Today's genre discussion will revolve around another genre I don't really know huge amount about. It was a huge, though, back in ye olde days, or at least the ye olde days I experienced in junior high and early high school. As big in those days as the first person shooters are now (actually, first-person shooters were almost as big in those days too, but that's a coincidence,) the fighting game genre had just come to life at this point in history, which ranges from more or less 1990 to 1995 or so.
The first reason I'm focusing on this era, though, is that it was the only one I really followed the genre faithfully. It was the only time I really could. After this point, the genre continued, but it escaped its humble beginnings to enter sub-genres, become big on systems I didn't own, and like nearly any game with a strong multi-player component, attract a following that I clearly couldn't compete against.
But nonetheless, I should start not with my opinion on the genre but on what the genre really is. Started with primitive games like Street Fighter, the genre didn't get mainstream attention until Street Fighter 2. It also set up the systems fighting games used for years. In the usual fighting game, two fighters faced each other on (what started as) a two-dimensional battlefield, facing each other. Each character had a number of attacks ranging from weak but quick jabs to longer-ranged, more powerful strikes, and usually separated into high and low attacks like punches and kicks. These range of attacks shift by crouching or jumping, and they can block by moving the character in the opposite direction. But the characters really differentiate themselves by their special moves. Using esoteric combinations of button presses (which are usually not documented in the game themselves, more on that in a bit,) characters can leap into the air with uppercuts, perform spinning kicks, or even radiate electricity or shoot fireballs. These unusual moves helped define the game and attract them to new players.
After this game got big, many other games followed the trend with initially minor variations. Mortal Kombat simplified the number of attacks button, added a simple block button, and made normal attacks uniform in exchange for more outrageous special moves, better graphics using characters modeled on real life individuals, and lots more violence. Capcom, the makers of Street Fighter, started Dark Stalkers and other games that took the Street Fighter design but added even weirder characters. And as the next generation of consoles slowly rose to power, many series began as or moved into 3D gameplay and tried to avoid projectiles in favor of more physical special moves taking advantage of the polygon-based characters.
The unusual thing about fighting games is they have a continual conflict between two types of players; the casual gamer and the hard-core ones who seek to master the game. The series initially started favoring the latter types of gamer. In fact, special moves, which were so essential both for balancing the game and providing appeal, required the player to guess at them until they could stumble upon them or look for help elsewhere (and this was usually before obvious resources like Gamefaqs.) As the genre continued, though, especially in the 3rd edition era, the balance shifted slightly towards the beginning players as the "button-mashing" philosophy became more prevalent. In this system, a player, usually without any understanding of special moves, could simply walk up to the opponent and press buttons randomly, and yet still win. This isn't that surprising. Without projectile and other long-range movies, there's no way for someone with knowledge of special moves to catch a neophyte opponent before melee. After that, it gets trickier. Most of advanced combat is a matter of rock-paper-scissors style tactics. A strong move might be more effective but will leave a fighter open if the opponent dodges, while a fast attack is more likely to hit before the opponent can respond but could be stopped by a strong attack with better range. Against an opponent with NO strategy, tactics are reduced to guesswork.
Modern games have sought to compromise things, often by, well, making everyone unhappy. Special moves are provided more readily, and in fact more anarchic fighting games like Smash Brothers and Power Stone use a single button for special moves, making them easy to implement. For advanced players, the series expands a players abilities to dodge, evade, counter, and otherwise block attacks more efficiently. Beginning players are free to use the most interesting attacks and traits of a character. Advanced characters, however, can largely ignore the attacks in their totality and simply counter them. This is fine for beginning players and for advanced players who have earned their skill, but it makes random fights against players of each level of competence totally pre-ordained. This especially annoys those who play the above-mentioned chaotic games like Smash Brothers, which works around letting as many as four people play at once, randomly generated items that rain down on the battlefield, and battlefields themselves that are full of obstacles and shifting positions. The experienced players tend to ignore all these features, allowing only a handful of the total players, the flattest and least random landscape, two players fighting at any times, and little to no items.
As for me, I tend to hover around a mid-range level of experience. Even before the special moves were freely offered, I learned at least the basic abilities of each player and regularly used them while playing. At the most, I would learn about some of the super attacks or evasion abilities. However, I never could get into a game to point of mastering the complex counters or focusing on priority of all attacks, the exact collision boxes for attacks and frames of the attacks, and other master features. This is why my enjoyment of fighting games have petered off. I know the basic games of the series, but it's been almost a decade since I even looked at, for example, a Soul Calibur game. I nonetheless respect the genre and the difficulty of both balancing characters within a skill level and between skill levels. There's a reason my only major fighting game idea is ancient and barely a skeleton. Nonetheless, I do still play a mean game with Link!
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
My Life: Stuff I Lost
This post will admittedly come a bit too close to my "don't talk about my beliefs" rule. It will discuss what I believed, faith-wise, as a child. It won't technically get into my religious beliefs as of right now, so I do have a loophole for my own rule already prepared. It will, however, give a general rule of what religious beliefs I am not. I'll start with an easy one; I am not currently a Zoroastrian.
It gets a bit trickier from here. But meh, nobody reads this thing anyway.
I was raised Catholic when I was a child, just like my brother. There was some conflict with this decision between my parents and against all common sense, but I won't get into detail about why that is. It was a fairly routine religious upbringing, at least around the time I was seven, when my family moved. It was about then we went to church almost every Sunday (at noon, we had some limits,) did the CCD thing (weekly religious school; like Sunday school but not on that date,) gave up fish on Lent (on only Fridays, again with the limits,) and even got confirmed in high school. Because we were late getting in, we did a lot of the basic stuff late as well. For example, I didn't do my first communion, which a lot of people do in second grade, until 5th grade or so.
And for most of that period, I wasn't just raised Catholic, I was Catholic. I was a believer, at least in the basics of the religion. Now, there were some things I was uncomfortable with, even at an early age. For example, as a child, I assumed everyone got into Heaven, because that was the only way that made sense to me. They eventually told me otherwise, but I wasn't really comfortable with that answer. I eventually also abandoned the general Catholic opinion on sex and homosexuality. On the other hand, I did buy into the "abortion is bad" argument for years. It's harder to emotionally change your side on an issue when there's something being physically killed compared to, say, two people who just love each other.
Even outside of dogma, I should have seen the warning signs that this may not be working. There was, for example, the time I threw up in communion class and had to get cleaned up in the bathroom. The girls' bathroom; the men's room was apparently out of water for some reason. Or there was the time, well after I had first communion, when I received it church but had a cough. I ended up coughing it out in the middle of church, and the priest was forced to re-bless it and...eat it himself.
And then there was CCD itself. The classes themselves were fine, but the teachers managed to be designed for maximum encouragement towards conversion...to anything else. There was the incredibly nice teacher whose business slowly was destroyed by legal problems throughout the year. Job's much more interesting when you watch it going on in the middle of class. Or the teacher who totally failed to control class, letting it fall into total anarchy. Or the ancient teacher who made us all wear nametags, constantly reminisced about the conservative paradise of the 1950s, and, well, thought I was mentally retarded. These are not the purveyors of wisdom that encourage piety.
Things finally came to a head in my freshman year of college, though. Now, keep in mind that I was an idealistic child, convinced of a sort of ideal environment for a socially-awkward intellectual misfit like me. 12 years of public school did a good job of convincing me otherwise, so I thought that college would be different. Sadly, at this point, it wasn't. The erudite sanctuary I hoped to find was nowhere to be found, and I wasn't growing in the slightest, at least not socially. At the same time, my contacts began to regularly irritate my eyes, leaving me nearly unable to even see in bright lights.
The last straw, though, was when my grandmother passed away later that year. It wasn't a surprising thing; nearly everyone has to lose their grandparents fairly early in life. But it was too much for me at the time. I remember one moment in particular; the day after the funeral, with me now back "home" at college. Still despairing over the death of a beloved relative, sitting outside with my dad and unable to even look at him, I began to really question why. What was the point of all the suffering? Oh, I realized that suffering alone does not justify conversion; I never expected a perfect life. But at this point, all my assumptions about how life was supposed to be were starting to fall apart, and I saw no clear way to happiness as an adult; the path that one was supposed to go had finally began to unmistakably fail me. At the same time, I wondered why, no matter how much I was suffering, why my prayers to God never got any response; no justification, no comfort, no connection with the entity I supposedly worshipped; nothing.
I won't tell you how long it took me to change my beliefs, or what they eventually became, but I will say that they changed at this point. And I'll also again mention that this sort of conversion is really mis-timed after already deciding to go to a Jesuit university.
It gets a bit trickier from here. But meh, nobody reads this thing anyway.
I was raised Catholic when I was a child, just like my brother. There was some conflict with this decision between my parents and against all common sense, but I won't get into detail about why that is. It was a fairly routine religious upbringing, at least around the time I was seven, when my family moved. It was about then we went to church almost every Sunday (at noon, we had some limits,) did the CCD thing (weekly religious school; like Sunday school but not on that date,) gave up fish on Lent (on only Fridays, again with the limits,) and even got confirmed in high school. Because we were late getting in, we did a lot of the basic stuff late as well. For example, I didn't do my first communion, which a lot of people do in second grade, until 5th grade or so.
And for most of that period, I wasn't just raised Catholic, I was Catholic. I was a believer, at least in the basics of the religion. Now, there were some things I was uncomfortable with, even at an early age. For example, as a child, I assumed everyone got into Heaven, because that was the only way that made sense to me. They eventually told me otherwise, but I wasn't really comfortable with that answer. I eventually also abandoned the general Catholic opinion on sex and homosexuality. On the other hand, I did buy into the "abortion is bad" argument for years. It's harder to emotionally change your side on an issue when there's something being physically killed compared to, say, two people who just love each other.
Even outside of dogma, I should have seen the warning signs that this may not be working. There was, for example, the time I threw up in communion class and had to get cleaned up in the bathroom. The girls' bathroom; the men's room was apparently out of water for some reason. Or there was the time, well after I had first communion, when I received it church but had a cough. I ended up coughing it out in the middle of church, and the priest was forced to re-bless it and...eat it himself.
And then there was CCD itself. The classes themselves were fine, but the teachers managed to be designed for maximum encouragement towards conversion...to anything else. There was the incredibly nice teacher whose business slowly was destroyed by legal problems throughout the year. Job's much more interesting when you watch it going on in the middle of class. Or the teacher who totally failed to control class, letting it fall into total anarchy. Or the ancient teacher who made us all wear nametags, constantly reminisced about the conservative paradise of the 1950s, and, well, thought I was mentally retarded. These are not the purveyors of wisdom that encourage piety.
Things finally came to a head in my freshman year of college, though. Now, keep in mind that I was an idealistic child, convinced of a sort of ideal environment for a socially-awkward intellectual misfit like me. 12 years of public school did a good job of convincing me otherwise, so I thought that college would be different. Sadly, at this point, it wasn't. The erudite sanctuary I hoped to find was nowhere to be found, and I wasn't growing in the slightest, at least not socially. At the same time, my contacts began to regularly irritate my eyes, leaving me nearly unable to even see in bright lights.
The last straw, though, was when my grandmother passed away later that year. It wasn't a surprising thing; nearly everyone has to lose their grandparents fairly early in life. But it was too much for me at the time. I remember one moment in particular; the day after the funeral, with me now back "home" at college. Still despairing over the death of a beloved relative, sitting outside with my dad and unable to even look at him, I began to really question why. What was the point of all the suffering? Oh, I realized that suffering alone does not justify conversion; I never expected a perfect life. But at this point, all my assumptions about how life was supposed to be were starting to fall apart, and I saw no clear way to happiness as an adult; the path that one was supposed to go had finally began to unmistakably fail me. At the same time, I wondered why, no matter how much I was suffering, why my prayers to God never got any response; no justification, no comfort, no connection with the entity I supposedly worshipped; nothing.
I won't tell you how long it took me to change my beliefs, or what they eventually became, but I will say that they changed at this point. And I'll also again mention that this sort of conversion is really mis-timed after already deciding to go to a Jesuit university.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Reviews: Da da da da!
This week's review is for Indiana Jones: Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. For those who haven't seen it yet, be warned that this will contain spoilers. I'll leave you some space before I start the spoiler.
There we go. Okay. So, arguably the biggest movie of the summer (or at least the biggest one not involving a flying rodent) is out now! Responses have been met with nervous expectations. On one hand, it's Indiana Jones! On the other hand, Lucas was involved, and his sequels done decades past the original movies have been...not so great. On the third hand, Harrison Ford and Steven Spielberg liked it enough to be involved. On the fourth mutant hand of this horrible theoretical mutant, aliens are involved. So it could have been a wonder return of one of the biggest series of cinema history, or it could be Attack of the Clones plus a whip.
Well, the good news is that, at the very least, it was entertaining. I was relieved. I'll start with the parts that bothered me, though. I can some up my least favorite element in two words: Shia Lebouf. I do not like Shia Lebouf. He could be worse, I admit, and I don't dislike him either per sec. As an up and coming Hollywood actor, he could be reasonably expected to be a complete loony, but so far he minimized the amount of career killing hedonism he could partake in. And I haven't seen him in what were theoretically his best works. What I have seen him in, however, is Transformers. To say he played an unlikable dork in that movie is an understatement. He embodied unlikable dork; it oozed out of him, or perhaps radiated out of him like a divine aura. And that essence has clung to him, like a moray eel. He can't not be it. Notably, in Indiana Jones, he played what was supposed to be a tough 50's greaser type. He looked, however, like a stiff breeze could take him. I was unsurprised but disappointed when I learned (I warned you about the spoilers,) that he was Indy's son. When he was about to put on Indy's hat on the end, suggesting that he had become Indy to carry on his father's legacy, I briefly buried my face in my hands. It didn't come to pass, thank goodness, but Lucas' dire predictions of sequels with him as the lead did not help.
Other problems include a general lack of seriousness, mostly due to the incredibly goofy stuff Indiana survived. Okay, the commie mooks couldn't hit a moving target at point-blank range with hundreds of bullets, fine. That's expected. But surviving being at ground zero of a nuclear blast because you where hiding in a lead-lined fridge? That really works? Wow, I bet everyone was pissed that they built fallout shelters in the fifties; they wasted a fortune! There was also the big where Mutt (Shia's inventively named character,) started brachiating like freaking Tarzan and led an inexplicably generated army of monkeys to attack Soviet soldiers. It felt like some of the mid-range Bond movies, like the early ones with Roger Moore, where Bond performed stunts accompanied by wacky sound effects, Beach Boy songs, and "hilarious" redneck sheriffs for comic relief.
The basic premise of the movie, the crystal alien skull, wasn't too ridiculous. Yes, aliens don't fit in with the normal Indy theme, but enough Tomb Raider games made me comfortable with kitchen sink mythologies. What did bother my was the lack of explanation on how the whole thing worked. The skull itself functioned like a skeleton (heh,) key; solving any predicament the heroes encountered. That led to an ambiguous ending where it's entire plausible that the villains didn't even die, and at any rate the history and intentions of the aliens were never really clarified.
Okay, now moving on to the good stuff! Outside of the occasional ridiculous bit, like the vine swinging/monkey army thing, the action sequences remained exciting. The best one, in my opinion, was the jeep and truck sequence in the jungle, where five protagonists, multiple antagonists, several vehicles, and the titular McGuffin complicated things beautifully. The early motorcycle chase through Indy's university, and the Area 51 sequence at the start of the movie, were also enjoyable if occasionally breaking the suspension of disbelief. The final climax, which was limited in both traps and conflict, was less impressive, especially given that lack of narrative payoff with the aliens.
The characters and acting were still brilliant, however. Many said that Ford seemed tired in his role, and that's possible, but he's not only extremely old but playing a character both cynical and getting on in years himself. However miscast Shia was, his interplays with both Indy and his mother Marion, the same love interest as the first movie, were frequently hilarious. The balance of character and story was well-done, though I was disappointed that early story arcs (like Indy's distrust of the modern FBI,) were abandoned in the movie's second half.
In summary, I recommend the movie and give it a B- or so. It wasn't as good as the original trilogy, including Temple of Doom, but it fulfilled both the mindless action film and the general comedy requirements. I laughed, I got excited, I cheered the heroes on. Given that Indy was always intended to be an homage to the pulp action movies of yesteryear, what more could you want?
There we go. Okay. So, arguably the biggest movie of the summer (or at least the biggest one not involving a flying rodent) is out now! Responses have been met with nervous expectations. On one hand, it's Indiana Jones! On the other hand, Lucas was involved, and his sequels done decades past the original movies have been...not so great. On the third hand, Harrison Ford and Steven Spielberg liked it enough to be involved. On the fourth mutant hand of this horrible theoretical mutant, aliens are involved. So it could have been a wonder return of one of the biggest series of cinema history, or it could be Attack of the Clones plus a whip.
Well, the good news is that, at the very least, it was entertaining. I was relieved. I'll start with the parts that bothered me, though. I can some up my least favorite element in two words: Shia Lebouf. I do not like Shia Lebouf. He could be worse, I admit, and I don't dislike him either per sec. As an up and coming Hollywood actor, he could be reasonably expected to be a complete loony, but so far he minimized the amount of career killing hedonism he could partake in. And I haven't seen him in what were theoretically his best works. What I have seen him in, however, is Transformers. To say he played an unlikable dork in that movie is an understatement. He embodied unlikable dork; it oozed out of him, or perhaps radiated out of him like a divine aura. And that essence has clung to him, like a moray eel. He can't not be it. Notably, in Indiana Jones, he played what was supposed to be a tough 50's greaser type. He looked, however, like a stiff breeze could take him. I was unsurprised but disappointed when I learned (I warned you about the spoilers,) that he was Indy's son. When he was about to put on Indy's hat on the end, suggesting that he had become Indy to carry on his father's legacy, I briefly buried my face in my hands. It didn't come to pass, thank goodness, but Lucas' dire predictions of sequels with him as the lead did not help.
Other problems include a general lack of seriousness, mostly due to the incredibly goofy stuff Indiana survived. Okay, the commie mooks couldn't hit a moving target at point-blank range with hundreds of bullets, fine. That's expected. But surviving being at ground zero of a nuclear blast because you where hiding in a lead-lined fridge? That really works? Wow, I bet everyone was pissed that they built fallout shelters in the fifties; they wasted a fortune! There was also the big where Mutt (Shia's inventively named character,) started brachiating like freaking Tarzan and led an inexplicably generated army of monkeys to attack Soviet soldiers. It felt like some of the mid-range Bond movies, like the early ones with Roger Moore, where Bond performed stunts accompanied by wacky sound effects, Beach Boy songs, and "hilarious" redneck sheriffs for comic relief.
The basic premise of the movie, the crystal alien skull, wasn't too ridiculous. Yes, aliens don't fit in with the normal Indy theme, but enough Tomb Raider games made me comfortable with kitchen sink mythologies. What did bother my was the lack of explanation on how the whole thing worked. The skull itself functioned like a skeleton (heh,) key; solving any predicament the heroes encountered. That led to an ambiguous ending where it's entire plausible that the villains didn't even die, and at any rate the history and intentions of the aliens were never really clarified.
Okay, now moving on to the good stuff! Outside of the occasional ridiculous bit, like the vine swinging/monkey army thing, the action sequences remained exciting. The best one, in my opinion, was the jeep and truck sequence in the jungle, where five protagonists, multiple antagonists, several vehicles, and the titular McGuffin complicated things beautifully. The early motorcycle chase through Indy's university, and the Area 51 sequence at the start of the movie, were also enjoyable if occasionally breaking the suspension of disbelief. The final climax, which was limited in both traps and conflict, was less impressive, especially given that lack of narrative payoff with the aliens.
The characters and acting were still brilliant, however. Many said that Ford seemed tired in his role, and that's possible, but he's not only extremely old but playing a character both cynical and getting on in years himself. However miscast Shia was, his interplays with both Indy and his mother Marion, the same love interest as the first movie, were frequently hilarious. The balance of character and story was well-done, though I was disappointed that early story arcs (like Indy's distrust of the modern FBI,) were abandoned in the movie's second half.
In summary, I recommend the movie and give it a B- or so. It wasn't as good as the original trilogy, including Temple of Doom, but it fulfilled both the mindless action film and the general comedy requirements. I laughed, I got excited, I cheered the heroes on. Given that Indy was always intended to be an homage to the pulp action movies of yesteryear, what more could you want?
Thursday, May 22, 2008
My Inspirations: The Newish Guy. The Really Awkward Newish Guy.
I have to admit, I don't even know the subject of this latest personal inspiration that well, but then again, nobody does. Charlie Kaufman, the screen writer most famous for creating some of the strangest movies of our time, has a well-earned reputation for being reclusive, letting almost nothing of his private life to be known. But that's okay, because I'm not an admirer of him for his wild parties or anything. I admire him because of his writing.
Wikipedia tells me that Mr. Kaufman started his career in television, as writers are wont to do, but he started the relevant parts of his career with Being John Malcovich, a hilarious and surreal movie about a group of people who discover a portal into the mind of, well, the actor John Malcovich, letting them experience reality itself from a new perspective. He followed through with a number of other films, but he only really made two other movies his own. The second was Adaptation, where he tried to adapt an incredibly difficult novel about a flower smuggler. He eventually did so by making the movie about himself making the adaptation while dealing with his own personal demons as manifested by his nonexistent twin brother. The film's meta-concept went completely off the rails when he decided to be less faithful with his adaptation (in the movie,) and suddenly he (as in the actor in the movie, who was playing the writer of the same movie,) learned the flower smuggler involved a drug ring and he had to fight off gun-toting maniacs and alligators.
The above was possibly his most surreal movie, but the one with the most heart was still his most recent, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. In this one, a hapless protagonist breaks up with his girlfriend, and soon both decide to use a science fiction memory erasing procedure so they could forget about each other. But midway through it, the hero decides he doesn't want the memories erased, so he lucidly travels through his own memories, talking with the projection of his ex-girlfriend as he remembers her and trying futilely to fight off the effects of the procedure as it happens to him.
It may not be surprising that there's at least one seen of drug use in each of these movies. But I don't think that necessarily relates. I just think Mr. Kaufman, the strange man that he is, is simply capable of imagining these worlds with an ease normally unheard of. That he can do so and then fill those worlds with real, human characters takes more than brilliance, it takes a kind of grace I only hope to have some day.
And I think it's a combination of the world he makes and the personality behind them that makes a personal hero. Charlie Kaufman, as I mentioned before, is notoriously shy and introverted. For example, when he won his first and so far only Academy Award for Eternal Sunshine, he barely could stammer a response. Someone in the audience told him, "Take your time," and he replied, "I don't want to take my time. I want to get off the stage." Presumably, he did.
Part of me imagines that if I suddenly got rich and famous, I would happily enjoy my brief moments in the spotlight to a crazy level, but for now, I think of myself in very similar terms. In my very first post, I mentioned the whole "don't speak the moon language you people call love," thing, and that's pretty much the same way my mind acts in other circumstances. My social skills are shoddy at best, and I often don't really get how people think, how relationships form, or even some basic elements of small talk. But in my head, universes are born, entire species propagate them, and heroes and other individuals come to life and their destiny. At least in the recesses of my brain, they seem to act human from my perspective; it's that reasoning that makes me want to become a designer.
This isn't to say his works are negligible, regardless of the mind behind them. I gave such detailed explanations of them because there are only a few samples of his work I know well, but also because there are such strange, wonderful concepts behind them that they require such explanations. Of course, I can't say how much they altered my life and development, as the first came out less than a decade ago, so I only knew him as an adult. But it is good to know that his work exists, and it serves a model to the kind of artist I hope to one day become.
Okay, now I want to get off the stage.
Wikipedia tells me that Mr. Kaufman started his career in television, as writers are wont to do, but he started the relevant parts of his career with Being John Malcovich, a hilarious and surreal movie about a group of people who discover a portal into the mind of, well, the actor John Malcovich, letting them experience reality itself from a new perspective. He followed through with a number of other films, but he only really made two other movies his own. The second was Adaptation, where he tried to adapt an incredibly difficult novel about a flower smuggler. He eventually did so by making the movie about himself making the adaptation while dealing with his own personal demons as manifested by his nonexistent twin brother. The film's meta-concept went completely off the rails when he decided to be less faithful with his adaptation (in the movie,) and suddenly he (as in the actor in the movie, who was playing the writer of the same movie,) learned the flower smuggler involved a drug ring and he had to fight off gun-toting maniacs and alligators.
The above was possibly his most surreal movie, but the one with the most heart was still his most recent, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. In this one, a hapless protagonist breaks up with his girlfriend, and soon both decide to use a science fiction memory erasing procedure so they could forget about each other. But midway through it, the hero decides he doesn't want the memories erased, so he lucidly travels through his own memories, talking with the projection of his ex-girlfriend as he remembers her and trying futilely to fight off the effects of the procedure as it happens to him.
It may not be surprising that there's at least one seen of drug use in each of these movies. But I don't think that necessarily relates. I just think Mr. Kaufman, the strange man that he is, is simply capable of imagining these worlds with an ease normally unheard of. That he can do so and then fill those worlds with real, human characters takes more than brilliance, it takes a kind of grace I only hope to have some day.
And I think it's a combination of the world he makes and the personality behind them that makes a personal hero. Charlie Kaufman, as I mentioned before, is notoriously shy and introverted. For example, when he won his first and so far only Academy Award for Eternal Sunshine, he barely could stammer a response. Someone in the audience told him, "Take your time," and he replied, "I don't want to take my time. I want to get off the stage." Presumably, he did.
Part of me imagines that if I suddenly got rich and famous, I would happily enjoy my brief moments in the spotlight to a crazy level, but for now, I think of myself in very similar terms. In my very first post, I mentioned the whole "don't speak the moon language you people call love," thing, and that's pretty much the same way my mind acts in other circumstances. My social skills are shoddy at best, and I often don't really get how people think, how relationships form, or even some basic elements of small talk. But in my head, universes are born, entire species propagate them, and heroes and other individuals come to life and their destiny. At least in the recesses of my brain, they seem to act human from my perspective; it's that reasoning that makes me want to become a designer.
This isn't to say his works are negligible, regardless of the mind behind them. I gave such detailed explanations of them because there are only a few samples of his work I know well, but also because there are such strange, wonderful concepts behind them that they require such explanations. Of course, I can't say how much they altered my life and development, as the first came out less than a decade ago, so I only knew him as an adult. But it is good to know that his work exists, and it serves a model to the kind of artist I hope to one day become.
Okay, now I want to get off the stage.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
My Ideas: Something New For Once
That's right, tonight's idea is fresh off the vine! Well, it's relatively new, at least, being less than a year old. But that's still recent, at least for my work, and I'm sort of eager to get a new idea off of my chest instead of recapping another decade+ old idea.
Today's project is called A Tale to Tell, and it was inspired from Odin Sphere, among other things. Odin Sphere is a two dimensional action/RPG game for the Playstation 2, but the details aren't that important right now. What is important is that the game has a framework of a child who reads about the exploits of the main characters through a series of books, each about one of the game's protagonists. The game is notorious, however, for its long loading screens, periods of required grinding, and extending time spent cooking recipes, mixing potions, and watching plants grow. Seriously. These aren't too distracting in-game, but it struck me as amusing how this must have read in the book. "Then the hero sat around, watching a magical plant grow. Then he spent two hours fighting random monsters. Then he tossed everything out of his pouches and put them back in to organize his items better. Then he..."
It was a funny image for me, but it didn't become an idea until I expanded the idea of "game=storybook" until it became the central theme. Instead of a little girl reading alone, A Tale to Tell is about a grandfather reading the story to his grandchildren. The story is, or at least was, a classic tale of high adventure and fantasy in a traditional setting resembling Middle Ages Europe, with Lord of the Rings being a classic example. The grandchildren warped the original concept in to funny ways. First, they get to be critics to the story, mocking the conventions of the video game's story and game play elements as if they were written in the story. More importantly, though, they got to be the story's editors.
As the concept of the game changed, I decided that this wasn't just a story; the fantasy world of the book existed as an alternate plane of reality, and for it to sustain itself, the story must be told to a fresh audience through the book every generation or so. But the book the grandfather (who is also a Gandalf-style wizard in the fantasy land,) reads it the last of the first printing, and thus the last one capable of keeping the realm restored. Thus, the grandfather doesn't just want to tell this story to his grandkids; he has no other choice. If they lose interest, his world dies!
And so the grandfather must bend over backwards as the grandchildren, all modern kids of ages ranging from about 5-12 or so, impose their own views of fantasy on the book. The theme of the game, therefore, becomes how the idea and means of expressing fantasy evolves, and this is not a battle between right and wrong. Sometimes, the children are wrong as they disrespect tradition, mock old heroic archetypes, or (in the case of the twelve year old,) fill the story with juvenile titillation. Other times, they're insightful, noticing that the heroes are all pretty much straight white people, with the female roles barely acknowledged. Other times, it's more debatable, as the more tech-savvy children compare the story to modern cartoons and, in a bit of meta-commentary, video games.
Mostly, though, the game is intended to be humorous. The grandfather and his family are sometimes seen, but most of the story takes place inside the story. There, the children can be heard as echoing voices in the background, their every demand (and the grandfather's occasional rejections,) altering the world in real-time. If the kids are bored with a monster, it suddenly gets much bigger. If an argument about how many monsters the party must fight breaks out, their enemies literally poof into and out of existence. As for the actual characters, they are normally unaware pawns of the story, not even looking surprised as their world shifts. Between chapters, though, they meet and discuss the changes, sometimes afraid of what they are becoming, and other times welcoming the improvements.
There are other gameplay elements tied to the game's core concept. Fighting earns the player AP (Awesome Points,) which can be used to turn one of the children to their side, earning a beneficial alteration to the world. This can be as simple as a scan of an enemy's weaknesses orgaining new special moves, weakening monsters or forcing them into passive roles, or skipping fights entirely. And the multi-party action-rpg format, which I'm tentatively planning for at this early stage of planning, allows switching using the "paragraph" system. That is, the player can't switch at any time; another character's battle is still being resolved in the story. But stick with one character for two long and the paragraph gets long and boring, weakening that character until the player switches to a new one.
These are just the starting ideas, though. I see some interesting plans in the story, from rivalry between children siding with "good" and "evil" paths of the story to the growth of the children through their appreciation of the story, however mangled it may be. Scared ones become confident, and cynical ones find themselves emotionally invested in the story as well.
But I need suggestions for this one more than most, assuming I get anyone to read it. As a new idea, the concept is both exciting and modern, requiring less revision, but it is still very indistinct in my mind, with few characters even created. I can use my own semi-appreciative but edit-happy audience on this one.
Today's project is called A Tale to Tell, and it was inspired from Odin Sphere, among other things. Odin Sphere is a two dimensional action/RPG game for the Playstation 2, but the details aren't that important right now. What is important is that the game has a framework of a child who reads about the exploits of the main characters through a series of books, each about one of the game's protagonists. The game is notorious, however, for its long loading screens, periods of required grinding, and extending time spent cooking recipes, mixing potions, and watching plants grow. Seriously. These aren't too distracting in-game, but it struck me as amusing how this must have read in the book. "Then the hero sat around, watching a magical plant grow. Then he spent two hours fighting random monsters. Then he tossed everything out of his pouches and put them back in to organize his items better. Then he..."
It was a funny image for me, but it didn't become an idea until I expanded the idea of "game=storybook" until it became the central theme. Instead of a little girl reading alone, A Tale to Tell is about a grandfather reading the story to his grandchildren. The story is, or at least was, a classic tale of high adventure and fantasy in a traditional setting resembling Middle Ages Europe, with Lord of the Rings being a classic example. The grandchildren warped the original concept in to funny ways. First, they get to be critics to the story, mocking the conventions of the video game's story and game play elements as if they were written in the story. More importantly, though, they got to be the story's editors.
As the concept of the game changed, I decided that this wasn't just a story; the fantasy world of the book existed as an alternate plane of reality, and for it to sustain itself, the story must be told to a fresh audience through the book every generation or so. But the book the grandfather (who is also a Gandalf-style wizard in the fantasy land,) reads it the last of the first printing, and thus the last one capable of keeping the realm restored. Thus, the grandfather doesn't just want to tell this story to his grandkids; he has no other choice. If they lose interest, his world dies!
And so the grandfather must bend over backwards as the grandchildren, all modern kids of ages ranging from about 5-12 or so, impose their own views of fantasy on the book. The theme of the game, therefore, becomes how the idea and means of expressing fantasy evolves, and this is not a battle between right and wrong. Sometimes, the children are wrong as they disrespect tradition, mock old heroic archetypes, or (in the case of the twelve year old,) fill the story with juvenile titillation. Other times, they're insightful, noticing that the heroes are all pretty much straight white people, with the female roles barely acknowledged. Other times, it's more debatable, as the more tech-savvy children compare the story to modern cartoons and, in a bit of meta-commentary, video games.
Mostly, though, the game is intended to be humorous. The grandfather and his family are sometimes seen, but most of the story takes place inside the story. There, the children can be heard as echoing voices in the background, their every demand (and the grandfather's occasional rejections,) altering the world in real-time. If the kids are bored with a monster, it suddenly gets much bigger. If an argument about how many monsters the party must fight breaks out, their enemies literally poof into and out of existence. As for the actual characters, they are normally unaware pawns of the story, not even looking surprised as their world shifts. Between chapters, though, they meet and discuss the changes, sometimes afraid of what they are becoming, and other times welcoming the improvements.
There are other gameplay elements tied to the game's core concept. Fighting earns the player AP (Awesome Points,) which can be used to turn one of the children to their side, earning a beneficial alteration to the world. This can be as simple as a scan of an enemy's weaknesses orgaining new special moves, weakening monsters or forcing them into passive roles, or skipping fights entirely. And the multi-party action-rpg format, which I'm tentatively planning for at this early stage of planning, allows switching using the "paragraph" system. That is, the player can't switch at any time; another character's battle is still being resolved in the story. But stick with one character for two long and the paragraph gets long and boring, weakening that character until the player switches to a new one.
These are just the starting ideas, though. I see some interesting plans in the story, from rivalry between children siding with "good" and "evil" paths of the story to the growth of the children through their appreciation of the story, however mangled it may be. Scared ones become confident, and cynical ones find themselves emotionally invested in the story as well.
But I need suggestions for this one more than most, assuming I get anyone to read it. As a new idea, the concept is both exciting and modern, requiring less revision, but it is still very indistinct in my mind, with few characters even created. I can use my own semi-appreciative but edit-happy audience on this one.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Reviews: Go Migraine, Go!
My review is for something I technically watched a week ago. Sorry about that. We'll start with more substantive TV season stuff next weekend. For now, the discussion is about Speed Racer: The Movie: I already was mocked once for paying money to watch it.
And I could see why; the previews and ads were dubious at best, and the movie bombed both at the box office and with reviews. As for the film itself, I can't completely disagree with that response. Until I saw this movie, I didn't think I still could be over-stimulated, but Speed Racer had to go and prove me wrong. Seeing a movie on the IMAX was a good idea in theory, but I question if digital film is still sufficient, no matter what Lucas thinks. Some scenes with a lot of action or motion were blurry to the point of being incomprehensible. But there were times when incomprehensibility wasn't the film's fault. Much of the movie was so full of bright colors and elaborate backgrounds you were overwhelmed immediately. A scene in a large city in particular was so garish it could create headaches.
As for the plot, it was simplistic as expected for this sort of movie. Speed Racer, the aptly-titled hero, and his family work as professional race car drivers and builders. While happily independent, after a major victory by Speed, they attracted the interest of an ominously named corporate executive who wants Speed as part of his crooked team, where he would have to take the fall if ordered, or out of the racing circuit entirely so his goons can control it.
Not surprisingly, this plot does not lend itself well to complex looks at morality, nor does it try to. Even so, it has its moments of, if not depth, at least reflection. The story may be about good versus evil using kung fu cars, but the theme is about family and its importance. This can be seen in the continued questioning of Racer X and whether he really is Speed's older brother, who is believed to be deceased. Unlike the cartoon, which humorously reminded us that he really is every episode or so, this movie actually managed to make the question ambiguous.
Less appealing were the antics of the movie's comic relief, Sprattle (Sprittle? Either way,) and Chim-Chim. This was clearly aimed at the younger part of the audience (if it had an audience,) and was only a bit less annoying than their cartoon variants. If you liked the cartoon variants, by all means go nuts.
All that being said, I liked parts of the movie, especially the second big race; a cross-country rally. Of all the movie, this felt the most like the cartoon's feel. The natural tracks were less distracting, the cinematography was impressive for the right reasons, and it's the only time the Mach Five has all the tricks it did in the cartoon. It even featured a mid-race fight against ninjas!
Overall, I'll give the movie a C+ with the reservation that I'm nostalgia biased. It certainly is a movie that inspires the imagination, at the very least, and it had some moments of heart. If it challenges the stomach as well, though, you might want to leave the theater or at least move back a few rows.
And I could see why; the previews and ads were dubious at best, and the movie bombed both at the box office and with reviews. As for the film itself, I can't completely disagree with that response. Until I saw this movie, I didn't think I still could be over-stimulated, but Speed Racer had to go and prove me wrong. Seeing a movie on the IMAX was a good idea in theory, but I question if digital film is still sufficient, no matter what Lucas thinks. Some scenes with a lot of action or motion were blurry to the point of being incomprehensible. But there were times when incomprehensibility wasn't the film's fault. Much of the movie was so full of bright colors and elaborate backgrounds you were overwhelmed immediately. A scene in a large city in particular was so garish it could create headaches.
As for the plot, it was simplistic as expected for this sort of movie. Speed Racer, the aptly-titled hero, and his family work as professional race car drivers and builders. While happily independent, after a major victory by Speed, they attracted the interest of an ominously named corporate executive who wants Speed as part of his crooked team, where he would have to take the fall if ordered, or out of the racing circuit entirely so his goons can control it.
Not surprisingly, this plot does not lend itself well to complex looks at morality, nor does it try to. Even so, it has its moments of, if not depth, at least reflection. The story may be about good versus evil using kung fu cars, but the theme is about family and its importance. This can be seen in the continued questioning of Racer X and whether he really is Speed's older brother, who is believed to be deceased. Unlike the cartoon, which humorously reminded us that he really is every episode or so, this movie actually managed to make the question ambiguous.
Less appealing were the antics of the movie's comic relief, Sprattle (Sprittle? Either way,) and Chim-Chim. This was clearly aimed at the younger part of the audience (if it had an audience,) and was only a bit less annoying than their cartoon variants. If you liked the cartoon variants, by all means go nuts.
All that being said, I liked parts of the movie, especially the second big race; a cross-country rally. Of all the movie, this felt the most like the cartoon's feel. The natural tracks were less distracting, the cinematography was impressive for the right reasons, and it's the only time the Mach Five has all the tricks it did in the cartoon. It even featured a mid-race fight against ninjas!
Overall, I'll give the movie a C+ with the reservation that I'm nostalgia biased. It certainly is a movie that inspires the imagination, at the very least, and it had some moments of heart. If it challenges the stomach as well, though, you might want to leave the theater or at least move back a few rows.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
New Update: Tomorrow
Sorry, today was a distracting one. I got a new roommate, which took up much of my focus. Admittedly, it didn't take up much of my time, but it did keep me from making a coherent schedule. Sorry about that; expect an update tomorrow.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Rantings: The Advantages of Video Game Art
This concludes the initial trilogy of me cheerleading art in video games. In the last updates, we covered if video games are art (yes, usually, for those who missed it,) and if video games should aim towards art, both in general and in the narrative sense (also yes.) This time, we cover why, beyond long-term profitability, people should bother making art in video games? Are there any advantages to making video game art? Is a video game really a better art form?
Yes! Wow, these questions are much easier when you have your own blog.
Okay, fine, no, it's not that's easy. It's more accurate to say that video games aren't better art; simply a more complex form. For example, some of the simpler art forms include literature, as it only has one channel to communicate to its audience. A movie has the textual method of books, the visual element books lack (with some exceptions, like House of Leaves,) and the audio method. Video games are another step in complexity. It has the narrative element, the visual one, the audio, and the interactive.
What are the advantages of that last element, though? If a video game is so similar to other modern art forms, why bother? Why make the next Silent Hill when you can make the next Descent, for example? Well, there are various advantages.
1) Immersion. Simply put, a video game character has the ability to make an event more personal than it does when you are merely a spectator. This is especially true in games where the main character is undefined or customizable; it enhances the element of self-definition, though at the cost of characterization and the character's role in the meta-stories of the world. But even games with clearly defined characters force you to react to the world more intimately. Your ability to freely move within it, altering the environment's appearance from your viewpoint, alone gives you that freedom. But this element is strengthened by some of the other advantages below.
2) Risk. One problem with other narrative structures is the results are entirely predicable and unchanging. You might be surprised the first time, but with very few exceptions like the movie Clue, once an ending is known, it will never vary. Similarly, even if you don't know how a story will end, you do know that the result is inevitable. This has some strong narrative elements; a good tragedy or horror story often relies on the inevitability of failure as a narrative device. But on the other hand, if victory is expected, and given how often happy endings are the standard they usually are, then that fear is removed. At worst, the question becomes how will the protagonists get out of the problem and not if they will. Similarly, even a slight understanding of narrative structure will let a viewer/reader recognize the limited nature of conflicts and obstacles in the middle of a story. Video games add uncertainty to every obstacle; it might be the one that ends the hero's story in failure, however temporarily.
3) Choice. The last option is the ability to alter the story. This comes in two forms: the ability to branch the main plot, leading to several different endings, and the ability to focus on what elements of the story matter most to you as the player. Maybe you don't carry about random PCs 3, 4, and 6 in your RPG, but you do care about the minor NPC innkeeper you meet in the first town, so you focus more of your attention on her. It might affect how the game itself unfolds, or it might not, but it affects how you react to the game. Obviously, this is true in movies etc. as you get favorite characters and emphasize them emotionally, but in a game, you transform that into time spent on that character, talking to him/her, even potentially changing him/her in game. Plus, in other art mediums, you can get frustrated with how the characters react to events; they could behave like nitwits in a battle, poorly plan a scheme, or miss the obvious clues needed to solve a mystery. Such things are certainly possible in a video game, as you never have full control in a programmed environment, but you usually have at least some options in combat.
You may complain, however, that at least two of these advantages counter my earlier support of the narrative environment. How strong can a narrative be if you can free alter it at many points. In general, the answer is "very strong," due to the concept of branching paths. Imagine a game where you are only given one choice in its entirety. There's no combat or other uncertainty, just one time where you get to pick between, say, two different buttons to press. From there, the story will continue until its conclusion on each path. This is still a narrative system; it merely has two branching narratives, each enclosed with its own full story and ending.
This is the method most video games use, even if they don't explicitly label the endings as such. In some cases, yes, the branching is a deliberate part of the story. Many games, for example, offer a bittersweet "bad ending" and a "good ending" if certain conditions are met, or games with many potential romantic leads offer different endings based on which one or ones you show affection towards. However, regular gameplay also branches in the form of failure. Every time you lose the game, you essentially "choose" a branched path towards an ending where the hero falls and evil, presumably, wins. Some games spell this own, either all the time or in specific points where especially climatic battles are lost, but this ending is implied in each case.
These branched endings give credibility to the three strengths mentioned above, but there is a risk in over-branching. After all, there are finite amounts of resources and time available to make a game, so by definition every branch requires some investment of these resources and could result in a plot weaker than a branchless game. But this really only becomes a problem when the game becomes so open-ended that the potential endings become nearly infinite, and in that case it is assumed that narrative has been deliberately abandoned by the designers anyway.
Are these the only advantages to video games as an art form? Almost certainly not. Therefore, expect this trilogy to continue on some day from now, as this concept is explored further.
Yes! Wow, these questions are much easier when you have your own blog.
Okay, fine, no, it's not that's easy. It's more accurate to say that video games aren't better art; simply a more complex form. For example, some of the simpler art forms include literature, as it only has one channel to communicate to its audience. A movie has the textual method of books, the visual element books lack (with some exceptions, like House of Leaves,) and the audio method. Video games are another step in complexity. It has the narrative element, the visual one, the audio, and the interactive.
What are the advantages of that last element, though? If a video game is so similar to other modern art forms, why bother? Why make the next Silent Hill when you can make the next Descent, for example? Well, there are various advantages.
1) Immersion. Simply put, a video game character has the ability to make an event more personal than it does when you are merely a spectator. This is especially true in games where the main character is undefined or customizable; it enhances the element of self-definition, though at the cost of characterization and the character's role in the meta-stories of the world. But even games with clearly defined characters force you to react to the world more intimately. Your ability to freely move within it, altering the environment's appearance from your viewpoint, alone gives you that freedom. But this element is strengthened by some of the other advantages below.
2) Risk. One problem with other narrative structures is the results are entirely predicable and unchanging. You might be surprised the first time, but with very few exceptions like the movie Clue, once an ending is known, it will never vary. Similarly, even if you don't know how a story will end, you do know that the result is inevitable. This has some strong narrative elements; a good tragedy or horror story often relies on the inevitability of failure as a narrative device. But on the other hand, if victory is expected, and given how often happy endings are the standard they usually are, then that fear is removed. At worst, the question becomes how will the protagonists get out of the problem and not if they will. Similarly, even a slight understanding of narrative structure will let a viewer/reader recognize the limited nature of conflicts and obstacles in the middle of a story. Video games add uncertainty to every obstacle; it might be the one that ends the hero's story in failure, however temporarily.
3) Choice. The last option is the ability to alter the story. This comes in two forms: the ability to branch the main plot, leading to several different endings, and the ability to focus on what elements of the story matter most to you as the player. Maybe you don't carry about random PCs 3, 4, and 6 in your RPG, but you do care about the minor NPC innkeeper you meet in the first town, so you focus more of your attention on her. It might affect how the game itself unfolds, or it might not, but it affects how you react to the game. Obviously, this is true in movies etc. as you get favorite characters and emphasize them emotionally, but in a game, you transform that into time spent on that character, talking to him/her, even potentially changing him/her in game. Plus, in other art mediums, you can get frustrated with how the characters react to events; they could behave like nitwits in a battle, poorly plan a scheme, or miss the obvious clues needed to solve a mystery. Such things are certainly possible in a video game, as you never have full control in a programmed environment, but you usually have at least some options in combat.
You may complain, however, that at least two of these advantages counter my earlier support of the narrative environment. How strong can a narrative be if you can free alter it at many points. In general, the answer is "very strong," due to the concept of branching paths. Imagine a game where you are only given one choice in its entirety. There's no combat or other uncertainty, just one time where you get to pick between, say, two different buttons to press. From there, the story will continue until its conclusion on each path. This is still a narrative system; it merely has two branching narratives, each enclosed with its own full story and ending.
This is the method most video games use, even if they don't explicitly label the endings as such. In some cases, yes, the branching is a deliberate part of the story. Many games, for example, offer a bittersweet "bad ending" and a "good ending" if certain conditions are met, or games with many potential romantic leads offer different endings based on which one or ones you show affection towards. However, regular gameplay also branches in the form of failure. Every time you lose the game, you essentially "choose" a branched path towards an ending where the hero falls and evil, presumably, wins. Some games spell this own, either all the time or in specific points where especially climatic battles are lost, but this ending is implied in each case.
These branched endings give credibility to the three strengths mentioned above, but there is a risk in over-branching. After all, there are finite amounts of resources and time available to make a game, so by definition every branch requires some investment of these resources and could result in a plot weaker than a branchless game. But this really only becomes a problem when the game becomes so open-ended that the potential endings become nearly infinite, and in that case it is assumed that narrative has been deliberately abandoned by the designers anyway.
Are these the only advantages to video games as an art form? Almost certainly not. Therefore, expect this trilogy to continue on some day from now, as this concept is explored further.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
My Life: The Meh Outdoors
A change in schedule and blogspot being down for a bit will make this a shorter entry than usual. Sorry about that, my nonexistent readers! On the plus side, since last we talked I found a roommate, so I have one less thing to panic about. Woohoo!
So to make this a shorter entry, I'll focus on a single periodic event of my childhood. Camping! Specifically, I refer to the at least one a year camping trips I took with my father, a series of adventures that can best be described in one way: It rained a lot.
When we were kids, instead of the usual Boy Scouts, we went with the Indian Guides. These days, they renamed themselves the YMCA guides to avoid uncomfortable connotations of the last name, which is hilarious when you think about it. Either way, it didn't matter, because after a few years, we graduated to Trailblazers, the version for junior high or older kids. In general, we were not the most intense members of the organization. We did the camp outs and some of the events, but by and largely we ignored the administrative levels. Not that my dad didn't try. He even went to great lengths at times, like when we had to whittle/carve a block of wood for racing and artistic purposes. Ours always sucked for speed reasons, but creatively they were very impressive, and looking back I have to really respect my dad for the effort.
The camp-outs, though, were often minor disasters, not that it was often his fault. The winter ones were often set up at outrageous cold weekends, meaning we spent much of the time shivering in barely insulated cabins. The summer ones fared slightly better, even though we relied on tents and not the RVs some members did, and I was pretty picky about breakfast food. His attempts to make scrambled eggs always were a bit too burned for my liking, for example. The best ones, at least in terms of activities, were the Indiana Beach trips. We still used the tents, but we then had both an arcade and an amusement park to kill the rest of the time. Or at least we would if the weather ever liked us. Day 1 was usually fine. Day 2 was usually okay, which was good, as that was usually the day we visited the park. But we returned to the tents as it got dark, and then the rained started. Every. Single. TIME!
It didn't just rain, oh no. It poured constantly until we huddled under tarps to avoid being drenched. There were times we abandoned the tend and slept in the minivan. There was even the time I collapsed from exhaustion well before it was time for that, which honestly was a blessing if it meant you were going to sleep in a minivan anyway.
But like many of the things in my childhood, I didn't realize how much work went into it or appreciate it until it was much later. My dad, to put it mildly, did not have a happy childhood, and this was one of the many ways he tried to do better than he had it, to succeed as a parent. I wanted to say that, knowing what I do now, it was a good idea, and however much I whined, it was fun. I enjoyed the canoeing, even with the times the river was so shallow that we got stuck and the frequent capsizing. I enjoyed the camping experience, even if a lot of the other kids were jerks or creepy. I even enjoyed some of the food.
I didn't enjoy the rain, though. Oh, and sorry my friend discolored much of the tent with food coloring.
So to make this a shorter entry, I'll focus on a single periodic event of my childhood. Camping! Specifically, I refer to the at least one a year camping trips I took with my father, a series of adventures that can best be described in one way: It rained a lot.
When we were kids, instead of the usual Boy Scouts, we went with the Indian Guides. These days, they renamed themselves the YMCA guides to avoid uncomfortable connotations of the last name, which is hilarious when you think about it. Either way, it didn't matter, because after a few years, we graduated to Trailblazers, the version for junior high or older kids. In general, we were not the most intense members of the organization. We did the camp outs and some of the events, but by and largely we ignored the administrative levels. Not that my dad didn't try. He even went to great lengths at times, like when we had to whittle/carve a block of wood for racing and artistic purposes. Ours always sucked for speed reasons, but creatively they were very impressive, and looking back I have to really respect my dad for the effort.
The camp-outs, though, were often minor disasters, not that it was often his fault. The winter ones were often set up at outrageous cold weekends, meaning we spent much of the time shivering in barely insulated cabins. The summer ones fared slightly better, even though we relied on tents and not the RVs some members did, and I was pretty picky about breakfast food. His attempts to make scrambled eggs always were a bit too burned for my liking, for example. The best ones, at least in terms of activities, were the Indiana Beach trips. We still used the tents, but we then had both an arcade and an amusement park to kill the rest of the time. Or at least we would if the weather ever liked us. Day 1 was usually fine. Day 2 was usually okay, which was good, as that was usually the day we visited the park. But we returned to the tents as it got dark, and then the rained started. Every. Single. TIME!
It didn't just rain, oh no. It poured constantly until we huddled under tarps to avoid being drenched. There were times we abandoned the tend and slept in the minivan. There was even the time I collapsed from exhaustion well before it was time for that, which honestly was a blessing if it meant you were going to sleep in a minivan anyway.
But like many of the things in my childhood, I didn't realize how much work went into it or appreciate it until it was much later. My dad, to put it mildly, did not have a happy childhood, and this was one of the many ways he tried to do better than he had it, to succeed as a parent. I wanted to say that, knowing what I do now, it was a good idea, and however much I whined, it was fun. I enjoyed the canoeing, even with the times the river was so shallow that we got stuck and the frequent capsizing. I enjoyed the camping experience, even if a lot of the other kids were jerks or creepy. I even enjoyed some of the food.
I didn't enjoy the rain, though. Oh, and sorry my friend discolored much of the tent with food coloring.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Reviews: My Junior High Fantasy Complete
Well, at the very least it's the fantasy I'm willing to talk about here.
I refer to Smash Brothers Brawl, the third in the increasingly popular fighting game series by Nintendo. The fantasy refers to their change of policy; unlike earlier games in the series, this one allows for some third party characters to join the fight. One of them was Sonic, the Sega mascot and a long-running rival to Nintendo's rival Sonic. This addition was one of many new features that made this game more exciting than previous installments; fantasy battles imagined for well over a decade can finally be realized!
Yes, this is indeed an incredible game. It got nearly perfect reviews by critics, putting near the most popular games every made, and sold millions in the very first weeks. And yet...
One particularly famous critic, Yahtzee of Zero Punctuation, said that he hated the game. There's nothing wrong with that specifically; anyone can have their own opinion. But while some of it was purely subjective (he just didn't find the game's often chaotic gameplay fun, so it goes,) he also raised some objective points that deserved attention.
I'll start by explaining the series for those unfamiliar with it. Smash Brothers is a game about Nintendo's mascot characters, but not about any series specifically. Instead, it's a fighting game where all their major characters fight with each other. So Mario goes against Link, who is also fighting Metroid's Samus and Pikachu. Despite debuting on the 3D heavy Nintendo 64, the series is primarily a two dimensional game. Instead of the usual flat battlefield of a fighting game, each level is a series of platforms hovering over a bottomless pit or surrounded by barriers that can't be passed without suffering a loss. Instead of health, every character has an increasing damage percentage, and the distance an attack knocks you back is based on how high this percentage is at. When around 100% or so, many attacks are lethal, either knocking enemies past the barriers or so far away from the platforms that the victims can't return, despite all characters having the ability to double jump and a special move that includes enough mobility to count as at least a third jump.
In addition, the game shakes things up by allowing four players to fight at once, creating team matches or free for all matches where allegiances shift instantly based on who happens to be winning. Randomly dropped items are also added, from new weapons to deadly explosives and healing items. And most stages have further hazards as well, creating yet another thing that has to be avoided. The result is a frequently high-speed and intense melee, but despite the chaos and simple controls there is a deep fighting experience, with advanced players relying on high-speed evasions, shield and rolls, dodging, and attack priorities.
The frantic gameplay, innovative fighting system, and sheer nostalgia of the characters, settings, items, and music are enough to make every game in this series very impressive. And Brawl improved upon the series in many ways. The simple single-player quest, used mostly to earn hidden things like characters and trophies, the game's collectible trinkets, was refined to include an entire ten-hour side-scrolling adventure, with a plot tying the game's characters together and a new enemy for all of the thirty+ characters to unite and fight. The graphics have improved, but the music really stands out, with dozens of the best composers in the video game united to provide their interpretations of the industry's most memorable music.
But one problem that Yahtzee noted persists, and it may very well be a matter of philosophy more than anything. Like every game in the series, much of the content starts out hidden. In the very first game, 4 of the 12 characters were hidden, along with one of the stages. At this point, of the 35 characters, something like 15 were hidden, as were a dozen or so of the total stages. This list of hidden characters include Snake and Sonic, which was odd, as one of the selling points of the game were these hidden third party characters. And to unlock them in the easiest possible way, you have to defeat somewhere between 2/3 and the entirety of the adventure mode. On some ways, this method is much easier. In Melee, getting some of the characters involved hours of guesswork. In Brawl, all the secrets are conveniently listed on a single screen, and all the characters can be found just by defeating or carefully exploring the levels of adventure mode. So while I can understand why a neophyte of the series is annoyed by this, as an experienced player, I find the same system an improvement.
This sort of thing reveals a conflict we're seeing more often in games. It's not even the now traditional narrative versus open world or single versus multi player default; it's a matter of how much we own the very games we buy. In other words, should we, the purchaser of the game, decide how it gets played? After all, if we buy a DVD, we expect to pop it in and, should we want, fast-forward or scene skip to the last five minutes. But in video games, not only are there hidden objects and rewards, but the game makes playing it in its entirety obligatory. What if someone wants to get, say, Grand Theft Auto 4, turn on invincibility from the start (and legitimately, not by having to search the Internet for cheat codes,) level select to the final battle, and watch the closing credits before the plastic wrapping is even off of the box completely? If that's too extreme, there are other points of debate like skippable/pausible cut scenes and the ability to save and load everywhere. For the record, I'm fully in favor of the former, but reluctantly supportive of the latter. Saving everywhere is crucial, but loading everywhere leads to obsessive gaming of the sort that encourages reloads if you lose more than 2% of your health in every room, and increasingly lethal game design to make up for it.
Anyway, I will argue that Brawl overused the hidden aspect in this game. It was less of a problem in earlier games, as the hidden characters were more obscure ones or clones of more popular characters. If you bought the game so you could play as your favorite Nintendo character, you had that chance right out of the box. However, hiding the third party characters was dirty pool. I also found that they overused the collectible features by making you beat the game on three other modes in addition to the adventure for all 35 characters! That made beating parts of the game feel more like a chore than fun.
The only other complaints are the still unfriendly and unreliable internet system, which seems to be a Nintendo staple, and still too many clone-y characters. Seriously, Gannondorf deserved his own move set this time, and there was no excuse for Fox, Falco, and Wolf from the Star Fox series to all have only slightly divergent moves. Plus, no Megaman! Why introduce third party characters and then only use two of them? I only hope this will be a more thoroughly used feature come the next sequel; heck, make it the game's adventure mode theme, toss in at least a half-dozen more, and treat it like one of those Marvel Versus DC style crossovers.
The final rating is still an A-, despite these flaws. And if it did have Megaman, I probably would've bumped it to an A.
I refer to Smash Brothers Brawl, the third in the increasingly popular fighting game series by Nintendo. The fantasy refers to their change of policy; unlike earlier games in the series, this one allows for some third party characters to join the fight. One of them was Sonic, the Sega mascot and a long-running rival to Nintendo's rival Sonic. This addition was one of many new features that made this game more exciting than previous installments; fantasy battles imagined for well over a decade can finally be realized!
Yes, this is indeed an incredible game. It got nearly perfect reviews by critics, putting near the most popular games every made, and sold millions in the very first weeks. And yet...
One particularly famous critic, Yahtzee of Zero Punctuation, said that he hated the game. There's nothing wrong with that specifically; anyone can have their own opinion. But while some of it was purely subjective (he just didn't find the game's often chaotic gameplay fun, so it goes,) he also raised some objective points that deserved attention.
I'll start by explaining the series for those unfamiliar with it. Smash Brothers is a game about Nintendo's mascot characters, but not about any series specifically. Instead, it's a fighting game where all their major characters fight with each other. So Mario goes against Link, who is also fighting Metroid's Samus and Pikachu. Despite debuting on the 3D heavy Nintendo 64, the series is primarily a two dimensional game. Instead of the usual flat battlefield of a fighting game, each level is a series of platforms hovering over a bottomless pit or surrounded by barriers that can't be passed without suffering a loss. Instead of health, every character has an increasing damage percentage, and the distance an attack knocks you back is based on how high this percentage is at. When around 100% or so, many attacks are lethal, either knocking enemies past the barriers or so far away from the platforms that the victims can't return, despite all characters having the ability to double jump and a special move that includes enough mobility to count as at least a third jump.
In addition, the game shakes things up by allowing four players to fight at once, creating team matches or free for all matches where allegiances shift instantly based on who happens to be winning. Randomly dropped items are also added, from new weapons to deadly explosives and healing items. And most stages have further hazards as well, creating yet another thing that has to be avoided. The result is a frequently high-speed and intense melee, but despite the chaos and simple controls there is a deep fighting experience, with advanced players relying on high-speed evasions, shield and rolls, dodging, and attack priorities.
The frantic gameplay, innovative fighting system, and sheer nostalgia of the characters, settings, items, and music are enough to make every game in this series very impressive. And Brawl improved upon the series in many ways. The simple single-player quest, used mostly to earn hidden things like characters and trophies, the game's collectible trinkets, was refined to include an entire ten-hour side-scrolling adventure, with a plot tying the game's characters together and a new enemy for all of the thirty+ characters to unite and fight. The graphics have improved, but the music really stands out, with dozens of the best composers in the video game united to provide their interpretations of the industry's most memorable music.
But one problem that Yahtzee noted persists, and it may very well be a matter of philosophy more than anything. Like every game in the series, much of the content starts out hidden. In the very first game, 4 of the 12 characters were hidden, along with one of the stages. At this point, of the 35 characters, something like 15 were hidden, as were a dozen or so of the total stages. This list of hidden characters include Snake and Sonic, which was odd, as one of the selling points of the game were these hidden third party characters. And to unlock them in the easiest possible way, you have to defeat somewhere between 2/3 and the entirety of the adventure mode. On some ways, this method is much easier. In Melee, getting some of the characters involved hours of guesswork. In Brawl, all the secrets are conveniently listed on a single screen, and all the characters can be found just by defeating or carefully exploring the levels of adventure mode. So while I can understand why a neophyte of the series is annoyed by this, as an experienced player, I find the same system an improvement.
This sort of thing reveals a conflict we're seeing more often in games. It's not even the now traditional narrative versus open world or single versus multi player default; it's a matter of how much we own the very games we buy. In other words, should we, the purchaser of the game, decide how it gets played? After all, if we buy a DVD, we expect to pop it in and, should we want, fast-forward or scene skip to the last five minutes. But in video games, not only are there hidden objects and rewards, but the game makes playing it in its entirety obligatory. What if someone wants to get, say, Grand Theft Auto 4, turn on invincibility from the start (and legitimately, not by having to search the Internet for cheat codes,) level select to the final battle, and watch the closing credits before the plastic wrapping is even off of the box completely? If that's too extreme, there are other points of debate like skippable/pausible cut scenes and the ability to save and load everywhere. For the record, I'm fully in favor of the former, but reluctantly supportive of the latter. Saving everywhere is crucial, but loading everywhere leads to obsessive gaming of the sort that encourages reloads if you lose more than 2% of your health in every room, and increasingly lethal game design to make up for it.
Anyway, I will argue that Brawl overused the hidden aspect in this game. It was less of a problem in earlier games, as the hidden characters were more obscure ones or clones of more popular characters. If you bought the game so you could play as your favorite Nintendo character, you had that chance right out of the box. However, hiding the third party characters was dirty pool. I also found that they overused the collectible features by making you beat the game on three other modes in addition to the adventure for all 35 characters! That made beating parts of the game feel more like a chore than fun.
The only other complaints are the still unfriendly and unreliable internet system, which seems to be a Nintendo staple, and still too many clone-y characters. Seriously, Gannondorf deserved his own move set this time, and there was no excuse for Fox, Falco, and Wolf from the Star Fox series to all have only slightly divergent moves. Plus, no Megaman! Why introduce third party characters and then only use two of them? I only hope this will be a more thoroughly used feature come the next sequel; heck, make it the game's adventure mode theme, toss in at least a half-dozen more, and treat it like one of those Marvel Versus DC style crossovers.
The final rating is still an A-, despite these flaws. And if it did have Megaman, I probably would've bumped it to an A.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
One Day Delay, Again
The Thursday post will be finished this friday. Sorry, delays from a visit to the car dealership and my continual roomate hunt have come up, but it won't be permanent.
My Inspirations: Where I Prove Myself an Incredible Sap
Today's inspiration is another video game. I know, I know, but if I wasn't so inspired by the industry, I wouldn't want to get into it, now would I? This one may come as a surprise to you. It sure as hell came as a surprise to me.
The year, I believe, was 1999. This was the year of "Summer of Adventure" AKA the year that Squaresoft (well before it was Square Enix) conveniently released a brilliant new game every single month for like five months straight. Some of their most celebrated, famous or infamous, and controversial titles came out in this time frame, from the sequel to Chrono Trigger to yet another Final Fantasy (9 this time.) There were also lesser gems like Threads of Fate and Front Mission 3, but in the middle of it all was a semi-sequel to Secret of Mana, another earlier hit by Squaresoft. The sequel, though, was a much different beast, one that made a lot of people angry and to many signified a spiral of doom for the entire Mana series that continues to this very day. I LOVE this game.
It's difficult to explain why, but I'm doing a blog for a reason, so here it goes. The game starts with the premise that the world got horribly screwed up, so it was more less laid bare, every person or place stripped away so they can be placed down anew, restored. The first thing to be put back is a simple home containing an avatar of the Goddess of Mana, part of the ongoing theme that connects the entire Mana series. You are, of course, that avatar.
As the game progresses, you find other items, each of which physically personify a location on the planet. You place these objects in any order and locations that you see fit, slightly altering their nature and thus the monsters you fight and quests you can earn there. Slowly, the world expands, creating towns, caverns, beaches, dungeons, towers, and usual RPG features. However, because of the game's design, there's no single unifying story arc that drives things. Instead, as inhabited locations become available, major individuals can be encountered, and their introductions start any of the three smaller story arcs available in the game. As you encounter these people in multiple locations and the plots get deeper, the adventures get more complex until you can get access to a "final dungeon" style location, containing a final boss for that arc.
In addition to the three main arcs, there are literally dozens of other quests, from amusing interactions with each city's locals to even smaller mini-arcs involving the fate of minor characters. The entire game eschews any realistic artistic style (not that the original Playstation could get too photorealistic in the first place,) in favor a more stylized, cartoon design with two dimensional graphics.
There are generally two things that Legend of Mana detractors complain about. The graphics are rarely one of them, since the earlier Mana games have a similar cartoon style and the artwork is both aesthetically pleasing, consistent throughout the world, and unique; you can always recognize a game by the Legend of Mana developers. The game play and story were much less successful. Secret of Mana (the first game in the series as far as many Americans were concerned) had an elaborate fighting system using top-down perspectives, chargeable weapons, and most importantly, as many as three players active at once! Conversely, Legend uses a side view with 3D elements but not graphics, letting characters move up and down to reach different levels of the ground but with almost no way of directly interacting above or below you. In other words, it was a traditional beat-em-up game like Final Fight with magic and slightly more options. In addition, while you can have as many as three characters on your team, one was always a computer-controlled golem or monster. The second character can be player controlled, but it was never a permanent part of the party, instead being related to the current story, one of the apprentices the main character gets early on, or the main character from the other player's save file. Either way, it's doubtful the second character will be at the same level of power that the main character is, either unbalancing the entire adventure or becoming useless as a result.
The story loses points, in some eyes, in the lack of focus, the way the individual story arcs could halt for hours while the avatar builds up the lands needed to continue them, and the often bizarre and surreal stories in the first place. Others complained that these arcs have nothing to do with the game's ultimate conclusion. You have to complete at least one of the main three (or possibly two, it's been a while,) to open up the final level, but which one you complete has almost no bearing on the final area or the game's story.
It's that surrealism that appeals to me, however. Say what you want about the stories in Legend of Mana, but they were almost nothing like the stories I had gotten accustomed to after so many RPGs. And the staggered way they were presented helps make the world itself seem more expansive and real. It wasn't just a line of quests, empty of any other point or motivation beyond serving you. Okay, it was, but it disguised this fact much more thoroughly. Combined with the often bittersweet and dark story arcs, a strange thing for such a fancifully styled game, and it makes the world much more real.
But all that still wouldn't be enough were it not for the music, which is flawless. From the exciting action scores to the sorrowful dirges of ruined towns to the epic conclusions of the story arcs, the music constantly captures the tone of the game and accentuates it. Done by Yoko Shimomura, famous for her work with Kingdom Hearts and countless other games, it manages to do something that even now rarely happens to me; it created a video game that made me cry. And it didn't just do it once. No, the ending of one of the three arcs has made me cry every time I beat it. Who knows if it still would today, but I certainly couldn't resist it in those days.
Between the music, the art, the often touching stories, and the sheer expanse of the game, it remains a personal favorite. I didn't even get into the more complex features, from the weapon and armor forging to the garden and even programming the simple AI logic of your pet golems. This game, like Majora's Mask, taught me that if one is to make a story about saving the world, one can't do so without making characters worth saving.
The year, I believe, was 1999. This was the year of "Summer of Adventure" AKA the year that Squaresoft (well before it was Square Enix) conveniently released a brilliant new game every single month for like five months straight. Some of their most celebrated, famous or infamous, and controversial titles came out in this time frame, from the sequel to Chrono Trigger to yet another Final Fantasy (9 this time.) There were also lesser gems like Threads of Fate and Front Mission 3, but in the middle of it all was a semi-sequel to Secret of Mana, another earlier hit by Squaresoft. The sequel, though, was a much different beast, one that made a lot of people angry and to many signified a spiral of doom for the entire Mana series that continues to this very day. I LOVE this game.
It's difficult to explain why, but I'm doing a blog for a reason, so here it goes. The game starts with the premise that the world got horribly screwed up, so it was more less laid bare, every person or place stripped away so they can be placed down anew, restored. The first thing to be put back is a simple home containing an avatar of the Goddess of Mana, part of the ongoing theme that connects the entire Mana series. You are, of course, that avatar.
As the game progresses, you find other items, each of which physically personify a location on the planet. You place these objects in any order and locations that you see fit, slightly altering their nature and thus the monsters you fight and quests you can earn there. Slowly, the world expands, creating towns, caverns, beaches, dungeons, towers, and usual RPG features. However, because of the game's design, there's no single unifying story arc that drives things. Instead, as inhabited locations become available, major individuals can be encountered, and their introductions start any of the three smaller story arcs available in the game. As you encounter these people in multiple locations and the plots get deeper, the adventures get more complex until you can get access to a "final dungeon" style location, containing a final boss for that arc.
In addition to the three main arcs, there are literally dozens of other quests, from amusing interactions with each city's locals to even smaller mini-arcs involving the fate of minor characters. The entire game eschews any realistic artistic style (not that the original Playstation could get too photorealistic in the first place,) in favor a more stylized, cartoon design with two dimensional graphics.
There are generally two things that Legend of Mana detractors complain about. The graphics are rarely one of them, since the earlier Mana games have a similar cartoon style and the artwork is both aesthetically pleasing, consistent throughout the world, and unique; you can always recognize a game by the Legend of Mana developers. The game play and story were much less successful. Secret of Mana (the first game in the series as far as many Americans were concerned) had an elaborate fighting system using top-down perspectives, chargeable weapons, and most importantly, as many as three players active at once! Conversely, Legend uses a side view with 3D elements but not graphics, letting characters move up and down to reach different levels of the ground but with almost no way of directly interacting above or below you. In other words, it was a traditional beat-em-up game like Final Fight with magic and slightly more options. In addition, while you can have as many as three characters on your team, one was always a computer-controlled golem or monster. The second character can be player controlled, but it was never a permanent part of the party, instead being related to the current story, one of the apprentices the main character gets early on, or the main character from the other player's save file. Either way, it's doubtful the second character will be at the same level of power that the main character is, either unbalancing the entire adventure or becoming useless as a result.
The story loses points, in some eyes, in the lack of focus, the way the individual story arcs could halt for hours while the avatar builds up the lands needed to continue them, and the often bizarre and surreal stories in the first place. Others complained that these arcs have nothing to do with the game's ultimate conclusion. You have to complete at least one of the main three (or possibly two, it's been a while,) to open up the final level, but which one you complete has almost no bearing on the final area or the game's story.
It's that surrealism that appeals to me, however. Say what you want about the stories in Legend of Mana, but they were almost nothing like the stories I had gotten accustomed to after so many RPGs. And the staggered way they were presented helps make the world itself seem more expansive and real. It wasn't just a line of quests, empty of any other point or motivation beyond serving you. Okay, it was, but it disguised this fact much more thoroughly. Combined with the often bittersweet and dark story arcs, a strange thing for such a fancifully styled game, and it makes the world much more real.
But all that still wouldn't be enough were it not for the music, which is flawless. From the exciting action scores to the sorrowful dirges of ruined towns to the epic conclusions of the story arcs, the music constantly captures the tone of the game and accentuates it. Done by Yoko Shimomura, famous for her work with Kingdom Hearts and countless other games, it manages to do something that even now rarely happens to me; it created a video game that made me cry. And it didn't just do it once. No, the ending of one of the three arcs has made me cry every time I beat it. Who knows if it still would today, but I certainly couldn't resist it in those days.
Between the music, the art, the often touching stories, and the sheer expanse of the game, it remains a personal favorite. I didn't even get into the more complex features, from the weapon and armor forging to the garden and even programming the simple AI logic of your pet golems. This game, like Majora's Mask, taught me that if one is to make a story about saving the world, one can't do so without making characters worth saving.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
My Ideas: I Wrote a Screenplay! Damnit!
Those who have been paying attention to my blogs will probably guess what this one is about. For much of the last month, I wrote a screenplay in some of my free time. The goal revolved around ScriptFrenzy, a Nanowrimo variant for just this sort of thing. The goal was to write 100 pages in 30 days. And I succeeded! Well, sort of.
Okay, here's what ended up happening. I did write over 100 pages in 30 days! Unfortunately, I didn't remember to actually update it until after midnight, central time. So officially, I didn't win. But that's okay! I did write the 100 pages required. More importantly, I did finish the story itself, as of....
Now! For the record, that's about three hours after the last line here was written. I've been busy. However, it's over! I wrote a screenplay! More importantly, this was notable for being the single least planned, prepared, or conceived of writing I ever made. I changed my entire plan a day before the actual ScriptFrenzy began, had nothing but a setting and skeletal outline to start with, made of major characters on the spot, killed off the original male lead a quarter of the way in, and had no idea what the ending was until I wrote it. It was the most hectic writing I've ever done, but I succeeded.
So why do I feel unsatisfied? Well, for one thing, I think it has to do with the way the rest of this month felt. I was busy, depressed at work, depressed about life and financial issues, and this felt like an add-on to that; more a distraction than a creation. More importantly, though, it was too easy. Despite all the challenges mentioned above and the total lack of preparation, I beat the challenge's requirements with ease. Granted, 100 pages is much easier than Nanowrimo, but still, shouldn't I have felt some struggle with this? Now I know I can write pretty much anything required of me in a matter of a week or two (if motivated and other jobs were not problems, obviously,) but what's next? What's left to do?
So the thing feels a little empty. The story needs revision, sure, but it's not bad. It has a good narrative line, interesting characters, references to past moments in the ending, growth, death, revelations, the whole shebang. But the ending is a total sequel ending copout, mostly because I couldn't find a way to resolve the big questions of the script in the allotted space and story arc, and the whole thing felt rushed, as if it was the movie adaptation of a season or two of a television show. There are no links to the story of my other ideas, a rare thing indeed, though such a thing can still come to pass.
Nonetheless, I'm happy with it in general. Since the requirement was 100+ pages and my investment rule limits things I made under 100 pages, I obviously can't give away everything, but I'll summarize the concept. The entire script takes place inside a machine of massive proportions, so big in fact that a tribe of semi-nomadic primitives live inside one single component of it and are unaware anything else exists! They worship the machine collectively and live by making sacrifices, receiving "blessings" in the form of garbage ejected from a pneumatic tube. Despite this, they survive relatively well, but when a disaster strikes the village, some of its surviving members of the younger generation leave, seeking resolution, restoration of a loved ones' good name, or more selfish desires. They soon learn truths about the place, including the discovery of a city that produces the garbage they have been consuming. Anyone willing to sift through 100 pages of this thing and give me revision notes is welcome to do so.
Okay, here's what ended up happening. I did write over 100 pages in 30 days! Unfortunately, I didn't remember to actually update it until after midnight, central time. So officially, I didn't win. But that's okay! I did write the 100 pages required. More importantly, I did finish the story itself, as of....
Now! For the record, that's about three hours after the last line here was written. I've been busy. However, it's over! I wrote a screenplay! More importantly, this was notable for being the single least planned, prepared, or conceived of writing I ever made. I changed my entire plan a day before the actual ScriptFrenzy began, had nothing but a setting and skeletal outline to start with, made of major characters on the spot, killed off the original male lead a quarter of the way in, and had no idea what the ending was until I wrote it. It was the most hectic writing I've ever done, but I succeeded.
So why do I feel unsatisfied? Well, for one thing, I think it has to do with the way the rest of this month felt. I was busy, depressed at work, depressed about life and financial issues, and this felt like an add-on to that; more a distraction than a creation. More importantly, though, it was too easy. Despite all the challenges mentioned above and the total lack of preparation, I beat the challenge's requirements with ease. Granted, 100 pages is much easier than Nanowrimo, but still, shouldn't I have felt some struggle with this? Now I know I can write pretty much anything required of me in a matter of a week or two (if motivated and other jobs were not problems, obviously,) but what's next? What's left to do?
So the thing feels a little empty. The story needs revision, sure, but it's not bad. It has a good narrative line, interesting characters, references to past moments in the ending, growth, death, revelations, the whole shebang. But the ending is a total sequel ending copout, mostly because I couldn't find a way to resolve the big questions of the script in the allotted space and story arc, and the whole thing felt rushed, as if it was the movie adaptation of a season or two of a television show. There are no links to the story of my other ideas, a rare thing indeed, though such a thing can still come to pass.
Nonetheless, I'm happy with it in general. Since the requirement was 100+ pages and my investment rule limits things I made under 100 pages, I obviously can't give away everything, but I'll summarize the concept. The entire script takes place inside a machine of massive proportions, so big in fact that a tribe of semi-nomadic primitives live inside one single component of it and are unaware anything else exists! They worship the machine collectively and live by making sacrifices, receiving "blessings" in the form of garbage ejected from a pneumatic tube. Despite this, they survive relatively well, but when a disaster strikes the village, some of its surviving members of the younger generation leave, seeking resolution, restoration of a loved ones' good name, or more selfish desires. They soon learn truths about the place, including the discovery of a city that produces the garbage they have been consuming. Anyone willing to sift through 100 pages of this thing and give me revision notes is welcome to do so.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Reviews: Okay, Fine, One Review
My plan was to do two reviews tonight, one of them being Smash Brothers Brawl, but two things are keeping me. First of all, time became a problem, and second of all, I feel I could still do more with Brawl before I want to review it. Instead, I'll just do one game, Paper Mario.
Paper Mario is a very old game, actually, brought back thanks to the Wii's Virtual Console. It's an RPG introduced in Nintendo's N64 era, though unlike most games in this 3D friendly era, it's mostly two dimensional. The game is a spiritual sequel to the Super Nintendo's Mari RPG, but the designer is different and there is a new art style and game play. In this game, you play as Mario who has to defeat Bowser, which is pretty typical for a Mario game but surprisingly simple for a Mario RPG. Nearly every game has Bowser as a reluctant ally or clueless bystander compared to the much worse villains each RPG introduces. The story is equally simple. To defeat Bowser, Mario has to collect seven magical macguffins, each guarded by a usual challenge and boss guardian, to dent the otherwise indestructible final boss and reach his inaccessible lair.
One problem with the story is that I already played Paper Mario 2: The Thousand Year Door and Super Paper Mario, and both had both more advanced stories and better writing. The characters are more developed, the missions more varied, and the humor more clever. By comparison, things felt flat in Paper Mario.
The gameplay is where Paper Mario shines, of course. The game's party is minimalistic; you can only ever have Mario and a second character that serves as an ally/assistant. This ally has no hit points, no equipment to modify, and a grand total of two levels to gain, though at the maximum level each partner has four attacks. Each one has different abilities, as well, making it wise to change them on a regular basis based on what enemies you fight. As a Mario RPG, there are action elements. Button presses affect Mario's attacks and defenses, and good timing does more damage or even doubles your attack strength, while defenses reduce enemy attacks by at least one point of damage. That may seem minor, but unlike the average RPG, where attacks do thousands of points of damage by the end of the game, in this game you're lucky to do 10 points of damage for an attack at the end of the game.
All the partners have similar action commands, though they are different with each player. The player also gains a number of special attacks, and unlike the normal mp system in the game, this one is more a sliding scale that raises with combat and turns spent on improving it. The real advantage of this variety of abilities is it gives a number of special traits and weaknesses to the enemies, so the character has to exploit them. Shelled enemies like koopas are heavily armored but can be stunned by knocking them upside down, enemies with spikes on their head/back are immune to jump attacks normally, and fire-based enemies are immune to any attack regarded as direct physical attack but not weapon attacks.
Outside of combat, the game uses experience levels, but nothing increases automatically. Instead, the character can choose to increase maximum health, maximum magic points, or "badges." Badges are other modifications that can be made to Mario. They include base enhancements, like increases to damage, defenses, and even hit points/magic points, but it also includes all magic-based special attacks for Mario and abilities in specific situations, like if Mario is low on health, looking for hidden items on the normal game world, or uses specific kinds of attacks or items.
Again, the original doesn't compare to the sequels. The second Paper Mario game had hit points and other traits for characters, a very clever "stage" system that replaces the normal special attacks' sliding bar, and a wider range of abilities for badges. Paper Mario is more an exploration of history and a great starting point for the series. It's just like playing Super Mario Brothers after already play Super Mario 3. Of course, as an RPG, it takes much longer to play, but depending on how much time you kill, it shouldn't take much more than twenty hours, making it a reasonably quick RPG. I give the game a B for now, but it could be an A- if seen with fresh eyes. I suggest you give it a try, enjoy the weird world of Paper Mario, and laugh at the Ninja Turtles parody back when it was closer to relevant. If you must.
Paper Mario is a very old game, actually, brought back thanks to the Wii's Virtual Console. It's an RPG introduced in Nintendo's N64 era, though unlike most games in this 3D friendly era, it's mostly two dimensional. The game is a spiritual sequel to the Super Nintendo's Mari RPG, but the designer is different and there is a new art style and game play. In this game, you play as Mario who has to defeat Bowser, which is pretty typical for a Mario game but surprisingly simple for a Mario RPG. Nearly every game has Bowser as a reluctant ally or clueless bystander compared to the much worse villains each RPG introduces. The story is equally simple. To defeat Bowser, Mario has to collect seven magical macguffins, each guarded by a usual challenge and boss guardian, to dent the otherwise indestructible final boss and reach his inaccessible lair.
One problem with the story is that I already played Paper Mario 2: The Thousand Year Door and Super Paper Mario, and both had both more advanced stories and better writing. The characters are more developed, the missions more varied, and the humor more clever. By comparison, things felt flat in Paper Mario.
The gameplay is where Paper Mario shines, of course. The game's party is minimalistic; you can only ever have Mario and a second character that serves as an ally/assistant. This ally has no hit points, no equipment to modify, and a grand total of two levels to gain, though at the maximum level each partner has four attacks. Each one has different abilities, as well, making it wise to change them on a regular basis based on what enemies you fight. As a Mario RPG, there are action elements. Button presses affect Mario's attacks and defenses, and good timing does more damage or even doubles your attack strength, while defenses reduce enemy attacks by at least one point of damage. That may seem minor, but unlike the average RPG, where attacks do thousands of points of damage by the end of the game, in this game you're lucky to do 10 points of damage for an attack at the end of the game.
All the partners have similar action commands, though they are different with each player. The player also gains a number of special attacks, and unlike the normal mp system in the game, this one is more a sliding scale that raises with combat and turns spent on improving it. The real advantage of this variety of abilities is it gives a number of special traits and weaknesses to the enemies, so the character has to exploit them. Shelled enemies like koopas are heavily armored but can be stunned by knocking them upside down, enemies with spikes on their head/back are immune to jump attacks normally, and fire-based enemies are immune to any attack regarded as direct physical attack but not weapon attacks.
Outside of combat, the game uses experience levels, but nothing increases automatically. Instead, the character can choose to increase maximum health, maximum magic points, or "badges." Badges are other modifications that can be made to Mario. They include base enhancements, like increases to damage, defenses, and even hit points/magic points, but it also includes all magic-based special attacks for Mario and abilities in specific situations, like if Mario is low on health, looking for hidden items on the normal game world, or uses specific kinds of attacks or items.
Again, the original doesn't compare to the sequels. The second Paper Mario game had hit points and other traits for characters, a very clever "stage" system that replaces the normal special attacks' sliding bar, and a wider range of abilities for badges. Paper Mario is more an exploration of history and a great starting point for the series. It's just like playing Super Mario Brothers after already play Super Mario 3. Of course, as an RPG, it takes much longer to play, but depending on how much time you kill, it shouldn't take much more than twenty hours, making it a reasonably quick RPG. I give the game a B for now, but it could be an A- if seen with fresh eyes. I suggest you give it a try, enjoy the weird world of Paper Mario, and laugh at the Ninja Turtles parody back when it was closer to relevant. If you must.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Rantings: Genre Ranting #1
This blog starts a new mini-theme within the whole ranting theme. In this section, I'll be discussing a specific genre of video game and what I like and dislike about it. I'll start with a genre that I like, but that isn't one of my favorites, to give me a more balanced look at how this theme will work.
This time, the topic will be survival horror games, and to a lesser degree horror games in general. Now, I may not know everything about this genre, but I have played many of the most important games of the genre. I have played all four of the regular Resident Evil games, though not the semi-side story Code Veronica, the prequel Resident Evil 0, and the other assorted spin-offs. I much prefer the Silent Hill games, including all four regular games of THAT series. But my collection ends with Eternal Darkness; I never played Alone in the Dark, Clock Tower, Siren, that recent zombie game I forgot the name of, and so on. No, take that back. I also played half of the first Fatal Frame game.
Still, I understand how the genre works. It's a tricky series to get right. The problem with the survival horror is that the series serves two masters. Horror requires that the player be scared of the situation, which means a sense of danger and loss. Often, this means that the character is in much worse circumstances than the normal hero. Enemies are numerous and more powerful than the hero, resources to fight them are limited, save points and healing are usually few and far between, and death is often instantaneous. On the other hand, games require some sense of balance and "fun." Constantly replaying the same cut scenes, dealing with limited inventories and shifting items into and out of boxes, and avoiding enemies to even survive, gets frustrating. It's that sense of balance that makes things difficult.
I think the trick is to determine how much of survival is "survival" and "horror." The trick is finding ways to scare the player in other ways. Here are the ways that I see the genre works.
1) The Survival element. Resident Evil, save for maybe 4, are based on this element. Save points are limited to a number of typewriter ribbons and can only be used in said typewriters. The only weapon most of the time are guns with minimal ammo. Every time you venture into unknown territory, you know it will cost you part of your precious resources, and safe territories don't exist. You likely had to dodge some of the monsters instead of killing them to get that far, and even if you did kill them all, the game loves respawning old enemies or tossing in new ones. This creates an ongoing sense of dread, though as I warned before it also can be frustrating and tedious. Often, tricks, even ones that kill the mood, are used to kill monsters without using as much ammunition, like letting enemies get as close as possible before aiming straight up with a shotgun, killing a zombie with one blast.
2) The shock value. The Resident Evil games are famous for that, as well, to the point where they coined the "Monster jump out of windows," syndrome. The scare comes from dangerous, or at least scary-looking, events that seemingly come out of nowhere. Rarely is this sudden appearance a major threat, but they break players out of their status quo and sphere of comfort. Overuse of this gimmick can lead to derision and boredom, but when done right, like a certain unforgettable scene about a quarter into Eternal Darkness, it sticks to gamers' minds for years.
3) The seen and known. In other words, this means the aesthetics are scary. While Resident Evil does a bit of this, both because of the inherent Uncanny Valley related fears of zombies and the more exotic monsters, this is the bread and butter of Silent Hill. The monsters tend to be pseudo-Freudian abominations so unnatural that one can't even be certain what they are even when seeing them directly. How they move and act is as scary as the attacks themselves. But the setting itself is designed to be as disturbing as the monsters. A small town is transformed into a hell of torture implements, infernal machinery, and rickety gratings over oblivion.
4) Narrative fears. Eternal Darkness relies on this sort of scare. It's not the gameplay that matters in this fear, it's the meaning of the game. For example, in Eternal Darkness, the fear comes from the nigh omnipotent horrors that will inevitably conquer the planet, and the only point of victory is to delay that destruction by a brief amount of time. Even with the relatively easy gameplay with nigh-infinite abilities to heal and enemies you can decapitate in one attack, the constant presence of doom and a story that does horrible things to your sympathetic protagonists constantly keeps the player on edge.
5) Fear of the unknown. This is often considered the most "sophisticated" of fears, because it lets the player's imaginations create the fear for them. Silent Hill uses a lot of these as well, in the areas where the previously mentioned "town from hell" areas are not present. In these cases, the town is shrouded in fog, making it impossible to see what's even a few feet away. However, the threats are still there even when not seen, and the series' use of the radio which plays static whenever a monster is near uses it. This tells the player that something nearby wants to kill them, but there's no way of knowing what or where. The strange monsters again take advantage of that. Since they look so strange, it often takes a long time to even understand the enemy and know exactly what they are. Eternal Darkness uses this as well. Some of the insanity effects are shock values, and others are aesthetic changes when the player's sanity is low. But the fact that these effects are completely random and numerous enough that a player may never see them all adds that fear of the unknown, as does the fact that every location can change as sanity gets lower. A mansion might be normal when you first explore it, but you know that if you revisit when your sanity gets lower, it will be much different and much worse.
If you add up all five, you can have a game that offers a wide variety of scares, often without sacrificing a game that's fun, or at least not annoying. Some games don't get it exactly right (Silent Hill 4 is notoriously irritating for its invincible foes, much more limited resources than earlier Silent Hill games, a constant escort mission in the game's second half, and a limited inventory box,) but those that do get it right are exceptional and terrifying. In an era where horror movies are flood of sub-par remakes, unambitious adaptations of Japanese movies, and torture porn, a survival horror game is a welcome scare indeed.
This time, the topic will be survival horror games, and to a lesser degree horror games in general. Now, I may not know everything about this genre, but I have played many of the most important games of the genre. I have played all four of the regular Resident Evil games, though not the semi-side story Code Veronica, the prequel Resident Evil 0, and the other assorted spin-offs. I much prefer the Silent Hill games, including all four regular games of THAT series. But my collection ends with Eternal Darkness; I never played Alone in the Dark, Clock Tower, Siren, that recent zombie game I forgot the name of, and so on. No, take that back. I also played half of the first Fatal Frame game.
Still, I understand how the genre works. It's a tricky series to get right. The problem with the survival horror is that the series serves two masters. Horror requires that the player be scared of the situation, which means a sense of danger and loss. Often, this means that the character is in much worse circumstances than the normal hero. Enemies are numerous and more powerful than the hero, resources to fight them are limited, save points and healing are usually few and far between, and death is often instantaneous. On the other hand, games require some sense of balance and "fun." Constantly replaying the same cut scenes, dealing with limited inventories and shifting items into and out of boxes, and avoiding enemies to even survive, gets frustrating. It's that sense of balance that makes things difficult.
I think the trick is to determine how much of survival is "survival" and "horror." The trick is finding ways to scare the player in other ways. Here are the ways that I see the genre works.
1) The Survival element. Resident Evil, save for maybe 4, are based on this element. Save points are limited to a number of typewriter ribbons and can only be used in said typewriters. The only weapon most of the time are guns with minimal ammo. Every time you venture into unknown territory, you know it will cost you part of your precious resources, and safe territories don't exist. You likely had to dodge some of the monsters instead of killing them to get that far, and even if you did kill them all, the game loves respawning old enemies or tossing in new ones. This creates an ongoing sense of dread, though as I warned before it also can be frustrating and tedious. Often, tricks, even ones that kill the mood, are used to kill monsters without using as much ammunition, like letting enemies get as close as possible before aiming straight up with a shotgun, killing a zombie with one blast.
2) The shock value. The Resident Evil games are famous for that, as well, to the point where they coined the "Monster jump out of windows," syndrome. The scare comes from dangerous, or at least scary-looking, events that seemingly come out of nowhere. Rarely is this sudden appearance a major threat, but they break players out of their status quo and sphere of comfort. Overuse of this gimmick can lead to derision and boredom, but when done right, like a certain unforgettable scene about a quarter into Eternal Darkness, it sticks to gamers' minds for years.
3) The seen and known. In other words, this means the aesthetics are scary. While Resident Evil does a bit of this, both because of the inherent Uncanny Valley related fears of zombies and the more exotic monsters, this is the bread and butter of Silent Hill. The monsters tend to be pseudo-Freudian abominations so unnatural that one can't even be certain what they are even when seeing them directly. How they move and act is as scary as the attacks themselves. But the setting itself is designed to be as disturbing as the monsters. A small town is transformed into a hell of torture implements, infernal machinery, and rickety gratings over oblivion.
4) Narrative fears. Eternal Darkness relies on this sort of scare. It's not the gameplay that matters in this fear, it's the meaning of the game. For example, in Eternal Darkness, the fear comes from the nigh omnipotent horrors that will inevitably conquer the planet, and the only point of victory is to delay that destruction by a brief amount of time. Even with the relatively easy gameplay with nigh-infinite abilities to heal and enemies you can decapitate in one attack, the constant presence of doom and a story that does horrible things to your sympathetic protagonists constantly keeps the player on edge.
5) Fear of the unknown. This is often considered the most "sophisticated" of fears, because it lets the player's imaginations create the fear for them. Silent Hill uses a lot of these as well, in the areas where the previously mentioned "town from hell" areas are not present. In these cases, the town is shrouded in fog, making it impossible to see what's even a few feet away. However, the threats are still there even when not seen, and the series' use of the radio which plays static whenever a monster is near uses it. This tells the player that something nearby wants to kill them, but there's no way of knowing what or where. The strange monsters again take advantage of that. Since they look so strange, it often takes a long time to even understand the enemy and know exactly what they are. Eternal Darkness uses this as well. Some of the insanity effects are shock values, and others are aesthetic changes when the player's sanity is low. But the fact that these effects are completely random and numerous enough that a player may never see them all adds that fear of the unknown, as does the fact that every location can change as sanity gets lower. A mansion might be normal when you first explore it, but you know that if you revisit when your sanity gets lower, it will be much different and much worse.
If you add up all five, you can have a game that offers a wide variety of scares, often without sacrificing a game that's fun, or at least not annoying. Some games don't get it exactly right (Silent Hill 4 is notoriously irritating for its invincible foes, much more limited resources than earlier Silent Hill games, a constant escort mission in the game's second half, and a limited inventory box,) but those that do get it right are exceptional and terrifying. In an era where horror movies are flood of sub-par remakes, unambitious adaptations of Japanese movies, and torture porn, a survival horror game is a welcome scare indeed.
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