ubgaming
2016
66
As the medium of games evolve, more non-traditional formats for video games appear. The point-n-click genre has inspired the new genre of shorter, more story focused games that rely more on how you experience the world than playing within the world. Despite this style of game development being fairly new, Firewatch pulls off the presentation elegantly.
Firewatch is a mystery-adventure game created by Camp Santo, a group made up of Double Fine and Telltale Games developers, creators of Psychonauts and The Walking Dead game, respectively. Henry, an unemployed divorcee, takes up a job as a fire lookout for Shoeshine National Forest, one year after the 1988 Yellowstone fires. His only contact is a walkie-talkie where he talks to his supervisor, Delilah. Once Henry and Delilah start developing a relationship, suspicious notes are left throughout the forest, starting a paranoid quest to find out who is stalking them.
Without getting into spoilers, this story is conducted beautifully, as backstory is revealed and ultimate conclusions are made. Aside from a couple of drunk teenagers, Henry and Delilah are the only voices the player hears, but they carry the story along with believable acting and natural dialogue that wraps the player up into both characters lives.
The progression of Henry and Delilah’s relationship feels very real; the lack of awkwardness between them being a playing part. Henry gets the firewatch position because he wants to be away from people after his divorce, but Delilah’s demeanor is the friendly type; she wants to know who the new guy is, what’s his deal, how’s his life.
The personality dynamic is a fantastic contrast; Henry is alone, but overtime tells himself that the barrier of the walkie-talkie doesn’t count as making contact, and the relationship progressively blossoms from there. Never seeing Delilah is what makes the relationship work, as the faux concept of a walkie-talkie not being a person let's Henry open up.
Voice acting and music, which can be described as abstract guitar playing, are the main drivers of what Camp Santo is delivering. Telltale and Double Fine have brought point-n-click into the modern era, so engrossing gameplay was expected of Firewatch. While it wasn’t bare-bones, Firewatch’s gameplay is a bit underwhelming.
Firewatch combines the sandbox-esque picking up and examining items with the option to choose Henry’s dialogue in response to Delilah's questions, answers, or sweet nothings, and...that’s about it. It doesn’t grow stale, but that’s because of what you’re interacting with rather than how interaction changes. Personal highlights of examining items stick out in my mind, particularly looking at a 4th graders evaluated essay and how close to home the teacher’s notes hit.
As charming as items can be, what you interact with feels like the glue keeping the gameplay from crumbling into boredomness. That being said, Firewatch is fairly short--an estimated 3 hours to beat, short--so the gameplay and it’s variety do stay it’s welcome just long enough.
Visually, Firewatch is nothing short of beautiful. Every area, object, and character model (that being Henry’s hands) feels hand-crafted, with a passionate color scheme applied to everything. It doesn’t feel like stepping into a painting, it’s more like the painting was made specifically for a game.
Firewatch ranges from dark nighttime blues and greens, to midday Carolina blues in the sky and pale yellows in the dead grass, to morning/afternoon oranges and purples. The juxtaposition of a thrilling story and nirvanic visuals is a brilliant mix.
Firewatch is a tale that mixes mellow atmosphere and a story with anxiety and paranoia strewn about, and creates a very complete story that is one of the best this year. That being the best thing I can say poses a bit of a problem.
Story-driven games are welcomed within gaming culture. There are many games out there that use storytelling as it’s driving factor without completely forgetting why it’s being told through this medium in the first place. Firewatch is a game thats narrative works in a video game, but it offers a very simple formula to accompany said narrative. It is there, you can interact with things, you can talk, but it’s a formula that stays the same throughout the whole experience.
While the storytelling is done brilliantly in cinematic, vocal, and pacing aspects, the gameplay feels like it’s tacked on to accompany a video game story. The conflict of wanting to portray an idea that only works with the context of a certain medium and not being able to synchronize the interactivity with the presentation is a tough one that I hope Camp Santo can deal with better.
As the medium of games evolve, more non-traditional formats for video games appear. The point-n-click genre has inspired the new genre of shorter, more story focused games that rely more on how you experience the world than playing within the world. Despite this style of game development being fairly new, Firewatch pulls off the presentation elegantly.
Firewatch is a mystery-adventure game created by Camp Santo, a group made up of Double Fine and Telltale Games developers, creators of Psychonauts and The Walking Dead game, respectively. Henry, an unemployed divorcee, takes up a job as a fire lookout for Shoeshine National Forest, one year after the 1988 Yellowstone fires. His only contact is a walkie-talkie where he talks to his supervisor, Delilah. Once Henry and Delilah start developing a relationship, suspicious notes are left throughout the forest, starting a paranoid quest to find out who is stalking them.
Without getting into spoilers, this story is conducted beautifully, as backstory is revealed and ultimate conclusions are made. Aside from a couple of drunk teenagers, Henry and Delilah are the only voices the player hears, but they carry the story along with believable acting and natural dialogue that wraps the player up into both characters lives.
The progression of Henry and Delilah’s relationship feels very real; the lack of awkwardness between them being a playing part. Henry gets the firewatch position because he wants to be away from people after his divorce, but Delilah’s demeanor is the friendly type; she wants to know who the new guy is, what’s his deal, how’s his life.
The personality dynamic is a fantastic contrast; Henry is alone, but overtime tells himself that the barrier of the walkie-talkie doesn’t count as making contact, and the relationship progressively blossoms from there. Never seeing Delilah is what makes the relationship work, as the faux concept of a walkie-talkie not being a person let's Henry open up.
Voice acting and music, which can be described as abstract guitar playing, are the main drivers of what Camp Santo is delivering. Telltale and Double Fine have brought point-n-click into the modern era, so engrossing gameplay was expected of Firewatch. While it wasn’t bare-bones, Firewatch’s gameplay is a bit underwhelming.
Firewatch combines the sandbox-esque picking up and examining items with the option to choose Henry’s dialogue in response to Delilah's questions, answers, or sweet nothings, and...that’s about it. It doesn’t grow stale, but that’s because of what you’re interacting with rather than how interaction changes. Personal highlights of examining items stick out in my mind, particularly looking at a 4th graders evaluated essay and how close to home the teacher’s notes hit.
As charming as items can be, what you interact with feels like the glue keeping the gameplay from crumbling into boredomness. That being said, Firewatch is fairly short--an estimated 3 hours to beat, short--so the gameplay and it’s variety do stay it’s welcome just long enough.
Visually, Firewatch is nothing short of beautiful. Every area, object, and character model (that being Henry’s hands) feels hand-crafted, with a passionate color scheme applied to everything. It doesn’t feel like stepping into a painting, it’s more like the painting was made specifically for a game.
Firewatch ranges from dark nighttime blues and greens, to midday Carolina blues in the sky and pale yellows in the dead grass, to morning/afternoon oranges and purples. The juxtaposition of a thrilling story and nirvanic visuals is a brilliant mix.
Firewatch is a tale that mixes mellow atmosphere and a story with anxiety and paranoia strewn about, and creates a very complete story that is one of the best this year. That being the best thing I can say poses a bit of a problem.
Story-driven games are welcomed within gaming culture. There are many games out there that use storytelling as it’s driving factor without completely forgetting why it’s being told through this medium in the first place. Firewatch is a game thats narrative works in a video game, but it offers a very simple formula to accompany said narrative. It is there, you can interact with things, you can talk, but it’s a formula that stays the same throughout the whole experience.
While the storytelling is done brilliantly in cinematic, vocal, and pacing aspects, the gameplay feels like it’s tacked on to accompany a video game story. The conflict of wanting to portray an idea that only works with the context of a certain medium and not being able to synchronize the interactivity with the presentation is a tough one that I hope Camp Santo can deal with better.
36
Self-proclaimed auteur David Cage is known for his egotistically performative attitude on “games as art,” but he still lets his games speak their own stories rather than a meta-parroting of his design ideologies. Indigo Prophecy and Heavy Rain, however flawed they may be, will live on as independent stories, “challenging” the medium by how they’re told and not what’s told. This is not the case for Detroit: Become Human.
Detroit: Become Human is not just pretentious; it’s pretentiousness in it’s purest form. The pretentiousness bleeds out from the game and into a clumsy, half-baked attempt at a meta-narrative (which obliviously turned into biting satire of itself). It is one of very few games I would genuinely call offensive and tasteless. I have no idea where to begin with what I hate about Detroit: Become Human, so let’s kick it off with a positive.
Detroit: Become Human has very good graphics. Its aesthetic style, however, is as visually bland as that sentence. Cage is hyper-focused on literally predicting the future to the point where it’s boring; it just looks like Apple stores started popping up around local neighborhoods. There’s no grittiness to the future, there’s only a clean everyman future applied to the grittiness of the modern world. It’s hard to call this game “cyberpunk,” it seems content with just being “cyber.”
Okay, now for an actual positive note: I have never seen a narrative-choice game branch out so far before. Choices do actually matter, fail-states are one-and-done and change handfuls of facets up to the end of the game. Decisions rarely have fleeting impact, where things change then slowly revert back to a one-size-fits-all conclusion; Detroit: Become Human is a game-changer (no pun intended) when it comes to narrative design. Although, it would be way better if the narrative was actually written well.
Here’s where offensive and tasteless come in. Detroit: Become Human has only one message: slavery is bad. Maybe it says more, but I can’t decipher anything else as clear-cut as that, because the game shoves gluttonous amounts of political imagery down the player’s throat so hard, you can’t help but gag.
One character, Markus, is the leader of an android resistance group. In one scene, the player can choose to march peacefully, which I did. It (very blatantly) evokes the 1965 marches from Selma to Montgomery. There’s lots of civil rights imagery that doesn’t come across well, going as far as the “fist-in-the-air” of black power movements being one of four symbols the player can choose to adopt as the new symbol for “android resistance” and graffiti over city walls.
Then I hear the phrase “android camps,” and any good faith I had in this game leaves me like a wet fart. Yes, David Cage decided to co-opt, not just imagery or evocation, but an entire setting and scene based on the Holocaust. Naturally, I’m appalled! You can’t solve the Holocaust through peaceful protest! So, as Markus, I throw away the peaceful approach and ordered my resistance team to turn to violent measures.
It was then that my brain processed these separate moments into a coherent story, and I realized that Detroit: Become Human just combined the American civil rights movement, the Holocaust, and robots into one scene. If this is David Cage’s idea of serious storytelling, I think I’d rupture something if he made a comedy game.
What makes Detroit: Become Human so unenjoyable is not just the cowardice of its non-challenging setting, nor the writing that’s so on-the-nose it picks its own boogers; the worst part is when, for a fleeting moment, I enjoy it. Those moments when I grip my controller tighter, hoping, wanting to heed Cage’s siren call of a briefly compelling scene, are the most unbearable. The story, ears plugged with wax, refuses to face that glimpse of beauty and rows into more toxic waters.
It is never in my interest to recommend substituting the personal experience of playing a game with YouTube videos, but Detroit: Become Human has so little to offer to the player, and what it does offer feels like the game taunting them for expecting better. Watch two playthroughs to ooh-n-aah at the branching paths. This is a game better off being witnessed than involved in; it makes the fremdschämen much easier to bear.
Self-proclaimed auteur David Cage is known for his egotistically performative attitude on “games as art,” but he still lets his games speak their own stories rather than a meta-parroting of his design ideologies. Indigo Prophecy and Heavy Rain, however flawed they may be, will live on as independent stories, “challenging” the medium by how they’re told and not what’s told. This is not the case for Detroit: Become Human.
Detroit: Become Human is not just pretentious; it’s pretentiousness in it’s purest form. The pretentiousness bleeds out from the game and into a clumsy, half-baked attempt at a meta-narrative (which obliviously turned into biting satire of itself). It is one of very few games I would genuinely call offensive and tasteless. I have no idea where to begin with what I hate about Detroit: Become Human, so let’s kick it off with a positive.
Detroit: Become Human has very good graphics. Its aesthetic style, however, is as visually bland as that sentence. Cage is hyper-focused on literally predicting the future to the point where it’s boring; it just looks like Apple stores started popping up around local neighborhoods. There’s no grittiness to the future, there’s only a clean everyman future applied to the grittiness of the modern world. It’s hard to call this game “cyberpunk,” it seems content with just being “cyber.”
Okay, now for an actual positive note: I have never seen a narrative-choice game branch out so far before. Choices do actually matter, fail-states are one-and-done and change handfuls of facets up to the end of the game. Decisions rarely have fleeting impact, where things change then slowly revert back to a one-size-fits-all conclusion; Detroit: Become Human is a game-changer (no pun intended) when it comes to narrative design. Although, it would be way better if the narrative was actually written well.
Here’s where offensive and tasteless come in. Detroit: Become Human has only one message: slavery is bad. Maybe it says more, but I can’t decipher anything else as clear-cut as that, because the game shoves gluttonous amounts of political imagery down the player’s throat so hard, you can’t help but gag.
One character, Markus, is the leader of an android resistance group. In one scene, the player can choose to march peacefully, which I did. It (very blatantly) evokes the 1965 marches from Selma to Montgomery. There’s lots of civil rights imagery that doesn’t come across well, going as far as the “fist-in-the-air” of black power movements being one of four symbols the player can choose to adopt as the new symbol for “android resistance” and graffiti over city walls.
Then I hear the phrase “android camps,” and any good faith I had in this game leaves me like a wet fart. Yes, David Cage decided to co-opt, not just imagery or evocation, but an entire setting and scene based on the Holocaust. Naturally, I’m appalled! You can’t solve the Holocaust through peaceful protest! So, as Markus, I throw away the peaceful approach and ordered my resistance team to turn to violent measures.
It was then that my brain processed these separate moments into a coherent story, and I realized that Detroit: Become Human just combined the American civil rights movement, the Holocaust, and robots into one scene. If this is David Cage’s idea of serious storytelling, I think I’d rupture something if he made a comedy game.
What makes Detroit: Become Human so unenjoyable is not just the cowardice of its non-challenging setting, nor the writing that’s so on-the-nose it picks its own boogers; the worst part is when, for a fleeting moment, I enjoy it. Those moments when I grip my controller tighter, hoping, wanting to heed Cage’s siren call of a briefly compelling scene, are the most unbearable. The story, ears plugged with wax, refuses to face that glimpse of beauty and rows into more toxic waters.
It is never in my interest to recommend substituting the personal experience of playing a game with YouTube videos, but Detroit: Become Human has so little to offer to the player, and what it does offer feels like the game taunting them for expecting better. Watch two playthroughs to ooh-n-aah at the branching paths. This is a game better off being witnessed than involved in; it makes the fremdschämen much easier to bear.
2018
98
I recall the exact moment Celeste crushed me. It wasn't the intimidation of the mountain's many obstacles, or one of the hundreds of deaths that befell our hero, Madeline. It was a monologue from Madeline that shifted my perception of the game entirely. When asked why she's climbing the mountain in the first place, the only answer she can muster after detailing a lifelong battle with depression is: "I need something to challenge me. And I can't just do something a little bit. It's all of me or nothing."
No longer did I believe Celeste was focused solely on platforming, smooth as gelatin and tough as gemstone. The act of climbing the mountain became a question that I've asked myself many-a-time when struggling with staying determined: why are you doing this in the first place? Is it worth it in the end? Do you want to succeed or are you just fighting through gritted teeth at this point? While titles like Undertale depict the strength determination can give through epic, feel-good finales, Celeste questions how to utilize that strength every step of the way.
Celeste is a hard game, but it's attitude towards the player is what makes the difficulty stand out in the "masocore" genre. I admire the usual snark from God Hand or RUINER, but Celeste's gentle demeanor is refreshing, to say the least. The mountain's obstacles are split into "screens," where failure only means lightning-quick, no-pressure respawns, but such a choice in design is countered by the amount of architectural study required to bypass such obstacles, let alone with grace. Expose yourself to Celeste, methodically or through brute-force, and it starts to rope you into a hypnotizing, yet motivational pattern.
Madeline gets closer and closer to the mountain's peak. New mechanics are introduced at every chapter. A rhythm starts to build; the player's air dashes and wall climbing go at the same tempo of falling into spikes and bursting into light. Death begins to feel like part of the player's moveset, beats between failure and retrying fade away, mistakes are miracles. This is how Celeste becomes your ringside coach, the Mickey Goldmill of masocore. It never lets up but it never lets you down.
Let's go back to Madeline; as the quote shows, her story is a deeply personal one. Throughout the game, Madeline encounters a "Part of Her," a recolored, ghostly Madeline that tries to convince her how this trek is just a pipe dream, and she ought to give up already. I haven't seen many reviewers mention the quality of Celeste's narrative; I was completely gripped by how Madeline comes to terms with that Part of Her, the conversations the two have with each other. In arguments, Madeline begins to have panic attacks. The screen fills with protruding purple branches, groping at Madeline as her anxiety swells further. How the player soothes Madeline anxiety and how her relationship with herself evolves is something I dare not spoil; for now I can only admire Celeste for intertwining such uncomfortable topics and the tact used to tackle them with platforming you can lose yourself in.
Of course, Celeste does have an assist mode, and rather than having an "easy" button, players can slow down game speed, toggle invincibility, increase the max number of dashes they can use without stopping, etc. It trusts the player to use this tool at their discretion, only if their experience jumps from mentally challenging to physically impossible. Celeste has a very personal story to tell, one meant to be played personally. I've been needing a new pick-up-n-play title on my Switch; perhaps I'll recover from the emotional whiplash once I collect all 180 strawberries. I know nothing can stop me now.
I recall the exact moment Celeste crushed me. It wasn't the intimidation of the mountain's many obstacles, or one of the hundreds of deaths that befell our hero, Madeline. It was a monologue from Madeline that shifted my perception of the game entirely. When asked why she's climbing the mountain in the first place, the only answer she can muster after detailing a lifelong battle with depression is: "I need something to challenge me. And I can't just do something a little bit. It's all of me or nothing."
No longer did I believe Celeste was focused solely on platforming, smooth as gelatin and tough as gemstone. The act of climbing the mountain became a question that I've asked myself many-a-time when struggling with staying determined: why are you doing this in the first place? Is it worth it in the end? Do you want to succeed or are you just fighting through gritted teeth at this point? While titles like Undertale depict the strength determination can give through epic, feel-good finales, Celeste questions how to utilize that strength every step of the way.
Celeste is a hard game, but it's attitude towards the player is what makes the difficulty stand out in the "masocore" genre. I admire the usual snark from God Hand or RUINER, but Celeste's gentle demeanor is refreshing, to say the least. The mountain's obstacles are split into "screens," where failure only means lightning-quick, no-pressure respawns, but such a choice in design is countered by the amount of architectural study required to bypass such obstacles, let alone with grace. Expose yourself to Celeste, methodically or through brute-force, and it starts to rope you into a hypnotizing, yet motivational pattern.
Madeline gets closer and closer to the mountain's peak. New mechanics are introduced at every chapter. A rhythm starts to build; the player's air dashes and wall climbing go at the same tempo of falling into spikes and bursting into light. Death begins to feel like part of the player's moveset, beats between failure and retrying fade away, mistakes are miracles. This is how Celeste becomes your ringside coach, the Mickey Goldmill of masocore. It never lets up but it never lets you down.
Let's go back to Madeline; as the quote shows, her story is a deeply personal one. Throughout the game, Madeline encounters a "Part of Her," a recolored, ghostly Madeline that tries to convince her how this trek is just a pipe dream, and she ought to give up already. I haven't seen many reviewers mention the quality of Celeste's narrative; I was completely gripped by how Madeline comes to terms with that Part of Her, the conversations the two have with each other. In arguments, Madeline begins to have panic attacks. The screen fills with protruding purple branches, groping at Madeline as her anxiety swells further. How the player soothes Madeline anxiety and how her relationship with herself evolves is something I dare not spoil; for now I can only admire Celeste for intertwining such uncomfortable topics and the tact used to tackle them with platforming you can lose yourself in.
Of course, Celeste does have an assist mode, and rather than having an "easy" button, players can slow down game speed, toggle invincibility, increase the max number of dashes they can use without stopping, etc. It trusts the player to use this tool at their discretion, only if their experience jumps from mentally challenging to physically impossible. Celeste has a very personal story to tell, one meant to be played personally. I've been needing a new pick-up-n-play title on my Switch; perhaps I'll recover from the emotional whiplash once I collect all 180 strawberries. I know nothing can stop me now.
2017
70
When Splatoon released on the Wii U in 2015, I was hopeful. I was hopeful of a new Nintendo, a Nintendo that is no longer afraid of the risky ideas, the brainchilds of a newer generation that resulted in fun, fresh titles. ARMS, a game about boxers with extendable arms and colorful wrestler personas, follows in Splatoon’s footsteps; it brings creativity and accessibility to a table that Nintendo didn’t even know was there five years ago.
ARMS has been advertised as a game built for motion controls with primary control schemes available. This is one of the few times I believe that the motion controls are the best way to play. Players can hold one Joy-Con in each hand and physically punch to send their arms flying across the stage. Pushing both arms out grabs opponents, and tilting the Joy-Cons towards each other activates a shield.
A large problem in the industry is hamfisting motion controls into titles, trying to meet a “motion control quota” for peripherals like Kinect and PlayStation Move. For ARMS, it feels like motion controls were a natural evolution in the design process. Nintendo could’ve easily gone the route of building a game around motion controls to gimmick-ize the Switch even further, but they played it smart, and let ARMS stretch it’s creativeness.
As someone technically familiar but inexperienced with fighting games, ARMS is a great beginner’s guide to the genre. ARMS teaches players the rhythm of combat, so to speak. I realized this after literally tracking the rhythm of a punch’s distance and keeping the beat of executing Min Min’s parry, but the core design of ARMS is a streamlined version of fighting game meta. Punches are long and easily readable; supers are simple barrages just to punish openings; the meta is focused on wake-ups and openings; all these elements are implemented to test the player’s reflex, timing, and execution, simply but effectively.
Mechanically, ARMS is a brilliant guide for fledgling fighting game players, while still maintaining enough depth to keep matches unpredictable and interesting. My main concern, however, is the possible discrepancy between motion and traditional controls. Miming punches gives more leeway than steering them, and players don’t seem to be able to steer individual controls with just one stick. It’ll be interesting to see how ARMS is treated within the competitive scene and how the meta will flourish.
ARMS embraces its competitive nature through and through, even channelling it within the game’s UI. Every menu has a yellow motif, with crisp fonts and animations that emulate TV sports channels. Of course, ARMS embraces sport through and through. The game’s aesthetics are what I imagine Brazilian pro-wrestling looks like; bright colors, masks and costumes, nicknames, cheering fans...competition is in the blood of this game; it’s great to see Nintendo finally tapping into the eSports side of things.
Nintendo has been using the Switch to experiment with their first-party titles, from the unprecedented world design of the latest Zelda, to...basically everything about ARMS. It’s exciting to see a company so adamant on formulaic design approach the drawing board with ambition, especially when it results in something great. Nintendo is throwing surprising punches, and they’re hitting hard.
When Splatoon released on the Wii U in 2015, I was hopeful. I was hopeful of a new Nintendo, a Nintendo that is no longer afraid of the risky ideas, the brainchilds of a newer generation that resulted in fun, fresh titles. ARMS, a game about boxers with extendable arms and colorful wrestler personas, follows in Splatoon’s footsteps; it brings creativity and accessibility to a table that Nintendo didn’t even know was there five years ago.
ARMS has been advertised as a game built for motion controls with primary control schemes available. This is one of the few times I believe that the motion controls are the best way to play. Players can hold one Joy-Con in each hand and physically punch to send their arms flying across the stage. Pushing both arms out grabs opponents, and tilting the Joy-Cons towards each other activates a shield.
A large problem in the industry is hamfisting motion controls into titles, trying to meet a “motion control quota” for peripherals like Kinect and PlayStation Move. For ARMS, it feels like motion controls were a natural evolution in the design process. Nintendo could’ve easily gone the route of building a game around motion controls to gimmick-ize the Switch even further, but they played it smart, and let ARMS stretch it’s creativeness.
As someone technically familiar but inexperienced with fighting games, ARMS is a great beginner’s guide to the genre. ARMS teaches players the rhythm of combat, so to speak. I realized this after literally tracking the rhythm of a punch’s distance and keeping the beat of executing Min Min’s parry, but the core design of ARMS is a streamlined version of fighting game meta. Punches are long and easily readable; supers are simple barrages just to punish openings; the meta is focused on wake-ups and openings; all these elements are implemented to test the player’s reflex, timing, and execution, simply but effectively.
Mechanically, ARMS is a brilliant guide for fledgling fighting game players, while still maintaining enough depth to keep matches unpredictable and interesting. My main concern, however, is the possible discrepancy between motion and traditional controls. Miming punches gives more leeway than steering them, and players don’t seem to be able to steer individual controls with just one stick. It’ll be interesting to see how ARMS is treated within the competitive scene and how the meta will flourish.
ARMS embraces its competitive nature through and through, even channelling it within the game’s UI. Every menu has a yellow motif, with crisp fonts and animations that emulate TV sports channels. Of course, ARMS embraces sport through and through. The game’s aesthetics are what I imagine Brazilian pro-wrestling looks like; bright colors, masks and costumes, nicknames, cheering fans...competition is in the blood of this game; it’s great to see Nintendo finally tapping into the eSports side of things.
Nintendo has been using the Switch to experiment with their first-party titles, from the unprecedented world design of the latest Zelda, to...basically everything about ARMS. It’s exciting to see a company so adamant on formulaic design approach the drawing board with ambition, especially when it results in something great. Nintendo is throwing surprising punches, and they’re hitting hard.
2017
4
From the first time the player boots up 1-2-Switch, the game forces them to scroll through a slideshow of several minigames, and only after the player plays each minigame (with a second player) can they access the menu. Menu is a generous term; rather it’s picking a minigame shuffle mode or the entire minigame gallery. What an awful first impression.
1-2-Switch rides then dies on a central design choice: neither players look at the screen, using one Joy-Con each to play quickie-charades. You might use it as a pistol in a quick draw showdown, or as a wand to kind of…nudge towards the other player. Or just precisely rotating the Joy-Con’s, in 1-2-Switch’s most creative game, “Joy-Con Rotation” (yes, it’s actually called that).
Let me focus on one positive: Quick Draw is a very well-done minigame. Two players hold a Joy-Con by their hip, locked in an intense staredown (commonly broken by laughter), waiting for the signal. “Fire!” says the Switch, as both players lift up their Joy-Con, aim, and pull the shoulder button trigger. After the round, the game shows who shot first, even showing how long it took to fire and the angle the pistol was aimed. The downside is that Nintendo thought to take this one good game and surround it with 27 more bad ones and a $50 price tag.
It’s completely unclear what audience 1-2-Switch is targeting. The games either focus on the weak “don’t look at the screen” gimmick or the features of the Joy-Cons. The latter has first-time value; I played the game where the rumble emulates rolling marbles, said “neat,” then went to the next timewaster.
It tries very hard to appeal to people who don’t often play games with an extremely bland pop design. There’s a couple of actual “graphics” in the game, maybe two or three 3D models, but most of what you see are cut-out photos of real people following player actions. The player doesn’t look at the screen too much, but even looking at the menu is so bland, it feels like an out-of-touch PowerPoint.
I’ll close on this, the worst offense of 1-2-Switch. There is a minigame called Baby, and it is, as far as I know, the only game where both Joy-Cons need to be docked into the Switch. The player has to cradle the tablet like a baby, while it plays the same five crying soundbytes on loop, and then (I assume, I didn’t even bother to finish it) put it down so it can rest.
I don’t know what features of the Switch this game shows off. I don’t know who the hell will want to play this. I don’t know who the hell will want to play this around other people. And I certainly don’t know why Nintendo didn’t just release Quick Draw with a few extra modes for $1.99. It would’ve been a lot more fun than cradling a baby.
From the first time the player boots up 1-2-Switch, the game forces them to scroll through a slideshow of several minigames, and only after the player plays each minigame (with a second player) can they access the menu. Menu is a generous term; rather it’s picking a minigame shuffle mode or the entire minigame gallery. What an awful first impression.
1-2-Switch rides then dies on a central design choice: neither players look at the screen, using one Joy-Con each to play quickie-charades. You might use it as a pistol in a quick draw showdown, or as a wand to kind of…nudge towards the other player. Or just precisely rotating the Joy-Con’s, in 1-2-Switch’s most creative game, “Joy-Con Rotation” (yes, it’s actually called that).
Let me focus on one positive: Quick Draw is a very well-done minigame. Two players hold a Joy-Con by their hip, locked in an intense staredown (commonly broken by laughter), waiting for the signal. “Fire!” says the Switch, as both players lift up their Joy-Con, aim, and pull the shoulder button trigger. After the round, the game shows who shot first, even showing how long it took to fire and the angle the pistol was aimed. The downside is that Nintendo thought to take this one good game and surround it with 27 more bad ones and a $50 price tag.
It’s completely unclear what audience 1-2-Switch is targeting. The games either focus on the weak “don’t look at the screen” gimmick or the features of the Joy-Cons. The latter has first-time value; I played the game where the rumble emulates rolling marbles, said “neat,” then went to the next timewaster.
It tries very hard to appeal to people who don’t often play games with an extremely bland pop design. There’s a couple of actual “graphics” in the game, maybe two or three 3D models, but most of what you see are cut-out photos of real people following player actions. The player doesn’t look at the screen too much, but even looking at the menu is so bland, it feels like an out-of-touch PowerPoint.
I’ll close on this, the worst offense of 1-2-Switch. There is a minigame called Baby, and it is, as far as I know, the only game where both Joy-Cons need to be docked into the Switch. The player has to cradle the tablet like a baby, while it plays the same five crying soundbytes on loop, and then (I assume, I didn’t even bother to finish it) put it down so it can rest.
I don’t know what features of the Switch this game shows off. I don’t know who the hell will want to play this. I don’t know who the hell will want to play this around other people. And I certainly don’t know why Nintendo didn’t just release Quick Draw with a few extra modes for $1.99. It would’ve been a lot more fun than cradling a baby.
2017
98
Looking back, the promise of Cuphead stretched the three years since its reveal into an eternity. Every year there was a buzzing of how amazing it looked, and a duller hum about whether or not it will live up to the hype. My biggest fear was for this game to be all flash and no fury, but Cuphead doubles down on both departments.
Cuphead is a boss rush run-n-gun platformer, with a few regular platforming levels to boot. Cuphead and Mugman are brothers who gamble away at a casino owned by the devil; an unlucky roll of the dice ends with the duo sent on a trip across Inkwell to collect his debtors’ contracts, or Cuphead and Mugman are cracked china. The entire game is a sight to marvel at; from succumbing to bosses to getting coins in platforming levels to buying upgrades, every element of Cuphead is an audiovisual labor of love.
It’s important to note that style isn’t Cuphead‘s gimmick; it’s Cuphead‘s identity. There’s an undeniable amount of authenticity at play, from the painstakingly hand-animated sprites to the best bebop jazz I’ve heard in years, but it never pushes gameplay to the side. The look and feel of Cuphead work in tandem. The influences the Moldenhauer brothers take from Contra and Gunstar Heroes fit perfectly in the loony isles of Inkwell.
Cuphead, much like its retro influences, is methodically brutal. Every boss is a new puzzle to tackle, new patterns to memorize, new moments for everything to click. It’s a lengthy process but the player feels a sense of progression like sifting mounds of sand to catch a glimpse of a pearl’s glimmer. Every boss has a “simple” and “regular” difficulty setting, but the simple version doesn’t just add or subtract health/damage. The simple versions of bosses are edited for each boss, where some phases are cut and what’s left is simplified just enough to provide a challenge, but one that helps the player ease into what comes next. Using the “easy mode” option as a tutorial rather than a compromise is the smartest way to ease the player into the multifaceted brawls they’ll face.
I don’t think Cuphead wants the player to achieve mastery as fast as possible. Bosses are tense and deeply calculated, but they’re welcoming. I took my time with Cuphead; I played the simple version of every boss before the regular ones, hopping around to different bosses, letting all the patterns and layouts gestate in my mind until I faced the real deal, swinging punches fast and hard. It was a long ride, but it never got stale because of how much rich detail the player can take in. Your brain never has a “oh, THIS again” moment because every second of Cuphead captivates your senses, and not just aesthetically. Boss design in Cuphead is some of the finest I’ve seen in years, where you’ll want to keep your methods in mind and S-rank all of ’em the moment you beat the final boss.
Cuphead wants you to play witty. In a cartoon wonderland of snazzy snark, the player wins by perceiving patterns and humorously outsmarting them. It’s a constant “duck season, rabbit season!” of bullets, bombs, broken cups and boastful taunts that screech to a cathartic halt with the ding of a ringside bell. Games can let us feel like heroes in a traditional sense, but rarely do they let us step into the puffy shoes of cartoon characters that go on their own self-indulgent romps, just for the hell of it. After all, Cuphead and Mugman have hell itself to fight for, and what a damn good fight it is.
Looking back, the promise of Cuphead stretched the three years since its reveal into an eternity. Every year there was a buzzing of how amazing it looked, and a duller hum about whether or not it will live up to the hype. My biggest fear was for this game to be all flash and no fury, but Cuphead doubles down on both departments.
Cuphead is a boss rush run-n-gun platformer, with a few regular platforming levels to boot. Cuphead and Mugman are brothers who gamble away at a casino owned by the devil; an unlucky roll of the dice ends with the duo sent on a trip across Inkwell to collect his debtors’ contracts, or Cuphead and Mugman are cracked china. The entire game is a sight to marvel at; from succumbing to bosses to getting coins in platforming levels to buying upgrades, every element of Cuphead is an audiovisual labor of love.
It’s important to note that style isn’t Cuphead‘s gimmick; it’s Cuphead‘s identity. There’s an undeniable amount of authenticity at play, from the painstakingly hand-animated sprites to the best bebop jazz I’ve heard in years, but it never pushes gameplay to the side. The look and feel of Cuphead work in tandem. The influences the Moldenhauer brothers take from Contra and Gunstar Heroes fit perfectly in the loony isles of Inkwell.
Cuphead, much like its retro influences, is methodically brutal. Every boss is a new puzzle to tackle, new patterns to memorize, new moments for everything to click. It’s a lengthy process but the player feels a sense of progression like sifting mounds of sand to catch a glimpse of a pearl’s glimmer. Every boss has a “simple” and “regular” difficulty setting, but the simple version doesn’t just add or subtract health/damage. The simple versions of bosses are edited for each boss, where some phases are cut and what’s left is simplified just enough to provide a challenge, but one that helps the player ease into what comes next. Using the “easy mode” option as a tutorial rather than a compromise is the smartest way to ease the player into the multifaceted brawls they’ll face.
I don’t think Cuphead wants the player to achieve mastery as fast as possible. Bosses are tense and deeply calculated, but they’re welcoming. I took my time with Cuphead; I played the simple version of every boss before the regular ones, hopping around to different bosses, letting all the patterns and layouts gestate in my mind until I faced the real deal, swinging punches fast and hard. It was a long ride, but it never got stale because of how much rich detail the player can take in. Your brain never has a “oh, THIS again” moment because every second of Cuphead captivates your senses, and not just aesthetically. Boss design in Cuphead is some of the finest I’ve seen in years, where you’ll want to keep your methods in mind and S-rank all of ’em the moment you beat the final boss.
Cuphead wants you to play witty. In a cartoon wonderland of snazzy snark, the player wins by perceiving patterns and humorously outsmarting them. It’s a constant “duck season, rabbit season!” of bullets, bombs, broken cups and boastful taunts that screech to a cathartic halt with the ding of a ringside bell. Games can let us feel like heroes in a traditional sense, but rarely do they let us step into the puffy shoes of cartoon characters that go on their own self-indulgent romps, just for the hell of it. After all, Cuphead and Mugman have hell itself to fight for, and what a damn good fight it is.
2016
100
Upon launching the game, two words greet you: “PLAYDEADS INSIDE”. Those are the only two words you see in the entire game. INSIDE sells on its vagueness and mystery, shown by one of the only two trailers showing the main character walking, jumping and scaffolding through the vast world, reaching his destination: a large window, crowded by men in business suits peering curiously at whatever the camera can’t see.
INSIDE is a puzzle-platformer about a boy making his way to…something. That is the premise of the game, but its execution is what makes it intriguing. Subtly is key in INSIDE; the boy’s sudden panting in clutch situations, character animations which portray emotion beautifully, the game building its scale. Every aspect of it had tons of passion put into it, so much so that I can explain without spoiling the brilliant ending.
INSIDE’s gameplay doesn’t stray too far from it’s predecessor, LIMBO; platforming with ICO-like physics, jumps, and puzzle-solving throughout. Having not played LIMBO, I cannot fairly compare the two, but nonetheless, the gameplay is very well-done for the short, one-shot experience it is.
INSIDE is a game that sells on it’s mystery. As such, it’s a very story-driven experience, but not in a way that defeats the purpose of being a video game. In fact, it blends the gameplay and storytelling beautifully. With so little going on visually and no cutscenes or loading screens from beginning to end, the way you experience the story is purely through gameplay. That sounds obvious, but in a regular game, it’s “get to this area, defeat this many enemies, expositional cutscene, more gameplay, expositional cutscene.” In most cases, the gameplay is contextual to the cutscenes predecessing or follow that section, but with INSIDE, gameplay is context.
The puzzles aren’t necessarily mind-boggling fun, but they aren’t a chore, either. There’s your typical block-pushing and object-fetching, but blocks with propellers or mini submarines that can jump out of water spice up the gameplay just enough so it’s not overwhelming while being juxtaposed against the game’s dreary setting.
On top of this, INSIDE accomplishes something many puzzle games don’t: every puzzle feels like a part of the world. You never say “oh, wow, what a COINCIDENCE that this block JUST HAPPENS to be here.” Puzzle mechanics work in tandem with the environment, rather than making the puzzles and having the environment forcibly adapt. Puzzles aesthetically matching the game world and keeping the atmosphere alive is a crowning achievement for any puzzle game.
The game’s design is astounding from top to bottom. It goes for a minimalist, bleak art style, but is never an eyesore. The graphics look almost polygonal, as many textures in the game are flat, dull colors that lighting adds depth to. No one in the game has a face, either, creating a sense of anonymity in the characters. These aspects create a sense of emptiness and dreariness to the entire world of INSIDE.
One of the most incredible subtleties in this game is what the player can pick up from the character animations. In the beginning section, the boy has to hide from guards searching a forested area. You can tell from the guards, how they move, how they search, that they’re not looking for you; they’re trying to make sure that you aren’t there.
These brilliant portrayals of emotion through body language stay strong throughout the game. One section has you falling into a line of people walking in a line, but they almost look like zombies. Some are stomping, dragging their arms, while others are stumbling, barely able to keep their heads up.
The boy character, while in the line, attempts to walk very robotically in order to match the consciously absent individuals, but when the line stops, he keeps his head up, scrunched near his shoulders, constantly taking slow, scared peeks at the camera observing him.
A lot of these animations, especially the ones with the line of people, add a weird quirk to the game. Within the depressing and disturbing world are these lively, almost humorous animations that make it seem like a black comedy about dystopian societies.
The story of INSIDE may not be much on paper, but again, execution is key, and one of the most flawlessly executed parts of this game is the world building.Moving from one section to the next, a forest into a testing site, an ocean into a facility, feels natural and connected. As absolutely humongous as the world is, everything feels like it’s not just pasted together; there’s never any hard cuts in the environments, all the sections blend into each other seamlessly.
Not only does INSIDE establish its world amazingly, but it establishes the scale just as well. One section in particular comes to mind, where the boy jumps into the mini submarine, and sinks into the bottom of an ocean-like tank, where the submarine’s flashlight shines onto the outer shell of a dome that seems to spread out for miles. There are domes within buildings within domes; INSIDE keeps pushing the limit of how stunningly gigantic its world is.
The sound design is yet another one of INSIDE’s strong points. Sounds of footsteps through soil and on concrete, guns firing, sounds unknown to this planet; it all sounds disturbingly real. The most disturbing thing that the sound design of INSIDE amplifies is the boy’s actions. His breathing gets fast and panicky whenever he’s on the verge of death. When he’s swimming, he makes spastic gurgling sounds to alert the player that he’s drowning. Getting mauled by a dog lets the player hear the sounds of bones snapping. It goes to show that one of the most brutal and horrifying things in the game is the most human.
The music is droning, dark, and can only be described as “surreal ambiance.” Not much else can be said besides that for the few times it plays; it only serves to add to the sense of uneasiness and darkness of the whole game rather than a thematic soundtrack.
INSIDE is a short experience that thrives on its mystery and abstractness, creating one of the most suspenseful and breathtaking games this year.
Upon launching the game, two words greet you: “PLAYDEADS INSIDE”. Those are the only two words you see in the entire game. INSIDE sells on its vagueness and mystery, shown by one of the only two trailers showing the main character walking, jumping and scaffolding through the vast world, reaching his destination: a large window, crowded by men in business suits peering curiously at whatever the camera can’t see.
INSIDE is a puzzle-platformer about a boy making his way to…something. That is the premise of the game, but its execution is what makes it intriguing. Subtly is key in INSIDE; the boy’s sudden panting in clutch situations, character animations which portray emotion beautifully, the game building its scale. Every aspect of it had tons of passion put into it, so much so that I can explain without spoiling the brilliant ending.
INSIDE’s gameplay doesn’t stray too far from it’s predecessor, LIMBO; platforming with ICO-like physics, jumps, and puzzle-solving throughout. Having not played LIMBO, I cannot fairly compare the two, but nonetheless, the gameplay is very well-done for the short, one-shot experience it is.
INSIDE is a game that sells on it’s mystery. As such, it’s a very story-driven experience, but not in a way that defeats the purpose of being a video game. In fact, it blends the gameplay and storytelling beautifully. With so little going on visually and no cutscenes or loading screens from beginning to end, the way you experience the story is purely through gameplay. That sounds obvious, but in a regular game, it’s “get to this area, defeat this many enemies, expositional cutscene, more gameplay, expositional cutscene.” In most cases, the gameplay is contextual to the cutscenes predecessing or follow that section, but with INSIDE, gameplay is context.
The puzzles aren’t necessarily mind-boggling fun, but they aren’t a chore, either. There’s your typical block-pushing and object-fetching, but blocks with propellers or mini submarines that can jump out of water spice up the gameplay just enough so it’s not overwhelming while being juxtaposed against the game’s dreary setting.
On top of this, INSIDE accomplishes something many puzzle games don’t: every puzzle feels like a part of the world. You never say “oh, wow, what a COINCIDENCE that this block JUST HAPPENS to be here.” Puzzle mechanics work in tandem with the environment, rather than making the puzzles and having the environment forcibly adapt. Puzzles aesthetically matching the game world and keeping the atmosphere alive is a crowning achievement for any puzzle game.
The game’s design is astounding from top to bottom. It goes for a minimalist, bleak art style, but is never an eyesore. The graphics look almost polygonal, as many textures in the game are flat, dull colors that lighting adds depth to. No one in the game has a face, either, creating a sense of anonymity in the characters. These aspects create a sense of emptiness and dreariness to the entire world of INSIDE.
One of the most incredible subtleties in this game is what the player can pick up from the character animations. In the beginning section, the boy has to hide from guards searching a forested area. You can tell from the guards, how they move, how they search, that they’re not looking for you; they’re trying to make sure that you aren’t there.
These brilliant portrayals of emotion through body language stay strong throughout the game. One section has you falling into a line of people walking in a line, but they almost look like zombies. Some are stomping, dragging their arms, while others are stumbling, barely able to keep their heads up.
The boy character, while in the line, attempts to walk very robotically in order to match the consciously absent individuals, but when the line stops, he keeps his head up, scrunched near his shoulders, constantly taking slow, scared peeks at the camera observing him.
A lot of these animations, especially the ones with the line of people, add a weird quirk to the game. Within the depressing and disturbing world are these lively, almost humorous animations that make it seem like a black comedy about dystopian societies.
The story of INSIDE may not be much on paper, but again, execution is key, and one of the most flawlessly executed parts of this game is the world building.Moving from one section to the next, a forest into a testing site, an ocean into a facility, feels natural and connected. As absolutely humongous as the world is, everything feels like it’s not just pasted together; there’s never any hard cuts in the environments, all the sections blend into each other seamlessly.
Not only does INSIDE establish its world amazingly, but it establishes the scale just as well. One section in particular comes to mind, where the boy jumps into the mini submarine, and sinks into the bottom of an ocean-like tank, where the submarine’s flashlight shines onto the outer shell of a dome that seems to spread out for miles. There are domes within buildings within domes; INSIDE keeps pushing the limit of how stunningly gigantic its world is.
The sound design is yet another one of INSIDE’s strong points. Sounds of footsteps through soil and on concrete, guns firing, sounds unknown to this planet; it all sounds disturbingly real. The most disturbing thing that the sound design of INSIDE amplifies is the boy’s actions. His breathing gets fast and panicky whenever he’s on the verge of death. When he’s swimming, he makes spastic gurgling sounds to alert the player that he’s drowning. Getting mauled by a dog lets the player hear the sounds of bones snapping. It goes to show that one of the most brutal and horrifying things in the game is the most human.
The music is droning, dark, and can only be described as “surreal ambiance.” Not much else can be said besides that for the few times it plays; it only serves to add to the sense of uneasiness and darkness of the whole game rather than a thematic soundtrack.
INSIDE is a short experience that thrives on its mystery and abstractness, creating one of the most suspenseful and breathtaking games this year.
2018
82
It’s hard to find an open-world game purely about doing the right thing. The very nature of the genre is designed for experimentation, letting the player take on a persona through the consequences of the world’s workings. And yet, Spider-Man becomes one of the best open-world action games by the virtue of defying that very idea.
The gameplay by itself is a welcome improvement to the Arkham formula, but Insomniac gives a certain warmth to it. Context is half of what makes Spider-Man; web-swinging across skyscrapers is only as good as the onlookers, cheering from the streets of New York, allow it to be. Violence is a necessary evil without having to sacrifice the combat’s integrity. Side missions are for cleaning up the environment and taking down mafia thugs. Such a light tone is what inspires that fluffy feeling in your stomach when playing Spider-Man, realizing that your action is for the good of New York.
There’s been light discourse surrounding the depiction of the NYPD in this game, but I found it hard to interpret anything as controversial. Parker never collaborates with the police directly; only with an off-the-books captain, whom stresses the danger of collaborating with Parker in the first place. In fact, light criticism of fascist police is offered later in the game! It’s no Papers, Please or This is the Police, but Spider-Man knows what it’s dealing with and deals with it appropriately.
As it should, Spider-Man is concerned with a basic (and quite literal) “light vs. dark” moral system. I’m reminded of Hideki Kamiya’s “The Wonderful 101“, where justice is a hyperbolic force to be reckoned with, friend and foe are clearly defined, yet we’re given room to consider otherwise. It may not be pushing new boundaries, but does it have to? In our political climate, perhaps further defining the boundaries is what we need.
Fun fact: Insomniac Games’ Spider-Man is the first Marvel-licensed game to feature the iconic flipbook logo crawl that preludes their blockbuster films. A small gesture, but one that says a lot; the type of iconography that indicates crafted grandeur to the highest degree. Spider-Man proves itself worthy of its placement.
It’s hard to find an open-world game purely about doing the right thing. The very nature of the genre is designed for experimentation, letting the player take on a persona through the consequences of the world’s workings. And yet, Spider-Man becomes one of the best open-world action games by the virtue of defying that very idea.
The gameplay by itself is a welcome improvement to the Arkham formula, but Insomniac gives a certain warmth to it. Context is half of what makes Spider-Man; web-swinging across skyscrapers is only as good as the onlookers, cheering from the streets of New York, allow it to be. Violence is a necessary evil without having to sacrifice the combat’s integrity. Side missions are for cleaning up the environment and taking down mafia thugs. Such a light tone is what inspires that fluffy feeling in your stomach when playing Spider-Man, realizing that your action is for the good of New York.
There’s been light discourse surrounding the depiction of the NYPD in this game, but I found it hard to interpret anything as controversial. Parker never collaborates with the police directly; only with an off-the-books captain, whom stresses the danger of collaborating with Parker in the first place. In fact, light criticism of fascist police is offered later in the game! It’s no Papers, Please or This is the Police, but Spider-Man knows what it’s dealing with and deals with it appropriately.
As it should, Spider-Man is concerned with a basic (and quite literal) “light vs. dark” moral system. I’m reminded of Hideki Kamiya’s “The Wonderful 101“, where justice is a hyperbolic force to be reckoned with, friend and foe are clearly defined, yet we’re given room to consider otherwise. It may not be pushing new boundaries, but does it have to? In our political climate, perhaps further defining the boundaries is what we need.
Fun fact: Insomniac Games’ Spider-Man is the first Marvel-licensed game to feature the iconic flipbook logo crawl that preludes their blockbuster films. A small gesture, but one that says a lot; the type of iconography that indicates crafted grandeur to the highest degree. Spider-Man proves itself worthy of its placement.
2015
93
I’m someone who, for the longest time, did not understand the concept of determination. I have limits, my body feels pain for a reason, I can’t make sacrifices for a zero sum game. There was a point in Undertale where something clicked, a verbal “oh!” escaped my lips as I realized that, in the face of crushing odds, I should just…do it. Stay determined. See it to the end.
The connection Undertale has with the player could only be made with the context of it’s core adventure. Writer/developer/composer Toby Fox thoroughly channels the “completeness” of the Mother series, a journey made from memories, caked with humor and love, constructed as tightly as possible. The underground is four-dimensional in scale, infinitely sprawling within 150 megabytes. Both enemies and NPCs are approachable, you can have a chat or play a game with them. The world is your friendly little oyster.
But Fox differentiates Undertale with a masterful control of tone. There’s a looming sense of evil, far less hyperbolic than the conceptual boogiemen of other JRPGs; the feeling that, despite everything being fine in the moment, the possibility of true horror is ever present. The player’s gut instinct is right in the worst possible way.
That true horror is the other side of the determination coin, a deep dive into the minds of serial killers and cult leaders, those who had the gall to carry out the Manhattan project or the Hiroshima bombing. The end justifies the means, but the means reach an ultimate end. From the beginning, the player has the option to not only disregard the warm welcome of Undertale‘s cast, but to mercilessly grind and grind until enemies stop appearing. The underground becomes god-fearing and the player is the prophet.
This interpretation of Undertale, colloquially known as the “genocide run,” is one of the most fascinating games of the past decade. There are plenty of meta-narratives about the morality of “evil play,” but Undertale practices what it preaches; at every point in the genocide run, it feels like the game is actively trying to stop the player. It realizes the mistake it’s made, letting the player squeeze out some sick, homicidal perversion from the game’s message like the sourest of lemons. Undertale itself has lost its grasp on the player.
This makes a painfully honest case: while it is easier to do what is right, there’s a point where the taboo and immoral become uncontrollably intoxicating. The interactive nature of games prods at our brains, right at the home of anxiety-induced curiosity, as we wonder “what’s the worst thing that I can do here?” The wicked genius of Undertale is how the answer is beyond its grasp.
Let’s not stray on the bleak for too long. The game’s “true” ending is antonymic of the genocide run, referred to as the “pacifist run.” If the player makes it through the whole game without killing a single enemy, the game will prompt them to go down a second path, elaborating further on the lovable NPCs, and even indulging in it’s own dark story (though much more sweet than bitter).
The pacifist run ends on an incredibly heartwarming, bombastic note, one that reverberated deep within me. Undertale ended happily ever after, and I can’t bring myself to change that. Nevertheless, I have to respect the prospect. The darkness that surrounds the flame makes the light worth cherishing.
I’m someone who, for the longest time, did not understand the concept of determination. I have limits, my body feels pain for a reason, I can’t make sacrifices for a zero sum game. There was a point in Undertale where something clicked, a verbal “oh!” escaped my lips as I realized that, in the face of crushing odds, I should just…do it. Stay determined. See it to the end.
The connection Undertale has with the player could only be made with the context of it’s core adventure. Writer/developer/composer Toby Fox thoroughly channels the “completeness” of the Mother series, a journey made from memories, caked with humor and love, constructed as tightly as possible. The underground is four-dimensional in scale, infinitely sprawling within 150 megabytes. Both enemies and NPCs are approachable, you can have a chat or play a game with them. The world is your friendly little oyster.
But Fox differentiates Undertale with a masterful control of tone. There’s a looming sense of evil, far less hyperbolic than the conceptual boogiemen of other JRPGs; the feeling that, despite everything being fine in the moment, the possibility of true horror is ever present. The player’s gut instinct is right in the worst possible way.
That true horror is the other side of the determination coin, a deep dive into the minds of serial killers and cult leaders, those who had the gall to carry out the Manhattan project or the Hiroshima bombing. The end justifies the means, but the means reach an ultimate end. From the beginning, the player has the option to not only disregard the warm welcome of Undertale‘s cast, but to mercilessly grind and grind until enemies stop appearing. The underground becomes god-fearing and the player is the prophet.
This interpretation of Undertale, colloquially known as the “genocide run,” is one of the most fascinating games of the past decade. There are plenty of meta-narratives about the morality of “evil play,” but Undertale practices what it preaches; at every point in the genocide run, it feels like the game is actively trying to stop the player. It realizes the mistake it’s made, letting the player squeeze out some sick, homicidal perversion from the game’s message like the sourest of lemons. Undertale itself has lost its grasp on the player.
This makes a painfully honest case: while it is easier to do what is right, there’s a point where the taboo and immoral become uncontrollably intoxicating. The interactive nature of games prods at our brains, right at the home of anxiety-induced curiosity, as we wonder “what’s the worst thing that I can do here?” The wicked genius of Undertale is how the answer is beyond its grasp.
Let’s not stray on the bleak for too long. The game’s “true” ending is antonymic of the genocide run, referred to as the “pacifist run.” If the player makes it through the whole game without killing a single enemy, the game will prompt them to go down a second path, elaborating further on the lovable NPCs, and even indulging in it’s own dark story (though much more sweet than bitter).
The pacifist run ends on an incredibly heartwarming, bombastic note, one that reverberated deep within me. Undertale ended happily ever after, and I can’t bring myself to change that. Nevertheless, I have to respect the prospect. The darkness that surrounds the flame makes the light worth cherishing.
87
THE MISSING is hard to play.
Physically, it’s somewhat of a breeze, taking about five hours to hike through. But emotionally, THE MISSING takes an unprecedented toll. It’s a game about torturing yourself to squeeze through a world uncomfortably unknown.
Swery65 is a cult icon known for charmingly scrappy visuals and Lynchian storytelling, but in the past, both have served for little purpose beyond homage. DEADLY PREMONITION is a painfully obvious Twin Peaks adaptation, and D4: DARK DREAMS DON’T DIE was pure balls-to-the-walls insanity with a nice “New York detective” flavor.
Now we see Swery’s gift as a storyteller with THE MISSING. The game follows J.J. Macfield, a young woman finding her missing lover, Emily, after being bestowed the power of near-immortality. J.J. can be dismembered, set on fire, have her bones broken, and roll around as a sentient decapitated head, but she can resume to her natural state with the push of a button.
Keep in mind, these are the mechanics for a puzzle game. That’s Swery for you.
And that is what makes THE MISSING so hard to play: hearing J.J. scream raspily for help as her bones crack in half, stumps where her arms should be spill with blood. If she’s missing a leg, she’ll hop a few times before tripping, ultimately needing to crawl to her goal. There’s a darkly comical tone to this, simply by the fact that J.J. submits herself to this unbearable torture for the sake of solving puzzles and obtaining donuts, the collectibles of the game.
What keeps you going is the narrative, revealed through text messages from J.J.’s past, with her mother, Emily, and her friends. It’s really hard to talk about the story in any detail; the ending gives true form to the game as a whole and it would be a crime for me to spoil any part of it. Just know you’re in for Swery at the peak of his storytelling.
Not much else to say other than THE MISSING is one of the most conceptually sound platformers since INSIDE, beautifully and tactfully exploring the lengths we go for other people and ourselves.
THE MISSING is hard to play.
Physically, it’s somewhat of a breeze, taking about five hours to hike through. But emotionally, THE MISSING takes an unprecedented toll. It’s a game about torturing yourself to squeeze through a world uncomfortably unknown.
Swery65 is a cult icon known for charmingly scrappy visuals and Lynchian storytelling, but in the past, both have served for little purpose beyond homage. DEADLY PREMONITION is a painfully obvious Twin Peaks adaptation, and D4: DARK DREAMS DON’T DIE was pure balls-to-the-walls insanity with a nice “New York detective” flavor.
Now we see Swery’s gift as a storyteller with THE MISSING. The game follows J.J. Macfield, a young woman finding her missing lover, Emily, after being bestowed the power of near-immortality. J.J. can be dismembered, set on fire, have her bones broken, and roll around as a sentient decapitated head, but she can resume to her natural state with the push of a button.
Keep in mind, these are the mechanics for a puzzle game. That’s Swery for you.
And that is what makes THE MISSING so hard to play: hearing J.J. scream raspily for help as her bones crack in half, stumps where her arms should be spill with blood. If she’s missing a leg, she’ll hop a few times before tripping, ultimately needing to crawl to her goal. There’s a darkly comical tone to this, simply by the fact that J.J. submits herself to this unbearable torture for the sake of solving puzzles and obtaining donuts, the collectibles of the game.
What keeps you going is the narrative, revealed through text messages from J.J.’s past, with her mother, Emily, and her friends. It’s really hard to talk about the story in any detail; the ending gives true form to the game as a whole and it would be a crime for me to spoil any part of it. Just know you’re in for Swery at the peak of his storytelling.
Not much else to say other than THE MISSING is one of the most conceptually sound platformers since INSIDE, beautifully and tactfully exploring the lengths we go for other people and ourselves.