Imagine, if you will, a game that was purpose-built to be a killer app for the PS3. Imagine, if you will, the sort of seventh-gen (well, in my case, seventh-gen ported/upscaled over to eighth-gen) graphics that would have made other studios weep and kneel at Quantic Dream's feet.
Now, imagine the David Cage Method of creating the finely-crafted illusion of the player shaping the narrative. That is to say, imagine a tree with every branch painted in garish, absurd colours, haphazardly placed, contradictory, tangled, cringeworthy to look at, an eyesore, crying out for the inevitable weekend project of cutting the damn thing down. Except it never gets cut down. It gets petrified in data, on discs and on digital storefronts, waiting to baffle the unsuspecting consumer and/or critic into submission, into actually liking it.
Well, I am sorry, Mr. Cage, but you can't pull the wool over my eyes this time. Eight years later you will with Detroit, but not this time.
Now, imagine the David Cage Method of creating the finely-crafted illusion of the player shaping the narrative. That is to say, imagine a tree with every branch painted in garish, absurd colours, haphazardly placed, contradictory, tangled, cringeworthy to look at, an eyesore, crying out for the inevitable weekend project of cutting the damn thing down. Except it never gets cut down. It gets petrified in data, on discs and on digital storefronts, waiting to baffle the unsuspecting consumer and/or critic into submission, into actually liking it.
Well, I am sorry, Mr. Cage, but you can't pull the wool over my eyes this time. Eight years later you will with Detroit, but not this time.