She wasn’t integrated into the story as she might have been. Toward the end she gets a bit of understanding from the situation and uses it to “create” herself, etcetera. That’s all nice, except it doesn’t really come out of the underlying conflicts here. It just kind of… happens. It’s never really explained what she’s doing there or how or why this whole body-transfer thing is happening aside from a few throwaway lines. It just seems like a neat thing to do, really.

Davies is a good writer in principle. I think he mostly needs a hard-ass editor to yell at him. I get the feeling much could have been saved even at the assembly stage, after filming — except it turned out this episode was hell to film. They kept picking up pieces for months after the fact, putting the episode together like a patchwork. So by coincidence they didn’t have that luxury either.

Role for Ten

  • Reading time:3 mins read

Starting with Peter Davison, the ending credit shifted from “Doctor Who” (as all previous Doctors had been billed) to “The Doctor”, with the explanation that this was the character’s proper name. That continued up through at least McCoy (I don’t remember about McGann), then the show ended. When it returned last year, Eccleston was again credited as “Doctor Who” — sending the fanboys into a tizzy, because that’s not the character’s name! How could Davies be so stupid! (This among so many other things, like the episodes being the wrong length and the TARDIS windows being too wide.)

The answer is that it’s almost certainly the proper billing. From the position of an audience member, it’s more precise; where the “Doctor” billing comes from is the incredible sense of literalism that John Nathan-Turner brought to the show in the early ’80s (about the time the show began to go downhill, I’ll note). The science must be “real” science (or at least more credible-sounding nonsense), since this is a serious show; the sonic screwdriver is an easy out for writers, so now the Doctor must find a unique and realistic way to pick every lock; the Doctor is from outer space, so let’s make the intro a starfield to illustrate that; we’re in the Eighties now, so let’s use neon piping for our logo so we’ll look all up-to-date; the Doctor is mysterious, so let’s throw question marks on all his clothes, to illustrate that…

Thing is, there’s a difference between a character and a role. The person in the role of Doctor Who plays a character named The Doctor. It’s not that different from how you’ll see, say, “Schoolboy #1” listed as a role — even though the boy’s friend clearly referred to him as “Jim”. Point is, he doesn’t play “Jim”, or “Pete”, or “Ichabod”, he plays “Schoolboy #1” — whose name might incidentally happen to be “Jim”, or “Pete”. That’s the role he serves in the production. By the same stretch, the role is most unambiguously “Doctor Who”. That this is not the character’s name is kind of beside the point.

After all this, it’s worth noting that Tennant is being billed as “The Doctor” again. The reasoning here is that Tennant, as a long-time fan of the series, insisted, since he’s the one playing the part, that he be credited by the character name. Or the “correct” name, from his standpoint. I suppose that’s his business.

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.

Worlds

  • Reading time:2 mins read

Occurs to me that the thing The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly has definitely in common with Fellowship of the Ring (more than the other two Rings movies), and indeed with things like Lang’s Metropolis and The Third Man and Nosferatu — basically every movie I find magical and involving — is that the movie’s world is in a sense the main character. There are other characers in the movie, with their own agendas that we follow. The main conflict or relationship, though, is between those characters and the world they’re in — which in most cases is their own world; they just don’t see all of the aspects of it that we do, because they live there. The characters exist to bounce off the scenery, to ignore it, to walk us through it, to give us contrast with it..

This also describes The Legend of Zelda. And Silent Hill. And Phantasy Star II. And Dragon Warrior. And just about every videogame I find magical and involving. Hell, Riven is nothing but environment.

In a certain meta way, it also decribes more postmodern fare like Charlie Kaufman and Treasure. In MGS3, Kojima does both at the same time! Resident Evil 4 tries to as well, though it’s a little more clunky in execution.

…

A thread here.

This Week’s Releases (Aug 22-26, 2005)

  • Reading time:21 mins read

by [name redacted]

Week seven of my ongoing, irreverent news column; originally posted at Next Generation

Today (Monday, August 22nd)

Advance Wars: Dual Strike (DS)
Intelligent Systems/Nintendo

Now, there’s nothing wrong with the Wars series. This is, what, the fourth Wars game announced in the West, after the two GBA iterations and the endlessly-delayed and frequently-renamed GameCube iteration. And it looks every bit as good as previous games. I understand it’s to make some decent use of the touchscreen with a real-time mode where you move things around with the stylus. Good and well; this is something the DS should excel at. I’m surprised we haven’t seen more strategy games and RPGs for the system.

The name, though – why is it still Advance Wars? The answer is the same as why Retro’s second Metroid game is called Metroid Prime 2, instead of just “Metroid: Echoes” and why Metal Gear Ghost Babel became simply “Metal Gear Solid”; it’s an issue of branding. The assumption, from a Western marketing perspective, is that you need “brand unity”. If you’ve got a successful product, you need to cash in on its name as far as you can. So if you’ve got a new cereal, you’re better off introducing it as, say, Cinna-Crunch Pebbles and putting Fred Flintsone in it, rather then letting it fend for itself, on its own merits.

The thing about the Wars series – well. It’s been around for a long time. Going on twenty years, actually. It began on the Famicom as Famicom Wars, then moved to the Super Famicom and Gameboy as Super Famicom Wars and Gameboy Wars. Thus we have Advance Wars. And since the GBA games were the first we were introduced to over here, every future game in the series must have the word “Advance” in it.

Well, to be fair, we’re to receive the GameCube one (called, inexplicably, “Famicom Wars”) as (even more inexplicably) “Battalion Wars”. I guess that complicates the theory right there. And the Western title for the DS game is no less arbitrary than the Japanese one (again, simply “Famicom Wars DS”). That doesn’t make this trend any less irritating.

Times Past

  • Reading time:4 mins read

I’m watching a documentary on the new Doctor Who; in it is a retrospective of all the previous Doctors, and in that is enough footage to remind me why I like McGann’s. It’s a shame he never got more time; with some refinement he could have been close to the best. Almost ideal.

McGann’s was the emotional Doctor. It seems, after seven lives and a terrifying regeneration, something finally hit him. He becomes wistful, pensive, idealistic. At one point, he actually kisses his companion. It feels like he’s started to grasp the value of this life, of his whole situation. Of what it all means. He is sad, and fragile — and appreciative of everything. I guess he realizes that he might not have as much time as he’s always thought. Which must be weird, for a time lord.

All of the pieces are there. A roundness, a sense of dimension and balance. He gives the impression he’s looked through his past and decided who he is, and what matters to him. McGann brings a certain poignance to the whole arc of the series; he seems to imply that it’s going somewhere, that it has some internal structure, that there is some real evolution going on in the character. That we’ve been building to this moment. He makes it easier to go back and extrapolate, to get a piece of the Doctor’s mind. Just enough to understand him as a person, without robbing him of his mystery.

I say all this as I learn that Eccleston has ditched the role after a single season. After he leapfrogged all of the other actors in line to ask for the role, after he decided past Doctors were too foppish and that he wanted to modernize the character, and after exactly one episode has aired (to ten million viewers), away he goes. That’s… I mean. Hell. If you’re not up for commitment, then why bother with Doctor Who? Of all series? I taste lemons. There’s something weird when a companion hangs around longer than the Doctor himself.

This stunt puts Eccleston second to McGann in brevity, though McGann is to no blame for his part. Colin Baker was yanked out by the teeth, too. And McCoy just had the series cancelled on him. When Davison signed up, he only wanted to do three years; that was supposed to be a short run. And when his time was almost up, he regretted his earliier decision. So — yeah. Eccleston’s in a class of his own. Recall that the character is supposed to be running out of regenerations, and make of him what you will.

I still want to see McGann again. Surely there is some backstory to patch up here. We never did find out what happened to him — and there is plenty precedent for crossover.

EDIT: Or did we? I wasn’t aware that McGann had taped four full “seasons” of audio episodes. I knew he’d done some more work with the character; that these are actually considered seasons 27-30, however, is new to me. And this final episode was only released in December.

Well. Hell, then. I need to get ahold of these. I wonder how.

EDIT AGAIN: Jesus. It turns out that, after all of the novels and audio plays and junk, McGann is the second most well-recorded Doctor of all (following at 116 to McCoy’s 120). And a lot of stuff has happened during his era. And after the second episode of the new series, it seems that Davies considers it all canon. So maybe he hasn’t done that poorly after all. I still would like to see him in action again.

Psychology

  • Reading time:11 mins read

So. Videogames tend to be built like videogames. People tend to play videogames like videogames — even if playing them that way hurts the experience. People go to great lengths to do stupid things in videogames just because they must collect every item, do everything that can be done, before they finish. And videogames know this.

Why is that treasure chest placed in that out-of-the-way room that no one has reason to go to? To reward someone who goes down there. Why do most people go down there, even if it’s clearly not the right direction? Not out of curiosity, but because they expect a reward. It’s become a task, almost. (Again, look at how RPGs tend to be made.) Some second-guessing is fun, if it’s clever and unobvious. Much of it is just tiresome. Everyone’s nodding, saying, “Yeah, we get it. We’ve been here before.” And yet there’s this unwritten code, that everyone’s afraid to break. It leads to leaps of logic like the player being expected to wander around and level up for two hours to beat a boss. That’s just plain fucking bizarre. Grotesque. Picture it, for a moment. What FUCKING reason do you have to do that?

Same for the perfectionist impulse, where you must collect everything — just because it’s there to collect. And the games now take way too much advantage of this, as a result of people reacting in that dysfunctional way to start with. It’s a natural compulsion, so the games treat it as if people actually gain joy from it. When it’s really more of a feeling of obligation. A quirk of mental chemistry, because the game presents it as a viable option. And now we’ve come to expect it so much that we become pissed off when we can’t finish a game with a perfect save file. Same with speed runs and sequence breaking for the sake of sequence breaking and all of this inanity that comes out of that stew of boredom, idle greed, and the natural human response to a lack of consequence.

Doukutsu Monogatari makes me wonder. It’s weak here, but. Perhaps a way to discourage, say, hoarding in a game is to make it so you can’t get a good ending unless you play it in a sane, non-videogamey way.

Silent Hill 2 also comes into this a little, as does the discussion about hardware — although you don’t really need advanced hardware for this. Not in a basic sense. I mean. Some version of this goes as far back as Ultima. Further, probably.

I don’t mean imposing arbitrary (or strict story-based) limits, of the kind we’re all so used to and annoyed with. Damn, I can’t get through this door because I have the Zippomat instead of the Gizmodrome. Or I haven’t given this item to this other character, triggering this plot event. So I can’t progress until I do it. What I mean is, sure — let the player do whatever he wants within the boundaries of the game world. Yet if the player is obviously behaving in a manner inappropriate to the situation, just because he CAN, or because he’s used to second-guessing what videogames are asking of him, it will result in — well. Not punishment, so much as consequences.

Someone else can come up with specific examples, I’m sure. As well as too many examples of when a game’s charm comes from exactly that freedom to put your trinkets in a row. Or from subverting the system (though that’s not what I’m talking about here, exactly; I’m all about subversion within the established rules — which is why I can appreciate Nippon Ichi’s SRPGs even as I am unwilling to play them). I’m just working in vague generalities. And I don’t know where they’re going.

What are the possible ramifications here? Is a lack of consequene for the player’s acting like a yo-yo, or like (simply) a gamer, part of why videogames are still so fucking adolescent? Clearly, a good portion of their existing audience — probably the most vocal and obvious segment — would do as well to grow up as the games they’re playing. How much are the two sides encouraging the current situation? What are the dynamics?

It basically is a question of motivation. In Shenmue, there’s such potential to get absorbed in the gamey nonsense — and some people do, and become lost and annoyed. For the most part, though, I just feel compelled to drink in the situation. Play it as if I’m living a life, rather than play it as a game. It’s actually rather boring if you try to second-guess it and to treat it as a typical videogame. I think maybe its fault is that there is little aside from boredom to dissuade the player from going all OCD and missing the point. If you linger too long, I hear that Long Di eventually comes and kills Ryo. That’s a long way out, though. I’ve never had to worry about it, even at my slowest poke of a pace. It’s likely boredom will drive anyone on by then; the only reason to remain, in fact, is to find out what happens if you don’t do what you’re expected to.

What might be an organic solution? I don’t know. You probably don’t want to wall the player in. As much as we like to make fun of it, the “But thou must!” mechanism is pretty omnipresent. It seems to me that it’s best to allow the player to make those bad decisions (sorry, Nintendo!), and to naturally wind up in an undesirable circumstance as a result. That’s the way we learn, y’know? On the one hand, don’t encourage acting like you have a mental problem — so if the player goes there, it’s his own doing. On the other, make him feel like a genuine idiot for behaving so erratically.

I think the latter would be most effective as an end effect, rather than a snap response to walking outside certain boundaries: the game cuts short, or the player gets a bad ending that shoves in his face all of the junk he’s done, or what-have-you. This would allow some leeway for the player to stray. No one’s perfect, after all.

Would a more immediate response help as an additional deterrent? I don’t know. Something in me says that this might just encourage a person, out of curiosity to see what else the game has to say about him. Any attention is a reward of some sort. And a lust for trivial reward is the main motivation for behavior lke this.

Perhaps the issue of motivation isn’t something that can be explained in a rational, mechanical way — since it relies so much on the ephemerals of emotion and tone. And because we all interpret our signals in different ways. The Zelda discussion seems to show that. What motivates me to explore Hyrule is much what would motivate me, were I put in Link’s position. What motivates some others is less experiential; more… baubly. It has to do with the gameplay mechanisms for their own sake, rather than to the end they were implemented to start with. With, in effect, how the game plays as a game. And that mentality has determined where the series has evolved as it has been refined, as it has with RPGs and so many other games.

I want to say that something’s lost here. It’s hard to define to people who aren’t tuned to it to start with, though. Or to explain why it’s so important. Hell, it’s a big part of the reason why I play videogames. And so, I expect, it is with many others before they become distracted or mis-trained because of the mental level that videogames so like to tap into. The feeder-bar level of gratification.

It’s seriously unhealthy, I think, where videogames are now. I think, in a manner, they promote and hone OCD and ADD-oriented levels of behavior and thinking. And although it might sound a stretch, I think that might be one factor in why so many gamers are such… insufferable fucks, to be blunt. And the sad thing is, this is gaming’s audience, so there’s a feedback loop. Games are developed for people who already exhibit these signs, and those games just promote them all the more.

Yet. Videogames can operate on a more human level. How much needs to come from the player, seems to depend on the game. For its time, Zelda promoted a much richer mindset. Myst and Riven piss off the core gamer demographic, which tries to approach them like puzzle games, even as they reward people who come at them looking for something more involving. And even Treasure’s games — say, Ikaruga and Gradius V — have a transcendent emotional quality to them, born out of their self-conscious design. They depend on the player’s familiarity with videogames, to make a grander set of statements about the medium itself, and the way we interact with it.

I guess the situation can be summed as follows:

Q: How do we get players to behave like human beings?
A: We motivate them on a human level.
Q: How do we do that?
A: That’s the key, isn’t it.

I was about to go on, and say something about discouraging unhealthy lines of thought — then it struck me how vague that is. More like discourage OCD and ADD-oriented thought strains. I would love videogames to mature enough to allow, or even encourage, the player to explore unhealthy modes of thought. Silent Hill 2 has a passive reaction to the player’s way of thinking; if the player behaves in a suicidal way, for example, the game decides that the main character went to Silent Hill to kill himself. A more tangible set of reactions might be interesting. Not sure how that might be achieved, though.

A while ago, I explored the idea of an emotional change in the player’s avatar, depending on the player’s actions. For instance, in an RPG, you, the player have the option to wander around and kill things, to grow stronger and more experienced and whatnot — yet you lose a bit of yourself every time you kill. A little bit of civility. Of humanity. And that will affect the way the avatar will interpret and interact with the game world. The more you kill, the more unpleasant the game becomes. The more hardened the character becomes, until he becomes something of a psychotic monster. The type who would just wander around and kill anything he came across, for no good reason. He will be treated as such, in-game. Most important, this can’t be seen from a clinical distance. It has to be done in a way that the player will grow uncomfortable with the way things are progressing.

I think Fable experimented with a bit of this line of reasoning, though it couldn’t take it far — so in the end it became something of a cartoon illustration of ideas someone else might want to reinterpret and implement more seriously in another five years or so.

That quality of discomfort seems the most important one, for barrier-building. As long as we’re dealing in emotions, anyway. Whether that discomfort be moral, ethical, fear-based, or just plain boredom and disappointment must, I guess, depend on circumstance.

Again, I would love to get to the point where it would be possible to make an effective Clockwork Orange of sorts; a truly transgressive experience. I’m afraid that’s not really feasible until we’ve established some barriers, though. Made them standardized. The most transgressive a game you can get at present is something like a Kojima game, which rebels against the assumed contract between game and player on a mechanical, on a conceptual level. That’s all nice. I don’t know if we’re really there until it will actually mean something to do that on an emotional level. And until gamers are accustomed to behaving like human beings, that’s not going to happen.

EDIT: Discussion continued here.

Move-Blocking

  • Reading time:9 mins read

In the original Zelda, the closest thing to a block puzzle consisted of pushing a single block one space. In effect, it’s just a hidden switch; not a puzzle-as-such. A secret trigger. The same as the book or andiron you move to open the staircase behind the bookshelf in the old mansion. Whoa, you think. Who knew that was there.

This is how Zelda works: obfuscation. Any object might hold any amount of potential. You’re never told you can bomb walls in the dungeons — and usually you don’t need to. Yet if you do, you can often make shortcuts or find secret areas. No one tells you you can push against the walls, in the second quest, to phase through. It’s just another hidden quality.

No one tells you you can burn bushes, or bomb rocks. No one tells you you can move blocks. No one tells you about those warp staircases. Or that the statues come alive when you touch them. Hell, is there a reason those stones look like turtles?

This all gives the game environment a sense of mystery and vitality. You have the surface: walls, trees, cliff faces. And then you have another level, where you’re never quite sure what’s possible and what isn’t. Anything could, hypothetically, mean anything. Anything could be anywhere.

That’s where the awe and wonder come from: this sense of endless possibility, once you start making discoveries. Once you get a taste of the world’s hidden logic. It all feels magical. You feel like maybe, just maybe if you’re clever enough, you’ll find something, some secret no one else has ever seen before. I had dreams about this stuff. About a whole other world I’d find, by burning just the right bush.

And the reason this all works, again, is that the world doesn’t feel set out for the player. Beyond the forbidding nature of the overworld — where the game sets barriers just out of difficulty; you don’t want to stray too far, lest you find yourself in real trouble — there’s this whole second layer. It’s totally hidden. If you find it, it’s your own doing. It’s up to you to make of it what you will.

The dungeons don’t exist for the player to go through. They don’t have special puzzles set out in a special order, so that the player can solve them and take all of the dungeon’s treasure and kill all of the monsters. They’re not tests. They’re just there. Because they’ve always been there. Relics of some earlier time, that we can’t know about. They’re meant to be dangerous. Dank, abandoned holes in the ground where monsters have come to lurk. Maybe if you survive you can pull something neat out of there — just because no one else has been stupid enough to enter in centuries. That’s up to you, though.

And so on. This is the quality that I associate with Zelda. It’s what attracts me to the game, from the gold cartride to the music at the title screen, to that cave in the first screen where you pick up your first item — your sword — to Spectacle Rock, to the bizarre hints the old men give, to that place on the upper-right, where you have to climb up through the rocks, to “IT’S A SECRET TO EVERYBODY”, to the way the Power Bracelet is just sitting there, under that suit of armor, right in the open.

You just never know.

It’s what makes it more than just a series of gameplay mechanisms and items and characters. Which is what the series has been since the third game, to one extent or another.

The whole lock-and-key exploration thing, in particular, is a problem. If not inherently, then at least in the approach that we’ve come to accept.

You must acquire tools to expand your range!

…

um.

That’s not what I get out of Zelda. I mean. Technically, yeah, it is a mechanism in the original structure. To say it’s a focus of the game, though, and inherently enjoyable, is kind of like saying… oh, I don’t know.

You’re tarnishing something, with that attitude. Mistaking a process for a purpose. Ritual for meaning.

Maybe it’ll help to break down the tools in the original game, and how they relate to the game’s progression. Offhand, the ladder and the raft are the only two items I can recall which are immediately… practical, in this sense. In that they inherently open new territory. And compared to the way these mechanisms are used in other games, they’re relatively tame.

There are only a couple of docks in the game where the raft may be used. And you don’t really know what the docks are for. You don’t see any destination. You don’t think “Gee, I wish I had a raft so I could get over there…” You don’t even know what’s over there. Or realize you could get there over the water. It doesn’t occur to you. Later you find a raft, and you start to wonder what to do with the thing. You go to the dock, and you’re magically carried away to a place you have never seen before. It all works on a similar hidden level to what I was talking about before. The raft kind of unlocks a hidden purpose — much as the flute does, especially in the second quest.

And the ladder — well. It’s automatic, in a similar way though on a smaller scale. It isn’t dramatic at all; it’s just practical. Hell, a ladder isn’t even perhaps an ideal item for its use in the game: for bridging gaps. It’s just, it works. The game doesn’t make a big deal of it. It’s just — “oh, you know, you can use this to cross gaps now.”

I don’t know that there are too many places where the player just can’t progress without a ladder. Most of the map, most of the dungeons are open either way. Sometimes, though, there are gaps. The player is used to it. He isn’t waiting for a way to bridge them. He just accepts that he isn’t able to cross them. The game makes the barriers clear enough.

And after he gets the ladder, he still can’t — not unless the gaps are very narrow.

The tools, when they come about, present themselves as useful or wondrous rather than as neccessary. (In truth, you do need them; that isn’t the immediate concern, though.) In future games, you don’t have that. You just expect the items. You never really appreciate them, for how handy they can be, for the extra levels they bring to the experience, because you NEED them to progress.

It sounds paradoxical in a way; you never really value them, because they’re too precious. Precious to the point where they’re obstacles because you don’t have them. And when you find them, you don’t think “hey, neat!”: you think “Oh god, finally.” Or, worse: “Oh, there it is. Now I can do x.”

Ugh.

How logical. How… insensitive.

The deal is — gameplay mechanics aren’t interesting or fun just because they exist. They exist to solve some kind of problem. That problem should usually have some emotional component, or consideration — since, ultimately, the goal of a videogame is to engage, to affect the player.

The player is not engaged, not affected, implicitly because he has a task and is told to complete it: there’s a barrier; now find a way across! Keep expanding! Affecting the player is a more subtle, more indirect process. The more mechanical, the more mathematical your design, the more artificial it feels. The more the player feels like he’s just being taken for a ride (in one sense or another), rather than having a human experience of some sort.

I think maybe the most interesting items in Zelda are the ones that don’t need to be there. The magic wand — there’s no reason for it, except that it’s special. It serves no purpose in the quest, lending that much more reality to the items which do serve a purpose. It’s more plausible that they’re not just there because the player will need them. It feels more like luck that the player can find a use for them.

And hell, there’s even a magic book — even more useless than the wand, as it serves no purpose but to add a second, unneeded function to the original, unneded function. Yet it’s in another dungeon, as another treasure linked to a previous treasure. These were treasures to someone, and now they’re treasures to Link, and the player.

The boomerang and magical boomerang are helpful, but never needed. The magical one, especially; it’s just another upgrade. And heck, they’re not even treasures in an official sense; you just pick them up from felled opponents. You MAKE them treasures.

Would the game not be as interesting if I actually needed all of this crap? I think that is so. I feel it is so. It’s special because it’s special to ME; not because I need it. I need my latch keys and my state ID, but they’re not special to me. What I consider treasures are the things which help me, which make my life more full — yet which I could, technically, function without.

I could survive without good food. That makes it all the easier to appreciate. I could survive without what people I care about (and they might not always be there for me); that makes me care about them. When you’re young, you don’t give a huge damn about your parents because you need them to survive. When you’re a teenager, they even become an obstacle for that same reason. When you’re older, and you don’t depend on them anymore, you can learn to appreciate them as people instead of as parents.

You see what I’m saying?

Texas Gunfire

  • Reading time:7 mins read

Doom is very different in philosophy and design from modern FP shooters.

Doom is built like a console game. Heck, Romero idolizes Miyamoto. Commander Keen came out of a demo that he and Carmack whipped up for Nintendo, showing how to implement the scrolling from Super Mario Bros. on a PC (which, I guess, was a feat at the time). Howard Lincoln yawned. The Texans made their own game.

Quake is, indeed, more the prototype for the modern shooter. It’s also kind of boring in comparison — at least, for me. Here they paid less attention to actual design; more to just getting a 3D engine up. That, and getting Trent Reznor involved. I mean, they already had a template with Wolf3D and Doom. Quake was just technology. They filled in the blanks with gray textures and asinine Lovecraft references. It feels like they were bored, doing it — as well they should have been, I guess, since that’s not what they cared about anymore. And this was about where Romero started to flake out, too. Whether the rise of Superprogrammer was the cause or result of this, I don’t know.

Doom isn’t concerned with being a first-person shooter as-such, since the genre didn’t exist at the time. Instead, it is an attempt to rework the rather barren Wolf3D into as vibrant a design as possible. To do something substantial with the concept, if you will. It’s kind of the same leap as from Quake to Half-Life, because it’s the same mentality at work.

Doom’s console sensibility extends from its controls (as with Wolf3D, it’s made to be played without a mouse; the mouse only really enters when you have a Z axis to worry about) to its level design and (as someone noted) pacing, to its monster designs, to its set pieces and its idea of secret areas and items.

For one, the game just drools charisma. We all can rattle off most of the monsters in Super Mario Bros. and Zelda. We know Brinstar like the backs of our hands. There is a certain iconography even to the level design: even if on a cursory glance it might not stand out as anything special, it bores into the consciousness just as well as a cheep-cheep or a zoomer. Everything is placed preciously, exactly because there is no template to fall back on.

And, as we know, there is a certain subconscious pacing built in, for how the game introduces concepts. You run to the right, jump up and hit the flashing object overhead. It makes a chime sound and a coin pops out. You’ve clearly done something well. You hit another block and a mushroom appears. It must not be harmful, unlike the enemy you either ran into, jumped on, or jumped over a moment before, as it comes out of a block like the one which rewarded you with a chime a moment before. When you touch it, you grow. Since you’re bigger, you can more easily reach the platforms above you. You try jumping and can break the bricks. Keep going right and you hit a pipe. Then two enemies. Eventually a pit. Then a fire flower. Then a koopa troopa.

And. So on. It all sounds simple, yet so few people get it right. And since it’s supposed to be invisible, so few people notice on a conscious level when it’s missing.

Doom does this, yes, on a mechanical level. Yet it does something else, too. It paces the atmosphere. I maintain that the best part of Doom is episode one (the Shareware episode) of Doom 1. After you leave the manmade environments, where something has gone really awfully wrong, and enter the abstract flesh-tents of Hell, the game has pretty much blown its wad (pun very much intended). Then the game just becomes about shooting, and I don’t much care for it. Episode one has a certain stress to it, however. You wander the station, looking for something to restore your ailing health. The lights go out. You hear snarls in the distance. You know something’s out there — but where?

And then there are just so many hidden passages. You never know what wall might open, and how. Or what you might find (like the Chainsaw). It’s kind of like Zelda, again. Often you can see things in the distance, or through windows, that you just plain can’t access through normal means. This gets you exploring.

The whole mindset that the game creates, with all of this — the mindset that it asks for — is different. It’s more introverted. More careful. The game is as much about exploration and generally owning the gameworld as it is about blowing shit up.

There’s a certain balance here, from level to level. Just study how things are laid out. It’s no mistake that the shareware episode is the best; after all, it’s the one that id needed to be good, if anyone was going to register.

>How would you say the modern FPS has deviated from this Doom mindset? And starting where, exactly? Doom II? Duke Nukem 3D? Quake?

I don’t know. I became disgusted with the whole degenre around the time of Q3 and UT. I like what I’ve seen about HL2, from this distance. It reminds me of, uh, Myst.

…

Quake’s probably a good place to start. Or maybe you could begin with all of the knockoffs of Wolf3D and Doom, which used the same engine yet didn’t do anything interesting with it. They helped to pollute the mindspace a bit, I bet, and distract from the reasons why Doom was as excellent as it was.

Quake’s the landmark, though, for all the obvious reasons. I mean, it led the way, from Quake to Quake II to Quake III, to a technology-oriented philosophy. It doesn’t matter what you do with the engine; it just matters what the engine does. Throw in a few rules and some network code, and you have a game.

I’m oversimplifying to an insulting degree, I realize. On the one hand, the whole multiplayer thing, although it appeals to me in NEGATIVE INCREMENTS, meaning a piece of me dies every time the subject comes up, has attained something of the same distinction that a versus fighter has in comparison to a sidescrolling brawler. It’s a place to show skill and piss on other people (even more so than with a fighter, for various reasons), and if that’s your kind of thing, there are a lot of excellent games to help you vent that testosterone.

On the other, you have the Half-Life-inspired movement toward using the form for a more holistic experience — expanding on exactly the part of Doom that the Quake thread gave up on. Halo sits on this end, mostly — though a little more to the right, toward Quake, than HL. If you were to count Metroid Prime as a FPS, it would be about as far to the left as possible.

>Masters of Doom says that Quake’s formative years were sort of the epitome of development hell. […] Carmack was going off into his abstract, workaholic computer world and Romero was becoming increasingly arrogant and was slacking off more than usual. The end result, then, was a Doom clone where the engine was designed independently of the levels, which were designed independently of each other, which is why they’re so goddamned bizzare and incongruous.

Yeah! I remember that, now. I guess that’s whence came Daikatana.

For my part, I did enjoy Quake at the time. It’s not half-bad. It’s just — it leaves me empty.

Keeping Your Options Open: Reinterpreting a Legacy

  • Reading time:12 mins read

by [name redacted]

This is an early draft of a feature or review (depending on your perspective) that soon after went up on Insert Credit. The version there is probably better. Still, interesting to compare.

I must be forward: although the series has charmed me for two decades, Gradius is as cold, arbitrary, and unforgiving as videogames get. It almost feels like it doesn’t want me to play it. For my part, I abide where I can; I turn the game off when I lose my first life. The only chapter that has stuck to me through the years is the NES version of Life Force — yet I adore the game. Life Force is one of my favorite games for the NES. It’s one of the best shooters I’ve played. It’s probably one of the games I have the greatest affection for, overall.

Clearly something is odd here.

On the Outside: An Informal Look into Silent Hill 4

  • Reading time:3 mins read

by [name redacted]

Today’s post is brought to you by Andrew Toups and the letter Æ.

People complain about Henry’s personality. I don’t get it. I mean, I do. There seems to be this idea that The Room is substantially more character-based than the earlier games, and that the tendency toward supreme understatement in all parties somehow undermines what emotional potential there might be. I don’t know how true that is, though. Taking the game for what it is, I get the idea that the characters are distant because they’re distant. Because that’s the nature of our interaction, as the player and as Henry Townsend.

See, Henry is a strangely normal guy; in a way, more typical than either Harry or James. He doesn’t have a dead wife and a lost daughter. He doesn’t have a dead wife and a crushing sense of guilt. He just has a bottle of white wine and a carton of chocolate milk in his fridge. He has no particular problems, outside his current predicament. Although compassionate for his part, he maintains his distance. As far as others are concerned, Henry’s role is of the bemused observer.

Although he’s not just a foil, Henry is a parallel for the player. You might call him a bit of a Raiden. Think of his circumstances in terms of Myst — with the Malkovich-holes in place of linking books. Notice how much of the game involves peeping — Henry, taking in his world indirectly, which we in turn take in indirectly through Henry. That is, except for the portions in room 302. Those, the most overtly Myst-like, we experience in the first-person. It is only when we leap through the holes, back into the game world, that Henry returns as a buffer.

In his relationship with others, Henry continues this role. He’s nice enough a person; it’s just, this isn’t his world. He’s busy living the life of the mind. Even when he’s standing next to Eileen, he’s still peeping. He’s not really there. He’s just watching.

It is this distance, and the safety it provides, which the game later tries to dissolve — for Henry and the player alike. When the game notices Henry is when it notices the player. When the darkness intrudes into room 302, it is intruding into the player’s own perceived safe space, where there is no Henry to fall back on.

For my part, I would find Henry’s conversations jarring if they were any less zoned-out. I would be distracted if the human relationships were any more satisfying. That would be too perfect. Perfection ruins any illusion. Henry would cease to be so very normal. He would become someone special. And he’s not. He’s no hero. He’s barely a protagonist. He’s just a twentysomething guy with white wine in his fridge. And at the end, Henry has resolved no personal problems. He remains the guy he always was. He just needs a new apartment.

Roomination

  • Reading time:4 mins read

My reluctance to throw things away — my propensity to collect: it has to do with evidence. Evidence to whom; to myself? Evidence of the links between the world within me and that without. Evidence that the things I know of did, at least once, exist. Once those physical tokens are gone, there is no more certainty. I can’t be sure of anything anymore.

I have played the first hour of Silent Hill 4: The Room. Yes, it arrived today (alongside Plan 9 From Outer Space and Glen or Glenda); I am not allowed to play much further until all accountable women have returned to roost.

Nevertheless. The game is supposed to have been principally inspired by Being John Malkovich. That is quickly obvious, now that I have the chance to inspect it more well than before. This knowledge also offers some possible, if incomplete, clues regarding just what’s happening in the game.

Before the opening credits disseminate (another addition to the series, and not an unwelcome one), the game provides a short introduction in the first-person perspective that will later be common to scenes transpiring in The Room in question. In this sequence, however, the room is different: bloodied, rusted over, dirty, abandoned-looking; it resembles the “dark world” from the earlier Silent Hill games. Henry, the main character, is understandably surprised — or, should I say, alarmed. He does not seem to recognize anything. He also, I noticed, fails to cast a reflection in the picture frames scattered around his apartment — frames which reflect everything else around him. I pinpointed this as intentional, especially given that only minutes later, once the credits play and Henry wakes up again in a “normal” version of his bedroom, he no longer seems at all confused by the room’s (clean, yet otherwise mostly-identical) furnishings.

Henry still does not have a reflection, however. In cutscenes, he does; just not in the game proper.

So. Never mind that.

The people on the street outside the window walk like robots. Most of them wear the exact same clothes, and walk in synchronization. A polygonal edge to the hole behind the cabinet flickers into and out of existence as the camera rotates past it. The effect is hard to ignore, given the size of the area in question, its prominent location, and how important this hole is supposed to be.

The soundtrack comes on a separate disc, in a little paper sleeve. Luckily, it does slide easily into the game case. Still, considering that the previous game in the series made space for its soundtrack by default, this all could have been a little prettier.

Although I yet again am not allowed to remap the controls at will, at least the default scheme works for me. For some reason, as minor as the changes were from the previous games, I had real problems playing Silent Hill 3 with any of its predesigned setups. Everything felt like it was in the wrong place; it made me feel a little ill, even. Strange, the psychological effect of control design. I wonder if it could be put to real use, rather than ignored or made as invisible (or as “realistic”) as possible, as are the current strategies.

There’s… something here. Maybe.

Tonally, the game reminds me more of Silent Hill 2 than of the other two. This is not a bad thing. Perhaps it is an intentional thing, even. It also feels tangibly different — more like a mystery than a horror story — and is so far intriguing in that.

EDIT: Naoto Ohshima is involved again, as a camera programmer. I noticed his name flash by in the credits to the first Silent Hill, I believe as some kind of graphics programmer; did he do anything in the middle two games?

Artoon is owned by Konami now, yes? Or involved with them somehow?

EDIT 2: And I like the way the camera works. Mostly. I don’t think I’ve seen quite this technique before.

Myst IV: Revelation

  • Reading time:1 mins read

by [name redacted]

This was a surprise; I had heard nothing of a new Myst. I knew about Uru, and I knew of its troubles. It has been a long time since I have bought a PC game, however; I just haven’t had the computer to run anything made after 1997. Then, since there hasn’t been a lot interesting going on with the PC scene since the mid-’90s (unless you’re into whack-a-rat or first-person shooters, or you absolutely must have the fastest graphics card and processor, to show off the newest tech demo), I have for some time felt safe to ignore that whole segment of the industry. Yet, it seems like there is still some activity worth tracking. I think.

( Continue reading at Insert Credit )