They got me good. They got me young.
I first encountered this nightmarish inversion of Tetris on one of my designated "Good Job, Sport" A+ report card reward trips. Dad took my brother and I to the local arcade/minigolf spot and gave us a couple of twenties. Told us to have at it. And have at it we did. But while my brother was off playing Skee-Ball or some shit, I was eyeing bigger prizes. Crane games and coin pushers and... What was this? A game where you stack blocks? For a Game Boy Micro? Surely it can't be that easy.
I suppose it isn't entirely straightforward. You start off with three blocks, which slowly move back and forth until you lock them into place with a button press. Then, with your base set, you must stack additional blocks upon it until you reach the very top, the speed of the blocks increasing to an almost maddening pace as you progress. If you mistime your press, you'll overshoot it and lose any blocks that extend past the edge, or lose all of them if you missed completely. Of course, the game gradually forces you to shed blocks as time goes on, so even if your play is perfect you will only have one by the end. As such, perfect is the only thing you can be if you choose to go for gold. And gold is very much what you're striving for, with the major prizes almost universally being desirable high-dollar items. There is a minor prize tier - also assuredly populated by miserable little toys and trinkets, the kind you can get at the redemption counter for a paltry sum of tickets. It's just a distraction. You know what you're here for.
It took me a few tries, but eventually I got a good rhythm going and was able to make it to the top effortlessly. And then it happened. A mere five plays in, I managed to clear the top. The machine flashed and strobed and let everybody in the immediate vicinity know that I was the rightful owner of a brand-spanking new Nintendo device. I felt like a winner. I felt like a king. A god.
I was the tender age of twelve years old.
Ever since that day, I'd been chasing that high. Every time I saw that pillar of perfidy I was there, slamming in my ill-gotten dollarydoos, brain trained on whatever Playstation Portable or iPhone was being offered. Each go-around, I would blow past that "minor prize" line. Tattoos? Silly Bandz? Who wants 'em? Those are for chumps, and I'm no chump. I'm a fucking gamer. And somehow, even after watching that final block plummet once more after flushing ten bucks down the drain, I was still sure I could make it worth my while. Just one more try, I says. Just one more! I've still got it in me! I can do it again! What a fool I was.
I know my timing was impeccable. I've made it to the final tier countless times. My nerves were steely; my palms were dry. Yet still the block fell. Perhaps I was just too complacent. Perhaps I just needed to adjust slightly, and then the grand prize would be mine. But every time I made it up to that ultimate drop, no matter how precise I was sure I was in halting that oversized, overactive pixel, it would plummet all the same. And that's because it goes willingly. You've seen it, too. That split-second shift just barely perceptible to the human eye. Even if you could not have been any more precise, that squalid square will take one broad step off the edge and unto its doom. Once you see it, you will never forget it. After that, the fault for any pain you suffer by insisting upon engaging in this Sisyphean endeavor lies squarely with you.
More than any other "skill" game I can think of, Stacker gaslights you and it gaslights you hard. Its gameplay is so hilariously simple (it's in the damn name) that it tricks anybody and everybody into thinking they have a shot. And then right as you're on the precipice of greatness, it yanks the rug out from underneath you and spits in your face. Nice job stacking those blocks, dumbass! Try again! Everybody knows these games lie to you. Everybody knows these aren't meant to be won, like carnie games at the state fair. But Stacker is like playing the basketball toss, and instead of having a bent hoop, they had Shaquille O'Neal hiding behind an unusually tall rock and slapping the ball away every time you came so much as close to scoring. After you see it happen once, you know you have no chance. The only way that ball is getting in there is if the meister of Shaq Fu decides you're worthy of it. You may as well be playing a slot machine, but this armless bandit likes to prey on kids (and adult-sized kids) with more money than sense.
If I knew who was responsible, I'd lock them in a dank cellar and demand they build a ten-tier tower of cards in order to be released. And then I'd turn on the six strategically-placed industrial fans right as they were reaching for the final pair.
By the by, since I already had a GBA, I ended up giving that Game Boy Micro to a girl I was sweethearts with at the time. I should have kept it. Being able to produce Golden Sun out of thin air is a massive flex that I was only able to experience once.
I first encountered this nightmarish inversion of Tetris on one of my designated "Good Job, Sport" A+ report card reward trips. Dad took my brother and I to the local arcade/minigolf spot and gave us a couple of twenties. Told us to have at it. And have at it we did. But while my brother was off playing Skee-Ball or some shit, I was eyeing bigger prizes. Crane games and coin pushers and... What was this? A game where you stack blocks? For a Game Boy Micro? Surely it can't be that easy.
I suppose it isn't entirely straightforward. You start off with three blocks, which slowly move back and forth until you lock them into place with a button press. Then, with your base set, you must stack additional blocks upon it until you reach the very top, the speed of the blocks increasing to an almost maddening pace as you progress. If you mistime your press, you'll overshoot it and lose any blocks that extend past the edge, or lose all of them if you missed completely. Of course, the game gradually forces you to shed blocks as time goes on, so even if your play is perfect you will only have one by the end. As such, perfect is the only thing you can be if you choose to go for gold. And gold is very much what you're striving for, with the major prizes almost universally being desirable high-dollar items. There is a minor prize tier - also assuredly populated by miserable little toys and trinkets, the kind you can get at the redemption counter for a paltry sum of tickets. It's just a distraction. You know what you're here for.
It took me a few tries, but eventually I got a good rhythm going and was able to make it to the top effortlessly. And then it happened. A mere five plays in, I managed to clear the top. The machine flashed and strobed and let everybody in the immediate vicinity know that I was the rightful owner of a brand-spanking new Nintendo device. I felt like a winner. I felt like a king. A god.
I was the tender age of twelve years old.
Ever since that day, I'd been chasing that high. Every time I saw that pillar of perfidy I was there, slamming in my ill-gotten dollarydoos, brain trained on whatever Playstation Portable or iPhone was being offered. Each go-around, I would blow past that "minor prize" line. Tattoos? Silly Bandz? Who wants 'em? Those are for chumps, and I'm no chump. I'm a fucking gamer. And somehow, even after watching that final block plummet once more after flushing ten bucks down the drain, I was still sure I could make it worth my while. Just one more try, I says. Just one more! I've still got it in me! I can do it again! What a fool I was.
I know my timing was impeccable. I've made it to the final tier countless times. My nerves were steely; my palms were dry. Yet still the block fell. Perhaps I was just too complacent. Perhaps I just needed to adjust slightly, and then the grand prize would be mine. But every time I made it up to that ultimate drop, no matter how precise I was sure I was in halting that oversized, overactive pixel, it would plummet all the same. And that's because it goes willingly. You've seen it, too. That split-second shift just barely perceptible to the human eye. Even if you could not have been any more precise, that squalid square will take one broad step off the edge and unto its doom. Once you see it, you will never forget it. After that, the fault for any pain you suffer by insisting upon engaging in this Sisyphean endeavor lies squarely with you.
More than any other "skill" game I can think of, Stacker gaslights you and it gaslights you hard. Its gameplay is so hilariously simple (it's in the damn name) that it tricks anybody and everybody into thinking they have a shot. And then right as you're on the precipice of greatness, it yanks the rug out from underneath you and spits in your face. Nice job stacking those blocks, dumbass! Try again! Everybody knows these games lie to you. Everybody knows these aren't meant to be won, like carnie games at the state fair. But Stacker is like playing the basketball toss, and instead of having a bent hoop, they had Shaquille O'Neal hiding behind an unusually tall rock and slapping the ball away every time you came so much as close to scoring. After you see it happen once, you know you have no chance. The only way that ball is getting in there is if the meister of Shaq Fu decides you're worthy of it. You may as well be playing a slot machine, but this armless bandit likes to prey on kids (and adult-sized kids) with more money than sense.
If I knew who was responsible, I'd lock them in a dank cellar and demand they build a ten-tier tower of cards in order to be released. And then I'd turn on the six strategically-placed industrial fans right as they were reaching for the final pair.
By the by, since I already had a GBA, I ended up giving that Game Boy Micro to a girl I was sweethearts with at the time. I should have kept it. Being able to produce Golden Sun out of thin air is a massive flex that I was only able to experience once.
imshitting420
20 days ago