Little Touches

The snap and pop of combat in Legend of Zelda: The Wind Waker

Smart-bomb aftertouch in Mushihimesama Futari

Hero's sword glinting in the sun in Dragon Quest VIII

After playing through the demo of Vanquish a few times I felt quite ready to start the game proper on Hard mode. I was quite wrong. The first boss, the boss from the demo, readily demolished me time after time. Over twenty times, in fact. This was in the first quarter of an hour of game time. Shamefully, but with a strong desire to actually see the rest of the game I had just bought, I quit to the title menu and lowered the difficulty to Normal, vowing to return to Hard mode (not to mention God Hard mode) later, after I had learned how the game worked. 7 hours later the credits were rolling, the grin had not left my face.

Last night I began Vanquish again, notching it up to Hard mode. This time on the first boss, while still no walk-over, I didn't lose a life. Its laser did not touch me. Now I was at the opposite side of the arena slow-motion firing at its limb joints while its heat-beam was directed at a position I had been at mere milliseconds before. He fell much quicker this time. It is a satisfying feeling, that of actually becoming better at a game, not merely using power-ups or leveling to overcome its trials. The higher difficulties are about using the games' minimal skill-set to navigate the level more elegantly, to punish the enemies more swiftly and with infinitely more style. Level design is elegantly post-Gears. It has a satisfying tightness to it which means that each bite-size stage, once dispensed with, feels like a scoring a Tetris. The assault up the face of the monstrous concrete elevation feels like Gears' Mansion staircase exploded in just about every direction.

Vanquish is about moments: being sat in cover as an army of enemy robots fire upon you from across a makeshift battlefield, and plotting your boost trajectory from one enemy to the next, flipping behind cover to launch a slow motion rocket at a lumbering mini-boss, switching weapons without missing a beat to pummel it while it is weak. Watching hundreds of explosives and their smoke-arcs crossing the screen reminded me of Bangai-O. And that's it: Vanquish is a game I imagine Treasure might have made, which happens to be the highest compliment I can give any game. Vanquish is sharp. It is modern cover-shooter and old-fashioned score attack. It is one moment. The moment you decide to do what needs to be done. It feels almost breathless, and is a moment that happens over and over again.

Currently playing: King's Field IV.

number108 tim rogers

@

@TomorrowsEnd King's Field IV is "Demon's Souls underwater".

1 hour ago Favorite Retweet Reply

Over the past couple of evenings I've been playing Killzone 2. And, despite the juvenile title (I can't imagine having to ask for the game out-loud, in a shop or something), I'm enjoying my time with it. I know nothing of the first game, nothing of the story, or the characters, and I don't actually think it's important. 'Move-from-here-to-here-and-shoot-everything-with-red-eyes-before-they-shoot-you' is all you need to know. It's simply a chunky shooter (That should be a genre).

One of the ways the developers tried to set the game apart from other First-Person Shooters was with the weight of the character. And it's immediately noticeable; the movement feels like that of a huge meathead with a tonne of armour on. It's nice. It feels different, and it gives you a satisfying presence in the world.

The cover system is interesting and Gears-like, and while it makes little sense (if I can see over the obstacle whilst supposedly in cover, doesn't that leave my poor meaty-head dangerously exposed?), it feels nice to utilise. The tight, claustrophobic level-design is built around its use yet, on the default difficulty level, its not strictly necessary.

I think I'm going to start again from the beginning. Play it on a higher difficulty. See what's what.

Since recently finishing Final Fantasy XIII, I've had the urge to finally tackle Final Fantasy Tactics: The War of the Lions for the PSP. It has been a game I've been a little wary of since its PSP release in 2007. Its density and complexity at once repel and draw me in; the promise of its Shakespearean plot clashing with its notorious difficulty. Trying the game in the past led only to taking up something a little smoother like Disgaea instead, replacing Tactics on the shelf with the understanding to try again on one of those rainy days that never comes. I was afraid of when the game was going to bite.

I try to think back to 3 years ago. Am I more intelligent than I was then? That's a question. Am I a different person now? My sensibilities have changed, definitely. And I suppose it's this where this sudden feeling comes from. A feeling of not wanting, anymore, to try a little everything and end up being left with nothing, but thoroughly experiencing only the best and wholly inhabiting it as I do. Be it games, films, novels, anything.

Unfortunately, being that my PSP is currently 1500 miles away on a small Greek island, this feeling will have to be sustained until late August. To do so I am replaying another Yasumi Matsuno's game in the so-called Ivalice Alliance, Final Fantasy XII. My initial uncompleted save-file, dating from the European release, is over 50 hours long. Playing through the first 5 hours again this week I realise I barely remember any of the story events. The hospital dream sequence, the bare-knuckle prison brawl; each came as if by surprise. This delights me no-end, it means experiencing the story anew, with fresh eyes. I'm also relieved that the game still has the power to excite me on the second play-through: the feeling of the (almost) wide-open expanses, the intricacies of the gambit system/license board, the characters (Balthier's entrance!). Separated from any pressure, I can now allow the story to breathe, allow myself to relax in to the experience and enjoy the flow. When August comes (or the intriguing September release of War of the Lions on the iPod touch) I shall be suitably versed to tackle the epic tale of a Kingdom divided.

Final Fantasy's reception is often that of extremes. You have the people who love it over here, and the people who hate it over there. More vocal, perhaps, than both of those groups are the people who love to hate it and those that hate themselves for loving it. And they're everywhere.

Despite the importance of a sense of 'world' in all Final Fantasy games, the way they present themselves couldn't be more different. Here we are with Final Fantasy XIII and it, too, carries the weight of expectation which has surrounded the release of every Final Fantasy since VII; XIII's unique controversy is that the developers have taken a knife to almost everything recognisable of Final Fantasy in the classic sense, leaving a streamlined, minimalist adventure heavily indebted, so say the creators, to western games. Modern Warfare inparticular. This new approach is particurlarly evident in the game-world itself. The events of XIII take place on the planet of Pulse and its satellite, Cocoon. The initial 25 hours of game-time take place in Cocoon, the entirety of which is spent running a linear path. Narratively, this makes sense, being that you are a band of escapees deemed necessary of exile by the government. Therefore, you are on the run. There are no towns, no world map, nowhere to hide. There is no-place to stop and drink in the atmosphere, you are constantly moving forward. As such, you never get to feel the sense of ownership of the world that comes, in the previous games in the series, from traversing the game-world, slowly becoming stronger, and taking the game (and often, the narrative) at your own pace. In XIII, you feel on the clock. No doubt about it, Final Fantasy XIII is a game about running.

By the time I reached Pulse, I felt exhausted. Luckily, Pulse is the polar-opposite to your previous experiences. Whereas Cocoon was as set of intricate pathways through a stunningly detailed science fiction world of hard-plastic and metal, Pulse is organic, green, beautiful. A literal breath of fresh air. Your first steps open into a vast plain, alive with skulking creatures the size of houses, the sun beating down through the bluest of skies. The contrast couldn't be more explicit. Pulse allows you to slow right down and re-evaluate the preceding events, it gives you the open-world to make your own, finally.

It would have been interesting to let visions of Pulse be informed entirely by the game itself. Unfortunately, pre-release information tended to focus on Pulse, almost as an apology, or at least an explanation, for the games' initial linearity (an advert for the game had Leona Lewis dabbling about in Pulse, an experience divorced entirely from the previous 30 hours of the game, even). This had the unfortunate effect of ruining part of the games message; that of exposing government propaganda and disinformation. Throughout the game our only impressions of Pulse are devastating, that it is "a hell on Earth" and that we are to fear our inevitable deportation. The government of Cocoon plants seeds of false-truths within the populace which infects the people with a violent mistrust of anything Pulse-related (as seen when Snow and Hope endeavour to escape PalumPolum and are angrily besieged) and, in-turn, keeps the people in check. Our knowledge of Pulse from outside the game's world skew the government's actions and actually undermine their propaganda; we know that Pulse is not a fiery hell on Earth because we've already seen it in the adverts on television and the internet. It leads to a strange disconnect which actually could have been a postmodern masterstroke if only it was in any way intended and capitalised upon.

The consensus as to why XIII is disliked is that it is linear. That it is empty. That there is nothing to do in the world. I understand this. I do. On the contrary, though, its minimalist philosophy appeals to me on a personal level; I don't like stuff, I dislike clutter. Final Fantasy XIII cleared the deck, wiped away everything superfluous. It is stark. It is minimalist. It is ambient gaming. Gaming for Airports. I used to put the game on and do other things, read books, tidy the house. It conforms to Brian Peter George St. John le Baptiste de la Salle Eno's (woah, Wikipedia) concept of ambient music. I wanted the games' atmosphere to fill the space I inhabited. But Masashi Hamauza's delicate score possessed incredible depths, depths I didn't fully appreciate until listening to the soundtrack through headphones. I do this a lot, these days. Now, the game is a memory. A journey I once took. I listen to a carefully considered selection of its soundtrack to remind myself while running on the treadmill. The view of the trees and the railway bridge out of the gym window gradually giving way as the light outside darkens and all I can see are the reflections of myself and others, all running. For some reason or other.

Little Touches

Scoring a perfectly timed reload in Gears of War.

The subtle foot-taps as you run along a crane-arm in Canabalt.

The real-time clock on the dashboard in Gran Turismo PSP.

Late at night I often find myself digging out my GameCube and loading up Twilight Princess, or if that is too much of a stretch I plug my GameCube controller into the Wii and play it that way. I find it's like calling up an old friend I haven't seen in a while who always has a story to tell.

I find Link at the crossed waterways above Lake Hylia, surrounded by the crashing sounds of the bloated river and the delicate chiming of insects. It is possibly my favourite location in the game. There are options here; a sedate spot of fishing, a thrilling white-water boatride to the lake itself, or a pathway to the open field and the continuation of the adventure. How ever many times I load the game I never save over it. The date reads 27/01/2007. The day I thought I was finished with the game.

Due to the release of the Wii in early December, the GameCube version was delayed a couple of weeks. My first play-through of the game was therefore on the Wii. It lasted thirty hours, the game unfinished. I spent those thirty hours pining for the GameCube's chunky controller. When the GameCube version was released, I spent another thirty hours retreading the same environments (albeit, mirrored), fighting the same battles, and 're-solving' the same puzzles. Yet, I enjoyed it far more. Whether it was due to the pact I made that Twilight Princess would be the last GameCube game I would play (Wind Waker being the very first) before packing the old fellow up for good. Maybe it was just the infinitely more comfortable GameCube controller. Perhaps it was simply the vague feeling that this was how it was meant to be.

Do you ever feel a strange sadness as dusk falls?

An unshakeable air of sadness permeates the game. The introductory scene sees Link and his stable-mate colleague, Rusl, resting beside a three-tiered watering hole near Ordon Village as the sunlight is fading. The conversation holds a melancholy tone. It seems to delicately invoke the Japanese idea of 'Mono no aware', the sadness of things passing. Rusl explains to Link how the hour of twilight allows the real world to intersect with the spirit world and that the regrets of the dead can be felt by those still living. It's only a short scene, but it colours the entire adventure. Straight away the game feels different, more mature, more grown-up. It has concerns of work, toil, longing and regret.

Although, if pushed, I would have always said that the Wind Waker was my favourite of the two games, it's Twilight Princess which lingers in my mind even now. Wind Waker, for all its charm, doesn't really lend itself to projection. Link is a happy-go-lucky child with the world at his feet and adventure in his heart. Twilight Princess' Link is a young adult who, although well-liked, lives alone, away from the other villagers. In a tree-house at that. He is seemingly troubled. His life is the not the angsty catalyst of a thousand adventures or even the child-like wonder of a world unexplored. It is more a quiet life of order and mundanity. Taking pleasure in the little things. Many have said that Twilight Princess plays like a remake of Ocarina of Time with varying mechanics. A wolf in sheep's clothes, perhaps. However, ever so slowly the differences become apparent. The main important difference being that of the character of Link himself. Shigeru Miyamoto's, Ocarina of Time's, Link is a special boy, a boy with a destiny to be fulfilled. Eiji Aonuma's, Twilight Princess', Link is an ordinary young man, likable, but nothing special. Miyamoto's Link is born into adventure. Aonuma's Link falls into it. As a favour. To someone else. He is asked to deliver a sword to Hyrule town which he uses as the only thing available to defend himself when he is attacked by a horde of goblins. He becomes hero of time by accident.

It turns out Twilight Princess is not really a game about good versus evil. It's about identity, a sense of place and the importance of belonging. Your ultimate goal is to stop the fusion of Hyrule and the Twilight Realm. As such, it's the details that are important: the picture of Epona hanging above Link's bed, the score-lines in the turf the ranch gate has carved over many years of toil, and the instantly recognisable music of Lake Hyrule fading back in as you remove the Iron boots at the entrance to the lake temple on the lakebed and slowly surface. When you finally get to take on Ganondorf it's not in a gigantic Gothic hall, not an abstract temple designed only to house him, it isn't somewhere you've never seen before. It's right there in the middle of Hyrule field. A one-on-one battle for the fate of the very world you are stood in. The trees. The river. The grass. The rocks.

And, for me, it's a battle for running through town before the shops close after a day of working in a job you hate, hoping they still have the GameCube version in stock. The welcoming feel of the GameCube controller and the orange glow of a space heater from playing the game in the dead of winter, two o'clock in the morning and the sound of the wind in the trees outside.

So, Demon's Souls. Demon's Souls. Demon's Souls. Coming out of nowhere to grace gamers' best of year lists despite being released in the US only a couple of months ago and still with no sign of a European release.

You are dumped in the fallen Kingdom of Boletaria, a once powerful city driven to ruin by a power-mad King. Tasked with the retrieval of the Kingdom from the rule of some almighty demons, you set out into hell. It is made clear you are only the next in a long-line of would-be saviours. Previous combatants lay all around the Nexus, dead or dying.

The sense of desperation is palpable.

The atmosphere is relentless, cloying. The first castle feels how you would imagine a medieval castle to feel. It's weighty and imposing. Exactly as it would be. It is a curious feeling in a videogame; realising the environments are not built around you. That the castle is designed to keep you out, to disorient you. It is a functional building. The hallways are labyrinthine, barely the width of a human; they are built for defense, not attack. This makes advancing an effort. You have to think about combat, lure enemies into the relative open to create whatever advantage you can, however small. Becoming surrounded is incredibly dangerous. You will die often. But that is okay. The game expects it, is designed around it, even. One of the central mechanics of the game is the difference between being a 'body' and being a 'soul'. Once you die in a level you return as a 'soul'. As a soul you have slightly less health but your attack power is increased. The currency of the game is souls, received after every kill. Souls can be traded for new weapons and equipment or used to level-up personal attributes. As such, they are important to progress. The counter is right there on the screen. The number growing and growing as you advance deeper.

Therein lies the dread.

Each time you die you leave a bloodstain in the level, marking the spot where you were slain. And with it, every soul you have collected so far. To retrieve the souls, you must return to the same spot and touch your bloodstain. Dying again before reaching the spot means the souls are gone for good. The game becomes about hedging your bets, gambling upon how far you can make it into a stage before losing your nerve and returning to cash in your collected souls, knowing that the next time you will be stronger, better prepared, a little braver even.

Shadows dancing in torchlight, hay scattered about the floor. Hidden alleys simply obscured by the angle of a wall. It is an incredible analogue to the real-world. You can almost touch it, smell it, feel it.

For the past week or so, I have been reading Alan Weisman's The World Without Us, a speculative essay concerning the disappearance of human beings from the planet and the routes nature will take to re-establish itself as the primary influence on the topography of the Earth. Weisman suggests that, sooner than we could imagine, the Earth would revert to an entirely green landscape, the immense infrastructure of our cities being undermined and overrun by a combination of water, weather, plant-life and animals. The only thing to betray our existence - a 6 million ton swirling mass of discarded plastic in the North Pacific. Every piece ever made since the 1950's still in existence.

Since I began reading, impermanence haunts my waking hours. As I sleep, imperceptible droplets of water leak between the minute gaps between roof tiles, bloating wooden struts and forming a blackened map of spores in the corners of the bedroom; little by little weakening the entire structure of my house. When I dream, I dream of cracks in plaster, blistering and exposing wounds through which I can see the clearest blue-sky, the same sky that will bear witness to the fall of our buildings, our cities. Us.

In a way I find it reassuring. Geologically speaking, the whole of human history is but a speck within a speck, let alone the life of a single human. Mortgages, jobs, people; everything is transient. The life-cycle of a tree continues year after year, leaves fall, leaves grow, that's all there is. That's all there needs to be. In the same way, buildings are erected, buildings fall. Nothing is important. Everything vanishes.

Except nature.

Nature endures.

I shall keep reading; the future looks interesting, whether anyone is here to see it or not.