I started this blog to voice my opinions about the artistic merits and disappointments of video games today. I'm Canadian, so for anyone reading outside the Canada, pardon the variance in spelling. To give you a general sense of my experience, I've been playing videogames for over seventeen years. My primary console is the Playstation 3, though I also own all Nintendo, Playstation and Xbox platforms, along with a Macintosh computer.
Today, Nintendo revealed the Nintendo 2DS. Some people love it, some people hate, most of these people aren't the kids it was marketed towards. It looks like a child's calculator, bulky and coupled with bright colours. But the main feature is the absence one: the lack of autostereoscopy. A moot topic floating about the internet right now is whether this change in vision is indicative of Nintendo's plans for the future of its hardware. Will the next iteration of the 3DS be 2D also? Is 3D a feature that won't show up for an encore next generation? I'm thinking it will. This is a specific device for a specific market, with a lower price point to boot. Either way, the 3DS is selling just fine. Trouble arises with the Wii U's poor sales, and concerns arise with how to remedy them. But this new 3DS model begs another question, "Could Nintendo release a Wii U without the Gamepad bundled in, and at lower price too?"
The simple answer is no. Or at least not anytime soon. I don't necessarily care for the Gamepad. I can see why someone would buy a Wii U, and I can see why no one would care either. Now, if this question was posed sometime before the launch of the system, I think it would've been possible for Nintendo just to simply sell a model without the Gamepad -- though at the same time, some of the same problems that would plague a Gamepad lacking model today, would've caused harm to Nintendo last year when the system launched.
Nintendo immediately made it clear that the Gamepad is the lynchpin of the Wii U.
Peripheral Syndrome As much as it may seem, the Gamepad is not a peripheral. It's the core constituent of the Wii U. This is simply evident by the fact that Nintendo showed the Gamepad at E3 2011 and left us in the dark about the machine that runs it. The actual peripherals designed to work independently or in tandem with Gamepad are the Wii Remote, Nunchuk and Pro Controller. They're not necessary to play any of the games. You can see this from how games like New Super Mario Bros. U had Pro Controller support implemented through an update several months after its release, Pikmin 3 was announced to support it a month before its release, and how The Legend of Zelda: The Wind Waker HD still hasn't been confirmed to support the pro controller at all, less than a month shy of its release.
From the development side of the situation, things would only get more complicated. A model without a Gamepad would fragment the market and in a manner much worse than we've seen before. The Kinect sold well, and the PS Move... well, it sold some units. Both peripherals served as rather interesting pieces of tech, but didn't budge the needle in terms of how much they could bring to the table. Beyond first-party titles, both peripherals were an after thought for most games, serving some rudimentary functions in shooters or shoehorning in voice commands. Developers really didn't care. Their audience was shattered. Why should they spend time and money developing their games for a peripheral that the player can enjoy without? Well, that's why we got voice commands for Skyrim and motion control for Bioshock Infinite. This is the very reason why Kinect will be bundled with every Xbox One -- to avoid any dithering, and give developers a clear incentive for experimental and creative design.
Technology Let's take a look at the Gamepad. It's a brilliant piece of tech. It has a resistive 1080p touch display, mic, camera, accelerometer, and can even act as a screen for the game you play (I'm sure there are features I'm forgetting). Now imagine selling this as a peripheral. This is a $150 accessory, much too expensive to survive on its own. Imagine a child asking their parents for the $150 tablet, that isn't portable and is an accessory to a 150$ console (let us assume that a SKU without a Gamepad is half the price). It's a rather tough bargain, and precisely the reason why we haven't heard of a single game that supports two Gamepads. The other way around, someone might buy Nintendo Land, and think they could go home and play it, only to realize that they don't own the proper controller.
On Nintendo's side of the mountain, we can take another glance at the Gamepad itself. It's a whole lot of tech. A lot of work went into the research and development of the tablet, especially with how it's able to stream the game from the Wii U to the Gamepad, without a single hitch. We don't know how much it cost to design the Wii U, but Nintendo has always touted it as the sole reason to own the console. Remember when we got ports of Mass Effect 3 and Batman: Arkham City? Its whole pitch was that the experience is entirely different using the Gamepad, and that's why we should care. Whether it was different or not is besides the point. What should be noted is that Nintendo relied on this new tech to attract new audiences, and have its games contingent on the functions of the Gamepad. Nintendo put too much money and advertising into this controller, and ditching it is not an option for it.
Nintendo may have released Super Smash Bros. Brawl without any motion controls, but did so because the Wii was selling well, and thrived without a nebulous identity.
Appeal Alright, so I'm about to poke at a sensitive topic. If Nintendo didn't bundle the Gamepad, what's the point of it developing a console? For the most part Nintendo designs its game to fit its hardware. Analogue sticks, motion control, touch screen -- whatever. Super Mario 64 was designed with the analogue stick in mind, Wii Sports was designed with the Wii Remote in mind, and The Legend of Zelda: Phantom Hourglass was designed with the touch screen in mind. Now, given the poor sales of the Wii U, what's the point of Nintendo holding the platform if they can't ensure each console will hold a Gamepad, and thusly, that developers know exactly what the player will experience? This turns the Wii U, into Nintendo's version of the Xbox 360/Playstation 3. There is nothing new it would bring besides its first-party line up. Which works for Nintendo's aforementioned competitors but the thing is, they don't need to do anything different, their sales are doing just fine.
Through a discussion on Twitter I heard a great point on how Nintendo's exclusive hardware wasn't always utilized to garner strong sales. Some of the points included how many NES games could've worked on the SG-1000, how few games came out for the ROB and how Super Smash Bros. Brawl didn't even have motion controls. Well the NES sold well regardless of ROB because of the games it had and the fact that ROB was a peripheral. As for Super Smash Bros. Brawl, it was released two years into the Wii's life cycle, and after the console sold 24 million units. At that point, Nintendo knew they didn't have to have motion controls for Brawl since the Wii was doing well, and the casual audiences had a myriad other games to play, namely Wii Sports and Guitar Hero. Nintendo could sell a unit without the Gamepad bundled in, but it'd have to do so very late into the cycle, when the tablet is almost entirely profit.
Third-party software is already a problem with the Wii U, with EA's ambivalent stance and Ubisoft backing off exclusive titles for Nintendo. They don't want to put effort into a console without an audience, and the audience doesn't want to play a console with very little third-party software support. Players already demand a reason to play the Wii U. If the Gamepad is removed from the package, any third-party support become the exact same as the other consoles ie. there isn't a reason to play Call of Duty: Ghosts on Wii U if there's isn't a difference between it and the other copies. I imagine there's a very small group of people who own a Wii U as a primary console. For them, the Wii U may be their only access to Call of Duty. But the rest of the populace has five other ways to play the game. If Nintendo removes the controller, they remove third-party interest in Gamepad support. If they remove that interest, they get a game that merely mimics the other versions. If the game is just a port of the Xbox version, well, then no one to buys the game except those without any other choice. Third-parties won't support a machine they can barely profit from.
I'm not saying Nintendo needs to make every game take full advantage of the Gamepad, I'm just saying it wouldn't benefit it to remove it from the package. In its last quarter, Nintendo sold a feeble 160 000 units worldwide, worse than the Gamecube did the year before the Wii launched. I always hear the sane argument for the Wii U; that it'll do much better when they release more first-party software. But those first-party franchises are for the die-hard Nintendo fans, and I can only imagine that everyone that wants a Wii U has a Wii U. I really like my Wii U, even if there aren't many games I'm interested in besides Wind Waker and Bayonetta 2. I think the only fans that have yet to buy a console are the ones waiting for Wind Waker, so if there's any quarter to act as a catalyst for Wii U sales, it's this one. For other videogame enthusiasts, Donkey Kong Country: Tropic Freeze and Super Mario 3D World will do the trick. I'm hoping, with the advent of more casual titles like Mario Kart and Mario Party we'll seem a jump in sales, and maybe the Wii U's lifecycle won't be as ephemeral as it seems.
Wait until you're growing ashen hair and wearing wrinkled skin. By that time, you'll be looking back at Spec Ops: The Line as one of the most important games in the medium's history. Something we lack in our world -- in our preferred story telling medium, is a concept that's been experimented with in every art but videogames: subtle reflexivity. Our ability to look inwards, to criticize, evaluate and properly understand this art through its own constituents, is minimal at best. However with the past generation, developers have dipped their toes into the reflexive waters of the interactive arts. Reflexivity's been excellently touted by the Bioshock series, and most recently, by Spec Ops: The Line.
The game serves as a comment on military interventions, post-traumatic stress disorder and an incredibly dark satire of the modern military shooter. Although, while Yager Development wrote an exceptional story, they bit off more than they could chew. Amongst the themes of violence, heroism and the absurdity of military shooters, Yager interlaces the subject of player responsibility. I can't say it was shoehorned in -- it's a theme that's enforced as the game progresses -- only it doesn't coalesce with the entire story.
Responsibility entails agency. It's an idea that's affixed to a person who has the ability to make a decision in a given context. Though for this concept to take any actual effect, the decision can't be the inherent playing of the game. In other words, the player can't be held responsible for decisions they didn't make, but were instead scripted by the direction of the narrative.
Yager wrote some truly gut-wrenching scenarios and for that I applaud them. There's a barrier where the player is forced to choose between the lives of two men to progress. I did feel responsible when I learnt that I could circumvent murder. There's a scene where the player has to shoot a civilian, enticing a crowd to disperse -- wrong again, I could've simply shot into the air. These were decisions I made, through stipulations I assumed, because that's the kind of rote thinking I had learnt from other shooters, and before playing this devilishly brilliant game.
But these moments, as astute as they may be, are in fact few and far in between. Therefore, decisions, and by that virtue responsibilities, are seldom burdened. I'd leave this minor dissonance between choices and overarching plot unscathed, however I began to reach points where the game would accuse me of actions the player has no control over.
There's a heavy emphasis placed on the gruesome mass execution of civilians by means of white phosphorus. It's a powerful scene enforcing once again, the absurdity of military shooters and the atrocities of war. It's an action played out by the protagonist, Martin Walker, however it's the only option the player has. When the player first reaches the white phosphorous, one squad-mate, John Lugo, proposes that another method must be available -- he claims "there is always a choice." To which Walker responds, "there's really not." So I spent about twenty minutes continually repeating the checkpoint as I scrounged about for a less deranged means to complete the objective. Unfortunately, this time spent looking for another avenue was in vain, as Walker was right, there was no other option. As horrifying as this scene was, I took my failure with a grain of salt as the narrative is clearly trying to convey a criticism of war and the videogames it influences.
But Spec Ops loses its balance as it begins to criticize the player through rhetorical censure sprawled across its loading screens. They try to divulge a reaction from the player, by taunting them for decisions that they can't be held accountable for. Upon loading a particular level, the player is asked: "How many Americans have you killed today?" This somewhat disrupts the overall goal of the narrative, by interweaving responsibility for ironclad plot points. The player had no choice in the matter; Americans were killed because they shot at the protagonist and retaliation was the only means to progress. In this situation, the label of "American" is stripped because the label of "hostile" takes precedence. It's a quick, simple, and cheap manner to evoke emotion, though it falls flat on its face. The player has no way to bypass killing "Americans" and thusly can't be held responsible for eliminating hostiles. These loading screens prove to be inimical to the rhythm of the game's narrative, and merely condemn the player for playing the game, lessening Yager's core intentions.
Another loading screen alludes to the alleged actions of the player in the aforementioned white phosphorus mission. The bottom of the screen holds text stating that the US military does not condone the killing of unarmed combatants, but the player shouldn't care because they're not real. The entire statement is an excellent shot at war casualties -- more specifically, in military shooters. But the problem with this statement is once again, the lack of control the player had in said situation.
Rebuking the player like this doesn't fit with the overall flow of the narrative and its aims. For the player to accept responsibility, the game needs to have consistent occurrences for the player to be held accountable. This is best exemplified by games like Dishonored, where non-violence is an option, or in Telltale's The Walking Dead, where the narrative has certain plot twists set in stone, but the player is wholly responsible for the protagonist's decisions. It may sound like I'm getting defensive about what the game accused me of, but my issues are actually along the lines of how the game -- for the most part -- failed to engage responsibility and therefore diluted its key objectives by suggesting the very idea.
In a reflexive title like Spec Ops: The Line, any occasion that plainly communicates with the player must be handled with absolute prudence. By continually trying to interweave responsibility within a game already saturated with reflexivity, Yager slightly harms the cadence of the narrative. Though despite any miscalculations that cloud its core intentions, Spec Ops: The Line is still an excellent example of how games can be used to study themselves, and at the same time, make a comment about the world we live in.
Upon loading Max Payne 3, the violins of the ominous menu music sent a chill down my spine. My mood was dragged down with each note as I began to speculate where this story could go. I was lost in the music, enamoured by imagination, by all the possible manners in which this foreboding score may complement the narrative. Max lost his wife, his child, and years later when he opened his heart again, his newfound romance was quickly added to his list of tribulations. Broken and vulnerable; Max had nothing to live for.
Which is exactly what coated my thoughts: where could this story go? Max Payne is dead. He's lost everything he cared about, and is left as the shell of a man, in every sense the cliché entails. The ex-detective's an alcoholic and a drug addict, living life as a slug about his apartment. Which is sad, of course, but this state of depression culls the game's most glaring issue: it goes absolutely nowhere.
You'd think a man who's had so much taken away from him -- a man who harbours his own lethal take on justice, may hold some character beyond the stereotype. Well, that's not the case. Max is the same hackneyed character you'd expect. Where the narrative abandoned Max in the second game was flawless. It was bleak, depressing, and perfectly conveyed Max's ironclad fate; he was destined to live an unhappy life.
As sad as his situation may be, nothing interesting comes of it.
Max Payne 3 beats a dead horse. Our protagonist has nothing to live for, no one to protect, and no one to avenge. The game's largest plot twist merely relies on his existence, as it establishes how Max's addiction landed him in his current predicament: fighting another man's war. The initial instalment in the series had him seeking revenge for the death of his family. The second, he fought for his life, and the protection of his new love interest. The latest title strings Max as a fly who was too drunk to notice the web he landed in. Skin the narrative even further, and it's simply the story of a middle aged man, attaining sobriety in the most arduous way imaginable.
Without drive, without direction, Max Payne literally and merely serves as a means for the player to witness the story. The entire narrative has little to do with Max besides the antagonist's plot to use him as patsy for his crimes. Fabiana's kidnapping is what carried half the plot, but only because it's Max's job to take care of her, and the rest of her affluent family. After her execution Max continues his rampage, seeking revenge for machinations he's completely dislodged from.
It's unfortunate to see a character with so much depth have his history almost entirely neglected.
Sad to say, but Max Payne becomes very similar to the infamously one-dimensional Kratos, from God of War. Both series began as tragedies, giving concrete reason and goals to their protagonists. However, by the third instalment they're both angry bald men with nothing to live for, apart from their lust for violence and self caused/justified desire for revenge.
Stylistically the story is well told, but needless to say, it's hindered by its impersonality. I assumed that this third piece would interlock with the original, that it may show an older Max Payne, trying to redeem himself by helping a family in need -- a kind of karmic compensation for not being able to save his own. Instead, he's left protecting a rich family with little to no compelling qualities, beyond the inherent shock value of how self obsessed one can be. Furthermore, the plot quickly accents his own ineptitudes and inadequacies, straying away from any subplot that may symbolize or allude to his prior futility in saving his loved ones. We could have seen Max Payne in his own personal hell; reliving all the misery he endured, and trying to escape the cyclicality of his misfortunes. But while the score paints a menacing backdrop, the story fails to complement the atmosphere.
The whole Tony Scott vibe coupled with Rockstar's finest shooting mechanics serve for an entertaining experience, only it put little emphasis on Max Payne's character. It doesn't feel like it was a game written with him in mind, but rather the gameplay mechanics of previous titles in the series. Hopefully the next game will make appropriate use of this once-compelling character, rather than rely on casting his husk into a dissolute and depraved setting. Max Payne's soul may be shattered, but it's still intact enough to warrant proper integration with the narrative.
There's this statement thrown around nowadays, praising the setting of a game, over its inhabitants. I've often heard people refer to Grand Theft Auto IV as a game about Liberty City, not about Niko Bellic and his plights throughout the metropolis. The same claim is affixed to The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim. But my issue with this argument is the fact that these environments are static. The locale may operate as a toy. Or, the setting may act as a canvas, the avatar as a paintbrush, and the player as a painter. With this expressionist mentality in mind, there is one glaring problem with open world games: perception.
Perception dominates the open world experience, shaping exactly what each player takes away from each game. This perception comes as a natural yield of the player's decisions. To some people, Grand Theft Auto IV is about committing endless acts of theft and violence. To me, it's about free will, the mindless futility of the American Dream, and a general comment about Western culture. By allowing so much choice, the impact of particular aspects of open world titles, are reduced. The setting becomes a toy (Grand Theft Auto), or a canvas (Elder Scrolls) to interact with.
Adjusting perspective becomes part of the gameplay.
DMC: Devil May Cry, takes these assumed roles, and flips them upside down. Limbo, the outré demonic dimension of DMC, takes the stage in this reboot of the revered action series. Though the game is as linear as they come, the narrow confines allowed Ninja Theory to appoint their creative talents towards the creation of this vivacious world. Thusly, the player has infinite freedom through the game's manifold combo system, while lacking any interface with the environment. Instead, the surroundings interact with the player, allowing for creative level design, that hinges on its animosity for the protagonist. These conditions promote Limbo as the star of the show, while overshadowing the characters to a point of periphery.
DMC's art direction places it amongst the most visually impressive games in history.
I know this is a trite complaint, but most games don't take advantage of the colouration that contemporary hardware can provide. Once in a blue moon, big budget titles like Uncharted 3 and Halo 4, offer vibrant level design but are still restricted by the realism demanded via brusque consumers. Then there are titles like Viva Piñata, which modestly solicits candy coloured animals, galavanting about a garden. Though nothing can compare to the harlequin level design featured by Limbo, in DMC.
Ninja Theory fears no persecution -- the game is drenched in colour. While other games continue to delineate warm and cold colours in favor of a harmonized aesthetic, DMC abolishes said pattern for a splatter of beauty in absolute dissonance. The forced collaboration of warm and cold, is deeply ingrained in the philosophy of DMC's gameplay, by means of juxtaposition. Speed versus power, angel versus demon, good versus evil -- it all comes down to using the collision of disagreeing elements to enrich the experience.
Distorted platforms cause for nuanced navigation.
The architecture of Limbo uses the lack of harmony quite literally, as it skewers perception through disorienting the player. Many games use oblique camera angles as a means to shoehorn the player into a difficult position, while adding a cinematic exponent to the equation. Naturally, this would force the player to maneuver in irregular patterns, as an attempt to take control of the scenario. At the same, this removes some of the agency the player once had in the given situation. However DMC is able to shake the player without pressuring them into any stipulated outlook, through the incongruent arrangement of its sets.
Upside-down, slanted, broken -- Limbo's architecture is off kilter in every conceivable manner. It's for that reason that the player is at sea upon a level's introduction. While navigating a chasm via floating rubble, the player may land on a horizontal structure, then the apex of a vertical edifice, all while adjusting to the fact that the ground sits in one corner of the screen, and the sun shines perpendicularly. To add to the utter confusion already at hand, the environment distracts and threatens the player through messages sprawled across its faces. Strange to say, but this literally gives the setting an ounce of character, as it entices the player to "come closer," or overtly expresses ire, stretching lines like "fuck you Dante" across its walls.
The dance floor pulses with fervor, as a distant radiance highlights Dante and his foe.
However, these frequent bursts of rage pave the road for Limbo's most distinguishing feature: it's alive. Palette and level design bind together to create beautiful environments, but at the core, Limbo thrives on its abrasive heartbeat. It moves, transforms, and kills. It's only motivation for drawing breath is to see Dante die, and is relentless as a result. Earth crumbles beneath Dante's feet, platforms in proximity tear themselves apart, hallways encroach personal space -- the list goes on eternally. What's to be noted is the fact Limbo is dynamic, and hostile -- not only affecting the art direction, but the gameplay as well. These adversities construct Limbo as a domain to be overcome, rather than simply navigated.
Though the level design's vigor doesn't end with the reorganization of its constituents. Limbo's colours dance to beat of combat, oscillating in harmony with the music. This is best exemplified by a location called Devil's Dalliance, a nightclub where no motionless textures exist. The veneer of the floors glow with movement akin to a lava lamp, while massive visualizers fluctuate in the background. Floors, walls, ceilings -- every texture breathes in and out, booming to the beat of the music.
Colour, level design and animation, all twist together to shape Limbo as a beautiful monstrosity. I don't mean to undercut the fidelity of open world games -- I think they're incredible feats of design. Though expansive worlds hinge upon the discretion of player, who might prioritize certain sections, but leave other territories uncharted. Therefore, focus is shifted to the interaction between the player and the world, instead of the world itself. In DMC: Devil May Cry, the world ambushes the player, regardless of their compliance. This allows for Limbo to channel the flow of interaction, leaving the player to succumb to its mandates. It's undeniable; the devil does cry. Though they aren't tears of suffering. Given the magnificent design of Limbo, I can only assume they're tears of joy.
It's easy to look at Far Cry 3 and see another generic shooter, another power fantasy, another desolate open world. But if you spend any time with the game you'll realize there's more to this book than its cover. Player choice dominates the journey -- not in story, but in gameplay. With fluid shooting, RPG elements, and a well designed world, Far Cry 3 defies expectations and delivers a genuinely unique experience. To say the industry has an interest in shooters is putting lightly. But there's one conspicuous distinction in this title. This isn't just a shooter, it's your shooter.
The script isn't subtle: you are a warrior. It's going to tell you this more times than I had patience for, but with good reason. In this third instalment you, own these beautiful islands. Options are littered throughout the game, letting you accomplish any goal by any means necessary. Use guns, machetes, vehicles, the environment, use whatever you please. The world is your oyster.
The story revolves around Jason Brody, a naive college graduate who suffers enough to to pick up a gun and demand revenge. While travelling across the Pacific Islands, Jason and his friends are kidnapped by deranged pirate lord Vaas. Narrowly escaping his fate, Jason unites with the rebels of the islands to rescue his friends and liberate the islands from oppression.
Far Cry 3 immediately depicts its vision of empowerment in its skill system. Finding collectables, completing side missions, and clearing pirate encampments rewards you with experience that accumulates into skill points. These can be applied to three different skill trees which improve a selection of attributes, such as the potency of crafted medication or doubling the amount of flowers gathered from a single plant. Some even go as far as to grant you new attacks, allowing you more ways to execute foes, as quietly or as stylishly as you like. Unlike most games, you'll be able to fill out every branch of every tree, eventually giving you absolute control during your escapades.
Initially however, you'll only have a handgun and a blade. Weapons can be purchased at stores, but is completely unnecessary. New weapons are acquired at no charge, by scaling radio towers across the islands. These light platforming sections are a breeze, but may test your patience further in the game. As you unlock new islands, climbing the towers demands more precise platforming, something this game wasn't built for -- you'll find yourself jumping off a balcony more often than landing on it. Long bows, sniper rifles and flamethrowers, are but a few examples of the game's extensive armoury, each weapon unique in upgrades, statistics and sound design. Weapon upgrades will cost you a penny or two -- to be fair the currency has to have some worth. However, quantitative improvements are obtained by more enthralling means.
The lush scenery of the island has plenty of thrills to offer. But there are few things more intimidating than turning to a low growl to find a tiger stalking you. This is a threat you'll be willing to face. Capacity upgrades are crafted by collecting specific animal parts across the islands. These range from creatures as docile as deer, to as vicious as leopards. Each animal has its own distinct animations, behaviours, and attacks, forcing you to think on your feet at all times. You could be crouched in the grass silently inching closer to a deer, and have your leg bitten by Komodo dragon who decided to shadow your movement. It's these moment to moment encounters that shape the experience. Diving for treasure only to find bull sharks surrounding you is startling and offers a welcome challenge to an otherwise ordinary endeavour. Animals also make firefights more compelling, if they take place close to their nest. Some encampments even hold animals in cages, allowing chaos to ensue if you set them free. Watching an emu peck a pirate to death is spectacle you won't catch elsewhere.
Danger lurks in every corner of the islands by form of both man and beast. By taking out all the enemies at one of the game's many pirate encampments, you unlock the ability to fast travel there and also gain experience. An obvious move is to engage the enemy head on, but this isn't advised. If you haven't deactivated their alarms, reinforcements may be called in, leaving you with enemies so relentless, they may even resort to chasing you by helicopter. Silently clearing camps is most satisfying, netting you more experience if no alarms were rung, and even more if you weren't detected.
Enemies in the game are smart enough to spot you in their line of sight, flank, and take cover when attacked. But you do have the ability to toss a rock in any direction, a distraction that apparently no pirate can resist. Besides this asinine behaviour, enemies are still a challenge in numbers. They become even more difficult as the game progresses since they acquire body armours, new weapons, and armed vehicles.This calls for more attention to how you tackle groups of enemies, and encourages you to eliminate them in silence. But with the abilities you unlock this becomes a desirable effort. In time, you'll be able to silently execute multiple enemies by a single action, entering and leaving a situation without making a sound.
Using plants gathered on the islands, you can create syringes that range from restoring health to improving shooting skills. New recipes unlock with narrative progression but the most interesting concoctions are acquired by gathering collectibles scattered across the islands. Of course your most common fix will be to restore health, but there is an annoyance that couples with the action. Quick healing and quickly swapping weapons is mapped to the same button, the difference depends on whether it was held down. This can lead to some frustrating scenarios where you're in need of medication, but Jason feels that cycling through weapons takes priority.
Side missions are limited in variety, though are challenging enough to make each experience different. Aside from your typical open-world mini-games like poker and races, the game asks you to execute targets while adhering to specific conditions. When your target's a high ranking pirate, the game demands that you finish them by machete. Not much variance there. However, some side missions ask you to hunt animals within a certain time limit or with a specific weapon. Some of these hunting missions even ask you to prey on a variants of animals, beasts that are tougher and smarter than their relatives.
Now, you may've noticed that I've hardly spoke of the storyline. Right... About that...
Thematically, Far Cry 3 is a mess -- lost, confused, and suffering from its own insanity. Not far into the story, you'll realize the narrative doesn't know what it wants to express. One mission you're hallucinating as Vaas comments on your sociopathy, the next, Flight of the Valkyries plays as you gun down enemies. Inspired by works such as Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness, the game vainly attempts to make a comment on the insanity that accompanies the consumption of violence. But cringeworthy dialogue and a lack of cohesion prevents the story from affecting the player. You might recognize quotations from Lewis Caroll's Through the Looking Glass during the loading screens, and imagine the plot will make great use of the brilliant citations. Unfortunately that's your imagination -- the game's ambivalence proves them worthless.
From delinquent students to mad scientists, stereotypes fill the roles of characters in the game, often disposed of following a few conversations. Vaas being the game's antagonist and most fascinating character, is hardly developed at all. Beyond a monologue on insanity, he's used to deliver quick plot points and swear profusely. Jason himself will spew some lines that attempt to harmonize with the theme of madness, but they're so blatant and mundane that it makes you uncomfortable.
The art direction bleeds potential. Menus and loading screens are striking and resemble Rorschach tests, though fail in showing any cohesion with the plot. Don't get me wrong, there's some great moments in this game as far set pieces go. But that's all they are, set pieces, holding little value with the narrative. Even beautifully designed hallucinations are merely spectacles -- they make no comment on Jason's psychological state. It's sad to see the lost opportunity. How we could've been told an unconventional tale, attacking the player for their every sin. What you get instead is a theme and art style that lack any congruence with the adventure. However, the game is able to keep you on the edge of your seat the whole ride through because of its gripping gameplay.
Anyone looking for a fresh take on first person shooters should look no further. Far Cry 3 throws you into a unique environment with a great sense of progression, and a variety of objectives to complete at your leisure. It does have its imperfections with some anti-aliasing issues, but they aren't pronounced enough to cloud your enjoyment. If you're looking for a well defined, interesting story then I advise you to spend your time elsewhere. But however pedestrian the game's narrative may be, the gameplay makes for an experience you shouldn't overlook.
The early Assassin's Creed games had a particular rhythm that allowed for the congruence of ancient science-fiction elements, with the historical periods featured in each game. I'm not sure where this originated, but I first noticed the pattern with the Indiana Jones films. George Lucas carefully plotted the story to build the audience's interest in Indiana's fairly realistic goals, but then elevated the fiction to level that defies the audience's presumptions of what the diegesis previously entailed.
For example, in Raiders of the Lost Ark, Indiana Jones is venturing to acquire the titular treasure before the Nazis do. During his escapade, he endures trials of strength and wit, all normal obstacles for the hero of an action-adventure film. Though when it comes to the third act, the preceding logic of the film no longer applies. A supernatural facet is introduced to stupefy the audience, and also heighten the momentousness of Indiana's objectives. This introduction of the supernatural in the third act, is later reused to strong effect in The Last Crusade, and Kingdom of the Crystal Skulls. The Uncharted series, Indiana Jones's videogame parallel, uses this plot structure for the exact same reasons.
Once part of background fiction, the Roman gods became integral to the plot of each game by Assassin's Creed 3.
The first three titles in the Assassin's Creed series use this same concept to develop the overarching mythology, focusing on the historical narrative first and foremost. Though as the franchise met an annual release schedule, the writers began to apply the ancient-scifi lore much more liberally. There's nothing wrong with expanding on the fiction of an established property, but issues arise with balancing the seclusion of the historical epoch from ancient science-fiction. By forcefully blurring the lines between actual history and the mythology of the series, the perplexity, and impact of the reveals in the third act, simply dissipate. This is because of the frequency at which these reveals occur, to the point that they're no longer reveals, and merely integral components of the game's expected plot. Of course, the mitigating impact of the mythology is aggravated by an annual release cycle.
Assassin's Creed Revelations, is the point at which the series suddenly squandered any grounding in reality, by sewing the ancient-scifi elements with the historical narrative. Even worse, the story taking place outside of the historical narrative, now takes place in a computer. Consequently, any fan of the overarching narrative, is fed too much information to remain in a consistent state of intrigue, and any player looking forward to the historical period, is impelled to sit through a marriage of historical-fiction, and science-fiction.
As the series progressed, the scifi narrative was promoted from a means to explore a historical period, to the reason why the historical period is explored.
Essentially, Revelations is about a man locked in a computer, reliving the memories of his ancestor, who is searching for a scifi artifact, but must relive the life of another ancestor through different artifacts, to find the artifact he initially sought after. Yeah, seriously. To top it off, another Roman god (for three games in a row, a new god has been revealed during the third act) is introduced preceding an information dump during the conclusion. By Assassin's Creed 3, the gods are peppered throughout both the historical narrative, and the setting outside the period, as it takes place in a futuristic temple that the gods created.
In the game that debuted the series, the ancient-scifi aspect of the narrative is mentioned once. The game immediately discloses its present day setting, but all that is known is that the scientists of the facility are searching for an artifact. The gods are only mentioned once, and are simply known as "those who came before". At the end of the medieval narrative that the protagonist relives, an ancient-scifi element is introduced. Again, this reveal in the third act is tolerable to those who enjoy the historical setting, and maintains curiosity with those invested in the mythology. It's a safe and effective means to tout the creativity of the studio, while appealing to those interested in history -- and for that reason, the same tempo is plied in Assassin Creed 2 and Brotherhood.
It's a shame to see a once compelling narrative lose its focus and become so inauspicious. By delineating the mythos from the historical period, Assassin's Creed was able to cater to two distinct audiences. Even though the two narratives of the franchise have converged, the series continues to sell well enough to warrant annual releases. Thus, the plot structure is unlikely to change, and continue to weaken intrigue until the games become purely spectacle, and a hodgepodge of saturated lore.