Writing the Wrongs

Playing To Win

artisin@artisincity.com (Artisin) — Fri, 04 May 2012 06:04:43 GMT

Note: This article is a response to a feature on Escapist and was originally published on Nightmare Mode

Photograph by Jodi Miller

I must be one insufferable little prick. As I navigate the Inception-like hallways of Halo: Reach’s Reflection map, a grin spreads slyly across my face. I’m armed only with a DMR, a score of 49 to 49, and a genuine lust for Blue Team blood. “Hallway’s clear,” signals my friend in a fuzz of chatter. It wasn’t. A blue figure jumps around the corner. My heart hesitates, but my finger doesn’t. The shot stays true.

“Competition has one goal: Determine a winner at the end,” writes Brian Campbell for The Escapist. Campbell’s theory about competition and play asserts that intense competition means “the feel of the game becomes far more serious…and less fun.”

But is play really divorced from competition?

Do they live separately, engaging in a failing long-distance relationship where Play decides there’s too much living to do to stay tied down to sweaty-sounding nouns? In a word: No. It’s an argument based on a term-confusion problem that runs rampant in videogame journalism.

Ask five people what videogames are and you might get five different answers: videogames are art; videogames are entertainment; videogames are interactive; videogames are social; videogames are a new form of storytelling. Those five people might not agree on each other’s definitions of videogames, but they may find common ground on the fact videogames are about playing. So let’s avoid the leviathan of subjectivity that videogames are and focus on what play is – an activity of enjoyment. In other words, play is fun. Wow, so videogames are fun; didn’t need a quantum physicist to figure that one out. But instead of asking what fun is, let’s try instead looking at how fun is achieved.

In a phrase that would make Dr. Seuss blush, fun is won.

So when you look at fun as a goal to be achieved, you’re faced with a competition of some sort. You cannot win anything without competing against something. And since videogames are about playing, and playing is about winning, then videogames are about competing. What you win, however, comes from a staggering number of possibilities, such as fellowship, enjoyment, or championship within the game’s rules. Each of these goals are accomplished through competition. You see now how quickly subjectivity become a thorn in the collective urethra of games writing?

Mistaking cooperation for mercy, Campbell theorizes, “Valuing play over competition sometimes means letting someone take back a bad move or recover from bad luck.” Putting forth his own encounter with “cooperative competition,” Campbell recalls a Magic: The Gathering game with a female friend where he didn’t “press the advantage” because “where’s the fun in an ending you already know?” This style of play, he argues, brought out the best in each of them.

Playing, Campbell suggests, should be about “how we play without always letting it be why [we play].” But isn’t how we play determined by why we play? When we play for a reason it affects how we go about playing. People play videogames to win adoration; to win fellowship; to win within the game’s rules; etc. So, if playing to win within the rules of the game, how we play becomes more aggressive. If playing to win, say, the enjoyment of company, how we play becomes less aggressive, but only in the traditional sense. Why we play leads into how we play, and becomes the basis for playing. Where Campbell’s subjectivity hits its stride is his assertion that people playing to win the game take the fun away for everyone else. Can’t the same be said about people playing for simple amusement?

Let me explain: In 2010 I played Halo: Reach team deathmatch religiously with one of my good friends. Much of our time playing Halo and other first-person shooters involved the “prepare to die” mentality Campbell describes. For the most part, win or lose, I had a blast playing, because the teams my friend and I competed with were also embroiled in a “Die! Die! Die!” style of play. It’s exhilarating — at least to me — to face someone more skilled than I (Darwinian Difficulty, anyone?). I’d go so far as to say it’s fun for me. What isn’t fun, however, is when some jackass takes that competitive spirit of the match and shits all over it by playing for simple kicks. I like a good knock-out and tea-bag as much as the next Spartan, but if you do it to your own teammate again and keep costing us points I’m gonna write an article about you in a few years.

“If the motive is more important than the play itself, it’s not play,” said Dr. Stuart Brown in 2008. Campbell puts forth a similar argument: “Are we allowing the competitive ‘spirit’ behind our play to become the competitive ‘phantom’ that overshadows it?” What Campbell failed to take into account, however, was the concept of flow, which Mihaly Csíkszentmihályi defined as “being completely involved in an activity for its own sake.” When in a flow state, however, the motive to win isn’t the motive for play, but a by-product of it.

A world without competition is a world without play. WhatCampbell suggests cannot be about toning down the competitive nature of gaming, but rather a matter of common courtesy, of human decency. Because our interests do not, and will not align 100 percent of the time, we should all just accept that eventually someone is gonna sneak up behind us and fuck us right in the fun.

2012 Artisin

Saturday Morning RPG is Traditionalist Retro Gaming Done Right

artisin@artisincity.com (Artisin) — Fri, 04 May 2012 06:01:44 GMT

Note: This article originally appeared on Nightmare Mode

Meet Martin “Marty” Michael Hall, a ordinary high school kid with a remarkable ability to turn the mundane into magic. Marty’s story begins much in the same way many of our own teenage fantasies start — in our dreams. As Marty falls asleep, his dream is shaped by a TV show featuring the villain Commander Hood. Marty’s mind intercepts the stimulation from the show, casting him the protagonist in battle with Commander Hood: kidnapper of Samantha – the girl literally of Marty’s dreams – and proponent of shotgun-styled weddings. After getting his ass kicked, a witty wizard sporting an ultra hip demeanor bestows Marty with an “ancient artifact” that can take down Commander Hood – a ’80s styled Trapper Keeper.

Saturday Morning RPG’s emphasis on the old-school Trapper Keeper as Marty’s – and therefore the player’s – source of power mimics the mobile industry’s values in spite of the AAA console market. The Trapper Keeper represents tradition, a return to form, as power. The use of pixel animation makes SMRPG traditionalist. If you want, think neo-noir, only as Tom Auxier pointed out, the lines of influence are clearer for us videogame folk to see than for audiences to see in a movie like Brick, for example. And as Christopher Nolan, a traditionalist in his own right has proven through use of film over digital, utilizing an outdated form can be an effective tool toward innovation and creativity if done well and without a total neglect of modern benefits.

Marty’s magic notebook is fashioned with customizable Scratch-N-Sniff stickers that yield additional benefits to speed, defense, attack and magic depending on how fast you can flick a finger back and forth on the screen. With just one finger, SMRPG finds that elusive, almost mythical, JRPG clitoris. One that hasn’t been stimulated in years, mind you. Tap the screen to select the Indiana Jones inspired satchel containing floppy discs, basketballs, joysticks, Transformers look-a likes and Michael Jackson’s rhinestone glove. Tap the screen again to target an enemy and once more to hit at the exact moment for maximum damage. The same goes for defense. Simple and effective, yes; but more importantly it is inclusive. I feel connected to the action and consequently become a participant whose mental and physical reactions mean the difference between game start and game over, and more importantly between Marty and Samantha.

The episodic nature of cartoons allows the season to be digested slowly and thoughtfully. Using the benefits of iOS and the App Store, Mighty Rabbit plans to release SMRPG as a season, with several episodes scheduled throughout the year. These episodes can be played in any order, with stats and inventory carrying over between each as you play. Releasing the game in episodes fosters a situation where gamers feel compelled to play at a much slower and methodical pace, rather than racing through the game and bragging about their speed online.

Blame it on the platform limitations, or on the title’s humble funding through Kickstarter, but SMRPG isn’t interested in dazzling audiences with visual spectacle. Instead the aesthetic choices affect the narrative. For instance, the pixilated NES style smashed against stylistic polygonal backdrop sets the stage for nostalgia (while still appearing flattering on the iPhone’s retina display), taking us back to a simpler time before cable television stole cartoons from Saturday and redistributed them across the week like a Robin Hood of animation. The pastels breathe life into the tongue-in-cheek characters of SMRPG, like the school faculty who insist they “are not soldiers” and will “totally kill you” for not flushing your toots. Several characters resemble actual Saturday morning cartoons and 80s pop culture icons, such as the Transformers, Michael Jackson and The Karate Kid, but with subtle differences to avoid copyright issues.

The retro movement has been criticized as anti-progressive, faux-innovative and nostalgic for no other reason than being nostalgic. SMRPG should serve as an example that derails this thought train to expensive roadside waste, as every bit of its nostalgia and retro design serve a purpose to create an experience grounded in tradition while still taking advantage of the technologies mobile gaming has to offer. Perhaps its most notable difference is in the soundtrack, where audio mixing can be tricky on mobile devices because of limited asset space. Think of it like this, a music album is about 3MB per track, while the limit of apps for over-the-air download is 20MB – hardly any room at all for a soundtrack to breath and impress. Perhaps this is the reason why many retro games imitate lo-fi NES soundtracks, but SMRPG is different. It succeeds on a musical level by enlisting the ’80 certified talents of Vince DiCola (Rocky IV, Transformers: The Animated Movie) and Kenny Meriedeth (Duck Tales, Power Rangers). The result is a tangy re-imagination not possible by retro-imitation. Wearing the standard Apple earphones, I found the lows thundering, the mids clear and the highs crispy. There is an undeniably retro feel in the soundtrack, but aside from one Transformers: The Animated Movie reject, it’s all modern stuff played by guys who helped shape your animated adventures in the ‘80s.

It’s not all good in the hood, though, as the controls suffer the same fate of most mobile games. Touching anywhere on the screen produces a virtual analog stick that follows your finger. Sounds easy enough, but the lack of multi-touch to hold two points at once makes for some clunky maneuvers as your finger eventually slides too far to the side of the phone. What’s more, for a game as intuitive as SMRPG there’s an unnecessary and annoying amount of tutorial. In a title where exploration is encouraged, it feels as if you’re not so much in the wild as you are in a city park with your parents. The most authentic aspect of the controls — at least for the dudes — is the ability to play with one hand while the other rests cozily inside your pajama bottoms like your mom used to scold you for while watching cartoons.

Saturday Morning RPG is traditionalist retro gaming done right. Rather than retro for retro’s sake, SMRPG is a videogame for videogames’s sake. That is, SMRPG uses a traditional lens to frame a modern take on a stale genre without screwing with the underlying principles gamers love about JRPGs.

2012 Artisin

Fear and Loathing in The DC Smithsonian

artisin@artisincity.com (Artisin) — Fri, 04 May 2012 05:59:17 GMT

Note: This article originally appeared on Nightmare Mode

“What is this generation’s Pac-Man?” It’s a question posed to my associate and I during a late night smoking cigarettes outside of the Washington Hilton, asked by a short, sunglasses-clad African-American in his late twenties. I previously told him I was a game journalist here to cover GameFest, to which he asked what games I review. “I don’t really review games,” I responded. “I’m more of a critic of the culture as a whole. In fact, I don’t even have much time to play that many games anymore.” He seemed somewhat mystified, wondering what a game journalist who doesn’t review or play games was doing masquerading as one. But then again, we were in a city filled with phonies and liars – sometimes it’s good to blend in. But his bewilderment was satisfied when he asked that significant question – the question that made my job title and reason in DC that much more apparent. One of us answered Grand Theft Auto, the other Angry Birds – two very different answers with very different reasoning. This led to a discussion of whether Pac-Man meant “icon” or mass appeal. In the 80s, anyone strolling through the mall or a pizza shop could slip a few quarters in the machine and play Pac-Man for as little or long as they liked. Today, our smartphones are our malls – we browse, try and purchase apps that augment our lives. Angry Birds matches Pac-Man in this sense, and in the sense of an overtly popular product enjoyed across the gamut from young to old. As an icon, however, Angry Birds doesn’t resonate so much as Pac-Man did, and still continues to do. The answer wound down to Mario, Sonic and other iconic game characters, but that begged another question: what was meant by “this generation?” If it were the social generation, then Angry Birds definitely seems the apt comparison. But if it were the generation that the three of us grew up in, then what the hell was our Pac-Man? Did it even matter? Or were we all too drunk by this point to even know what we were talking about? And for that matter, who was this strange guy? This guy who couldn’t even remember the title or main character of Metal Gear Solid: how could he pose such a sapient question? I looked forward to GameFest and the Smithsonian’s Art of Video Games even more now, if for nothing other than enlightenment.

Our paranoia set in further as we stumbled through the hotel to breakfast. Unsure of our status as complimentary guests, we tried our key in the elevator to access the 10th floor breakfast level to no avail. After a few tries we were on our way, but only because another Hiltonite had called the elevator. We were in, but now came the hard part – trying to keep it together long enough to blend in with this elitist crowd. I managed well enough, but my friend had no such luck. The croissant he picked up with the tongs fell off his palm-sized plate and bounced, circling toward the middle of the floor. The pack stared violently at my associate, then to the croissant and back again to him, as if to say “what are you going to do now?” It was a test to see if he were one of them. Perhaps he should’ve picked up the croissant, excused himself, and disposed of it. Perhaps he should’ve pretended he didn’t notice at all. But he turned to meet the pack’s judging stares, spun back around, set the tongs down on the table, grabbed a new croissant with his bare hands and walked away. They were on to us — we didn’t belong here with these privileged breakfast folk who were most likely among the highest ranks in their respective professions. We may have passed their test had we been legitimate artsy people, but we were videogame people, and contrary to the Smithsonian’s belief, videogames were not a welcome part of the elitist community. We were “new money,” so to speak; here because of novelty and curiosity and nothing more. The only thing to do now was to embrace our conduct, eat quickly and leave.

The Smithsonian was brimming with activity – the rigid, stuffy atmosphere of the traditional art world had been replaced, if only temporary, to take on a more commercial front. There was no sense of direction, of coherence, upon entering. Wide-eyed attendees trudged aimlessly, just trying to make sense of it all. My associate and I navigated through the crowd to the center, where a portly young man was standing with two books titled The Art of Video Games: From Pac-Man to Mass Effect. “Are these for sale?” I asked. He nodded and pointed to the museum shop, which had blended in with the traffic of the crowd. We casually entered the shop which was pouring outside the door with consumers purchasing swag to commemorate the acceptance of video games into the art community. We glanced around and exited. This felt less like an art showing and more like a commercial entertainment event. It was jarring that just down the halls protruding from this central hub were collections of impressionists, realists and abstract paintings of the 19th and 20th centuries. These halls were all but empty, and those that were there were probably searching for the Art of Video Games exhibit. This was very much our day. Out in the courtyard the GameFest crowd was less concentrated, but the focus was meandering – there were open play activities, tables for pixel art, photo booths and tables to sit and contemplate your museum purchases. A familiar song began blaring over the scattered crowd – the Zelda theme, played by The Triforce Quartet. Right in front of the stage area was the Genesis Sonic the Hedgehog and all around were displays playing retro and modern games like Top Gun and Space Channel 5.

“This is nothing,” said an elderly lady who worked at the museum. “The line for the exhibit was out the front door earlier.” Now it was just echoing down the intimidating halls of the third floor, but with easily two to three hundred people still waiting in line to glimpse the art of video games. The crowd was mixed – from the very young to twenty-something’s to the middle-aged – there either deliberately or out of curiosity. Many who grew up in the game culture were hoping for a more artistic view of video games and were somewhat put off by the commercial atmosphere and obvious exhibition choices. Those who were curious outsiders, and mostly over forty, were awed: “It was absolutely amazing,” said the same museum worker outside on the steps of the Smithsonian. An elderly (and quite possibly homeless) man next to her agreed. “Amazing,” he repeated, before regaling us with stories of the injustices done to him by the DC police.

At a quarter to five, we excused ourselves from the old man’s tales and made our way down the steps and into the auditorium for Robin Hunicke’s “It’s All in the Design” lecture. The auditorium filled quickly, this time with concentrations of core gaming enthusiasts. After a brief introduction by Chris Melissinos, curator of the exhibit, Robin Hunicke took to the stage. She eased into her presentation and reassured the aspiring designers in the audience by mentioning she was brought on as a Sims 2 designer when she “was 32 years old and had never worked on a commercial game.” She spoke, at first, in a rehearsed manner, gesturing expressively with her hands. Her lecture touched on communication breakdowns and successful collaboration methods before getting into the real art behind game design, which turned out to be more psychology than art. “You can develop an ability to truly see through someone’s eyes to see both sides of a design – to see both sides of a problem,” said Robin. She explained the challenge of creating something compelling to players of all ages – quite the opposite of the traditional artist who discovers freedom through not acknowledging the impression he is going to make – the videogame artist is much more deliberate. This was the case with Robin’s design methodology, at least until she moved to LA to work on a new game. “The core principle of this game design was experimentation,” said Robin. “It was that people should feel comfortable playing to fail.” Her presentation moved toward more appropriate art territory rather than the art-sucker of appealing to everyone. She was learning to design to evoke a specific reaction from the player. “Not only do you need to focus on the exact right point in the design and really nail that one problem, you need to do it with the help of everyone at your disposal,” continued Robin, who concluded her lecture by discussing Journey. She put it out there that, in designing Journey, it was her “hope that players who meet each other online could experience a genuine human connection with each other.” Through years of game design trial and error, successes and failures, Robin Hunicke had finally tapped into the true art of games – one that explores the state of humanity and the nature of existence. “In much the same way as when you’re hiking in the wilderness, you might stop to take in the view or introduce yourself, or just even smile, at a passing stranger; whereas if you saw them on a crowded train you would just look right through them.” A simple elimination of player tags helped foster this goal organically rather than pushing it on the player.

As we boarded the metro back to Vienna, I remembered the Pac-Man question. The exhibit failed to give me a concrete answer, but I did leave the event enlightened. Just then, a girl wedged through the closing doors of the train, despite the warnings of her friends. One of her friends made it through but the last one got left behind. I thought about Robin’s train analogy, and of interaction, of connection. I would have to put myself out there to evoke a reaction that would create a connection in the real world. It’s a deliberate choice, and a choice that true art evokes from its audience. If you simply read a story and don’t think about it, it’s nothing more than printed words on a page. If you stare at a painting and don’t contemplate it, it’s just a collision of color. If you play a videogame, and by the end of it you haven’t taken anything with you but a high score, then maybe it’s not art. Videogames are a business with artistic sensibilities, and it shows in the Smithsonian’s exhibition. While the Smithsonian playing host to a videogames event was tremendous in that fact alone, the festivities and exhibition failed to explore the territory game journalism has been fearlessly covering for years now. It was clear that we were still not quite there as an art form, as only certain games have broken through that barrier, but we had broken through. The breakfast incident, however, made us acutely aware that we were in DC’s Smithsonian as novelty only: not fully accepted, still wet behind the ears. But I say to those elitist Hiltonites that we are going to sit among you anyway, drop our croissants and not give a damn what you think of us at all.

2012 Artisin

A Brief Moment of Narcissism

artisin@artisincity.com (Artisin) — Wed, 21 Mar 2012 05:38:24 GMT

Okay, so, as you've probably noticed I don't usually post much site-specific stuff here anymore. In fact, I don't at all -- it's all just stuff from my portfolio of work spread about online. But tonight, I want to take a moment to recognize my achievements through aggregate links(small as they may be but achievements nonetheless!).

My stint with Second Quest came to an end this month, but not without going out with a bang! My Reactive Audio in the Fighting Genre featuring interviews with Rev. Dr. Brad Meyer and composer/producer Tom Salta made somewhat of a splash on N4G (and by "splash" I mean getting accepted at all), as did my first article for Nightmare Mode, Darwinian Difficulty in Metal Gear Solid 3. My critical compilation of Uncharted 2 went live on Critical Distance, and The Darwinian Difficulty article also was recognized in CD's This Week in Videogame Blogging as well as in Gamasutra's This Week in Videogame Criticism. And just when I thought I had enough ego-food for one month, I found out Kirk Hamilton wrote a quick blurb on Kotaku about my critical compilation of Uncharted 2, titled All of The Things Anyone Wrote about Uncharted 2.

As you can tell I'm pretty pleased with myself, but I know I'm only as good as the last thing I wrote. With that in mind, I plan to publish the best articles of my life in the coming weeks as I recount my DC trip to the Smithsonian American Art Museum for Gamefest and publish my interview with Ed Del Castillo. Thanks for reading, and please continue to read so I can feed my ego the food it deserves, nay, demands!

2012 Artisin

Reactive Audio in the Fighting Genre

artisin@artisincity.com (Artisin) — Wed, 14 Mar 2012 10:48:59 GMT

Note: This article originally appeared on Second Quest.

"A good fight should be like a small play, but played seriously."

- Bruce Lee

Similar to the state of martial arts before Bruce Lee's Jeet Kune Do style, the state of the fighting game genre continues to trudge forth with a flawed mentality. Developers are doing the player a disservice by creating fighting games that lack the martial artist understanding. A wise martial artist will tell you an effective technique is an emotional technique. Lee described it as "emotional content" in Enter The Dragon. It cannot be explained in writing, but only as an observed action with an appropriate reaction. The problem with fighting games, however, is just that -- they are games. How does the visceral emotion of a punch translate from avatar to player? The answer is at once simple and complex: reactivity.

Dynamic Range

"Empty your mind, be formless, shapeless -- like water. Now you put water into a cup, it becomes the cup, you put water into a bottle, it becomes the bottle, you put it in a teapot, it becomes the teapot. Now water can flow or it can crash. Be water, my friend."

- Bruce Lee

I contacted Rev. Dr. Brad Meyer, Audio Director of Sucker Punch Productions, to discuss what could be done to improve fighting game audio, to which he said "the most important [aspect] is dynamic mixing." An effective dynamic range is like water filling the volume of a glass. In this case, our capacity for sound represents the glass and the dynamic range represents the water. When you look at a full glass of water you still see the water beneath the surface, and when you listen to dynamic audio you still hear the sound below the threshold. "Be it fighting games or any other genre, they all revolve around crafting a more dynamic experience," said Meyer. "There's a lot more we can do here, not necessarily to make games more cinematic, but to make them more emotionally effective. Composers from Beethoven to Bobby McFerrin have demonstrated the near-universal character of music as an emotion engine and arguably every composer of the past several hundred years have helped to strengthen this common language."

Other genres have the luxury of relying on a written narrative for emotional weight, but the narrative (the only narrative that matters anyway) of fighting games is ludological. The punches and kicks tell the story and the music provides emotional reinforcement. "I would put dynamic music right after this, in part because music is the heart of the emotion of sound," continued Meyer. "We can do a lot with other audio assets from ambience to character sounds to help convey mood and tone, but music is a known entity where emotion is concerned." This isn't to say the music of fighting games is bad, it just hasn't been fully-realized. In fact, and excuse the pun, music plays second fiddle at best in the design of fighters.

Speaking with composer and music producer Tom Salta (Halo Anniversary, From Dust) I was told "When it comes to choosing music styles, most audio directors go with the obvious choice: Heavy fight equals Heavy fight music." It's quite ordinary and the results more than often reflect that. Tom suggests manipulating the emotions of the player by "juxtaposing music that you might not expect."

"It can be risky and it certainly takes more experience and experimentation, but the results can be extraordinary," said Salta. "Dynamic range can certainly play a role in this. It's important not to stay too long on one dynamic level, otherwise people will just tune it out. If you want to keep people excited and engaged, then keep changing things."

Composition and Implementation

"The highest technique is to have no technique. My technique is a result of your technique; my movement is a result of your movement."

- Bruce Lee

A reactive sound design in the fighting genre should not be assertive, but adjustive. That is, adjustive to the action and reaction. According to Tom, the music should still seek to define its characters. "My first instinct would be to come up with specific instruments and sound design that pertains to the different characters," he said. "Then compose multilayered music that contains these various elements and fade in and out those different parts based on what's happening in the game."

"The trickier, albeit more fun part is to compose music that matches the scheme and can seamlessly blend from one state to another," said Meyer. "Due to the frenetic nature of fighting games, the transitions would need to be quick, yet still feel polished and musically sound." That is, if approaching composition on the granular level, i.e. individual notes.

The problem with this, according to Ben Abraham's 2008 interview with Marty O'Donnell, is that granular samples on such a small scale lose their live musical feel, as well as their fidelity. While granular samples can be employed to enhance a specific event, the affair cannot be completely granular. The main function of the composition should instead seek to react to the entire balance of the fight, more so than the individual actions of the fight. The more rapid moments will find their own rhythm and musicality in the sound of fighting itself.

In his thesis, An Investigation of New Musical Potential in Videogames, Ben Abraham discussed how ambient and diegetic sounds create an undertone of constant musical current. "Potentially, these sounds can be purposely more musical than they would ordinarily be," he said. In particular, the musicality of fighting can serve as instrumentation for synchronization and immersion. Current fighters do employ decent sound effects such as the tapping of footsteps, the thud of pounding flesh, the clang of swords colliding and the crunch of bones breaking. But as with any great piece of orchestration the composition should highlight the right instruments at the right time.

"Besides the obvious cross-fade method where you can switch between multiple cues, another alternative is multilayered music," continued Salta. "There can be a common bed and depending on what is happening, you can bring in and out elements that are linked to what's happening. "In order to enhance the brutal, clinical feel of the act of fighting, the music should know when to bow out and give the sound effects their time to shine. Ideally, this type of reactive audio system enhances the narrative of a fight by emotionally augmenting the player-controlled flow of combat.

"On the implementation side, the task is not terribly difficult on a high level," said Meyer. "Passing the player distance from his opponent can drive an intensity parameter to dictate switches in music or adding/subtracting parts of the mix. Additional layers of complexity can be added by factoring in other parameters as well such as each player's health, player's current combo, or even the number of enemies targeting the player if it's more than 1 vs. 1. The reactivity and switching can easily be prototyped and implemented using Wwise, FMOD, or scripting." Of course, there would be some technical limitations when dealing with different platforms. "You probably couldn't stream an 8 channel audio cue on iOS which selectively plays various tracks at different volumes to match your design," explained Meyer. "At the same time, midi with custom instruments a la the DS can create powerful and sonically rich experiences for low overhead."

Possibilities

"I find it surprising that, with the wealth of varied music games available now from shooters to puzzlers that no one has done a music fighting game yet," said Meyer. There are numerous possibilities for the fighting genre using a reactive audio system, such as music influencing the developer-intended story of single player mode. To this end, the developer-controlled narrative could employ a musical structure that matches the intended consequences of the battle. The player must live up to to implied triumphs and failures established by universal musical tropes in order to progress through the story. A reactive audio system built into the game engine can also allow for much needed innovation in the fighting genre, such as a "Sound Versus" mode. This can allow two (or more) players to fight toward building their respective songs up to full orchestration by maintaining the battle's momentum for long enough. A player's momentum, and thus song strength, is broken when the other player gains the upper hand.

"The challenges in a versus music mode are a bit more daunting," commented Meyer. "How does the music work? Does each player have his own cue that fights for audio space in a volume war tied to health (perhaps with a third piece to crossfade in during non-action times)? Or do you go for a Peter and the Wolf type scenario where each player has his/her own representative instrument or instrument section which plays the melody and whoever is winning has more of their instrument play? You could even have two melodies (as long as they work musically with each other) so the winning player's melody gains dominance and during struggles both play, ideally harmonizing each other and augmenting the tension."

2012 Artisin

In Offense of Cheap Shots: Violating The Right to Fun

artisin@artisincity.com (Artisin) — Fri, 09 Mar 2012 17:13:22 GMT

Note: This article originally appeared on Bitmob.

In 2006, Citigroup brokered a complicated mortgage investment deal that it knew would fail. A year later, the bank bet against its investments and pocketed $160 million. Its investors lost millions, but Citigroup deflected responsibility by telling them the deal was handled by an independent manager.. When fraud charges were brought up, Citigroup further deflected any wrongdoing, neither admitting to nor denying the allegations. In spite of this, the bank agreed to pay $285 million to settle their charges. But that's how life works -- you win some, you lose most. Citigroup, however, doesn't abide by the natural laws of life, but instead plays by the societal constraints of life in what is essentially "a game about life." The Citigroup CEOs responsible for the fraud used grey area "glitches" of American society to their advantage, dolling out the settlement costs to everybody with shares in the bank. This means not only did some wealthy congress members have to pay for the misdeeds of certain members of Citigroup, but as did several working class people with their pension funds. Those responsible for the fraud managed to escape the responsibility of their crimes and any actual punishment, instead levying the punishment on people who had absolutely nothing to do with the deal. It's sucker punching at its most low down and dirtiest.

Writing for Kill Screen, A.E. Benenson not only admits he plays dirty, but claims "sucker punches" are the true nature of sport. In his lead, Benenson uses the controversial Mayweather vs. Ortiz fight to frame his position. "The rule sets of sports do not supplement the codes of conduct in real life, but replace them," says Benenson. To him, exploitation of the rules is the ultimate form of sportsmanship and play. "Some would call Mayweather's strategy 'unsportsmanlike,' but wasn't his sucker-punch actually the ultimate sportsmanlike move?" writes Benenson. "His instantaneous appraisal of Ortiz's mistake was nothing but a virtuosic navigation of the rules of the sport." His feeling is that Mayweather took advantage of a "glitch" in order to win the game, making him the superior player of the sport. Here Benenson mistakes knowledge of the rules with an expected conduct of sportsmen. Sportsmanship refers to fair play and conduct, and while Mayweather technically did nothing wrong within the rules of professional fighting, a good sport he is not. This goes doubly for Benenson.

"Just as a sport is a game version of some other Real Thing, a sports simulation is doubly a game: we aren't playing the real sport, but a videogame about the sport. The rules of the videogame are not the rules of the sport," says Benenson. This is the kind of mentality that defrauds investors, punches you when you're apologizing and quits early in online matches to steal your win and retain his own record. In this mentality, playing cheap is all well and good when playing a game which abandons the rules and ethics of the real world. I'll concede, however, that the professional sport of boxing doesn't endow a rule or right to sportsmanlike behavior. It is encouraged, and in some cases enforced, but never expected. In any game, whether the game of life or sport, rule breakers and benders are to be expected. It is unavoidable. For that reason we create new laws and establish rights for our citizens or players. But rights can be violated by breaking the rules, and somebody has to be punished. More often than not that somebody is the entire sport.

But Benenson isn't playing in a professional sport. So as he sees it, the glitches in sport videogames enable a new "creative play" that a simulation of real sports cannot. "[They] bring you closer to the uncanny moment of improvisation between human and system, the gleeful leap into the gap between a game and its modelâ€"the real thing of videogaming. Sticking to real life over the rules of the game isn't how to be realistic; it's how to get set up for a sucker punch," says Benenson, eloquently advocating cheap shots. Admittedly there are gamers who call themselves professionals, but most of us play recreationally, meaning for fun. As Benenson puts it, "we aren't playing the real sport, but a videogame about the sport. The rules of the videogame are not the rules of the sport." Therefore, simulations or not, games shouldn't be played realistically. What he forgets, however, is that when played in this recreational manner, the game becomes a form of pure play, of enjoyment. Playing the game in an exploitative manner that supersedes the rules and exists "in the gap between a game and its model" violates the most important right that all game players have -- the right to fun.

Benenson doesn't play the game, but plays the loopholes of the system. It's a style not unlike the Citigroup CEOs who cheat their way through life and punish others for their behavior. It exists outside of the rule set, but inside "glitches" that make it legal, but despicably so. Is this sort of sleaziness sportsmanlike? Is capitalizing on failed mortgages and penalizing the innocent sportsmanlike? When someone manipulates the rules of a game to their own benefit the entire society of gamers have to pay for it, whether itâ€™s watching as your pension fund goes down the toilet or the watching the enjoyment from your favorite game slip away.

2012 Artisin

How We Review Fighting Games: Soulcalibur V

artisin@artisincity.com (Artisin) — Sat, 18 Feb 2012 21:59:05 GMT

Note: This article was originally published on Second Quest.

The videogame culture has become so obsessed with the storytelling elements of games that what it seeks out to analyze no longer falls under the expansive umbrella that is videogames. This longing for story to drive the gameplay has trickled over into one genre where videogame stories are traditionally irrelevant and cursory elements â€" the fighting genre. As videogame journalists and critics, we should strive to review videogames based on the expectations of the genre. We wouldnâ€™t, for instance, review a puzzle game with the same criticisms we would levy against an MMORPG. So why then do we review games in the fighting genre as if they are anything other than fighting games? Thereâ€™s a fragmentation at play and a flawed genre-bending mentality that affects the way fighting games are reviewed.

As far as storytelling in its traditional narrative function is concerned, developers of fighting games do the player an injustice by minimizing the core focus of the fighting genre with any narrative focused too outwardly from the ludic aspects of the game. Itâ€™s not necessarily the developers fault, but rather the diverse group of videogame players that make up the market today. Though, when we market to everyone, we market to no one. Itâ€™s an adage that seems to be lost on all sides of the fighting genre.

This isnâ€™t to say that the story of any genre where combat is at the core should be dismissed as unnecessary. First-person shooters, for instance, require a reason to care about the characters enough to see the single player mode all the way through to the goal of saving the Earth or whatever the hero needs to accomplish. A fighting game such as the recently-released Soulcalibur V does not. The playerâ€™s only intrinsic goal is to simply win the match. Their motivations are their own and not those of the character as dictated by the developerâ€™s story. This is not to say that single player modes shouldnâ€™t be addressed at all in Soulcalibur V reviews, but that we should be asking deeper questions about what could be done to improve the core experience of the game.

GamesTMâ€™s review of Soul Calibur V compares it to the Virtua Fighter series in order to highlight Soulcaliburâ€˜s style over substance approach. â€œYes, many may see it as a fighting game, but the truth is that Soulcalibur has never really been a fighting game,â€ reads the review. Given the benefit of the doubt, Iâ€™ll conclude the reviewer means that Soulcalibur has never really been a simulation type of fighting game. While Soulcalibur, when played at a high level, is an amazing display of combat, the flair admittedly overshadows the technique. But many martial arts styles, too, exude flair over practicality. That doesnâ€™t make them any less of a type of fighting style, just as it doesnâ€™t make Soulcalibur any less of a fighting game.. It wasnâ€™t until Bruce Lee rejuvenated the martial arts with his more practical approach to fighting that we came to have the mixed martial arts scene where basic techniques are more vital than flashy techniques. Rather than lambasting a fighting game for having a shallow story modeâ€"which is really just a flashy extraâ€"the reviewer should look to these core concepts as his baseline for reviewing the game.

Stephen Lambrechtâ€™s review for IGN called the fighting â€œgreatâ€ and the graphics â€œbeautiful.â€ But the meat of his review focused on the â€œdisappointingâ€ lack of modes, even while conceding there is â€œplenty of depth in its combat.â€ Itâ€™s a review filled with empty adjectives, one which does nothing to address the true nature of the game. When we think of fighting games we must think in terms of the way a martial artist approaches combat. In this sense, Soulcalibur, and all other fighting games like it, requires an â€œemotional contentâ€ to enhance the narrative as it may be. From a ludic standpoint, the player approaches fighting games the same way a martial artist approaches his opponent. Fighting is a matter of balance â€" there is an action followed by a reaction, an expansion preceding a contraction. The Dead or Alive series raised the bar when it introduced an engine where characters seemed to actually fight with each other rather than perform static moves, but the emotional content wasnâ€™t quite there. Paste Magazineâ€™s Stu Horvath, a dedicated if not wearied fan of Soulcalibur, was one of the few reviewers to come close to capturing the core essentials of Soulcalibur into a succinct review. But even he neglected the one thing that is important, perhaps most so, to the fighting genre for improving the combat narrative â€" sound design. The sound design of a fighter is vital toward subsidizing emotional content. And sound, an area Soulcalibur in particular does exceptionally well, happens to be neglected in every major review of Soulcalibur V. Instead weâ€™re left with reviews that discuss wanting a more expansive story mode more than they discuss the actual fighting mechanics and the modes and design aspects that compliment or detract from it.

Tom Chickâ€™s review for Quarter To Three, â€œThe Capcoming of Soulcalibur Vâ€œ, claims that Soulcalibur V tries too hard to be like Street Fighter. He even admits to failing to master the fighting well enough to even block correctly. â€œAfter no small amount of frustration in the training room, Iâ€™ve just accepted that blocking in Soulcalibur V is beyond my ken,â€ he says. Chick makes no attempt to explain why blocking is difficult other than comparisons to Street Fighterâ€™s method of blocking. â€œNothing makes you quite so lazy as Capcomâ€™s move-backwards-to-block system,â€ Chick said.. â€œI had a hard enough time forcing myself to press a guard button in Soulcalibur IV.â€ He uses the rest of the review to criticize Soulcalibur V for being too much like a Capcom fighter and complains about the emphasis on online play, chastising Namco for leaving casual players behind: â€œThis stuff might be grand for anyone who wants his Soulcalibur to be more an online esport. But for us casual fighting fans who felt like Namco was one of the few companies still making games for us, Soulcalibur V is a disappointing Dear John letter.â€ His review misinterprets the core of what fighting games are, and even more so what Soulcalibur V is, and berates it for basically being too competitive and both not enough and too much like Street Fighter. The reality is that the online and versus modes offer more narrative than single player modes. The true story in the fighting genre is in the fighting itself and the competitive modes and audio design are the most important factors to discuss in respect to the combat. If you donâ€™t want to fight or learn how to, then why the hell are you playing a fighting game anyway?

The fighting genre is not and has never been a genre where story is the driving force behind the game. When we look at a game to review, we must look at the core: What is it? How do its overlaying functions compliment it? I may lose a few people at this grand conclusion Iâ€™m about to come to, but my research shows that the core of the fighting genre is, gasp, combat. Who wouldâ€™ve guessed? A player squares off against his foe and the story unfolds with a beautiful brutality that is never twice the same. The player doesnâ€™t necessarily need to know a characterâ€™s motivation, we only need to know ours, which is to conquer the foe who stands before us. We smash his flesh and let him smash ours. His bones break, our bones shatter. A victor is declared. At the center of combat is competition. If the player thinks heâ€™s the best then he will never improve, so he should at all times know there is someone out there waiting to kick his ass. Competition is a direct current flowing from the primitivism of combat, so it is more important to dissect online and versus modes than single player modes, which players should simply see as training modes for their next big encounter with their rival.

2012 Artisin

Broke Gamer Pt. I: Stealing Videogames

artisin@artisincity.com (Artisin) — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 09:36:26 GMT

Note: This article was originally posted on Examiner.

In the words of Herbert Huncke, "I'm beat." There's two ways to explain my situation. One is: "dead broke." The other is: transition period. I prefer the later.

In the past two weeks, I've managed to spread out my last $360. Who knew a few pizzas here, some Chinese food there, a couple of taxi rides and a few boxes of formula would cost so much? I could've bought six games for the same, and god knows there's a lot of must-buys that have dropped or will drop this month. Batman: Arkham City, Battlefield 3, Sonic Generations, Uncharted 3, Modern Warfare 3, Metal Gear HD and Halo: Combat Evolved Anniversary top my list.

But until I get where I want to get in my career and personal life, I'm just another games journalist who can't afford games. But some people aren't going to let a little thing like money deter them.

I'm not the only one in dire straights, it seems. Just last week, Timothy Joseph Mandes applied for a job at a Best Buy in Bethlehem Township. Presumably so he can get discounts to cheapen an expensive gaming habit. Smart man.

Okay, so maybe shoving game systems down your pants isn't ideal, even for the broke gamer. This next broke gamer, however, wasn't so much broke as he was impatient.What wasn't so smart, however, was when he found out he didn't get the job, he decided to shove an Xbox 360 console down his pants. He didn't leave and do this the next day, but literally walked to the games section right after being turned down for the position. The store's security cameras picked this up, and being that he had applied to the store, giving them all his personal info, the police were able to arrest him right at his home (presumably playing an Xbox 360 that reeked of unemployed ball sweat). Though, not before he would attempt to flee and scuffle with law enforcement, who effectively tasered him.

David Morales wanted Modern Warfare 3. Like anyone who wants something from a retailer, he decided to drive to a store, stand in line and purchase it. But when he saw the length of the line at GameStop, he decided waiting was for suckers. So instead of going an hour without the game, David devised a plan to stalk and rob someone in front of the line. That someone was Adam Freeman.

Morales followed Mr. Freeman to his apartment, blocking him in with his Ford Explorer, and jumped out on Adam with a gun.

"Give me the game," David said, pushing a round into the chamber.

“Fuck You,” replied Freeman.

As David pushed another round into the chamber, it knocked his first one out, giving Adam a moment to grab the barrel of the gun and scare off his attacker. Adam promptly reported the attempted robbery.

After leaving the scene of the crime, David didn't go home, but instead went back to GameStop. After all, he still didn't haveModern Warfare 3. When the police came to review security cameras, they saw a person who matched the description Adam gave them, standing in line waiting to buy the game at that very moment. He was immediately arrested.

Lesson learned for David: don't go to buy games on launch day from places where most gamers pre-order. Go to Blockbuster instead.

If you're going to do something, do it right. That saying must've originated in France, cause a group of French criminals recently succeeded in stealing not one, but 6,000 copies ofModern Warfare 3. Costing a whopping €400,000, or about $545,000 USD.

The morning of November 6th, just south of Paris, two masked assailants armed with knives collided with a Micromania delivery van, causing the drivers to stop and get out of the van. The assailants then used tear gas to disorient the drivers and the two criminals sped off with the delivery van and 6,000 copies of MW3.

Unfortunately, criminal-grade black masks -- which would presumably need a matching black outfit to boot -- a tear gas grenade launcher and a couple of rounds of tear gas, all sound pretty steep to a writer who can't afford one game. Not to mention a car, let alone one to wreck. Guess I'm going to have to find other ways to get my gaming fix.

2012 Artisin

Alter Ego Review

artisin@artisincity.com (Artisin) — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 09:31:59 GMT

One part Portal, one part Super Mario; Alter Ego is a simplistic little game with curiously big implications. On the surface, you control a sprite of a young fellow (or old fellow, depending on your interpretation) intent on collecting bouncing purple blocks and dodging skulls that fly up and down and run side to side. This character is very much capable of dying, either from skull or by fall. But then there's his alter ego. A less detailed glowing blue outline of a fellow; the direct opposite of the hero in everyway. The alter ego cannot die, unless the character himself dies. When the hero moves in one direction, his alter ego goes another. Where he collects purple blocks, the alter ego plunders the blue.

The team responsible, RetroSouls, is actually just one man named Denis Grachev. Located in Russia, Grachev creates games with a distinctly retro feel but in decidedly forward ways. Playing Alter Ego, I can almost see Grachev all alone in a bitter cold Russian studio, slaving over line after line of code. I'd like to think that it was from such a bitter cold and desolate environment that Alter Ego started life, as it has all the implications of such a conception.

Being part of the Generation Y wave of gamers, I felt a warm nostalgia wash over me while playing Alter Ego. I felt old, young, melancholy, and elated separately and simultaneously. I owe these feelings to the graphics and music and simple game design. The visuals are the simplest thing about this game. Its screenshots alone are nothing to write home about, but playing Alter Ego is different. For all it's visual simplicity, Alter Ego's aestheticism astounded me. The alien plants glow with a blue aura, and the stars in the background fly past with a clear, clean frame rate. It's purple backdrop and ominously glowing mountains are akin to the Limbo style. The chip tune soundtrack, though stretched thin through 40 levels, impresses upon Alter Ego's distinct feel. Like any well-designed game, no one part of it serves a selfish function. Combined with the music, the visuals impart a feeling of urgency on the player, particularly when the screen fills with orbs, skulls, stars, rain, and glow plants. It's really a sight to experience.

The genius of Alter Ego, however, is its impressive ability to relay the human condition with such simplicity. What the character (you) fails to achieve, his (your) alter ego does. This alternative version is invincible, barely visible, and works opposite the character's intentions. In our personal lives we often put on masks to do things we ourselves couldn't, or wouldn't, do. The alter ego is a fabrication of who we are, and is used to further our progress in life. What Superman couldn't do, Clark Kent could, and vice versa. He couldn't very well lead a normal life as a caped superhero, could he? In Alter Ego it's used to progress through the game, without it our hero stands no chance. Grachev uses this to the game's advantage, crafting a ingenious game that requires delicate coordination and balance between two egos. One is not controllable without the other, and at times I forgot which ego I was really in control of.

2012 Artisin

The Greatest Hits Debate: Can Videogames Be Classics?

artisin@artisincity.com (Artisin) — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 09:30:32 GMT

I have a terrible memory. Blame it on whatever, but I struggle with remembering what I did last weekend, let alone 14 years ago. But there I am, clear as crystal, fifty-two dollars in a wrinkled wad of moist green. Hands stained from excited clenching. The store fluorescents bounced off the glass case catching my eye, and like a fly drawn to a porch light -- I saw it. Crown jewel of the PlayStation section. I might not remember your birthday, but I'll always remember that glass case, and the copy of Final Fantasy VII waiting behind it. But before I bought it, I mastered sabotaging the Mako Reactor on the PlayStation Underground demo disc more times than I dare admit. And also rented it more times than I'd been fiscally responsible. My nostalgia makes Cloud Strife's epic a classic, and I'm willing to wager there's a whole lot of people who feel the same. But does an entire generation's ardent nostalgia make it timeless? Or does it only make it a prized generational possession, a pivotal moment in gaming history, a consumer artifact worthy of preservation because of what it used to be? And how does a person go about defining classic status in this dense, defensive culture of videogames without alienating himself from friends, colleagues and readers alike? Are there, or can there be, any videogame classics that define the form in an evergreen way?

"Of fucking course there can," read a text from a friend in response to my article query. "That depends on your interpretation of classic, which is inarguably subjective. Your logic is flawed and 160 characters doesn't do my response justice."

Ouch. But, of course, as my anecdote explained, classic is a subjective term. What may qualify as classic to one person may fall short to others. For purposes of clarity and structure, I'm using "classic" in the sense of timelessness, or, as defined: the highest established model, standard, or example within a certain form.

Back in 2000, I tried securing a loan of my own infatuation with FFVII into the bankrupt pleasure centers of my best buddy's gaming sensibilities. This, however, proved much more difficult than escaping the city of Midgar without a memory card. You see, his RPG experience started and ended with Final Fantasy IX: a better technical achievement by all accounts. The masterful FMV, artfully pre-rendered backgrounds and higher polygon-counts stand in stark contrast to FFVII's clunky visuals. In addition to updated graphics, FFIX introduced new gameplay elements to the series, such as the Active Time Event, Mognet, and individual character abilities which promoted a more balanced combat system. By these standards -- and only three years worth of advancements -- my friend found FFVII unplayable. Like any decent VII fan would, I berated him for his ignorance. It didn't occur to me at that moment I had failed to play previous Final Fantasy installments for the same reasons. Without the nostalgia, even a title as brilliant in 1997 as FFVII feels dated in as little as three years, if not sooner. Though true, does this make the game unplayable? No; but it shows even a masterpiece among videogames is fallible in the wake of time. Even if he played, enjoyed, and conquered the game, he could still make a legitimate case in favor of the game's antiquity by today's technological, design and gameplay standards.

In contrast, a song is composed of elements that do not so much advance as they do react to the previous generation. There isn't a leap in music theory that makes The Beatles feel antiquated. Cultural differences mostly enable a person to discern 1960s music from 1980s music. Though the ways we receive our music change, the way we hear it never does. There are only changes in convention and culture, and a true musical classic holds up against modern music in the sense that it was either composed well or played well.

"Stfu with your Beatles reference!" said my friend, feeling the weight of our friendship crumble. "You think a nine year old hears that shit and thinks it's revolutionary? They want Gaga and Eminem."

The essay hasn't even been written, let alone published, and my best friend already wants to murder me. But, yes, he's right: Nine year olds will, more often than not, prefer Gaga and Eminem to their parents' Beatles. Modern pop music, in this case, is the child's preference, as he has no context for the past. Just like my FFIX friend may come to like VII if he gave it the time of day, the Gaga fan may, too, find The Beatles enjoyable. But unlike the nine year old with his lack of a developed taste for music not programmed by radio or TV, the gamer can point to legitimate technological advancements in game design that make older games nearly unplayable by modern standards. This is where videogames -- when looked at as a form of art -- differ from music or literature.

For all their artistic aspirations, entertainment milestones and educational achievements, this criticism mottles videogame culture like a red dot on white cashmere. In spite of all that Mario, Zelda, Solid Snake, and Master Chief have done for videogames, there isn't much hope future generations will reflect on them and proclaim "this is a game that could very well been made today." They will be, or are already, outdated and outclassed in everyway, except for maybe in story or music score. This is not to say they will not be enjoyable any longer, but that they will be left behind in the technological dust, making it all the more unappealing to our children, and their children's children.

If this is the case, I don't anticipate the future of games journalism with bated breath. Cower as hipster games journos attempt to rationalize blocky and pixilated 32-bit characters as a deliberate aesthetic; incessant fog and baddies who pop up from the ground in The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time as thoughtful game design instead of technical limitation; guards who can only see five feet in front of them and basic stealth maneuvers of Metal Gear Solid as the pinnacle of game design. Consider it a challenge for these writers to pull false meaning from technical and design limitations, all without allowing an ounce of the pretentious air wafting through their colons to escape into the atmosphere.

Since the shift in the industry from raw graphical power to innovational ways of play, games have entered a new era. Today, motion controls are the big draw. Social and mobile games are accessible and addictive. Downloadable titles mix old-school with new-school under an independent freedom. We're experiencing an evolution of play, and one that makes the last generation of videogames even harder to appreciate. The games industry is in a fickle way, and innovation is critical toward establishing a level of familiarity among gamers.

"Nothing transcends generations," said my friend. "The discussion might, but its relevance and importance does not."

To this, I point to a truly timeless and irreplaceable piece of music, Beethoven's Ninth Symphony. As the most memorable of all his symphonies, the composition remains impressive even by today's standards. Instead of displaced by newer modes of music from later, more advanced generations, his masterful composition lives on as a testament to the power of music in both its technical and artistic merits. For this reason, Beethoven's Ninth Symphony is considered by many the greatest composition in the history of music. Game design, however, hasn't reached a point where it has nowhere else to go but right. Is there a game design in our generation that will outlive us? And if there isn't, then none of our generation's games can transcend history. There will be stories, ideas and mechanics that have proven pivotal to the evolution of games, but no overall game design will be touted as the finest example of game design in the face of an ever advancing form. Our generational games are a dying breed. Even many re-released classic are done a disservice at the hands of journalists who have either outgrown their nostalgia or have grown spoiled by the advancements of the industry.
Similarly, literature may vary from time period to time period, and the words may become displayed digitally instead of on paper. In spite of these changes, books can still be reread and enjoyed at the top of their form for centuries. A videogame popular in 1985, however, would be about as playable to a child born in 2011 as fighting with twigs would be to someone whose first fight was with light sabers. While Final Fantasy VII is a masterpiece, a cherished consumer artifact, and arguably the greatest videogame ever made, its visuals are outdated, its gameplay is antiquated, and its mechanics outclassed. It no more defines the games industry than a leaf defines the fashion industry.

Any hope for videogames to experience a graceful aging like music or literature lies in the fighting of a losing war against impermanence. Our beloved art form can no more produce timeless classics as automobile manufacturers can. Like an automobile, a videogame possesses a certain undeniable quality of build, style, and execution for the time it was created. They become prized not for what they still are, but for what they once were.

The Classic Car Club of America defines a classic car by three criteria: it must be distinctive, it must be built between 1925 and 1948, and it must have originally been high priced. Videogames, though, are far from cars. They are not machines built for physical transportation, but for emotional, spiritual, and sometimes logical transport. While games may serve to get us from point A to point B, technologically speaking, they are more than hunks of factory manufactured materials intermittently thrown in garbage dumps when the achievements and DLC dry up like an unused sponge.
Videogames educate, romanticize, invigorate, and, most importantly, entertain us. There's good chance a gamer who has ever whistled Saria's Song, fought atop Metal Gear, ran a loop-de-loop or watched Ryo's father fall at the hands of Lan-Di, will revisit each experience a few more times throughout the course of his life. We will fondly remember our childhood treasures and treat them as if they were brand new; but what will our children think about these games? Our generations' offspring are well on their way to shunning our masterpieces for such inarticulate reasons as "the graphics suck" and "you can't sprint."

As people age, they don't so much as accept their dilapidation as they do exit life kicking and screaming, much like how they came in. Who wants to feel old? Life, like a competently managed factory, functions with the icy effectiveness of sterile machinery. It gives no quarter, plea bargains or second chances. We have shelf lives to make room for better, faster, and more expendable people to produce even more expendable consumer merchandise. I belong to a generation of gamers who started school during the 8-bit years, graduated from bed wetting in the 16-bit era, discovered awkwardly pubescent situations with their 32-bit systems, and fell in puppy love somewhere between the 64 and 128-bit eras. These are the folks that are now, or soon to be, raising kids their own. A new generation whom may possibly never know what it was like to look on helplessly as Sephiroth impaled Aerith with his masamune blade. I hold little hope of my daughter ever exploring the city of Midgar and saving Planet from Sephiroth. Not after she's played the latest installment of Final Fantasy, in 3D, with full-body motion controls, while I sit on the porch playing the poorly rated Final Fantasy VII HD on my iPhone 15. Or maybe I'm already old.

2012 Artisin