Thrills, spills and QTEs

themepark

I watched The Hobbit the other day, and it was actually better than I’d expected, although that may have been down to my extended campaign of expectation lowering more than the film itself. It definitely felt a bit too long, especially any time the elves are on screen and… talking… very… slo…w…ly because they’re immortal and can speak as slowly as they like without worrying about wasting their lives when they could be doing something more interesting like slaying orcs or going on theme park rides.

And speaking of theme park rides (how convenient!), there’s a scene near the end of The Hobbit where Bilbo and Gandalf and the dwarves are enjoying some thrills-and-spills escapades – escaping from some goblins and their big-chinned king in a special effects bonanza, with dwarves and goblins flying from bridges which fall seconds later in a huge abyss while axes fly, acrobatics are performed and goblin heads become separated from bodies like a sudden flurry of dandelions – which goes on for a long time, and it made me have a thought, which was: this is boring.

Here’s a short snippet of it, possibly with an annoying advert to sit through as well:

This scene probably had millions of dollars spent on it, and was the work of god-knows-how-many people; storyboarders, artists, animators, CG-doers, camerapeople, etc, and it was certainly very flashy. The whole thing was most wonderfully choreographed and there were loads of bits where the dwarves did clever things like stab a goblin in the face one way, then reach over his shoulder and stab another goblin without looking before somersaulting backwards over a chasm and more stabbing blah bla

You get the idea. It’s a very typical modern chase/fight scene; the heroes are chased through an incredible set-piece, with enemies flying all over the place and hundreds of coincidental lucky escapes packed into a few frantic minutes of film, at the end of which they dust themselves off and come out with some pithy line or raise one eyebrow slightly as if acknowledging the ironic nature of the whole thing makes it OK.

There is no danger in these scenes, beyond mild peril and strictly choreographed CGI shenanigans. There is no risk to the characters, beyond having to recover slightly squashed hat. They’re theme park rides, with all the tension of a warm flannel and cucumber eye mask.

Here’s the hugely over-long wheel scene from Pirates of the Caribbean 2 or 3 (appropriately, I’ve forgotten and I can’t be bothered looking it up):

To be fair, these drama-lite sequences are most often found in what are essentially kids’ films – assorted Pirates of the Caribbeans, The Hobbit, Harry Potter – but as CG has become more prevalent, specials effects have got better and film budgets in general have got bigger then this silliness gets into films for all ages. This is a Bad Thing.

Consider older scenes like the dirt bike vs truck chase scene in Terminator 2, in which a young Edward Furlong rides his crappy little bike along a concrete flood control channel. There are no stupid backflips, or dwarves surfing wooden bridges down valleys, but it’s a great scene; there’s a sense of real danger, that he might not make it – you’re not sure what’s going to happen next.

Likewise, the epic scene in Children of Men where Theo runs through an old apartment block in search of Kee. There’s shit flying everywhere in this scene, and the whole thing is one long shot (it’s actually clever editing, but hey), but despite the judicious application of special effects it feels dangerous. Clive Owen, as Theo, stumbles and cowers his way through the building that’s being shot to pieces around him, and he’s a world away from the smug dramatic immunity of Jack Sparrow or Spiderman or Legolas.

This is a different, but equally good chase scene from Children of Men – contains SPOILERS, if you haven’t seen the film:

<not actually embedding this one because the thumbnail itself contains spoilers!>

I’m sure this scene was closely choreographed as well, but it comes across as chaotic and haphazard (in a good way!) nonetheless.

I think there’s a parallel between these kind of scenes and the semi-interactive scenes in games known as Quick Time Events, or QTEs. QTEs are segments where the player has watch a sequence while occasionally pressing a button to make something happen – dodging a bullet or throwing a punch, for example. They’re generally crap and annoying – “panned by journalists and players alike” – but they turn up in game after game.

Some modern games, like the new Tomb Raider, seem at points like they’re nothing but one long QTE. Some old games like Dragon’s Lair were actually nothing but QTEs; whole games were made where you did nothing but press individual buttons at the right time to make a character kiss the dragon, slay the princess etc etc, using the new-at-the-time LaserDisc format to maximise the amount of time you were idly watching stuff happen.

Tomb Raider

QTEs (and cut-scenes in general) are infamous for they way they remove all meaningful control from the player. The player-character often suddenly becomes either a super-skilled ninja or a fumbling incompetent, determined by the needs of the scene, and QTEs make this particularly grating because they force you to be complicit in whatever happens.

Developers seem to put these things in games because they’re meant to create drama and help the narrative unfold but what they actually do is remove any element of risk and kill any narrative stone-dead. In the same way as big CGI chase scenes, QTEs are tightly choreographed and there is only one way things are going to work out. If you make a mistake then you die and the thing starts again, usually making you listen to the same terrible dialogue over and over again; there’s no skill, no danger.

I fidget my way through QTEs, only half-listening, the same way I sat through most of the Hobbit. I’d like to see fewer QTEs and fewer pointless CGI-fest chase scenes. Give me danger! Give me uncertainty! Anything but more theme park rides…

CUBD: can you think in 3D?

I made a game! I’ve been working on it on and off for about six months, between work and freelance projects, and it’s finally ready enough to be released.

It’s called Cubed, and it’s probably best described as a 3D action-puzzle game – think Bejewelled meets Rubik’s Cube. You have to turn sections of the cube to make groups of three or more cubes of the same colour, then click them to remove them from play.

More cubes appear to fill the gaps over time, and the higher your score goes the faster the cubes appear – then when the main puzzle is full you’ve got five seconds to clear some space before it’s game over.

It’s always hard being objective about your own projects, but I’m pretty pleased with it overall. I find that when I’m testing it I often start actually playing it for real, which I think must be a good sign…

It’s built in Flash using the Away3D library, which is powerful but seriously lacking in documentation; I spent a good few nights trying to work out the difference between project() and unproject() and figuring out how transformation matrices worked, with very little support from the library. Once you do find the right function to call, though, it’s pretty easy to set up cameras, light and textures.

I’m in the process of porting it to iOS, which has mostly been fine – the actual process of exporting it for iOS (after struggling through Apple’s ridiculous Developer Program nonsense) is pretty straightforward. What caused me several late nights, though, was the change from mouse events to touch events.

I don’t know if it’s an artefact of Air for iOS, or Away3D, or the specific interactions I was trying to create – or a combination of all of the above – but I encountered a really frustrating bug. I could touch and drag and lift, and that all worked fine, but when I next touched the screen the MOUSE_DOWN event registered at the place the previous MOUSE_UP event triggered.

This was such a weird bug that it took me a while to realise what was actually happening, and then even longer to try and work a way round it. I ended up dumping MOUSE_DOWN events altogether, and substituting MOUSE_OVER instead – when the user touches the screen the “cursor” jumps to that spot, triggering the event.

This worked fine until I installed the Air 3.5 Beta SDK, which broke MOUSE_LEAVE and MOUSE_UP events, and gave me another sleepless night until I realised the SDK was the problem and went back to 3.2. I’m probably missing out on exciting new functionality, but it just wasn’t worth the hassle of having core functionality broken!

UI-wise, I’ve tried to keep everything really stripped back and simple, focusing on interesting interactions rather than complex gameplay mechanics. One big challenge was working out the user’s intention when turning segments of the cube: there are three possible interactions for any cube, turning in X, Y, or Z, and since input devices only function in 2D I have to set rules about what happens when you move the mouse a certain way.

The game projects your movements into 3D space and tries to guess which way you’re trying to spin the cube. This is guesswork, ultimately, but I think the results are generally pretty consistent, and when I’ve watched people play Cubed they pick it up quickly. In general, the iOS version is even better at this, because it removes the mediation of having to interact with the mouse. There’s something really nice and tactile that makes playing on a touchscreen more immediate and more satisfying.

You can get CUBD for iOS here and the game has its own site here. Enjoy!

FTL: a voyage of self-discovery and lasers. In space.

Shields are down. Weapons are down. Engines damaged, sensors wrecked, and cockpit a blazing inferno, my poor little ship is getting pummelled. The enemy ship is hanging out there in space, haughtily superior, all guns and drones and shiny shields.

My crew dash from compartment to compartment, fighting fires and repairing systems frantically, trying to wring enough power out of the ship for one last shot. Maxim tries frantically fixes the weapons console before asphyxiating – I’d previously vented the atmosphere out of the room in a desperate effort to repel some boarders. Notch, the only one of my original crew left, dies in a fire in the engine room. Left on his own, Geryk can do little except watch as my once mighty ship is taken apart piece by piece. He stays at the helm, a look of grim determination on his face, until a well-placed missile splits my cruiser apart in a fiery blaze…

FTL isn’t a game – it’s an 8-bit arena where battles are fought, victories are snatched and heroes are made. Superficially, of course, it’s a top-down, low budget indie spaceship roguelike, with only a few screens to its name. But take the £6.99 plunge and look beyond the simple graphics and interface and you’ll find a game with depth, replayability and more epic story potential than any AAA title.

There’s virtually no official story in FTL, but that just means that all the drama happens in the gameplay. The most memorable stories aren’t cutscenes or mo-capped dialogue sequences, they’re the ones where you scrape through a whole sector with one hull point remaining, or the battle where you win against all the odds, and limp, crew decimated, ship on fire, to the next jump – only to come face to face with yet another powerful enemy. Rock, Paper, Shotgun have run a whole series of diary-style entries about the dramas (and inevitable fiery deaths), so it must be good.

The interface is pretty stripped-back too, but hides surprisingly complex gameplay. Your ship is a flying balancing act, with a central pool of power that you can redirect towards shields, or weapons, or other equally important subsystems. A good engagement means shuffling power from system to system based on your enemy’s capabilities, focusing on your target’s weakpoints and moving crew to where they’re needed most. I like to think it also means shouting at the screen, demanding more power from the engine room, but your mileage may vary.

You can muddle through the earlier levels without too much micromanagement (or shouting), but when you reach the fabled Sector 7 your ship needs to be upgraded and organised to stand a chance – and even then, it’s surprisingly easy to bump into a single enemy who can lay waste to your best plans.

When you do die – and you will die – death is permanent, and you have to start from scratch again. It’s devastating to lose a ship and crew you’ve become attached to, but hey, there’s a whole new universe to explore every time. As a randomly generated world, there’s always a chance of encountering some cannoned-up flying fortress that kills you on your second jump – and combat can sometimes feel a bit pot-luck like that – but the payoff is a new and exciting journey every time, where you have no idea what’s around the next nebula.

If you can’t tell, I really, really like this game. I’d never have played it were it not for a chance recommendation from a friend, and I’m very glad I did. And for all its charm, depth, and ability to make me write about spaceships like a teenage Trekkie who’s just discovered slash fiction, it’s only £6. Get it!

Reviewed: Darksiders 2

They say that in games only two things are certain: death and sloppy console ports – which makes Darksiders 2 something of a karmic inevitability.

What was a surprise, however, was that despite my avowed hatred of half-baked console ports, the stupid name and even the gamepad-optimised interface, I actually quite like it. Even the snoozeworthy story isn’t too offensive, and strong voice acting keeps the otherwise forgettable cutscenes watchable.

You play apocalyptic scythe-wrangler Death, on a quest to clear his brother’s name and save the world – predictably, this involves lots of jumping, stabbing, being sarcastic and more fetch quests than you can shake a stick at.

The best bit by far is the combat. It’s a whirling, frenetic experience, and it’s simple to button-bash Death into all kinds of flashy combos and execution moves, making him snip the heads off skeletons and mutant cave things with great aplomb. The casual combat is great fun, but boss battles are more hit-and-miss; while there are a couple of memorable fights against giant enemies, just as many are spoilt by gimmicky weak spots and infuriating controls.

Outside combat, Darksiders is a mix of puzzle-solving platforming and a free-roaming world that you can explore to hoover up the hundred varieties of collectible coins, pages and magic stones that are scattered around. Death has a nice line in climbing and jumping, but the platforming feels a bit simplistic; even the more complicated puzzles are just extended sequences of simple jumps and climbs, and the jumping and collecting and fetching soon start to feel like padding that stretches out what’s already a too-big game.

As you progress you’ll earn more loot, more combat moves and a few unlockable abilities. These let you solve more puzzles but don’t really add much to the gameplay, and occasionally shabby movement controls combined with a lack of signposting means that it’s frustratingly easy to spend ages trying to crack a puzzle that’s actually impossible until later in the game.

That’s the thing about Darksiders: despite the obvious graphic and audio polish it feels strangely unfinished. At launch, players had to contend with minimal graphics settings and no keyboard remapping, and even now after several patches there are still problems: it’s easy to get thoroughly stuck on various pointy bits of the scenery; menus are clunky; things in the shop are sometimes labelled $assetName; mouse sensitivity fluctuates wildly between different menus.

Thankfully the combat is satisfying enough that even despite these niggles I kept playing, looking for one more fight before bed. So is it worth it? Well, if you like slightly generic console-style fun and quantity over quality, then go nuts. But if you’re looking for something that’s original and consistently good, rather than flashes of fun amidst the mundane, I’d go elsewhere.

Games and sci-fi: here’s what you could have had…

Games do a lot of things well: running, jumping, shooting stuff – but the genre’s Achilles heel has always been story telling. Most games have stories that sound like they were scribbled down on the back of a fag packet, and even the few that are celebrated for their narratives rarely rise above the level of bargain-bin fiction.

A good story is something to be celebrated, but with the bar set so low gamers and up holding up as good storytelling anything that’s even vaguely above par. One of those celebrated games is Mass Effect 3, an action-RPG space opera that tells a story of civilisation-ending cosmic horrors, titanic fleet battles and ethical quandaries on alien worlds.

It sounds pretty epic, in theory. But gameplay-wise, it sticks pretty closely to the tried and tested ME formula of walking, talking, shooting and shopping your way around the universe. Your mission is to gather a plucky band of ragtag adventurers to defend Earth and see off the cosmic horror that’s coming to eat everyone. You are all that stands between galactic civilisation and utter destruction. Or, you know, whatever. It’s not exactly space Shakespeare.

There’s space and shiny stuff and aliens with funny foreheads, but I can’t help but feel there’s a real lack of imagination in Mass Effect’s setting. The best of sci-fi tells a great story but also challenges you, and the joy of the genre is that you’re not constrained by the real world. When you can invent tales of virtual super-dimensional hermaphrodites salsa-dancing in a black hole (probably) why settle for your average mundane story but IN SPACE?

In ME, the aliens speak English, everything happens at the usual pace, you spend half the game collecting credits to buy new guns from a shop, and so on and so on; AIs are banned, guns still go bang and people seem to communicate via shiny holographic arm-sleeve cum digital watches.

Where’s the inventiveness? Where’s the interesting technology, beyond “shields” and “sensors”? Where are the alien aliens, rather than ones that are a slightly funny shape or have a deep voice or an eastern European accent? Mass Effect settles for a proud warrior race, a sneaky fast-talking race, some guys with big teeth, an ancient race who have disappeared, leaving behind nothing but a smattering of mysterious technology… It’s pretty standard sci-fi tropes all round.

I would love to see more challenging sci-fi games. So by way of example, here’s a few sci-fi settings that I think kick the crap out of Mass Effect’s mass-market Saturday afternoon telly soap story.

 

The Culture novels by Iain M Banks.

This series really is epic. The setting is a galaxy-spanning culture run by benevolent (we hope) and god-like (with all the capriciousness that implies) AIs; a post-scarcity, post-money, society where humans are left with little to do but twiddle their thumbs and try to retain a totally-unjustified sense of self-importance.

The physical world is just another inconvenience: gender is nothing but a phase, sexuality is basically “cool, whatever”, when you’ve lived as long as you like you can upload yourself and dilly dally around the cosmos or hang out in a psychedelic virtual world for as long as you like.

One book of the series is mostly dialogue between the AIs controlling kilometres-long ships. Another is about the struggle to escape a virtual reality hell created by fundamentalist societies to punish the dead. There sheer variety in the series means there’s some variation in quality (Look to Windward is sheer poetry; Matter is interesting but a bit over-long) but they’re all far more paced and nuanced than Mass Effect.

The first novel is Consider Phlebas, which drops you right in to the setting without armbands. The Player of Games is the second, and eases you in a little more. Either is well worth a read.

 

The Uplift series by David Brin.

The Uplift series follows the bewildered human race as we stumble, blinking, into a galaxy-spanning alien civilisation that’s been doing its thing for billions of years already. “Uplift” refers to the cyclical process of sentient species raising other species to sentience, creating a chain of Client and Patron races, so the idea of a “wolfling” species who evolved independently causes trouble – a lot of it.

There’s a bewildering range of aliens, from bipedal tiger-like empaths to sentient crabs with five mouths and gestalt beings made of towers of waxy rings. Each species is described with gorgeous detail about their lives and ways of seeing the world, and Brin does an incredible job of creating a weird and wonderful - and alien - world in which humans are just one insignificant part.

The technology can feel a little dated after reading Banks’ all-powerful AIs with their ability to read (and write) every bit of data in your brain from halfway across the solar system, but it’s still a fantastic setting.

The first book is a nice introduction to the universe, then it really kicks off with the loosely related Uplift War series, building to a galaxy-shattering climax that pushes the cast to breaking point. Just a few of the high points are a ship crewed mostly by uplifted dolphins and a sentient chimp who patrols a dimension made entirely of ideas. It all sounds a little bit Mighty Boosh when you put it like that, but then that’s the point of sci-fi, I suppose.

 

Blindsight by Peter Watts:

A first-contact tale that depicts the most alien aliens I’ve ever read – I won’t say too much because it’d spoil the plot, but the sheer mind-fucking weirdness of it all is equalled only by the amazement when you realise that everything he’s saying makes sense, and you start to wonder just how much we’re the odd-ones-out…

The cast of damaged, modified and just plain weird characters are fascinating – Watts takes characters with multiple personality syndrome and hemispherical lobotomies and turns their problems into gifts, of a sort.

It’s uncompromising in its vision and language, and it’s probably not for everyone, but I think that games (to get back to my original point) could do with a dose of Watts’ spirit of adventure and willingness to do something that challenges the audience.

 

Any and all of these books are well worth a read, especially if you’re bored of the tyranny of games written for mainstream audiences who spit their dummies out whenever there’s an ending they deem unworthy. I’ve never heard of an author changing an ending because the readership got all sulky, and frankly I think that’s a good thing.

Why serious games and non-gamers don’t mix.

Now, I’ve got nothing against people who don’t play games. I mean, some of my best friends don’t play games. But people who don’t play games shouldn’t be put in charge of making games.

I’m talking specifically about “serious” games here, although I’d imagine the same goes for other kinds too; this post is inspired by a recent long, bad and annoying experience making games for a large learning website, and I wanted to try and sum up my feelings about the project and what I’d learned along the way.

Serious games have “a point”, which is to say they have some information they would like you to take away into the real world. They’re often produced for schools or educational sites, or to support things like charity or awareness-raising campaigns. And they’re generally shite.

Now, I don’t have a problem with serious games per se, but the vast majority have too much serious and not enough game. I firmly believe that games should be fun, first and foremost. When you’re making a game, fun should be prioritised over learning, educational content, quizzes, badges, social play gubbins or everything and anything else the client would like to bolt on.

Obviously the aim is to make something that’s genuinely useful and educational as well as being ridiculously good fun, but the sweet spot where fun and suitable subject matter meet is really pretty small – and unless your client “gets” games then you’re going to be pulling in different directions, which makes hitting that target virtually impossible. The upshot of this is that you often end up having to choose between fun and serious, either focusing on gameplay or pushing the serious content to the front.

If a game is fun but only gets across half your message, then that’s pretty good going. People will play the game and enjoy it, leaving positive impressions and happy memories – and at least some of your serious information.

But if a game isn’t fun then people won’t play it, regardless of how well it conveys your message or teaches your content. And players-not-playing is a best-case scenario; at worst, you’ll actually turn people off a subject they might have been interested in before they even really had a chance to get to grips with it.

Unfortunately, if your clients don’t get games, then they probably won’t see it that way. To a non-gaming client, a game is nothing more than a vehicle for delivering information – essentially a web page that moves around and makes noises – and that lack of understanding means serious content gets prioritised over fun or playability.

Modern gamers enjoy a multi-billion-pound industry dedicated to making stuff that is fun – they can afford to be picky. If you think they’ll play your game that’s kind-of-a-bit-fun when they could be playing the new super-fun Gears of Duty 17 you’re sadly mistaken.

The problem for me is that people who don’t play games often don’t get games. They don’t understand the flow of games; the joy of discovery and what makes them fun; the playfulness of a well-crafted game mechanic and the learning that can come from play rather than reading stuff in a book. They don’t get the ebb and flow of risk and reward or the satisfaction of a perfectly-timed recovery or counterstrike.

Not all non-gamers are like this, obviously. There are plenty who still have an appreciation of the art of game design, or are open-minded enough to accept that there might be things they don’t understand about games. These people are great to work with.

But these lovely people seem few and far between. The digital industry is dominated by the worst kind of non-gamers – people who simply don’t seem to care about gameplay, or understand when a mechanic doesn’t work, and who just want to shoehorn facts in wherever possible because otherwise the player can’t possibly be learning anything. And they’re often the ones in charge.

You can see the effect of this firsthand – just play virtually any e-learning game, because the vast majority are shite. They’re boring, and there’s often little to no actual gameplay; most should be classed as “activities” or “quizzes” rather than games. They take some educational content and digitise it, wrapping facts up in something that looks like a game but really, really isn’t.

When there is gameplay, it’s either perfunctory or completely split from the learning – often in a play a bit, learn a bit, play a bit kind of structure where you finish a level of play and then have to complete a quiz before you can progress.

These things are the bastard offspring of badly made Flash games and those deadly-dull teachers whose lessons seemed to stretch on forever. These “games” aren’t fun or educational for a lot of reasons (usually because no-one can be bothered to play past the first level) and the only realistic response to the stupid inter-level quizzes is listlessly clicking at random until you get the right answer.

Throwing more serious content into a broken game will not make players learn more – if anything, you’ll just turn them off even quicker.

These kind of non-fun time-wasters get made over and over again – but we wanted to do something different. We wanted to make games that are fun, where the player can learn by playing, rather than by alternating play and learning.

Gamers know that when you’re playing a game you are learning, while not necessarily “being educated” in the classical sense  – and that kind of learning can be powerful stuff. Why show someone a picture of a process in a book when you could use a game to bring that process to life, let people experiment, muck around, mess up and actually, literally, play with it?

Games can’t replace lessons and teachers – but they can complement each other. Games can spark interest in subjects and help bring subjects to life. For example, an intelligent game where the player uses gravity and momentum to battle foes could well inspire a child to ask “But why do things fall down? Why do things move in a particular way?”

A well-crafted complementary lesson could take that spark of interest and help it grow, perhaps even teaching the theory in such a way that players can take their new knowledge back into the game to improve their scores.

Sadly, making games like this is a difficult process, and prone to being derailed by non-gaming people who don’t see how anyone could learn from a game that doesn’t have a quiz in it. Games get treated as lesson-replacement activities, crammed full of “educational” material and thrown out into the cruel world to fend for themselves.

The lesson I’ve learned is that it’s best not to try to make a game that teaches through gameplay unless you’re sure everyone’s on the same page. Without buy-in and understanding from the client you’ll end up with an awkward halfway house of a game that pleases no-one; not fun enough for kids and not enough educational content to stand up in class alongside videos and textbooks.

There’s a reason most e-learning games are crap. The games industry is mature enough to move forward and start making games like this – but I don’t think the public has got the message yet, and until everyone client (and agency) side is on board then making decent serious games will be very, very difficult.

Prison Architect seems controversial – but why?

You’d think after the years of games about murder, warfare, genocide, alien invasion and all that jazz that a game about prisons could slip by without comment, but no.

A preview of Prison Architect, a sim-management game where you have to design and maintain a prison, drew all kind of interesting comments like:

“I’m honestly shocked at the pass this game is getting from the press. […] I don’t see much of difference between making this game and making Theme Auschwitz.”

i saw dasein on RPS

Um. Really?

Many modern games are violence-filled, narrow-minded murder simulators in which you gun down hundreds of enemies and innocents alike in the course of a level – so what makes a game about a prison so controversial?

Maybe it depends on your attitude to prisons: are they places where evil people should go to die, or are they places where people who are a danger to themselves and others be kept while they’re rehabilitated? Do people who’ve broken the law deserve a second chance?

Should your virtual prison be a hellhole where the strong prey on the weak, or a place where even the most depraved child molester can feel safe?

Most modern games don’t give you that kind of moral choice. GTA has a big, open world where you can just about choose who to work for, but there’s no moral judgement about what goes on – you can shag a prostitute in a dingy alley then beat her to death with a bat and steal her money and the game passes no judgement.

Mass Effect lets you make decisions about what to say to who, but the far-flung nature of the setting means that those decisions only really matter in the game; there’s nothing to make you think about how what you did might affect other people in the real world.

FPS games are even worse; you’re generally a one-man killing machine scything down hordes of Germans, Japanese, Russians or whatever flavour of generic Arabic-looking “insurgents” are the enemy du-jour with nary a thought for the consequences of your actions.

You’re literally only following orders, a theme that’s personified as much in the endless unimaginative linear corridors and set-pieces as it is when your cipher character receives his next objective via video comlink from four-star General Brasstacks McShouty. You shoot people because that’s what you’re there for; stopping to think will only get you killed.

Maybe modern shooters would be better if you had to think about whether cluster-bombing a small town is a good thing, but it seems like a lot of people have a blind spot for war when it comes to unacceptable behaviour. If the too-close-to-home setting and theme of Prison Architect makes you stop and think about what you’re doing – and what that would mean in the real world – then great.

The story – the why – of games is very easily pushed out by gameplay. When you’re shooting virtual insurgents in the wilds of Afghanistan it’s easy to lose sight of why you’re even there in the first place; much like in real life, I‘d imagine.

I’m all in favour of games that actually make you think about things, or push you out of your comfort zone, as long as they’re still fun. Games have potential to be so much more than the facile, thoughtless sofa-bound entertainment that modern games so often are.

It’s encouraging that Introversion, the small indie dev behind others games like DefCon, have form for making stylistic, thought-provoking games about difficult subjects. If Prison Architect can make people think again about a serious subject like prisons while still being fun then I’m all for it.

Simulation sickness in the crosshairs

Here’s an interesting factlet: the humble crosshair, mostly used to aid you in pointing guns at stuff, is also useful for preventing motion sickness. This may be old news for anyone who actually suffers from simulation sickness when playing games, but I stumbled across it while reading about Mirror’s Edge on Wikipedia, and thought it was an elegant solution to a problem.

Simulation sickness is caused by the dissonance between the input from your eyes and your inner ear. The increasingly realistic virtual environments of games, especially first-person shooters, fool your eyes into thinking that you’re actually moving, but your inner ear stubbornly insists – correctly – that you’re actually sitting still. The mismatch between the two signals plays all kinds of havoc in your brain, although some people are more susceptible than others.

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Reviewed – Alan Wake PC

Alan Wake is an intriguing game, in more ways than one. It tells the story of a writer fighting for his sanity against a mysterious ancient darkness. The PC version almost never saw the light of day either – after all that time in development limbo has it survived intact, or is it just another cheap console port? Here’s what I think…

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What makes a game scary, and why does it matter?

Picture the scene: you’re creeping through a tight, dark tunnel (probably a sewer of some kind). There’s something down here with you: you can hear it, growling, somewhere close by. You inch forward, round another corner – but there’s nothing there. You breathe a sigh of relief and turn, only to find a drooling pointy-toothed demon thing about to do you some serious misdeed.

Do you:

  1. Shit the bed and run.
  2. Alt + F4 and go to bed.
  3. Dispense with the pleasantries and shoot the crap out of it with your newly upgraded DemonSlayer 4000 assault rifle.

Now in most games, the obvious answer is likely to be 3. Because that’s how most games work – even the scary ones. If you have a problem, then guns are usually the solution. Games like Fear F.E.A.R F3AR are excellent examples of this school of thought. There’s loads of creeping round dinghy warehouses and a lot of jumpy moments when a creepy little girl pops out and eats your brains or whatever – but is that really scary?

More (frankly terrifying) musings after the jump.

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