Horror movies are the best, you guys! Logically, October is also the best. Even though I’m watching horror films all year long, when October rolls around, I tend to go overboard with things.
You’ll notice there are very few horror “classics” on this list—Exorcist, Night of the Living Dead, Alien, etc. I’ve seen all these movies way too many times. The point of this month-long exercise is to purposely expose myself to as many movies as possible that I haven’t seen. The rare exceptions here are movies like The Blair Witch Project, which I haven’t watched in years because it effin’ terrifies me.
Many will be hard to find! Many of them you may have to get a hold of from strange, exotic places! I have, however, done my homework and picked all of these from solid sources. They should be pretty terrific films. It does bum me out that I can’t recommend some of my favorite scary ass movies from the last few years in the list, so I’ll do it here: Martyrs, [rec], The Entity, Them, House of the Devil.
Have fun! Turn the lights off! Get yourself a drink! I know I’ll need one.
October 1: The Beyond
October 2: Street Trash
October 3: Triangle
October 4: Tucker and Dale vs. Evil (note: trailer is spoilery of kill scenes)
“The true test of a game’s narrative is whether I’m willing to go grab a new beer while a cut scene is going on.”—me, on Twitter, being snarky.
I’m joking—mostly. I’ve just finished Crytek’s Crysis 2, a game supposedly taking narrative seriously enough to hire a screenwriter. I have little knowledge of Crysis beyond aliens and a magical suit, myself a Mac-bound computer user. Plus, with Crysis 2 debuting on consoles, I expected a decent summary.
Er, nope. Still, I’ve heard Crysis’ story was hardly water cooler worthy, but as someone who will play or watch anything with an alien (Independence Day is, no joke, one of my favorite movies—everever), Crysis didn’t have to do much to keep my attention; it only had to, at least, explain itself a tiny bit.
I knew something was afoot when a seemingly critical cut-scene (non-spoiler: meeting Gould) appeared, which propmpted me to lay the controller down and have a sip of beer. “Drats, ” I said. “Empty.” Instead of waiting for the cut-scene to finish out, I moved up from my seat and headed to the fridge for another beer. And then it stuck me: I’ve stopped giving a shit about what’s happening, huh.
Crysis 2 explicitly told me I should stop caring when it slapped “press A to enter game” seconds after starting the campaign. And the prompt never disappears.Homefront was similarly offensive, yet I’m supposed to believe these games are taking their storytelling seriously? And that’s without laughing at the concept of cut-scenes to begin with.
I’ll forgive Crysis 2 on some level, as the “cut-scenes” are basically maps with voice overs, allowing the game to load in the background. That’s not clear at the start of the game, however. “Press A to enter game” rather bluntly suggests the part of the experience I should care about does not exist there.
And even though this has nothing to do with the “beer test,” I’m going to groan anyway: please stop putting important story elements in collectables. I don’t give a shit about achievements or trophies or gamer points, but I do care about understanding the world around me. There’s an important layer of plot to Crysis 2 (is that where the screenwriter’s work went?) that I wasn’t aware of until after the game was over. They were hidden in collectible emails, things I found a handful of times by accident. Man.
(You know what I’m talking about, Resistance 2.)
Anyway.
What’s worse, the “beer test” is easy to pass, especially since most cut-cenes are pauseable now. The more dramatic application is the “pee test,” in which a game/movie/book grips you enough to put off doing the most essential of bodily tasks, seeking just a few more moments in the narrative’s world.
Locke: You saw the film, Jack. This is a… this is a two person job, at least. Sayid: This argument is irrelevant. Jack: Sayid, don’t. Sayid: Jack. Jack: Don’t. It’s not real. Look, you want to push the button, you do it yourself. Locke: If it’s not real, then what are you doing here, Jack? Why did you come back? Why do you find it so hard to believe? Jack: Why do you find it so easy? Locke: It’s never been easy! Kate: Maybe you should just do it. Jack: No…It’s a button.
The Internet had a meltdown last night, following the evening launch of Sword & Sorcery EP for iPad. The Superbrothers and Capybara Games pixelated adventure includes a novel implementation of Twitter, one which the developers claim was intended to encourage player collaboration. Whenever a piece of dialogue appears, all of which are under written within 140 characters, you can share it with the world, complete with #sworcery hashtag. Within moments, everyone was #sworcerying, resulting in Twitter timelines filled with the game’s wittiest bits (“Bark!”) shared over and over and over again.
If you didn’t know what Sword & Sworcery was—heck, even if you did—the resulting flood could have been annoying. Cynically, though understandingly, the criticism quickly turned towards the game itself, figuring Sword & Sorcery had been crafted with an auto-Tweet function, ala Uncharted 2, wherein the game would send a short message to your Twitter friends after simply completing a chapter. That’s not the case, and I couldn’t help but laugh a bit at the folks, many of them good friends, getting upset.
The developers have only said the Twitter functionality in Sword & Sorcery was an “experiment.” I can’t assume the goals of the developer, but the resulting action did two things: create awareness for the game using content within the game itself (writing) and simultaneously expose a double standard about sharing that’s typically blasted against social networking driven games like Zynga’s FarmVille.
Consider the title of this blog, Push The Button. It holds meaning for what’s happened here. You do not have to share anything in Sword & Sorcery. It’s entirely driven by players. So far, I’ve opted to not share anything I’ve encountered, even though my Twitter account’s configured. Every few seconds, however, you are given the opportunity; the “tweet” button appears, taunting you. It only takes a single press and, voila, you’ve shared a humorous quip with the world. You’re not forced to see its impact on your Twitter feed; it just disappears into the virtual void. But it exposes an important relationship between designer and player and, also, game and player. Sword & Sorcery manipulated a bunch of players who more than likely would tell you they eye-roll at FarmVille players on Facebook.
The reason I laughed at anyone upset over the #sworcery phenomenon was because they had no one to blame but their own friends for falling prey to one of gaming’s most fundamental mechanics: push the button. We all want to push the button; pushing buttons, at least until the last few years, has been our foundation of interaction. In this case, the temptation to push becomes exponentially more taunting; Sword & Sorcery exists on a touchable device. You’re supposed to push! Push! Push! Why wouldn’t you want to press it…you know, at least once?
When it comes to pushing buttons, players don’t have much will power. It’s understandable; we’ve been wired that way and Sword & Sorcery decided to play us like a fiddle. Well done, puppet masters.
I’ve had the pleasure of attending the Game Developers Conference for several years now, free of charge. Almost everyone else forks over hundreds, sometimes thousands, of dollars for the same privilege. And it’s exactly that: a privilege, one that I’ve come to realize I’ve been misusing, to my own detriment, because of the wrong priorities—albeit ones that have been largely out of my control (which I’ll get to in just a minute). GDC 2011 was the first GDC where I embraced what I should be: a student.
For five days, I sat, listened, took notes, and tried to let everything sink in. You shouldn’t have to be a respected game designer to talk or criticize videogames, but you should understand how they work and the processes behind their creation. The tension between games writers and developers has more to do with a fundamental misunderstanding of each side’s job, one that each could stand to learn more about. Many (most) developers are not given much access to the press, but GDC provides an excellent venue for the opposite. For reasons I think are entirely reasonable, that doesn’t much happen.
There was a meme going around GDC this year called the “no badge club,” in which several fellow colleagues reported not having enough time to even pick up their badge for GDC. Rather, they were swamped with appointments to check out games and publisher events surrounding GDC itself. There were enough games, from Batman: Arkham City to Battlefield 3, that you could avoid GDC entirely.
The problem? You can’t blame them. The games are around, other websites will be covering them, and not seeing them out means missing out on potential hits. Well, that and gamers probably want to hear more about what new villains are coming to Arkham City than moral reflections on social games. Of course, if you never expose readers to those ideas, they can’t demand what they don’t know is there.
What I’m saying is that it’s all very sad; a missed opportunity. I don’t know if there will be another GDC where I’m able to indulge nearly as much this year, but I hope so, I truly hope so, because I absorbed more over those five days, knowledge that is directly applicable to my understanding, writing and reporting about videogames, than I’ll ever get from the next year of publisher-driven press events.
2010 was a good year for well-designed games, though I have to admit that very few experiences embedded into my subconscious (like Flower did) after the credits. That’s a blog for later, but I wanted to share my second annual documentation of games I played and finished throughout the last year.
All told, the list includes 71 games.
Holy shit. 71 games.
There are a few caveats, of course.
I’ve included some tiny, short (usually Flash) games in the mix.
There’s no way to really “beat” Rock Band 3, only to play a ton of it.
Downloadable content gets counted as a separate experience.
As for the list, here goes:
January Silent Hill: Shattered Memories New Super Mario Bros. Wii VVVVVV Every Day The Same Dream Machinarium No More Heroes 2 Dante’s Inferno
February Mass Effect 2 Heavy Rain One Button Bob
March God of War II The Misadventures of P.J. Winterbottom Klonoa (Wii) God of War III Beneath a Steel Sky (iPhone)
April Just Cause 2 3D Dot Game Heroes Mirror’s Edge (iPad) Splinter Cell: Conviction Sam & Max: Episode 1: The Penal Zone
May Alan Wake Super Mario Galaxy 2 Zeno Clash: Ultimate Edition Prince of Persia: The Forgotten Sands
June Green Day: Rock Band Bit.Trip.Runner Red Dead Redemption Split/Second Sin & Punishment: Star Successor
July Limbo Metro 2033 Crackdown 2 The Secret of Monkey Island 2: Special Edition
August Transformers: War For Cybertron DeathSpank Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World: The Game Shank Comic Jumper Metroid: Other M Dead Rising: Case Zero
September One Button Arthur e7 Far Cry 2 Halo: Reach Super Scribblenauts Rock Band 3
October Enslaved: Odyssey to the West Spider-Man: Shattered Dimensions Freedom Bridge Walk to Die Lara Croft and the Guardian of Light Get Home Medal of Honor Super Meat Boy
November Costume Quest Kinect Adventures Kinect Sports Dance Central Call of Duty: Black Ops GoldenEye 007 Kirby’s Epic Yarn Donkey Kong Country Returns The Incident
December Assassin’s Creed: Brotherhood Disney Epic Mickey Red Dead Redemption: Undead Nightmare Costume Quest: Grubbins on Ice BioShock 2: Minerva’s Den Cut The Rope: Holiday Edition NBA Jam Give Up Robot 2
"People are quick to dismiss Dragon Quest because it’s so “generic” — never mind that it’s the series that defined console RPGs in the first place, making it “generic” in the same sense that Super Mario Bros. is just a “normal” platformer."
With a dose of sarcasm and biting insight, Jeremy Parish makes me completely rethink my own assumptions about Dragon Quest.
"Using a book analogy, if a book starts awesome, and then abruptly ends, the response isn’t “I only spent 4 hours reading it!”. It would be “the story wasn’t fully developed, and I felt it ended abruptly.” Similarly, if a book drags on, people don’t say “it was kind of boring, but at least it has a lot of pages in it, so it’s great value.” They say “it dragged on, and I got the message in the first half of the book.” Time spent reading just isn’t mentioned, and indeed, isn’t the point."
BioShock 2 was by no means a bad game, but for long stretches of play—the middle, mainly—it was a very boring thing. There were forgettable environments with no lasting mark, characters whose presence felt mechanically contrived and slightly better combat rendered limp by repetitive Little Sister protection missions in pursuit of more Adam. And this comes from someone who, all told, enjoyed BioShock 2, a game whose narrative end held proper payoff. For Rapture fans, it’s worth playing.
It’s also worth buying—only $19.99 at GameStop, as of last week—for something even better: Minerva’s Den. It’s little surprise the downloadable content’s writer/designer, Steve Gaynor, was picked up by Irrational Games to work on BioShock: Infinite. Minerva’s Den captures the magic of Ken Levin’s original in a way the sequel didn’t, channeling the familiarity of Rapture’s iconic world to spin a tale that’s more emotionally charged than anything in BioShock 2. That’s less of a knock towards BioShock 2 than it’s a compliment to what’s been achieved in Minerva’s Den. It’s impossibly fantastic story grounded in an unreal world, and by the end, you’ve bought in, you’re invested—and touched.
I couldn’t help but start comparing Minerva’s Den to LOST. A broken, manipulative and downright magical paradise filled with wide variety of engorged egos jockeying for power over something they can hardly comprehend. There is a Chosen One, an individual that all others are watching with a close eye—and a knife in their back pocket. The comparison is even more paramount in Minerva’s Den, which may as well reflect a subterranean partnership between Andrew Ryan and the DHARMA corporation. Anyone who knows me can understand why Minerva’s Den would strike a chord.
BioShock’s twist stuck thanks to its simultaneous commentary on the nature of game design and how little say players actually have in the experience. You were shocked because Ryan—Levine—had been playing you like a fiddle all along. You felt betrayal, anger, and probably a pang of respect, too.
There is a twist to Minerva’s Den, one as grand and shocking as the one in BioShock, but one that doesn’t rely on the same parlor trick. Sure, you played a “character” in BioShock, but the story was ultimately the player’s own, altered by their interactions with the Little Sisters. The Little Sisters are present here, but simply as a gameplay mechanic. Minerva’s Den is the tragic story of one Milton Porter, mathematical genius. When the true nature of your mission in Minerva’s Den is revealed, the surprise meant so much more because I could step back and sympathize with the events I’d played a part in. The tragedy of Minerva’s Den is not yours, it is that of Milton Porter and The Thinker.
Something much more subtle is at work, too.
BioShock is a stressful game; Splicers and Big Daddies are always appearing, often from unseen shadows. But when Minerva’s Den transitions to its emotional payoff, the interface quietly disappears, a masterful nod to the player that it’s okay to move a little slower from now on, pull your sweaty fingers off the triggers and pay extra close attention to what’s hanging on this wall or laying on that desk.
I wish I’d played Minerva’s Den earlier. Take-Two should release the story and not require BioShock 2’s disc. Even gamers who consider BioShock 2 blasphemous should seek out Minerva’s Den. If there are no more tales from the murky and treacherous Rapture, Milton Porter’s provides closure.
(That said, I wouldn’t mind a series of Ratpure-set short stories like this. Would you?)
I’m not sure what it is about the Russian accent, but it makes everyone sound like a cartoon villain when pushed through the English language. Compared to native Russian—a brooding, often dangerous sounding tongue—it’s comical. I started playing Metro 2033, a sadly overlooked Ukranian-developed shooter set in a post-apocalyptic Russia overrun by mutated beasts, with English flipped on. That’s the default setting. But then I switched Russian with subtitles—and everything changed.
The option to switch everything to Russian is sometimes mentioned during the loading screens, though it didn’t come up for me. Matthew Burns, former Bungie Studios producer turned poignant games columnist and Shadegrown Games founder, pointed out the ability to swap voices on his Twitter account.v The concept gave me pause. I’d previously rolled my eyes at the idea for Assassin’s Creed II, which also gives players the option to experience everything in Italian. Some friends switched it. I’m not sure why I didn’t think it was a good idea then, except to admit that while I have no problems reading subtitles, I would rather hear dialogue in the language most familiar to me, English. I don’t think that’s unreasonable, though in an ideal world, I’d have a Babel fish to get the best of both.
Metro 2033 provides solid evidence that I was wrong. Given that it was actually developed overseas, fully immersing yourself in the world via language only enhances the experience. Removed from my own aural familiarities, I often have very little idea of what’s going on. The signs are in Russian, the voices are in Russian — heck, the game feels Russian. The game mechanics are my constant, a way to get around the world, and switching the language does introduce some oddities.
One, having never spent an extensive (any?) time listening to Russian at length, I have trouble differentiating between voices. If there are two characters speaking at the same time, I can’t often pick up on the subtle differences between characters, forcing me to spend more time paying attention who is actually talking, instead of relying on the audio cues and pointing the in-game perspective somewhere else (ooh, I wonder if there’s some ammunition over there…).
Two, the subtitles encourage player imagination, even if by accident. See, subtitles only exist in Metro 2033 for story moments, as main characters are speaking to, around or about you. Weapons dealers and side characters in towns speak in nothing but Russian. No subtitles. You can interact with them through a button press, but nothing they say will mean anything to you unless you speak the language. There are a disturbing amount of tattered children strewn about Metro 2033’s world, and I often find myself trying to piece together their roles in this maddening society as I explore further and further.
It stands to reason Metro 2033’s dark, lonely world (unlike the bigger, brighter landscape of Assassin’s Creed II) makes my inability to completely understand the world around me that much more immersive, but as someone who dismissed abandoning my language for a game’s native one, I now see the worth in not exactly knowing what’s going on. Sometimes, you’re better off for it. As the game’s strongest suit is the intoxicating atmosphere of humanity’s tendency to err on the side of destroying one another, total immersion through a different language helps seal the deal.
