jebhappy
Despite the fact that its robotic puzzle game mechanics fundamentally work at odds with the Lifelike world design and organic pacing (not to mention the ludicrous final act), A Plague Tale is so refreshingly humanistic I can't help but laud it as an overall effort. Amicia and the misfits she picks up along her journey to revive her sickened brother, are underdeveloped to a fault; writer, Sebastien Renard too often confuses building empathy for his characters with building sympathy. Also, it can be difficult to determine if the game is supposed to be a proponent of violence or critical towards it (Amicia's religious ethics are clouded by a developmental numbing to cruelty, confusing the game's principles).
But the moments that truly shine arrive whenever these children are faced with immediate danger, and are prompted to consider the chaos of the world outside the walls of their home, as they stare death in the face again and again. "Do we have to walk over them?" the boy, Hugo asks when the siblings are forced to venture across a battlefield littered with countless dead soldiers, a thick sheet of white obscuring the landscape like an ambiguous moral fog of war. "Does it hurt them?"
Few titles are as considerate of death as Asobo Studio's game, proposing existential rumination as an intrinsic process of growing up. The children's illustrious home and family are stripped away, sending them into mid-14th century wild France, where they meet a couple of penniless thieves constantly on the run, a young alchemist whose father is stricken by plague, and the burly, vengeful son of a blacksmith.
These characters are simple archetypes; however, by deconstructing typical fantasy RPG tropes, A Plague Tale examines the imaginative significance of the genre and the medium as a whole. Amicia acts like an heroic adventurer when the gang discover a ruined castle, flushing out the black, carnivorous, diseased rats to make a home out of the looming structure.
In many ways, the plot presents a progressive portrayal of rebirth, often linking alchemy to the role of a phoenix rising from ash. "Be brave, you can do this," each sibling will often say to their self when separated.
One ingenious sequence catalogues the villains' sinister operations as the player sneaks through an extensive gauntlet as wee Hugo, on a quest to free his captured mother. When he enters the chapel, it feels enormous and oppressive, but the game maligns not Christianity as a whole, but the corrupt men manipulating its moralistic practices. Faith is the foundation upon which civilization is erected. A plague has no motive, only heinous men do. The plague has taken lives and turned men into desperate monsters, but the meek shall inherit this ill earth.
But the moments that truly shine arrive whenever these children are faced with immediate danger, and are prompted to consider the chaos of the world outside the walls of their home, as they stare death in the face again and again. "Do we have to walk over them?" the boy, Hugo asks when the siblings are forced to venture across a battlefield littered with countless dead soldiers, a thick sheet of white obscuring the landscape like an ambiguous moral fog of war. "Does it hurt them?"
Few titles are as considerate of death as Asobo Studio's game, proposing existential rumination as an intrinsic process of growing up. The children's illustrious home and family are stripped away, sending them into mid-14th century wild France, where they meet a couple of penniless thieves constantly on the run, a young alchemist whose father is stricken by plague, and the burly, vengeful son of a blacksmith.
These characters are simple archetypes; however, by deconstructing typical fantasy RPG tropes, A Plague Tale examines the imaginative significance of the genre and the medium as a whole. Amicia acts like an heroic adventurer when the gang discover a ruined castle, flushing out the black, carnivorous, diseased rats to make a home out of the looming structure.
In many ways, the plot presents a progressive portrayal of rebirth, often linking alchemy to the role of a phoenix rising from ash. "Be brave, you can do this," each sibling will often say to their self when separated.
One ingenious sequence catalogues the villains' sinister operations as the player sneaks through an extensive gauntlet as wee Hugo, on a quest to free his captured mother. When he enters the chapel, it feels enormous and oppressive, but the game maligns not Christianity as a whole, but the corrupt men manipulating its moralistic practices. Faith is the foundation upon which civilization is erected. A plague has no motive, only heinous men do. The plague has taken lives and turned men into desperate monsters, but the meek shall inherit this ill earth.
2005
EUREKA!
As players grow more and more conditioned to prefer 'realism' in modern games, the medium's full potential as escapist entertainment remains increasingly underwhelmed ever so ardently. Bless Tim Schafer and his Double Fine crew then for delivering one of the most endlessly, consistently creative visual works of the millennium, to prove the enriching, artistic power of the craft.
Psychonauts offers nothing less than the evolution of an entire genre, merging adventure game design with a 3D worldscape, where the human mind offers a multitude of labyrinths to plunge into. The serpentine levels address a stream of consciousness, while the meticulous construction implicates an inherently methodical subconscious.
Child abuse and neglect form the backbone of the plot's engaging metastasis, and artistry becomes an arbiter for literal escape. Yes, in spite of its '1970s summer camp flick' aesthetic, Psychonauts is a grim tale of mental anguish, in which an array of subjects propose a perpetual torment besides their greatest insecurities and misgivings. But aside from dishing out some curse words every so often, the game is most astutely mature in its regard to profound musings on psyche.
While a script's instinct to explain its universe normally undermines natural worldbuilding in any work, here it prompts rumination on the human brain's fantastical properties which distinctly set reality apart from fantasy. Classic adventure game logic translates here through traditional 3D action platformer behaviors. Player abilities become manipulable puzzle items to progress. Symbolic representations of psychical patterns level up the character. Health, currency, and ammo items (infuriatingly) have a mind of their own, as if to portray the mind's animated status, constantly whirling like cogs in a machine.
As the Clairvoyance perk humorously suggests, we all see the world and our neighbors differently; logic is molded by subjective perception. Indeed, this mythical venture through chaotic suburbs in the sky, mental battlefields, monstrous underwater pursuits, and even monster movie homage is infused with a healthy dose of reality. One cunning sequence follows the bold, inquisitive Raz into the operatic mind of a retired stage actress, whose subconscious has been littered by self-criticism and childhood trauma as enacted like cheap theater starring a stilted subject of sunny energy. The villainous critic represents any artist's greatest nightmare: their own sense of failure directed back at them from the inside and out.
Raz might as well be named Alice, as he tumbles down rabbit hole after rabbit hole on a crusade for personal overcoming and righteous justice-serving. Double Fine's mischievous item quests have arguably never fit more in line with a crafted universe than here -- paintings grow into traversable vines, stop signs and rolling pins provide comically unconvincing disguises, tags rekindle pent-up emotional baggage. Indeed, this endless tea party is as mad as a hatter; a slyly psychosexual romp (Raz's parental disdain implicates an ingrained prejudice towards the non-conformative) amidst lunatics and everyday people just trying to overcome their apprehensions and misgivings.
The game's glorious sense of humor is most portentiously rooted in an increasing social numbing of the mind by the consequences of media overconsumption, illustrated with poignancy as a brainless child repeatedly demands: "TV." An ironic notion given the screen's potential for artistic creation, and nonetheless a parallel conceptualization of media's prescribed rabbit holes we plunge ourselves into time and again.
Psychonauts defies typical genre musings to ruminate on the various everyday existential squabbles we endlessly endure, that which form our perceptions of time and space and identity. It posits rehabilitation through empathic understanding. It's a psychological horror comedy unlike any other.
As players grow more and more conditioned to prefer 'realism' in modern games, the medium's full potential as escapist entertainment remains increasingly underwhelmed ever so ardently. Bless Tim Schafer and his Double Fine crew then for delivering one of the most endlessly, consistently creative visual works of the millennium, to prove the enriching, artistic power of the craft.
Psychonauts offers nothing less than the evolution of an entire genre, merging adventure game design with a 3D worldscape, where the human mind offers a multitude of labyrinths to plunge into. The serpentine levels address a stream of consciousness, while the meticulous construction implicates an inherently methodical subconscious.
Child abuse and neglect form the backbone of the plot's engaging metastasis, and artistry becomes an arbiter for literal escape. Yes, in spite of its '1970s summer camp flick' aesthetic, Psychonauts is a grim tale of mental anguish, in which an array of subjects propose a perpetual torment besides their greatest insecurities and misgivings. But aside from dishing out some curse words every so often, the game is most astutely mature in its regard to profound musings on psyche.
While a script's instinct to explain its universe normally undermines natural worldbuilding in any work, here it prompts rumination on the human brain's fantastical properties which distinctly set reality apart from fantasy. Classic adventure game logic translates here through traditional 3D action platformer behaviors. Player abilities become manipulable puzzle items to progress. Symbolic representations of psychical patterns level up the character. Health, currency, and ammo items (infuriatingly) have a mind of their own, as if to portray the mind's animated status, constantly whirling like cogs in a machine.
As the Clairvoyance perk humorously suggests, we all see the world and our neighbors differently; logic is molded by subjective perception. Indeed, this mythical venture through chaotic suburbs in the sky, mental battlefields, monstrous underwater pursuits, and even monster movie homage is infused with a healthy dose of reality. One cunning sequence follows the bold, inquisitive Raz into the operatic mind of a retired stage actress, whose subconscious has been littered by self-criticism and childhood trauma as enacted like cheap theater starring a stilted subject of sunny energy. The villainous critic represents any artist's greatest nightmare: their own sense of failure directed back at them from the inside and out.
Raz might as well be named Alice, as he tumbles down rabbit hole after rabbit hole on a crusade for personal overcoming and righteous justice-serving. Double Fine's mischievous item quests have arguably never fit more in line with a crafted universe than here -- paintings grow into traversable vines, stop signs and rolling pins provide comically unconvincing disguises, tags rekindle pent-up emotional baggage. Indeed, this endless tea party is as mad as a hatter; a slyly psychosexual romp (Raz's parental disdain implicates an ingrained prejudice towards the non-conformative) amidst lunatics and everyday people just trying to overcome their apprehensions and misgivings.
The game's glorious sense of humor is most portentiously rooted in an increasing social numbing of the mind by the consequences of media overconsumption, illustrated with poignancy as a brainless child repeatedly demands: "TV." An ironic notion given the screen's potential for artistic creation, and nonetheless a parallel conceptualization of media's prescribed rabbit holes we plunge ourselves into time and again.
Psychonauts defies typical genre musings to ruminate on the various everyday existential squabbles we endlessly endure, that which form our perceptions of time and space and identity. It posits rehabilitation through empathic understanding. It's a psychological horror comedy unlike any other.
2002
EUREKA!
A remake broad in its intentions; equal parts camp absurdity and intensely perturbed. Yet the sophistication is resoundingly clear. The original title's brilliant, groundbreaking acceleration of adventure game systems is copy/pasted here and matched against a far more esoteric, lively setting than the PS1 could ever allow. Spencer Mansion is a timeless icon of enigmatic storytelling in games, positing isolated madness at the hands of a quirky architect clearly obsessed with puzzles and enabled by a rich fortune.
The nonlinear progression correlates perfectly with the labyrinthine environs, where Barry and Rebecca are wont to show up out of the blue to promote narrative development. Sure as shit, they don't make 'em like they used to. Resident Evil revels in its apocalyptic vision, in an era where survival horror meant more than just point and shoot and jumpscare.
Some scenarios are a bit too ambitious for the sake of player understanding, maybe especially one involving a dreadful timer and a zombie shark. And the final encounter is an anticlimactic letdown. Nonetheless, the game is a hodgepodge of immediately memorable concurrences, each as unique as the numerous doors the player steps through on their way down the rabbit hole. From the classical architecture of the main mansion, to the backwoods area surrounding beyond, to the giant-spider infested halfway home, to the dreadful underground laboratory; a constant sense of desolation prevails, as though every possible sign of Life has suddenly disappeared off the face of the earth, replaced by the festering undead and a wondrously animated setting implicating lived-in space now abandoned.
Time has been entirely impeded. Spencer Mansion rests within a purgatorial realm which could only sincerely apply to the video game medium, moreso even than film, for progression lies entirely in the hands of the player. The ancient and the state-of-the-art collide in a fit of barren, somber eternity; the past and future forging an everlasting now.
The warm glow of the save room offers a false salvation, akin to the bonfires placed throughout Dark Souls. Lecherous monsters suggest malformed technological pursuits, leading the world into death and chaos. Subtle capitalistic criticisms edge their way into the underlying events, where corporations exploit their consumers and workers alike for the sake of experimentation and profit, and work with governments to cover up detrimental failures.
This is all to say that Resident Evil is an essential work, as influential on games as it is on media in general -- often one's first thought regarding pharmaceutical controversy recalls the Umbrella moniker. And this transformative remake is proof of the medium's capabilities in pushing forward the envelope, the more advanced the technology grows (how ironic).
Imposing darkness and menacingly funereal aesthetics, performing alongside a bevy of intimidating creatures -- particularly one of which literally evolves the dim-witted zombies into elemental threats to reign amidst the cavernous hallways. The fixed camera angles and tank controls will forever remain an essential component of these early entries' composition, proposing claustrophobic fear to humble the tactical postures of these mercenaries. Every aspect of Resident Evil's design, simply put, works. To instill dread, to promote cautionary movement, to harbor a sense of capability in spite of the looming unknown lying in wait.
A remake broad in its intentions; equal parts camp absurdity and intensely perturbed. Yet the sophistication is resoundingly clear. The original title's brilliant, groundbreaking acceleration of adventure game systems is copy/pasted here and matched against a far more esoteric, lively setting than the PS1 could ever allow. Spencer Mansion is a timeless icon of enigmatic storytelling in games, positing isolated madness at the hands of a quirky architect clearly obsessed with puzzles and enabled by a rich fortune.
The nonlinear progression correlates perfectly with the labyrinthine environs, where Barry and Rebecca are wont to show up out of the blue to promote narrative development. Sure as shit, they don't make 'em like they used to. Resident Evil revels in its apocalyptic vision, in an era where survival horror meant more than just point and shoot and jumpscare.
Some scenarios are a bit too ambitious for the sake of player understanding, maybe especially one involving a dreadful timer and a zombie shark. And the final encounter is an anticlimactic letdown. Nonetheless, the game is a hodgepodge of immediately memorable concurrences, each as unique as the numerous doors the player steps through on their way down the rabbit hole. From the classical architecture of the main mansion, to the backwoods area surrounding beyond, to the giant-spider infested halfway home, to the dreadful underground laboratory; a constant sense of desolation prevails, as though every possible sign of Life has suddenly disappeared off the face of the earth, replaced by the festering undead and a wondrously animated setting implicating lived-in space now abandoned.
Time has been entirely impeded. Spencer Mansion rests within a purgatorial realm which could only sincerely apply to the video game medium, moreso even than film, for progression lies entirely in the hands of the player. The ancient and the state-of-the-art collide in a fit of barren, somber eternity; the past and future forging an everlasting now.
The warm glow of the save room offers a false salvation, akin to the bonfires placed throughout Dark Souls. Lecherous monsters suggest malformed technological pursuits, leading the world into death and chaos. Subtle capitalistic criticisms edge their way into the underlying events, where corporations exploit their consumers and workers alike for the sake of experimentation and profit, and work with governments to cover up detrimental failures.
This is all to say that Resident Evil is an essential work, as influential on games as it is on media in general -- often one's first thought regarding pharmaceutical controversy recalls the Umbrella moniker. And this transformative remake is proof of the medium's capabilities in pushing forward the envelope, the more advanced the technology grows (how ironic).
Imposing darkness and menacingly funereal aesthetics, performing alongside a bevy of intimidating creatures -- particularly one of which literally evolves the dim-witted zombies into elemental threats to reign amidst the cavernous hallways. The fixed camera angles and tank controls will forever remain an essential component of these early entries' composition, proposing claustrophobic fear to humble the tactical postures of these mercenaries. Every aspect of Resident Evil's design, simply put, works. To instill dread, to promote cautionary movement, to harbor a sense of capability in spite of the looming unknown lying in wait.
With its cacophonous city street designs and bold vibrant greens and reds, Resident Evil 3: Nemesis is arguably the series' most plainly beautiful release. The claustrophobic, labyrinthine alleyways and avenues are clearly spawned from the minds of Japanese developers, and offer this American-set apocalypse a dream-like atmosphere to buoy the action elements and exciting horror fodder. Alongside the artistic vision, this scenario also habitually imbues the subtext with a sort of nationalist retort to pride; a significant American city on the eve of doomsday, a clocktower counting down the seconds till mass destruction, in the wake of a particularly capitalistic failure.
The zombies have never looked better up until this game, as they're reactive to combat and have a striking sense of physicality, as opposed to the target practice enemies which came before. Indeed, Nemesis pushes the PSX's technical capabilities to the edge, and each map, each room, each frame is a delight to the senses beside the delectable carnage.
The central gimmick here arrives in the form of the titular beast: an experiment in genetic warfare, created to destroy truth-seekers and cover up the inimitable Umbrella Corporation's vile, exploitative operations. Nemesis is prone to appear at any given moment, especially as the player progresses through the game, and depending on the difficulty setting can prove a formidable foe.
The recent Resident Evil 2 Remake's Mr. X doesn't hold a candle to this opponent, mainly due to level design working in favor of the rules governing Nemesis. Each door leads to a new area separated from the next, so being chased through a gauntlet of doorways and fixed cameras (not to mention puzzles) restrains perspective and limits adaptability. Mr. X can be vanquished and made a fool; Nemesis, aside from triggered cutscenes, is always an oppressive threat. It is a testament to the lasting power of old-school survival horror game design; if you're low on ammo, better get running.
A proper sequel, Nemesis builds on the core gameplay strengths of its predecessors without succumbing to fatigue. If Resident Evil 4 never happened, one might only guess as to the prospective future-present of tank controls and tactical combat, especially given how successfully RE3 builds layers over its series roots, like a thick coat of luscious, bloody paint. The story's conclusion is morbid and deceptively victorious, as Jill flies off into the sunset, leaving behind a ruptured piece of America left smoldering in flames, brought to ruin by its own hands. Citizens sacrificed for the sake of national security. There just polygons on a screen after all, right?
The zombies have never looked better up until this game, as they're reactive to combat and have a striking sense of physicality, as opposed to the target practice enemies which came before. Indeed, Nemesis pushes the PSX's technical capabilities to the edge, and each map, each room, each frame is a delight to the senses beside the delectable carnage.
The central gimmick here arrives in the form of the titular beast: an experiment in genetic warfare, created to destroy truth-seekers and cover up the inimitable Umbrella Corporation's vile, exploitative operations. Nemesis is prone to appear at any given moment, especially as the player progresses through the game, and depending on the difficulty setting can prove a formidable foe.
The recent Resident Evil 2 Remake's Mr. X doesn't hold a candle to this opponent, mainly due to level design working in favor of the rules governing Nemesis. Each door leads to a new area separated from the next, so being chased through a gauntlet of doorways and fixed cameras (not to mention puzzles) restrains perspective and limits adaptability. Mr. X can be vanquished and made a fool; Nemesis, aside from triggered cutscenes, is always an oppressive threat. It is a testament to the lasting power of old-school survival horror game design; if you're low on ammo, better get running.
A proper sequel, Nemesis builds on the core gameplay strengths of its predecessors without succumbing to fatigue. If Resident Evil 4 never happened, one might only guess as to the prospective future-present of tank controls and tactical combat, especially given how successfully RE3 builds layers over its series roots, like a thick coat of luscious, bloody paint. The story's conclusion is morbid and deceptively victorious, as Jill flies off into the sunset, leaving behind a ruptured piece of America left smoldering in flames, brought to ruin by its own hands. Citizens sacrificed for the sake of national security. There just polygons on a screen after all, right?
2018
EUREKA!
Authorship is a loaded subject. If one is to view a game developer as a sort of 'god' who forges landscapes from their worldly vision and linear pathways to guide stories, then Iconoclasts serves a grand dissection of the blurred line separating myth from reality. Faith and science collide in a bout of political urgency. Turmoil becomes allegorical, until its gargantuan, sublime image proves a reckoning of purpose.
Personal strife corresponds with mechanical restoration; a wrench becomes a weapon for the good of mankind. Destruction is inherently a constructive act, and tools are used to turn objects and apparatuses into new, advanced, manmade inventions. Revolution and defiance provide the cornerstones of progressive civilization, and faith unites people through collective understanding. A singular purpose.
"Perhaps we create our own purpose." As the player guides the heroine through her linear venture towards answers, faith is inherently placed in the game's maker to provide those answers sought, as well as reward for their trials, and entertainment overall. "You've come a long way, child. You followed your linear path and it led you here." Is fate ordained by the gods? Or perhaps by a presumed generational destiny subsequently written and passed down by each new limb of a family tree?
Chrome is a wicked soldier, and a fascinating villain, determined to forge unity even through the most didactic and fascist of methods. As a leader, he quietly rejects insubordination, all while understanding compliance as a natural human trait when faced with great existential ordeals.
"They see something above them and reach for it. If they catch it, they look up once more." A supposed terror pervades all throughout Joakim Sandberg's game, that one's ordained beliefs very likely may not turn out to be true. But this fear is only spread to those who refute dissimilar viewpoints, and use oppressive tactics to silence opposition.
The earthen powers Robin faces against are mortal threats equally tactical and imposing as her own capabilities allow for herself. Indeed, few Metroidvania titles present such an impressively consistent array of enemies and boss fights to overcome; and each encounter carries with it an affirmative sense of redemptive conflict. For the sake of personal victory, and thus self-improvement.
Fixing problems in Iconoclasts dons a whole new meaning when interpreted through the lens of demolition; in other words, as the Oxford Dictionary defines "iconoclasm," "the action of attacking or assertively rejecting cherished beliefs and institutions or established values and practices." "Iconoclasm" may also be described as heretical, to suggest atheism or agnosticism, or traitorous reasoning, or simply disagreement. Disagreement is a fundamental motif driving the manic storytelling in Iconoclasts, which ultimately leads towards immolation on a widespread scale. Two robins meet, and clash in conflict, as He watches from above, another victim of martyrdom. Sunflowers always look towards the sun, and nature reclaims its beloved home. Through selfless aspiration, through communal understanding and growth, through fruitful destruction, an electrical current breathes progressive, technological Life back into the human endeavor, and sanctity is rekindled. A sacrifice, an embrace, and finally acceptance.
The ironic 2D sidescrolling canvas offers a deliberately opaque sense of left or right, this or that, right or wrong; but the game's storytelling refutes simplistic morals which its contemporary ilk so often adopt. The silent protagonist trope is used here to effectively emphasize a notion of a predestined channel guiding us wordlessly, presuming a moral grey area by acknowledging the absence of choice in game design. Robin is a character, first and foremost -- unlike the ironic protagonist in Undertale -- but her viewpoint is appropriately dictated by the player's own responses.
Players save their game through prayer, illustrating videogames as a determinedly spiritual undertaking where established rules provide tools for liberating, escapist reward. Freedom through order; achievement through struggle. By subverting indie credibility through genuinely evocative design and calm, brazen philosophizing, Iconoclasts proves the storytelling relevance of its entire medium. A love letter to old-school game development becomes a righteous ode to human endurance and the pursuit of higher purpose. A beautiful, poignant, necessary venture for our godless times.
Authorship is a loaded subject. If one is to view a game developer as a sort of 'god' who forges landscapes from their worldly vision and linear pathways to guide stories, then Iconoclasts serves a grand dissection of the blurred line separating myth from reality. Faith and science collide in a bout of political urgency. Turmoil becomes allegorical, until its gargantuan, sublime image proves a reckoning of purpose.
Personal strife corresponds with mechanical restoration; a wrench becomes a weapon for the good of mankind. Destruction is inherently a constructive act, and tools are used to turn objects and apparatuses into new, advanced, manmade inventions. Revolution and defiance provide the cornerstones of progressive civilization, and faith unites people through collective understanding. A singular purpose.
"Perhaps we create our own purpose." As the player guides the heroine through her linear venture towards answers, faith is inherently placed in the game's maker to provide those answers sought, as well as reward for their trials, and entertainment overall. "You've come a long way, child. You followed your linear path and it led you here." Is fate ordained by the gods? Or perhaps by a presumed generational destiny subsequently written and passed down by each new limb of a family tree?
Chrome is a wicked soldier, and a fascinating villain, determined to forge unity even through the most didactic and fascist of methods. As a leader, he quietly rejects insubordination, all while understanding compliance as a natural human trait when faced with great existential ordeals.
"They see something above them and reach for it. If they catch it, they look up once more." A supposed terror pervades all throughout Joakim Sandberg's game, that one's ordained beliefs very likely may not turn out to be true. But this fear is only spread to those who refute dissimilar viewpoints, and use oppressive tactics to silence opposition.
The earthen powers Robin faces against are mortal threats equally tactical and imposing as her own capabilities allow for herself. Indeed, few Metroidvania titles present such an impressively consistent array of enemies and boss fights to overcome; and each encounter carries with it an affirmative sense of redemptive conflict. For the sake of personal victory, and thus self-improvement.
Fixing problems in Iconoclasts dons a whole new meaning when interpreted through the lens of demolition; in other words, as the Oxford Dictionary defines "iconoclasm," "the action of attacking or assertively rejecting cherished beliefs and institutions or established values and practices." "Iconoclasm" may also be described as heretical, to suggest atheism or agnosticism, or traitorous reasoning, or simply disagreement. Disagreement is a fundamental motif driving the manic storytelling in Iconoclasts, which ultimately leads towards immolation on a widespread scale. Two robins meet, and clash in conflict, as He watches from above, another victim of martyrdom. Sunflowers always look towards the sun, and nature reclaims its beloved home. Through selfless aspiration, through communal understanding and growth, through fruitful destruction, an electrical current breathes progressive, technological Life back into the human endeavor, and sanctity is rekindled. A sacrifice, an embrace, and finally acceptance.
The ironic 2D sidescrolling canvas offers a deliberately opaque sense of left or right, this or that, right or wrong; but the game's storytelling refutes simplistic morals which its contemporary ilk so often adopt. The silent protagonist trope is used here to effectively emphasize a notion of a predestined channel guiding us wordlessly, presuming a moral grey area by acknowledging the absence of choice in game design. Robin is a character, first and foremost -- unlike the ironic protagonist in Undertale -- but her viewpoint is appropriately dictated by the player's own responses.
Players save their game through prayer, illustrating videogames as a determinedly spiritual undertaking where established rules provide tools for liberating, escapist reward. Freedom through order; achievement through struggle. By subverting indie credibility through genuinely evocative design and calm, brazen philosophizing, Iconoclasts proves the storytelling relevance of its entire medium. A love letter to old-school game development becomes a righteous ode to human endurance and the pursuit of higher purpose. A beautiful, poignant, necessary venture for our godless times.
2020
As I've written about before, the AAA industry has a problem with archival. Particularly Sony whose rash decision to shut down the PS Store on PS3 and Vita early this year (which they've fortunately since backpedaled on) indicates an increasing disregard for classic releases and franchises, deeming them archaic and insignificant. Capcom's recent remakes of their beloved Resident Evil sequels further emphasizes this unnecessary drive to replace games of old with new shiny products, no matter how the product turns out.
And boy does Resident Evil 3 turn out. Gone are the gorgeous, illusory Raccoon City streets and alleyways, the cacophonous mess of textures and colors which simultaneously confound and entice. And gone is the enduring Nemesis, replaced with a hulking setpiece gimmick who only appears to add some flair to the otherwise trivial, frustratingly linear gameplay.
The Resident Evil series once intimidated players with its multi-layered adventure-style design, luring them in with tactical action and subduing them with engaging back-and-forth puzzles. In REmake 3, Jill runs around a miniature map, shooting the same zombies and grabbing superfluous items to place in other specific areas, before moving along to the next forced interaction with Carlos and company. Never before has a main entry in this series felt so redundant, and the idea that this remake is intended to essentially replace the terrifically beautiful original is insulting.
By the halfway point, the developers have all but checked out, stringing the player along a distinctly devised route from point A to B with little to nothing keeping them engaged. This is survival horror for Call of Duty addicts; a mindless exercise in gunplay prettied up by some admittedly gorgeous environments and satisfying action against a few interesting enemy designs. But even the morbid hospital scene feels devoid of character, when it should serve a hauntingly prescient portrait to mirror our post-COVID era.
Often the remake functions like the antithesis to its predecessor. Elaborate and iconic settings like the clocktower level and the giant worm boss fight are absent. Every scene frankly seems to only be included for the sake of filling in time before the next uninspired Nemesis -- more like Nemesus -- encounter. It's a horror game devoid of spooks, and an action game devoid of excitement; proof Capcom likely have no clue what makes their original property so immortal.
Mikhail presents one of the most unenthusiastic villains in games history. As Jill's final monologue concludes, greed is the true enemy which has undone an entire city; but the utter lack of a logical antagonistic entity proves this message fruitless. Mikhail never seems to have any clear motivation besides selfishness; even COVID deniers and anti-vaxxers have a (false) cause to defend.
In the original RE3, Nemesis connoted rape and stalker culture, as it relentlessly pursued a lone woman amidst dark city streets where law has all but dissipated. In the remake, Nemesus is nothing but a trite bundle of polygons, exponentially expanding throughout, until a final underwhelming confrontation proves Capcom have pretty much run out of tricks. "Bitch can't swim," just about sums this mess up.
https://pig.gg/the-games-industry-has-a-preservation-problem/
And boy does Resident Evil 3 turn out. Gone are the gorgeous, illusory Raccoon City streets and alleyways, the cacophonous mess of textures and colors which simultaneously confound and entice. And gone is the enduring Nemesis, replaced with a hulking setpiece gimmick who only appears to add some flair to the otherwise trivial, frustratingly linear gameplay.
The Resident Evil series once intimidated players with its multi-layered adventure-style design, luring them in with tactical action and subduing them with engaging back-and-forth puzzles. In REmake 3, Jill runs around a miniature map, shooting the same zombies and grabbing superfluous items to place in other specific areas, before moving along to the next forced interaction with Carlos and company. Never before has a main entry in this series felt so redundant, and the idea that this remake is intended to essentially replace the terrifically beautiful original is insulting.
By the halfway point, the developers have all but checked out, stringing the player along a distinctly devised route from point A to B with little to nothing keeping them engaged. This is survival horror for Call of Duty addicts; a mindless exercise in gunplay prettied up by some admittedly gorgeous environments and satisfying action against a few interesting enemy designs. But even the morbid hospital scene feels devoid of character, when it should serve a hauntingly prescient portrait to mirror our post-COVID era.
Often the remake functions like the antithesis to its predecessor. Elaborate and iconic settings like the clocktower level and the giant worm boss fight are absent. Every scene frankly seems to only be included for the sake of filling in time before the next uninspired Nemesis -- more like Nemesus -- encounter. It's a horror game devoid of spooks, and an action game devoid of excitement; proof Capcom likely have no clue what makes their original property so immortal.
Mikhail presents one of the most unenthusiastic villains in games history. As Jill's final monologue concludes, greed is the true enemy which has undone an entire city; but the utter lack of a logical antagonistic entity proves this message fruitless. Mikhail never seems to have any clear motivation besides selfishness; even COVID deniers and anti-vaxxers have a (false) cause to defend.
In the original RE3, Nemesis connoted rape and stalker culture, as it relentlessly pursued a lone woman amidst dark city streets where law has all but dissipated. In the remake, Nemesus is nothing but a trite bundle of polygons, exponentially expanding throughout, until a final underwhelming confrontation proves Capcom have pretty much run out of tricks. "Bitch can't swim," just about sums this mess up.
https://pig.gg/the-games-industry-has-a-preservation-problem/
It's a game about nothing. A clever joke aimed at the medium as a whole, much the way the show was aimed at sitcoms, embracing tropes with a cynical twist. For that, it's actually a fairly accurate computer game adaptation, and the Unity engine allows for the abject ludicrousness to shine. It's a good joke, and I wish there was more. PS: Line cutters are, indeed, awful dates.
This review contains spoilers
EUREKA!
Sly, Bentley, and Murray present three parts to a whole -- the ego, the superego, and the id; but more emotionally speaking, they forge a brotherhood based in honor and commitment. Sly's pursuit of the riches of his past, his legacy wrought in gold, pertains to his personal quest for identity.
The three are a close-knit family, which has been established ever since the first game introduced them as orphanage pals-- abandoned children from far different backgrounds who find stability in each other's company and their shared exploits. Thievery compels their wits and passion for action (and our own), and offers the protagonist an ethnic identification for him to latch onto. Sly 3 rises above typical sequel obligation by offering solace and development through redemptive episodes.
Familiar series baddies like Dimitri and Panda King are recruited to the Cooper Gang, and even the exhibitionist Baron turns out to be brainy Penelope hiding behind a dastardly facade. Panda King's episode especially considers the very significant act of self-actuated renewal, particularly during one scene where he has an internal monologue with his reflection, in a rousing display of autonomous emotional consolidation. It is wildly ambitious writing for a game aimed for younger audiences, with a wonderful lesson on the importance of enacting personal growth. Growth is a choice governed by one's emotive maturation.
Carmelita as well eventually comes around to acknowledging Sly's inherent goodness, despite his criminal activities, because ultimately his team's ventures prove a morally sound expedition into ancestral discovery. Love lights the way forward towards cooperation and unity-- Sly 3 presents a refutation of division in a world full of strife.
These thieves take down the egotists who give thieving and sleuthing a bad name. They are ethically-disinclined protectors of the world they inhabit, whether relieving the poisoned waters of Venice, clearing out a company of miners from the Australian outback, or thwarting a malicious Chinese emperor's forced marriage plot. Don Octavio, General Tsao, Dr. M, these nefarious villains each represent a cruel, imperious narcissism, which Sly and the gang offer a karmic retort to; and the gameplay (which revolves around carrying out cunning schemes with grand, fulfilling realisation) fittingly corresponds.
Dr. M deems himself the mirror image to Sly's selfless crusade, going so far as to implicate Bentley by comparing them to each other. But Bentley perceives his friend's loving companionship and exposes the antagonist's insecurity. There is a real beauty to the game's progression as new playable characters are introduced, meaning new abilities are unlocked for new interactive playstyles, conditioning this developing team as a singular unit, glued together by the player's input.
One could talk for hours about the game's endless variety of settings and playstyles. The fifth chapter, Dead Men Tell No Tales certainly comes across as ahead-of-its-time (would Assassin's Creed: Black Flag exist without this game??). Though, for as -- surprisingly -- intelligently the script considers its characters, it's a shame Penelope only ever serves as a token female character in a plot dominated by male-centric invention. She's either a brainless love interest or a damsel in distress for most of the cutscenes, unfortunately.
Regardless, Sucker Punch have once again succeeded in melding the weighty action adventure of Saturday morning cartoons with a visual style that suggests a vibrant comic book in motion. For as playful the design is, the writing beautifully grounds this story of anthropomorphic animals seeking out their most ideal selves. Sly 3 commends honor in the face of authoritative greed, making it one of the most sophisticated and inspiring children's games ever conceived.
Sly, Bentley, and Murray present three parts to a whole -- the ego, the superego, and the id; but more emotionally speaking, they forge a brotherhood based in honor and commitment. Sly's pursuit of the riches of his past, his legacy wrought in gold, pertains to his personal quest for identity.
The three are a close-knit family, which has been established ever since the first game introduced them as orphanage pals-- abandoned children from far different backgrounds who find stability in each other's company and their shared exploits. Thievery compels their wits and passion for action (and our own), and offers the protagonist an ethnic identification for him to latch onto. Sly 3 rises above typical sequel obligation by offering solace and development through redemptive episodes.
Familiar series baddies like Dimitri and Panda King are recruited to the Cooper Gang, and even the exhibitionist Baron turns out to be brainy Penelope hiding behind a dastardly facade. Panda King's episode especially considers the very significant act of self-actuated renewal, particularly during one scene where he has an internal monologue with his reflection, in a rousing display of autonomous emotional consolidation. It is wildly ambitious writing for a game aimed for younger audiences, with a wonderful lesson on the importance of enacting personal growth. Growth is a choice governed by one's emotive maturation.
Carmelita as well eventually comes around to acknowledging Sly's inherent goodness, despite his criminal activities, because ultimately his team's ventures prove a morally sound expedition into ancestral discovery. Love lights the way forward towards cooperation and unity-- Sly 3 presents a refutation of division in a world full of strife.
These thieves take down the egotists who give thieving and sleuthing a bad name. They are ethically-disinclined protectors of the world they inhabit, whether relieving the poisoned waters of Venice, clearing out a company of miners from the Australian outback, or thwarting a malicious Chinese emperor's forced marriage plot. Don Octavio, General Tsao, Dr. M, these nefarious villains each represent a cruel, imperious narcissism, which Sly and the gang offer a karmic retort to; and the gameplay (which revolves around carrying out cunning schemes with grand, fulfilling realisation) fittingly corresponds.
Dr. M deems himself the mirror image to Sly's selfless crusade, going so far as to implicate Bentley by comparing them to each other. But Bentley perceives his friend's loving companionship and exposes the antagonist's insecurity. There is a real beauty to the game's progression as new playable characters are introduced, meaning new abilities are unlocked for new interactive playstyles, conditioning this developing team as a singular unit, glued together by the player's input.
One could talk for hours about the game's endless variety of settings and playstyles. The fifth chapter, Dead Men Tell No Tales certainly comes across as ahead-of-its-time (would Assassin's Creed: Black Flag exist without this game??). Though, for as -- surprisingly -- intelligently the script considers its characters, it's a shame Penelope only ever serves as a token female character in a plot dominated by male-centric invention. She's either a brainless love interest or a damsel in distress for most of the cutscenes, unfortunately.
Regardless, Sucker Punch have once again succeeded in melding the weighty action adventure of Saturday morning cartoons with a visual style that suggests a vibrant comic book in motion. For as playful the design is, the writing beautifully grounds this story of anthropomorphic animals seeking out their most ideal selves. Sly 3 commends honor in the face of authoritative greed, making it one of the most sophisticated and inspiring children's games ever conceived.
2015
Sylvio is a rare supernatural title which understands the significant connection between a place and the spirits which haunt it. A devilishly unique FPS, developer, Stroboskop’s paranormal investigation sim meshes amateur entrepreneurial work with ASMR-inspired terrors, transforming repetitive tasks into a sort of ritual for communicating with the rather restless dead. Scouring tapes — rewinding, playing them backwards, slowing down or speeding them up — is an enthralling and fittingly unnerving experience all on its own. However, perhaps what is most frightening is Sylvio’s assurance that these figments seem tied to the locations where they died, as though trapped by the circumstances of their deaths in an eternal fog of dissatisfaction. Death, as Sylvio appears to argue, is never as peaceful as we hope it to be.
2017
Arguably, the greatest horror works prefer to suggest rather than directly show. Little Nightmares can often be a mostly effective genre effort on the surface, for the way it suggests both creeping terrors and sly means of progression. Pianos dangle suspended by rope above miniature libraries; the sound of knives scraping against each other resounds from the kitchen a few rooms away; paltry childlike figures, similar to the protagonist, stand petrified within the sightline of an intimidating eye set in the wall of a prison.
These indications both instill an ambiguous dread within the miniscule player, as well as prime them to think quickly to outrun the danger. The game wastes no time with turorializing, prompting the inquisitive player to figure out the control scheme on their own, presenting an escalating array of maneuvers to enact through the early segment, simultaneously building atmosphere with macabre slow burn and preparing one's reflexes.
Quickly, however, the intrigue begins to lose steam. The immediate fail states often dissolve the tension during the game's most exciting moments, especially when the solutions to progress are sometimes a bit too unclear; and long loading times further plant a nail in the coffin. This points out a significant contradictory issue with most of these similarly cinematic, two-dimensional platformers starring children in oppressively bleak circumstances (post-Limbo sims, let's call them); an issue with a number of AAA prestige games, as well.
An attempt at offering both an accessible game and an experiential venture causes a swaying effect, not unlike the way in which the camera in Little Nightmares tilts back and forth like it were set aboard a massive ship at sea. Yes, the game creates a dreamscape out of dark shadows (and thus bright lights) and constant motion, not unlike a Lynch film, and preserves its location within the realm of the intangible.
But the traditional gameplay scenarios create a logic when there should be ceaseless surreality. The evocative monster designs and idiosyncratic spin on everyday settings sure look the part, but the menace is undermined by the rote gameplay scenarios, not strengthened. Perhaps worst of all, in its attempts at demonizing overconsumption, the creature designs inadvertently come off as fatphobic.
It's easy to fall for its occasional frightening tricks, like when long arms reach around corners like spider's legs at the player, or a chamber whelmed with shoes implies a long history of abuse. But most of the tension-building is centered around sneaking past unsuspecting mutant figures with little to no imagination in the actual doing (the kitchen sequence is a simple gauntlet based around avoiding eyesight; Ratatouille is more imaginatively intense).
Tarsier Studios' game looks the look but can't walk the walk -- save for a genuinely brilliant final act that subverts expectations with sparse, vacuous terror (the game is probably worth playing for this alone). In spite of its efforts, Little Nightmares just isn't nightmarish enough.
These indications both instill an ambiguous dread within the miniscule player, as well as prime them to think quickly to outrun the danger. The game wastes no time with turorializing, prompting the inquisitive player to figure out the control scheme on their own, presenting an escalating array of maneuvers to enact through the early segment, simultaneously building atmosphere with macabre slow burn and preparing one's reflexes.
Quickly, however, the intrigue begins to lose steam. The immediate fail states often dissolve the tension during the game's most exciting moments, especially when the solutions to progress are sometimes a bit too unclear; and long loading times further plant a nail in the coffin. This points out a significant contradictory issue with most of these similarly cinematic, two-dimensional platformers starring children in oppressively bleak circumstances (post-Limbo sims, let's call them); an issue with a number of AAA prestige games, as well.
An attempt at offering both an accessible game and an experiential venture causes a swaying effect, not unlike the way in which the camera in Little Nightmares tilts back and forth like it were set aboard a massive ship at sea. Yes, the game creates a dreamscape out of dark shadows (and thus bright lights) and constant motion, not unlike a Lynch film, and preserves its location within the realm of the intangible.
But the traditional gameplay scenarios create a logic when there should be ceaseless surreality. The evocative monster designs and idiosyncratic spin on everyday settings sure look the part, but the menace is undermined by the rote gameplay scenarios, not strengthened. Perhaps worst of all, in its attempts at demonizing overconsumption, the creature designs inadvertently come off as fatphobic.
It's easy to fall for its occasional frightening tricks, like when long arms reach around corners like spider's legs at the player, or a chamber whelmed with shoes implies a long history of abuse. But most of the tension-building is centered around sneaking past unsuspecting mutant figures with little to no imagination in the actual doing (the kitchen sequence is a simple gauntlet based around avoiding eyesight; Ratatouille is more imaginatively intense).
Tarsier Studios' game looks the look but can't walk the walk -- save for a genuinely brilliant final act that subverts expectations with sparse, vacuous terror (the game is probably worth playing for this alone). In spite of its efforts, Little Nightmares just isn't nightmarish enough.
This review contains spoilers
The international arms race has reached beyond the stars. Galaxies are in constant battle for no other reason besides an almost primeval incentive to destroy and conquer. Ratchet & Clank: Going Commando is primarily a satire on the military-industry complex that began gradually subsuming all of America's foreign affairs back in the early aughts; Megacorp presents a capitalistic takeover that stretches far far far outside of Earth, and pitting the player in the shoes of the corporation's most capable and destructive lackeys sets up a meandering plot where the running gag suggests oblivious culpability.
There's a real Ah-a! moment as soon as the assumed villain mentions the player's capitalist devotion, offering a mode of tragic irony unique to games, to keep us invested without doubting our intellect. From there on, the klutz of a CEO, Fizwidget consistently kookily edges Ratchet and Clank down an endless path through barren landscapes once lush with Life, and the ruins of Megacorp's fallen predecessor, Gadgetron. The cutscenes infer the comic, while traversal offers something subtly harrowing to consider.
Truly, Going Commando houses one of the most fully-realised, thoughtfully-constructed game universes on the PS2. Each planet the titular duo travel to is itself is a dazzling display of deliberate level design and worldbuilding. The weapons and gadgets are a joy to unlock, learn, and level up (it was the premier era of minigame inventiveness), and bolts once again prove a deviously cunning take on currency and XP systems. Going Commando is RPG-lite, and by the final epic boss fight it's clear how intuitive the player-character's development is in tune with the player's own sense of accomplished play.
The world of Ratchet and Clank is dominated by industry and metal; bolts lay the foundation of this boundless capitalist kingdom. By reveling in the carnage of the gameplay and the money-hungry delight of retrieving bolts, the player relinquishes to the chaos of this galactic wild west, a planetscape trapped in stasis by the explosive effect of its own ebullient incentive. Ratchet may have matured since the first game, as a man and a soldier, but his mindless destructive tendencies still indicate an id unleashed (typified whenever he dons a devious smile after pulling out a massive gun).
It's a shame then that the climactic plot twist all but contradicts the underlying sly satire of it all, positing the greed-driven CEO as a cartoon villain in disguise, seemingly just to rope Qwark back in for the sequel. The real Fizwidget is freed during the final cutscene, and from there, everything seems to go back to normal after the credits roll, or so we can infer.
Going Commando's driving plot, involving a race of uncontrollable monster pets, funnily encapsulates consumerist America's obsession with rapidly-evolving technology at whatever cost; the final reveal disregards the entire point. Regardless, this sequel stands as a mightily fulfilled exercise in brainy brawlers; a suitable exemplar of sixth generation developers' devotion to craft and concept. The revelry is the mode is the message.
There's a real Ah-a! moment as soon as the assumed villain mentions the player's capitalist devotion, offering a mode of tragic irony unique to games, to keep us invested without doubting our intellect. From there on, the klutz of a CEO, Fizwidget consistently kookily edges Ratchet and Clank down an endless path through barren landscapes once lush with Life, and the ruins of Megacorp's fallen predecessor, Gadgetron. The cutscenes infer the comic, while traversal offers something subtly harrowing to consider.
Truly, Going Commando houses one of the most fully-realised, thoughtfully-constructed game universes on the PS2. Each planet the titular duo travel to is itself is a dazzling display of deliberate level design and worldbuilding. The weapons and gadgets are a joy to unlock, learn, and level up (it was the premier era of minigame inventiveness), and bolts once again prove a deviously cunning take on currency and XP systems. Going Commando is RPG-lite, and by the final epic boss fight it's clear how intuitive the player-character's development is in tune with the player's own sense of accomplished play.
The world of Ratchet and Clank is dominated by industry and metal; bolts lay the foundation of this boundless capitalist kingdom. By reveling in the carnage of the gameplay and the money-hungry delight of retrieving bolts, the player relinquishes to the chaos of this galactic wild west, a planetscape trapped in stasis by the explosive effect of its own ebullient incentive. Ratchet may have matured since the first game, as a man and a soldier, but his mindless destructive tendencies still indicate an id unleashed (typified whenever he dons a devious smile after pulling out a massive gun).
It's a shame then that the climactic plot twist all but contradicts the underlying sly satire of it all, positing the greed-driven CEO as a cartoon villain in disguise, seemingly just to rope Qwark back in for the sequel. The real Fizwidget is freed during the final cutscene, and from there, everything seems to go back to normal after the credits roll, or so we can infer.
Going Commando's driving plot, involving a race of uncontrollable monster pets, funnily encapsulates consumerist America's obsession with rapidly-evolving technology at whatever cost; the final reveal disregards the entire point. Regardless, this sequel stands as a mightily fulfilled exercise in brainy brawlers; a suitable exemplar of sixth generation developers' devotion to craft and concept. The revelry is the mode is the message.
Horror games can't kill you, so they have to scare you. Or shock you. Or make you feel uneasy enough to fail. Death is often an inevitability, especially in walking sim horror titles, where linearity normally undermines the tension if the dramatic escalation isn't subversive or surprising enough to keep the player engaged. P.T. is a well-regarded masterpiece because its vision was inspired by an absolute reversal of expectation. The creeping dread instilled in a singular L-shaped hallway, which forces them to turn and peek around the bend each time they pass it, matched with the limited gameplay positing the player to look closer at the haunted environs, forged an iconic, consistent experiment in game design and psychological terror.
Home Alone, the first chapter of Fears to Fathom, succeeds 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 of its linear design. It is an exception to the otherwise ideal norm; a tale of home invasion with an inevitable conclusion, which clearly and perturbedly maintains a player-character disconnect, even as they control the studious, unaware teen, narrated by a real Life victim, to further cement the notion of inescapable Fate. In other words, it may in fact be the closest videogame adaptation of Halloween, in thematic spirit, ever produced, even moreso than Puppet Combo's brilliant Babysitter Bloodbath.
That Fate comes in the shocking form of a hollowed man, holstering only a deep black facade and the intense wail of an inhuman subject. A monster taking the shape of a passing glance of a suspicious figure, as his feet slyly run up the stairs beyond the foyer, or when he can be seen standing at the front door in security footage the boy's Mom sends to him via text message.
Isolation devises uncanny visions of the obscure creeping around within the empty darkness of a room. Home Alone cleverly instills that same sense of impending doom, and the curiosity it manifests, with solemn audio-visual cadence and a suburban aesthetic which toes the line between artificial and realistic. Jumpscares can be easy copouts for developers and writers who don't understand how to accurately imbue fear; but here, as in Puppet Combo's incredible Power Drill Massacre, the shocks come with a forlorn sense of imminent, perhaps even necessary doom.
The fact that the story is inspired by a Reddit thread only further emphasizes its modernistic portrayal of atrocity exhibition. An author and a participant readily perform a ubiquitous scenario, to ponder habitual human inquiry into the fascinating and terrific unknown.
Home Alone, the first chapter of Fears to Fathom, succeeds 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 of its linear design. It is an exception to the otherwise ideal norm; a tale of home invasion with an inevitable conclusion, which clearly and perturbedly maintains a player-character disconnect, even as they control the studious, unaware teen, narrated by a real Life victim, to further cement the notion of inescapable Fate. In other words, it may in fact be the closest videogame adaptation of Halloween, in thematic spirit, ever produced, even moreso than Puppet Combo's brilliant Babysitter Bloodbath.
That Fate comes in the shocking form of a hollowed man, holstering only a deep black facade and the intense wail of an inhuman subject. A monster taking the shape of a passing glance of a suspicious figure, as his feet slyly run up the stairs beyond the foyer, or when he can be seen standing at the front door in security footage the boy's Mom sends to him via text message.
Isolation devises uncanny visions of the obscure creeping around within the empty darkness of a room. Home Alone cleverly instills that same sense of impending doom, and the curiosity it manifests, with solemn audio-visual cadence and a suburban aesthetic which toes the line between artificial and realistic. Jumpscares can be easy copouts for developers and writers who don't understand how to accurately imbue fear; but here, as in Puppet Combo's incredible Power Drill Massacre, the shocks come with a forlorn sense of imminent, perhaps even necessary doom.
The fact that the story is inspired by a Reddit thread only further emphasizes its modernistic portrayal of atrocity exhibition. An author and a participant readily perform a ubiquitous scenario, to ponder habitual human inquiry into the fascinating and terrific unknown.
1991
Another World is a cunning authorial work; one can assume that Lester, sitting at his sci-fi lab computer, preparing to plunge headfirst into another world, is a clear parallel to sole developer, Éric Chahi. That sly, carefree smirk on his face, brightened by the orange of his hair is all we need to understand the lack of consequence -- fitting, since the player is bound to die, over and over and over again.
A sort of precursor to the likes of Limbo (not to mention Oddworld and Uncharted and just about every 'cinematic'-esque title released in the past three decades), Another World seems almost determined to constantly kill the player at every interval, not maliciously but with a witty nudge-nudge as though Chahi were reveling in his cleverness. Often, games where the player can die inherently suggest a realisation of multiple universe theory; Another World plays out like a stitched-together account of Lester's numerous attempts across parallel worlds, fastened together by a self-aware charm that infers the protagonist himself acknowledges the inconsequentiality of death within this virtual realm. Limbo plays for shocks, but Chahi's cult classic plays for chuckles.
The game is always thinking two steps ahead of your next move; but it's always laughing with you, not at you. At its core, Another World presents a fundamental quest to get back home. Its ambiguous ending proves that, though such a goal isn't always attainable, a home can be wherever one finds comfort and friendship. The bulky confidant Lester meets along his journey is a voiceless outcast themself, and the two immediately empathize with each other without even having to speak.
Another World therefore presents a roadmap of the soul, complete with interchangeable waterways, daunting creatures, vast, arid, alien landscapes, and plenty of lasers. A mystifying environment, as much a threat as it is a vacation for our cool-headed Lester. Not to mention a vision of the future for games, a medium predicated on intense, elaborate escapism, where the limits to creative expression suddenly seem boundless.
A sort of precursor to the likes of Limbo (not to mention Oddworld and Uncharted and just about every 'cinematic'-esque title released in the past three decades), Another World seems almost determined to constantly kill the player at every interval, not maliciously but with a witty nudge-nudge as though Chahi were reveling in his cleverness. Often, games where the player can die inherently suggest a realisation of multiple universe theory; Another World plays out like a stitched-together account of Lester's numerous attempts across parallel worlds, fastened together by a self-aware charm that infers the protagonist himself acknowledges the inconsequentiality of death within this virtual realm. Limbo plays for shocks, but Chahi's cult classic plays for chuckles.
The game is always thinking two steps ahead of your next move; but it's always laughing with you, not at you. At its core, Another World presents a fundamental quest to get back home. Its ambiguous ending proves that, though such a goal isn't always attainable, a home can be wherever one finds comfort and friendship. The bulky confidant Lester meets along his journey is a voiceless outcast themself, and the two immediately empathize with each other without even having to speak.
Another World therefore presents a roadmap of the soul, complete with interchangeable waterways, daunting creatures, vast, arid, alien landscapes, and plenty of lasers. A mystifying environment, as much a threat as it is a vacation for our cool-headed Lester. Not to mention a vision of the future for games, a medium predicated on intense, elaborate escapism, where the limits to creative expression suddenly seem boundless.
2014
EUREKA!
There is not a single more groundbreaking nor impactful game release from the 2010s than P.T. The deceptively simplistic title is a radical deconstruction of narrative storytelling conventions and gameplay mechanics, perhaps even moreso than the original Silent Hill games. By only allowing the player to walk and zoom in through a first-person perspective, Hideo Kojima and his mysterious team are demanding them to look closer, to observe, to see what you’ve done, you monster.
Repressed memory causes a psychological influx, the mind turning against itself, and the ghosts of this machine are the grieving recollections of past sin. A rotting woman, a demented fetus in the bathroom sink, liquor bottles scattered all over the floor, eyes, eyes, so many eyes staring. Every layer of P.T. is drowning in metaphysical context, pushing the limits of what a storyteller can accomplish with environmental implications alone.
The game presents a horror story for the internet age, where solving puzzles prompts insight through communal investigation, with startlingly innovative results. By stressing the damage wrought by the nameless, faceless protagonist, whom which Kojima places the player directly within the shoes of, the game becomes a psychological assessment examining the remorseful individual’s longing for recompense and redemption.
But P.T. denies forgiveness; and with each venture through its now-iconic, dreaded hallway, this purgatorial nightmare draws closer and closer to a reality that implicates mindful immorality. The future of gaming has never seemed so bright nor alarming.
There is not a single more groundbreaking nor impactful game release from the 2010s than P.T. The deceptively simplistic title is a radical deconstruction of narrative storytelling conventions and gameplay mechanics, perhaps even moreso than the original Silent Hill games. By only allowing the player to walk and zoom in through a first-person perspective, Hideo Kojima and his mysterious team are demanding them to look closer, to observe, to see what you’ve done, you monster.
Repressed memory causes a psychological influx, the mind turning against itself, and the ghosts of this machine are the grieving recollections of past sin. A rotting woman, a demented fetus in the bathroom sink, liquor bottles scattered all over the floor, eyes, eyes, so many eyes staring. Every layer of P.T. is drowning in metaphysical context, pushing the limits of what a storyteller can accomplish with environmental implications alone.
The game presents a horror story for the internet age, where solving puzzles prompts insight through communal investigation, with startlingly innovative results. By stressing the damage wrought by the nameless, faceless protagonist, whom which Kojima places the player directly within the shoes of, the game becomes a psychological assessment examining the remorseful individual’s longing for recompense and redemption.
But P.T. denies forgiveness; and with each venture through its now-iconic, dreaded hallway, this purgatorial nightmare draws closer and closer to a reality that implicates mindful immorality. The future of gaming has never seemed so bright nor alarming.
2019
Hypnospace Outlaw is certainly an impressive feat, as the devs at Tendershoot have crafted a massive, sincere ecosystem of faceless, voiceless personalities to peruse through page by page in an endless quest for impossible digital connection. Ultimately, however, the game feels more like an exercise in tedium, literal work to be done for the sake of it (and I'm not even getting paid for it!).
The player is an enforcer, who brings down the 8-bit hammer of law in an attempt to maintain order throughout this developing online civilization -- indeed, Hypnospace Outlaw is practically a western, with its liminal setting and underlying sorrow; and they play the role of a cop. Tendershoot are unfortunately not smart enough to ponder the player's judicious role as all-powerful governor, nor as that of a meager cog in the system.
It's Papers, Please without the heart, and barely the 'game;' Her Story without the intrigue; meets Myspace, and with the uninspired wit of Pony Island. Is the game mocking or embracing the naivety of the internet in its youth? It's difficult to tell, for Hypnospace Outlaw proves a satire that seems unsure of where exactly to wag its critical finger.
The player is an enforcer, who brings down the 8-bit hammer of law in an attempt to maintain order throughout this developing online civilization -- indeed, Hypnospace Outlaw is practically a western, with its liminal setting and underlying sorrow; and they play the role of a cop. Tendershoot are unfortunately not smart enough to ponder the player's judicious role as all-powerful governor, nor as that of a meager cog in the system.
It's Papers, Please without the heart, and barely the 'game;' Her Story without the intrigue; meets Myspace, and with the uninspired wit of Pony Island. Is the game mocking or embracing the naivety of the internet in its youth? It's difficult to tell, for Hypnospace Outlaw proves a satire that seems unsure of where exactly to wag its critical finger.