A fantastically brutalist game, not in the sense of having angular concrete buildings but in the original sense of showcasing the raw materials with which it's constructed. Automaton Lung wants you to be hyper-aware at every instant that it is a video game, that the world you are seeing is virtual, that the actions you take follow the "explore and collect" script at the heart of so much of the medium.
It doesn't take on the self-defeating preachy tone of some games which seem to say "how dare you engage in such a pursuit." It's no simplistic morality tale. It just wants to revel in what it is, and it wants you to join in as well. All it asks of the player is "see me for what I am."
Everything in the game shows off the materiality of its creation. The icons on the touch screen show off their individual pixels (well larger than anything another game might call a "pixel art style") like a peacock spreading its feathers. The platforming puzzles ask you to familiarize yourself with the fine details of how your model interacts with the models around you. The cramped level geometries clip the camera briefly out of bounds and show the skeleton of the world you're traversing.
Even the total lack of introductory explanation emphasizes the clear truth: you already know what the game wants of you simply because it is a game. You see a colorful cube sending smaller yellow cubes your way, and you know that an enemy is shooting you and you must shoot back or die. You see a small spinning square floating in space, and you know you must touch it to obtain it for some future reward. You find yourself within an architecture and so you must chart its rooms and hallways.
If digital brutalism is its underlying motivator, the architecture of the world is the great triumph of Automaton Lung's moment-to-moment experience. Every area you visit creates its own sense of space with its own distinct mood. They are "levels" in several senses, but they're also rooms and buildings and monuments and cathedrals through which the game guides the player.
The deeper you get in, the clearer it becomes that the chips aren't only collectables, but wordless signposts. Not just "good job", but "check out this view." "Walk through this passage." "You can get here, I promise, and it will be worth it." The raw material of gameplay is turned inward to compel the player to experience the raw material of gamespace. The architecture of the design is as beautiful as the architecture of the world.
It doesn't take on the self-defeating preachy tone of some games which seem to say "how dare you engage in such a pursuit." It's no simplistic morality tale. It just wants to revel in what it is, and it wants you to join in as well. All it asks of the player is "see me for what I am."
Everything in the game shows off the materiality of its creation. The icons on the touch screen show off their individual pixels (well larger than anything another game might call a "pixel art style") like a peacock spreading its feathers. The platforming puzzles ask you to familiarize yourself with the fine details of how your model interacts with the models around you. The cramped level geometries clip the camera briefly out of bounds and show the skeleton of the world you're traversing.
Even the total lack of introductory explanation emphasizes the clear truth: you already know what the game wants of you simply because it is a game. You see a colorful cube sending smaller yellow cubes your way, and you know that an enemy is shooting you and you must shoot back or die. You see a small spinning square floating in space, and you know you must touch it to obtain it for some future reward. You find yourself within an architecture and so you must chart its rooms and hallways.
If digital brutalism is its underlying motivator, the architecture of the world is the great triumph of Automaton Lung's moment-to-moment experience. Every area you visit creates its own sense of space with its own distinct mood. They are "levels" in several senses, but they're also rooms and buildings and monuments and cathedrals through which the game guides the player.
The deeper you get in, the clearer it becomes that the chips aren't only collectables, but wordless signposts. Not just "good job", but "check out this view." "Walk through this passage." "You can get here, I promise, and it will be worth it." The raw material of gameplay is turned inward to compel the player to experience the raw material of gamespace. The architecture of the design is as beautiful as the architecture of the world.
Ardwyw_mp3
1 year ago