The ending of The Detail’s first episode left all of the characters in a radically different position from where they began. Detective Reggie Moore and his partner Tyrone DeShawn were being assigned to a new taskforce, charged with cracking down on the worsening crime epidemic. Joe Miller, their informant, was in way too deep with the Kuchka Brotherhood, and needed a way out to protect himself and his family. And rookie Officer Kate had just watched her partner, Officer Mason, killed by gang bangers. All in all, it was a bleak finale—with plenty of potential to ramp up in the next episode.
And ramp up things do… sort of. After a short recap of the previous episode, From The Ashes tosses players in with a tense meeting full of threats between Joe and Kuchka Brotherhood leader Mikhail. It quickly establishes a sense of powerlessness, which seems to pervade the entire episode: all of the characters are stuck fighting uphill, struggling to make solid progress. But while all four main characters (Tyrone joins as a playable character in this episode) certainly see an escalation in their plot lines, it is more of a preparatory episode—Episode 2 lacks the punchy, dramatic shift in stakes that comes with the first episode. This is not necessarily a flaw—from a narrative standpoint, it does make sense to have a slight lull in intensity to allow for a more poignant build to action—but it does leave the episode feeling less action-packed and pivotal than the previous one.
But this also causes the internal narrative structure of From The Ashes to feel shaky. I came back to finish my playthrough on a scene with Reggie and, about five clicks and one minute later, was staring at the credits. Nothing indicated that we were building to a resolution; the events felt haphazard and uncertain within the overarching plot. Coupled with the fact that extra character Tyrone and expanded character Kate seem to have skimmed their screen time from Reggie’s allotment, it leaves all three of them with minimal progression; only Joe seems to have any substantial action.
The decisions still feel weighty; a constant sense of uncertainty followed me throughout the entire episode. I was never sure if I really had the right information, which keeps events intriguing and offers incentive to keep two save files handy. Indeed, I found myself ‘locked’ out of one part of Reggie’s story because I chose not to make him harass a suspect enough and missed information needed. After poor feedback on Reggie’s heavy-handed tactics in the previous episode, I thought it would be safer to try playing it by the book—which led to a situation in which he was forced (I literally could not progress without choosing this option) to pretend to hear a suspect flushing drugs in order to wholly illegally break down his door and search the place. And while it would have been nice to see Reggie let it go, the decision to break in feels completely in-character (and was pretty satisfying, honestly).
The Detail includes a post-game recap that players of Life is Strange or any of Telltale’s recent games will be familiar with. But rather than simply comparing your decisions to those made by other players, The Detail provides statistics on things like overuse of police force, infidelity, and other factors directly tied to the decision you make. It gives the decisions the player must make even more weight and significance; these aren’t just arbitrary concepts a developer through together, but researched and grounded situations that are dealt with in real life by real people.
The playable character models in From The Ashes are noticeably improved from the first episode, but this change is not standardised. It leaves NPCs looking out of place; the worst offender is an animated smoking guy standing out the front of a Northside 13 hideout, whose outline is jagged and showing image artefacts that clash with the otherwise nice visual aesthetic. As with the previous episode, there are a handful of occasions where specific sound effects would add to the experience, but the visual novel style and background music carry the load well enough that this isn’t sorely missed.
The Detail Episode 2: From The Ashes is not as strong or expertly crafted as the first episode, and its rough edges certainly show, but it provides a stable foundation for the next episode. This is the dip before the rising tension begins and I am still just as intrigued to see what happens next.
Originally published at Impulse Gamer. Read my review of the first episode here.
‘Ronin is not a stealth game,’ the help popup tells me. ‘Just kill everybody.’ So I do. Leaping from floor to ceiling, I sweep across the room and back again, cutting through enemies. An entire room full of gun-wielding guards, now dead—and all in the equivalent of about 15 seconds.
Ronin is about visiting violent vengeance upon your enemies. Your targets are, one by one, circled and then crossed out on an old photograph. The implication is that you are the little girl pictured, but your motives remain unclear. It doesn’t matter why—Ronin is about simple, uncomplicated, satisfying revenge. You must kill these men and women, no matter the cost.
The fifteen missions to eliminate the five targets follow a similar formula: two levels of murder-fun and computer hacking, and then a level of murder-fun and target execution. And what glorious murder-fun it is. During the turn-based combat, a combination of leaps, grapple-swings, flying kicks, and pauses allow the protagonist to dodge between the storm of bullets and cut down the armed guards one-by-one. There’s a rhythm to be discovered: dodge, kill, dodge, kill. Leap between bullets, kill an enemy. Leap away, throw sword into another foe.
At their hardest, the encounters take on a puzzle-like quality; finding the safe spots and avoiding the various types on enemy attack while maintaining a feasible position from which to attack is not always easy. But the satisfaction gained from pulling off an impressive manoeuvre—intentional or not—cannot be overstated. A dramatic leap turns into a lethal sword toss. The landing, precariously ducking under machine gun fire, gives me an opportunity to use sword recall, which—somehow—makes my sword fly back toward me, skewering a second guard. Pop a decoy, grapple-kick another guy out a window. Ronin is full of moments and combinations of moments that fill the player with a sense of dominance.
‘Hint: you can’t turn off the hints,’ the game tells me. Beneath the mass murder lies a peculiar wit and sense of style. Indeed, Ronin is billed as ‘stylish’ and the futuristic, dystopian setting only lends credence to the sense of power: the motorcycle helmet-wearing, leather-clad, ninja girl protagonist delivers (presumably) justice in a future-punk setting before cruising off on a motorcycle. But perhaps the most pointed example of developer Tomasz Wacławek’s sense of humour is the elevator sequences. Riding in the elevator, jingle-playing, as you pass the bodies of the slain only reaffirms the sheer talent and determination of the heroine.
Perhaps the biggest downside is its length. My playthrough of Ronin clocked in at just over four hours, including a few particularly difficult sections that slowed my progress considerably. It is, however, not sparse; Ronin certainly doesn’t feel unfinished or skimped on.
Ronin is not a stealth game. The self-confessed Gunpoint rip-off is a frantic, physics-defying, blood-spattering, minimalist tale of revenge. It culminates in a superb final level, offering two equally powerful endings. And while its length might leave you craving more murder-fun, it does offer a new game plus: go destroy your enemies all over again, in style.
Finding the right words describe Journey is incredibly difficult. Not because it is bland or because there is little to say—this is perhaps the most incorrect analysis one could make about the game—but because the experience is so human, so personal, that sharing is akin to tearing down protective walls and exposing my fragile, vulnerable emotions to strangers.
There is a point, a little over halfway in, where Journey introduces the first actively hostile element: strange floating dragon-like constructs that appear stone or metallic in origin. Their singular eye doubles as a search light; it is immediately clear that being spotted by these creatures would be ill-advised. So I avoid them, weaving away from the search lights as I slide down an enormous sand hill in a strange ruin. My companion races down the hill beside me; while this reminds me of our joyful sliding earlier, leaping over ledges and through stone gates, singing with glee, there is a clear, unspoken difference. This time, there is no joy, for we are in danger.
And that becomes clear all too soon as my companion gently drifts into the white beam of light. It immediately turns red, the music takes a sharp turn, and the flying serpent coils and darts toward my defenceless friend: prey.
I have been in a handful of stressful, threatening situations before. The blood seems to warm and rise, I feel a heat in my neck and behind my ears, and my heart rate quickens. My usual mess of thoughts fade away and I am left with startling clarity. Being fairly rational, reasonable, under pressure is a trait that I am most grateful for.
In that moment, I felt the same physical reaction. I calmly and deliberately slid through the search light, attempting to distract the creature. The two of us weaved back and forth, the spotlight supernaturally trained on my companion. Then another creature joined the hunt, focused on me. This world, which had been tranquil, was now actively trying to kill us.
A few tense moments later, we passed through a barrier and the enemies were halted. Relief washed over me. We were safe. For now.
Journey is emotional and achieves this both deliberately and organically, which is unusual for videogames. Typically, deliberate attempts at eliciting emotion are signposted: the game wants you to feel sad, so it kills the dog. The game wants you to hate the villain, so it shows them kicking children in the face, and so on. The more obviously designed these situations are, the less powerful they tend to be. But Journey’s emotional journey, as it were, feels natural while clearly being a conscious element.
The latter sections are particularly powerful—especially if you are fortunate enough to play alongside a companion—and left me with a strange sense of peacefulness. I cannot explain exactly why these last stages are so effective for risk of spoiling what is an unforgettable, irreplaceable piece of art, but it is important to communicate how satisfyingly the ending is constructed. The experience is wonderfully cathartic but also instils a renewed sense of optimism and hope.
It would be irresponsible of me to talk about Journey in any capacity without mentioning the music. But it would also be equally remiss to forget to praise the level design, the actual physicality of the space and the characters’ movement through it. Fortunately, these are intricately woven threads, as with all elements of Journey: when the sun is shining as I skid down a sand dune alongside my companion, as we chirp and sing and explore, climbing and jumping up the next dune, the music is hopeful, happy, rising and glowing and full of promise. Later, in the dark and cold, the air whistles and the colours darken; the atmosphere is heavy, we robed characters move slower, and there is an unrelenting sense of foreboding, pressing down on us, suffocating—even our voices are weak.
I wish I could say more. I wish I could find the right words to explain how the expertly crafted, minimalist narrative is perfectly fitted to fundamental narrative theory, and how this is mapped to the landscape. I wish I could talk to you for an hour about the menu, about the way the same screen changes dramatically before and after your first play. But some things are too hard to explain, and some things are better experienced first-hand: Journey is one such thing.
There’s a moment, very early on, where my companion activates the end of the level before we have located all of the hidden cape upgrades. For the briefest moment, I consider turning away, abandoning them to rush off in search of my treasure. But I don’t—I sit within the glowing circle and we continue our journey together. We might not have the boost those upgrades would have afforded us, but it does not matter.
We have each other, and that is the most important thing.
This review was originally published at Impulse Gamer.
My heart is still pounding as my red-haired, submachine gun-wielding female proxy takes cover behind a dumpster and waits for the heat to blow over. We—my character and her three “business associates”—have just stolen a prison bus in preparation for our prison break heist. A tense minute passes while the police skirt around my location until, suddenly and comprehensively, the police give up the search. The team stows the bus at the drop off and we’re all deposited outside a rural Blaine County store, fifteen grand richer.
It takes a few seconds for Grand Theft Auto Online to give control back to the player after missions. I take a few steps toward my expensive sports car, bought with entirely illegal funds. The crack of an assault rifle pours through my headphones, followed shortly thereafter by the unmistakable sound of my death. As the screen fades to black, I watch two other members of my heist crew get mowed down by our traitorous fourth member.
Agar.io is ostensibly a micro-organism simulator. You play as a small dot and eat other small, static dots in the pursuit of growing bigger. But there are other mobile dots—other players—sharing your micro environment. Bigger dots can consume smaller dots. Communication between players is impossible. As much as Agar.io is about microbes, it also serves as a beautiful insight into human nature—and it’s an ugly little world.
Agar.io has a neat little feature whereby entering in certain nicknames colours your dot certain ways. Choose the name Netherlands, for example, and the dot takes the form of a scrawled version of the Dutch flag. Likewise for numerous other nations, and certain other names: CIA, doge, and various planets also have custom dots associated. I read one article discussing the interesting connotations formed when a bunch of nations face off against each other: imagine a minuscule USA being devoured by the old USSR—I saw it plenty.
But the most interesting element I have discovered revolves around behaviour and the W key, which shoots a little blob of your mass out into the micro-universe. These thoughts began to form after encountering two dots: feed for team and pls dont eat me. These two players tried to break down the communication barriers and work with others, and it made me hopeful... right up until pls dont eat me ate me. Jerk.
The other player was onto something, though. In another server, I came across a player who was bigger than me. They weren't actively chasing me, but they were uncomfortably close. So I tried something unconventional: I shot some mass at him. He rolled over it, absorbing it into his mass, and then fired a shot back. That was it; we were a team.
There was no noise, not fanfare, not even a definite confirmation. But I knew we had a shared understanding, and together we might conquer the leaderboard. (I regret not making a note of his name, but my familiarity with Korean characters is not high.) We branched out, avoiding the juggernauts and consuming both inanimate and animate blobs as we saw fit.
And for a time, life was good. We bumped into each other (not literally, thankfully, as one of us invariably would’ve been absorbed) a few times, the larger shooting a few blobs of mass to the smaller to reaffirm our status and help the other out. Things were good, until I overcommitted trying to consume and eradicate ISIS and ended up a victim of somebody else. Probably the moon.
It was devastating, certainly, but I was preoccupied with this bizarre feeling of connectedness. Without language, we had established an alliance in a game where becoming the largest seems possible only through the death and exploitation of the weak. Journey provides a beautiful cooperative experience—arguably the most beautiful—but the other player is never a threat, so finding someone to trust never requires a leap of faith.
Even the concept of now devouring anything and everything in your path seems contrary to the ‘winning strategy’. For the first few attempts, I vowed not to eat another player. This ended poorly; you can’t grow big enough to ward off would-be predators surviving only on the static dots. Then, in a fit of desperation, I assimilated a dot called Nazi and decided that eating bad guys was a little more justifiable, if I must be carnivorous. Bad guys with bad names it was (and there are a lot; be wary of Agar.io if foul language offends).
But by the time I encountered my team mate, I was well past the point of playing Agar.io as anything other than a survival of the fittest game. Everybody smaller than me became a part of the collective. I was consumed by the desire to consume others! And then it all changed, just like that, with a single blast of mass in self defence.
So I guess that, even if life and human nature seem fixated on the notion of survival of the fittest, hope still remains for a brighter tomorrow. Even through communication barriers, those who are willing can find a way to work together. Maybe we don’t need to grow or evolve at the cost of others.
But when it comes to names, people are still grubs. You can play Agar.io for yourself here.
Middle-earth: Shadow of Mordor is the gripping tale of an angry white guy murdering and enslaving hundreds of orcs because some other guy murdered his wife and son (and him, I guess). Talion is the perfect AAA protagonist: awesome, attractive, and angsty. He free-runs across Mordor, destroying enemies with supernatural finesse and brutality. Talion’s shaggy, bearded face and chiselled ranger’s physique secure him a spot alongside paragons of masculinity Aragorn, Faramir, and Eomer. And the murder of his family leaves Talion with a particularly angsty disposition, causing him to forgo kinship or aid under the notion that he alone must claim bitter vengeance—and not because, you know, he’s now immortal.
Talion is absolutely perfect. Except that he sucks.
Both Tolkien’s work and Jackson’s adaptations have made it clear that men of Gondor are white, so the fact that Talion is represented as a white guy is not that objectionable. Representing him differently would be unfaithful to the source material; I wouldn’t want an angry mob of Lord of the Rings fans carrying replica Andurils outside my door, baying for my blood, over showing some creative license with character creation either. But that’s not to say that our overabundance of straight, white male characters isn’t an issue. It definitely is an issue and one that we need to tackle, not just in videogames, but throughout all media. Rather, my point is that Talion is absolute garbage for a number of other reasons.
By the end of Shadow of Mordor, Talion has actually blundered into some character development and found himself a noble, interesting goal. But throughout the entirety of the actual plot, his sole purpose is the definitely-not-overused-as-a-concept pursuit of revenge—one part for his family and one part because his soul is apparently trapped on this plane until justice is delivered.
Dead wives and girlfriends are second only to kidnapped wives and girlfriends as the laziest, most ham-fisted way to eke an emotional response from the player. ‘Hey, that digital dude totally murdered the digital wife of digital you; go and kick his digital butt!’ As a player, I have no actual reason to give a damn—the short opening sequence, where I use the exact same buttons to give my (Talion’s) wife flowers that I later use to stealthily assassinate orcs, does little to instil a sense of concern. Even after the Black Hand of Sauron straight up murders me (Talion), the only emotional investment I have in Talion is that I just watched his family die and he seems pretty bummed about it.
Talion is the Tolkien universe’s answer to Max Payne. He is the solemn guy who must turn his back on the world of goodness and dispense some seriously kickass ‘justice’ to soothe his aching soul. I would have thought that saving the entire world from suffering the same fate as your family would have been a more pressing concern and not just a by-product of revenge, especially given the whole ‘I need no sleep or sustenance, which allows me to fight forever, and suffering fatal wounds just causes me to reappear at a sweet ghostly tower’ thing.
I’m only along for the ride because Talion kicks serious butt. And Talion? He’s only along for the ride because he’s the angsty hero type. But of course he is. Only the brave ranger whose family is tragically murdered could embark upon such a perilous quest. I mean, who else could be cast as the hero?
Hint: how about the frigging kid? Dirhael, son of Talion, is not an infant. He’s a mostly grown man and a wannabe ranger. He has some basic sword skills and is also murdered in precisely the same way that Talion is murdered and presumably loves his mother just as much as his father does. (Conspicuously, Talion encounters a vision of his wife during the game but never has one of his son.)
So, why not Dirhael? All of the same ingredients are there—he’d even still be an awesome, attractive, and angsty white dude! If Shadow of Mordor must rest upon such a woefully overdone foundation as revenge, then at least opt to pursue the road less travelled. I will concede, however, that having Dirhael as the protagonist would undermine the parallelism Talion shares with the wraith—who is perhaps the only worthwhile narrative element in Shadow of Mordor. So there’s that.
But it’s not just a case of Dirhael making for a slightly less rubbish narrative; there would be actual positives to his inclusion. One of the most obvious benefits is how Dirhael would keep mechanical elements consistent within narrative context.
Talion is a veteran ranger. He is, according to official material, ‘one of the most experienced guardians of the lands bordering Mordor’ whose training ‘shaped him into a lethal force’. Clearly, Talion is a fiercely impressive fighter, which is precisely why the ranger half of the skill tree is utterly incompatible with him. The ranger skills include the ability to stun countered enemies, kill enemies with takedowns from above, and frighten enemies by stabbing the absolute crap out of their friends—all skills that a veteran ranger would undoubtedly already have.
Dirhael wouldn’t have these skills. He would need to learn them through practice—exactly the kind of practice available to an immortal, wraith-enhanced (wannabe) ranger. Grounding these mechanics in the narrative arc makes it less ‘gamey’ and more of a cohesive experience; gaining skills would be a less arbitrary concept. Even so, finding broken cups to level up is still totally abstract. But hey, let’s sort out the issues with protagonists before we tackle that one.
(This article by Austin Walker further discusses some of Shadow of Mordor’s issues with race and representation. My post is not designed to undermine or erase issues with diversity, merely point out the numerous other reasons why Talion is a poor choice of protagonist.)
Pro Evolution Soccer 2015 competes directly with FIFA 15 to be MVP of the football simulator. They are opposing teams—rivals—locked in a never-ending struggle for supremacy. Each year they trot out onto the football pitch and show us their best moves. FIFA 15 is like the star striker who is lavished with praise and has all the best sponsorship deals—everybody loves the spectacle of a blistering run and acrobatic goal. PES 15, on the other hand, is a no-nonsense, stalwart defender who cares little for the extravagance—he’s paid to keep his head down and stop goals.
PES 15 is supposed to be a no-frills approach to football; unfortunately, it seems to have achieved more of a poor-frills outcome. Replays in FIFA 15 were exciting but the uninterested could skip them with a single button press; PES 15 requires three button presses to skip the overly long celebrations, ‘TV’ replays, and player-controlled replays. Every goal scored results in the same lengthy process, which delays the return to actual footballing. Weak commentary also contributes to the frustration, but has its own detrimental effects. The biggest issue is the shortage of lines: nearly every single goal is scored off a ‘delicious’ pass, and half of my team are standouts that can ‘decide the outcome of matches’ on their own. Part of FIFA 15’s charm is that it recreates the experience of watching a live match; PES 15 is best when the commentary is muted or turned down low.
Graphically, PES 15 abandons the photorealistic route. The stylised look is not necessarily a flaw—though I did love the presentation of FIFA 15—especially when you consider the shortage of licensed teams and players. Photorealism doesn’t make it any easier to recognise players that nobody knows. This has always been the uphill battle for PES: FIFA is the official, licensed product, so it can use actual leagues, teams, and players. But the smattering of official teams and players in PES 15 seems to only point out what is missing, and a bland graphical style doesn’t enhance that deficiency.
In terms of gameplay, PES 15 does a good job. Dribbling feels impressive and gives a sense of control. Skill moves can be semi-automated—all the benefits of flashy tricks and feints without the complicated button pressing. Generally, movement on the ball feels fluid and exciting. But not everything is streamlined: calling for pressure in defence requires a double-press and then hold of the circle button; in FIFA 15, this requires a single button hold. Pass assistance is also much less forgiving in PES 15. Even with the assistance turned up to the maximum (and holding L2 to show the pass direction), many of my passes went straight to an opponent’s feet. Despite feeling incredible on the ball, the moment I tried to pass or initiate an attacking movement, everything crumbled.
PES 15 outshines FIFA 15 in the tactics department. Match tactics can be tweaked so that players will change formation based on different circumstances. The number of players who push up in attack can be changed, as can the number that track back once possession is lost. It offers a lot more control behind the scenes and allows the shrewd tactician to dictate player behaviour without directly controlling them.
But better tactics doesn’t necessarily mean smarter players. In Become A Legend mode—where I played 17-year-old me as an attacking midfielder who was shunted into right winger by my manager—my teammates seemed to hate me. I would make the right runs, get into space, but the other players would consistently opt for a long lob pass into danger rather than the short, easy pass to an open player. With no option to call for passes or tell teammates to shoot (as in FIFA 15), I was left feeling very disgruntled.
Become A Legend is a definite improvement over the equivalent mode in FIFA 15. The ability to tweak personal training also results in far more sensible stat progression. Playing in matches earns experience points that are used to improve skills; FIFA 15 just adds points based on arbitrary achievements in matches. But these improvements are tarnished by a bizarre camera angle that often placed me off screen and the inability to call for a pass. It felt like I was playing on a team of 11-year-olds who were still playing chase-the-ball and looking for personal glory over teamwork. These issues contributed to my constant poor match ratings, despite being almost twice as good as every other player on my team, statistics-wise.
Master League is also better than the manager mode of FIFA 15. Scouting is rudimentary, but much clearer and easier to figure out. Each player can be given training focuses to improve on problem areas. New players can be signed from other teams, or brought up from a youth squad. The flexibility of the match tactics really enhances Master League—being able to play one defensive midfielder deeper than the other meant that my players were nearly always performing their optimal role. My favourite inclusion is ‘coach mode’, which allows me to watch my computer-controlled team act out my instructions. Switching between match view and a two-dimensional tactical view also gives greater insight into what is happening—one view shows what parts of the pitch are getting the most action, which meant I knew who to substitute and what positions needed improving.
Some aspects of Master League are bizarre, like paying the entirety of a season’s wage bill in one lump sum. Negotiations are a bit haphazard and lack the intricacies of something like Football Manager, and are also limited by arbitrary ‘tokens’—I should be allowed to buy as many players as I want within the transfer window, not be limited to the chance to buy five per year. As far as management simulators go, PES 15 blasts FIFA 15 out of the water—but it still falls well short of FM15.
With the mantra ‘the pitch is ours’, PES 15 believes that it has done enough to usurp the title from the FIFA franchise. While PES 15 has improved on a number of features, there are some issues that dampened my experience. Pro Evolution Soccer 15 might have played well, but FIFA definitely still owns the pitch.
This post was originally published at Impulse Gamer.
What I loved about the first two Assassin’s Creed games is how the Animus components were inseparably interwoven with the events happening in the present. Altair is tracking down and exterminating Templars; Abstergo is doing the same to Assassins. Desmond is ‘working for’ Vidic, who plans to betray and kill him just as Al Mualim planned to betray and kill Altair. The second game is even clearer: Ezio learns to become an Assassin so that the bleeding effect will teach Desmond how to become an Assassin. But now the Assassin’s Creed franchise has shifted away from the intriguing contemporary science fiction plot—with revisionist history serving as both a backdrop and a foil—and onto an out of control metanarrative using ‘the real world’ as the barest of framing devices.
Outside of the Animus, the narrative in Assassin’s Creed Rogue boils down to this: Abstergo Entertainment makes videogames about Assassins. This has the unfortunate implication that Ubisoft is a Templar front, but it also raises all sorts of other meta commentary. One of the emails found while hacking colleagues’ tablets discusses a sequel to Abstergo’s (Assassin’s Creed) Liberation so that they don’t come under fire for lack of female representation. Another email discusses a secret, upcoming project about a man named Arno Dorian set in Revolutionary France—which would have been a far more interesting easter egg had Rogue been scheduled for release first.
The last of the particularly noteworthy emails concerns Edward Kenway, star of Assassin’s Creed IV: Black Flag (or Pirates of Nightmares as it is known in-universe). Melanie Lemay, a high-ranking Abstergo Entertainment employee, wants to use more of Edward Kenway’s genetic memory. She is concerned, however, about giving the impression that the studio is simply reusing the same genetic material as a cash-grab; reusing assets to save money is alright so long as the experience is ‘totally fresh’.
Assassin’s Creed Rogue ‘reuses’ New York, though the city looks both different and nicer than its future counterpart in Assassin’s Creed III. Assets weren’t simply reused in this instance, but the limitations of the PS3 are clearly showing. It is a strangely considerate touch. After all, Rogue is likely the last instalment of the franchise to appear on the previous generation of consoles; not to mention that Rogue was the less publicised sibling of Assassin’s Creed Unity, and was not developed by the lead studio. It would be unsurprising if Rogue was slapped together haphazardly; fortunately, it is not.
But to say that Assassin’s Creed Rogue is a ‘totally fresh’ experience would be inaccurate. There are the same repetitious side activities and an outrageous number of collectibles strewn across the world. (Bar fights and chasing after sea shanties are my two absolute least favourite of these, though the treasure maps were neat.) There’s the same pile of varying weapons and equipment, despite counter-hidden blade or pistol kills being satisfactory. And Rogue continues with the brazen attempt to shoe-horn as many notable events and people from the historical period into the plot—Captain James Cook’s (yeah, the very same) inclusion was perhaps my favourite for being so utterly unnecessary that I couldn't help but laugh.
But Rogue is not a terrible game. It’s clearly a formulaic Assassin’s Creed game, but people keep buying these games for a reason. The entire naval experience is superb; I loved ship-to-ship combat and spent a lot of time perfecting my boarding attempts. Disembarking was a constant contest as well—every time I docked, I had to use the rope to swing off and try to land smoothly on the jetty for nothing more than self-satisfaction. As a rogue assassin, protagonist Shay Cormac is equal parts prey and hunter: other assassins will leap off buildings or appear from the trademark Assassin’s Creed hiding places to try and get a quick stab in. There are also assassination interception missions, where Shay scopes out a target and must kill the assassins before they succeed. These are wonderful and helped cover up some of the other flaws.
The biggest of these flaws is that free running is still an excruciatingly temperamental experience. Getting stuck on corners, rope lifts not activating, falling out of trees, and landing two feet to the right of the hay bale—I had constant problems with movement. Assassin’s Creed is about feeling awesome as you sprint across rooftops and stalk along tree branches; I felt like a moron. Only in one circumstance did this not infuriate me: Shay leapt off a rooftop into an elegant dive and landed in the middle of a stone-paved street, far from any water. Hilarious glitch aside, Rogue has serious problems with its movement and it dampens the entire experience.
As much as I miss the interesting interplay between the modern day and history, the narrative in Assassin’s Creed Rogue—the one about the rogue assassin, not the one about an Ubisoft Abstergo employee finding out that they’re going to be murdered and then casually helping their murderous boss anyway—is really interesting. Previously, we’ve seen only how virtuous the Assassins are and how contemptible the Templars are; Rogue expands on the pseudo-prologue of Assassin’s Creed III by presenting the Templars in a positive light, and demonstrating the kind of dishonourable, short-sighted behaviour that caused Shay Cormac to defect, and which ultimately led to the downfall of the North American Brotherhood. No person or organisation is without flaws.
Assassin’s Creed Rogue is not totally fresh. It relies on the same conventions established through the previous seven games—and even performs a core tenet, free running, rather poorly. Rogue has long since departed from the commendable storytelling devices employed in the early games, instead relying on a vague, unobtrusive frame using a generic, incomplete ‘character’ (known only as ‘numbskull’) as the vessel. But Assassin’s Creed Rogue is still (mostly) fun. Hunting Assassins is fun. Listening to sea shanties with your crew and then boarding an enemy ship is fun. Maybe a totally fresh experience isn’t what is needed; maybe this already good experience just needs to be better.
This post was originally published at Impulse Gamer.
Kingdom Hearts HD II.5 Remix is an apology. It’s an apology for spreading the Kingdom Hearts games across numerous platforms, forcing fans to purchase additional devices to keep atop the series. It’s an apology for not giving us the ‘Final Mix’ versions of the games in the first place. Comprising Kingdom Hearts II Final Mix, Kingdom Hearts Birth By Sleep Final Mix, and an abridged, cutscene version of Kingdom Hearts Re:coded, KHII.5 has a staggering amount of content. It should be an effective apology—but it’s not.
Kingdom Hearts was the first game I owned for the PlayStation 2. I played it in marathon sessions until I finally bought a memory card. I bought Kingdom Hearts II the day before its release after finding a store that broke the street date. I say this to demonstrate the deep affection I have for the series, which makes the disappointment of II.5 so much harder to bear.
The problem is that Kingdom Hearts doesn’t know what it wants to be. The original concepts—Sora and friends, Organization XIII, the Keyblade War—are attempts at a serious, dramatic narrative. Xehanort and his sinister pals must be stopped through the power of monologues about love and friendship. But even in scenes about betrayal, kidnapping, or violence, that whimsical Disney influence appears in the form of slapstick comedy, a painfully unfunny joke, or simply unfathomably cheesy dialogue. Kingdom Hearts cannot separate itself from that fluffy Disney coat, where nobody dies and positive thinking can defeat all evil. Even the Final Fantasy cameos appear infected with this, to the point where original canon is cannibalised to fit better with the idea of Heartless as the ultimate evil.
Trying to turn Kingdom Hearts into its own series, instead of a colourful jaunt through Disney IPs, has only added convoluted layer upon convoluted layer to the Kingdom Hearts ‘lore’, to the point that whatever magic existed in the first place has been utterly eroded. In the original, Sora was the chosen wielder of the Kingdom Key, which transformed by attaching different keychains. King Mickey wielded the Kingdom Key’s opposite, which created an interesting duality between the characters that continued all the way to the end, when Mickey locked himself in the Realm of Darkness while Sora remained in the Realm of Light. Birth By Sleep throws that out by retconning in a legendary Keyblade War with its thousands of now-discarded keyblades and making Mickey wield the Star Seeker instead of the Kingdom Key’s opposite. Sora’s chosen status and the significance of the keyblade are both destroyed by what is clearly an attempt at harnessing ‘cool’.
Narratively, Kingdom Hearts is a disaster. Kingdom Hearts Re:coded, the third inclusion in the II.5 Remix, is a collection of HD cutscenes detailing the events post-KHII but pre-Dream Drop Distance, in which Jiminy’s journal of the first Kingdom Hearts game (and presumably Chains of Memories) becomes a digital world. A digital copy of Sora, lifted from his ‘timeline’ right after arriving in Traverse Town, is then sent through the events of the first game—on his own—and tasked with destroying corrupted data. Along the way, the real Pete and Maleficent interfere, Mickey and friends are trapped in the datascape, and only the power of love and friendship are able to save them. After fixing the journal, Data-Sora—now with his memory of the past adventure wiped—is sent through the events of Chains of Memories, which results in him forgetting people he doesn’t know and being attacked by an extremely angsty Roxas for not knowing the real meaning of hurt. It culminates in Data-Sora telling Data-Naminé ‘thank you’ for something he never experienced and Mickey declaring that he will tell the real Sora about this adventure under the misguided notion that it will deepen everybody’s friendships and help mend the broken hearts of Axel, Roxas, and Xion.
Fortunately, both Kingdom Hearts II and Kingdom Hearts Birth By Sleep have satisfying gameplay. Birth By Sleep transfers really well to console, and its combat format is actually more enjoyable than KHII. Abilities are far easier to use and are therefore more likely to be used over the standard ‘mash X to win’ strategy. Birth By Sleep’s enemies, the Unversed, are quite clearly the precursors to the Heartless, but maintain enough variety to make them feel unique. Being able to play through each of the characters’ intersecting narratives with their differing play styles means that Birth By Sleep has the honour of being my favourite Kingdom Hearts game to date—despite its bizarre Monopoly-Mario Party minigame and the negative effects it has on the Kingdom Hearts story.
Kingdom Hearts HD II.5 Remix is an apology, and an attempt to win over fans—both new and old—in preparation for the upcoming Kingdom Hearts III. Sadly, it seems to have had the opposite effect on me: I am not interested in this increasingly convoluted narrative about Heartless and Nobodies and time travelling, body-stealing bad guys whose sole motivator is ‘I’m evil’. I am grateful to have experienced the joy that is playing Birth By Sleep, but II.5 has shown me that my love for Kingdom Hearts as a story ended when the plucky young hero Sora was reunited his friends, Riku and Kairi. But who knows—maybe Kingdom Hearts III will be a dream to play. Just don’t expect me to care about the plot.
This post was originally published at Impulse Gamer.
Total War: Attila takes place during the Hunnic invasions of Europe. The Roman Empire is failing and the Huns ride west, leaving wreckage and ruin in their wake. The Huns of history were like a ferocious tidal wave, washing across Europe with great speed and power, scattering the Germanic tribes as they went. But in Attila, my Hunnic horde felt more water from a garden hose—ineffectual when spread out, but stick your finger in there just right and they could become a satisfactorily powerful, targeted stream.
The Total War series is about creating immense empires during pivotal points in history. Tribes and civilisations wage war and trade their way to supremacy through a combination of turn-based strategy faction control and real-time tactical battles. Attila makes very few changes to the formula: the macro level is still a blend of army movement, city upgrading, and diplomacy, while the micro level is complex combat between two or more armies.
What sets Attila apart is the new horde mode: several factions, including the eponymous Huns, aren’t tied down to actual, physical settlements, choosing instead to cart their buildings around with them like human snails. With this come a whole range of changes and a drastic shift in strategy. But even among the horde factions, the Huns remain unique—the Visigoths and other migratory tribes are able to settle down, but the Huns are permanently nomadic—which means even more differences in approach.
Unfortunately, the tutorial campaign does little to prepare players for the strategy of commanding a Hunnic horde (or any horde, really). While the basics of macro-management and micro-combat are covered, nothing of the general meta-strategies (don’t expand too quickly, upgrading buildings immediately isn’t a necessity, etc.) are explored and absolutely no horde-specific information is given. Or, at least, I didn’t see any before the tutorial campaign crashed. (Note: the game did crash very occasionally, but the auto-save is pretty forgiving. A crash mid-battle would probably be less pleasant.) The tutorial was generally disappointing. At one stage, the game prompted me to launch an attack—without delay!—despite having a drastically smaller force and little hope of success.
All of this culminates in a punishingly unfair difficulty curve. I started at least a dozen campaigns that ended abruptly with all manner of disastrous situations. Given the actual success of the Huns, I dare say they didn’t have to deal with inexplicable bankruptcy, unrecoverable famine, traitorous allies, or my personal favourite, villages burning down before I even arrived. Ultimately, I gave up on the Huns; until more experienced and more talented players create a guide, my ambition to lead Attila to glory is on hold.
Fortunately, the Visigoths were a little more accommodating. Thanks to King Alaric of the Visigoths, I could sink my teeth into the updated and expanded family and faction controls. Faction members can be promoted to positions of power, granted army command or governorships, assassinated, adopted into the ruler’s family, bribed, or married off. Disloyal members might cause civil war or defect. Attila gives the concept of enemies-at-home more bite, but also provides players more opportunity to actually combat this outside of simple assassinations.
There are a solid number and variety of factions to choose from, with varying levels of difficulty, which makes for ample replay value. However, I did notice that additional factions are available through a DLC which was available at release; paid Day One DLC has always rubbed me the wrong way. But, given the number of factions available already, it’s hard to hold a grudge.
Total War: Attila has the fortune of being the first Total War game where I felt confident and competent enough to fight (some of) my own battles, rather than hoping for superior numbers and auto-resolving conflicts. I can’t say whether this is truly Attila at play, or my own improving skill level, but it was nice to not feel like a hack (until the umpteenth time the campaign screwed me over). On the downside, Attila does away with the auto-resolve preview (even on lower difficulties). In Total War: Rome II, I could see a general indication of how the battle would wrap up based on my choice of aggressive, balanced, or protective approach. While Attila does hint that aggressive approaches are better when the enemy has superior ranged power (and protective when you have the upper hand), it was still a matter of click-and-hope when my forces were up against a similarly powerful foe.
Attila looks lovely. Even at a lower graphical setting—my ageing PC struggled to keep up—things look great. Seeing unseasonal northern snows blend into lush southern forests is wonderful, until an angry Hun razes a city and devastates the region with fire. The way the fire spreads out from the city, engulfing all of the green in its path and yet leaving armies completely untouched, only to die out precisely at that region’s border is equal parts beautiful and utterly stupid-funny. The first time I saw this fire, I panicked. The next time, as the fire crossed half a dozen streams before ending in the middle of a massive forest, I laughed.
But for all its graphical niceties, Attila sounds… rough. The combat sounds are authentic enough, but there is such a limited number of leader barks—LAY SEIGE TO THEIR HOVELS—that I just wanted my generals to shut up. I also found the advisor’s voice to be condescending, but I suspect that is a result of my tutorial experience. Maybe I shouldn’t be so hard on the guy—sometimes he gives good advice, I guess!
Total War: Attila is definitely one for the long-time fans. It’s a shame that the new mechanics are buried beneath an absurd difficulty curve and an unhelpful tutorial, but with enough patience and practice (lots of it), Attila will reveal itself a nice step forward for the Total War series.
This post was originally published at Impulse Gamer.
The very concept of DLC for a narrative-driven experience like Dragon Age: Inquisition is one fraught with danger. How does one create a worthwhile addition that can be done at virtually any point— during or after the central narrative—that doesn’t feel like it was an essential missing piece or is a lazy tack on? The simple answer: make Jaws of Hakkon.
The Inquisition receives intel that hints at the resting place of the previous Inquisitor some 800 years prior. History is sketchy on some of the details of Inquisitor Ameridan’s purpose and the events surrounding his death, and so it falls to the contemporary Inquisitor to set things straight. For a player whose character has already ended the threat posed by Corypheus, this is an opportunity to put the Inquisition’s forces to good use after the world is saved and recover a lost part of history. For those—like me—who hadn’t yet tackled the final foe, Jaws of Hakkon is a logical way to acquire more resources and allies in preparation for a final confrontation.
Frostback Basin is the setting for this quest of historical significance and it is a beautiful and varied location. A massive central forest, dotted with ruins and swampland, thins to the east as it reaches a shoreline; follow that same shoreline north and it rises into a mountainous region, home to the Avvar. In the west, the gigantic trees linger and a large river snakes its way through grasslands to a large ruin. The way that various biomes blend together and the way that nature intertwines with civilisation strongly remind me of a less foggy Morrowind; the similarities between House Telvanni and the Tevinter Imperium seem to extend beyond just the name.
Exploring Frostback Basin is both a joy and a challenge; the beautiful environments are much more vertical than most of the locations in Dragon Age: Inquisition, requiring you to clamber across makeshift tree-bridges and up steep hills. Listening to the banter between party members is wonderful—Dorian’s apparent fear of heights gave me a chuckle, especially when I proceeded to leap from the top of tree houses. But for all the character dialogue, there are some weak points: one guy talks far too much about thatching, and I took a small amount of joy from firing my bow at the guy who frequently says, ‘Our guests are welcome… so long as their weapons stay sheathed’.
The eponymous Jaws of Hakkon are a clan of Avvar who seem to have a bone to pick with everybody else. My first encounter was accidental; I stumbled upon two Hakkonite bowmen harassing a fisherman. What was most interesting is that both these ‘bowmen’ appeared to be women—shaved bald, wearing elaborate tribal paint, and seriously aggressive. While Dragon Age: Inquisition was no weakling when it came to diversity, Jaws of Hakkon has a few notable female characters: Thane Svarah Sun-Hair, leader of the Stone-Bear Hold; self-exiled Avvar mage Sigrid, who will join the Inquisition if asked; and Colette, an elven researcher whose talent overruled the rampant racism at the University of Orlais and secured her a spot on this expedition. Nice to see an absence of burly guys and helpless damsels.
But don’t expect Jaws of Hakkon to fundamentally change anything; it’s more of the same. That’s not a critique—Dragon Age: Inquisition is wonderful and this DLC only contributes more of the positives. At a relaxed pace with lots of exploration, there’s a solid ten or so hours to be found in Jaws of Hakkon. With interesting plot threads to discover, beautiful locations to traverse, and powerful equipment to loot, there’s plenty on offer in Jaws of Hakkon; it adds even more value to what was already a worthwhile experience.
This post was originally published at Impulse Gamer.
Within the first half hour, Final Fantasy Type-0 HD establishes what game it wants to be. Through a ten minute opening cutscene, we watch some guy (later revealed to be the brother of a playable character) take part in a conflict we understand and care little about (unless we watched the additional four minute pre-start menu cutscene). Over the course of roughly five dramatic scene changes, this tangentially relevant character is dying; he practically goes through the five stages of grief on his own, and backwards. This scene is so vitally important to establishing the tone of the game that the five dramatic dying scenes forget that the first one had enemies appear. Those enemies were supposed to be the reason that pseudo-main character Ace wasn’t beside his friend as he died; instead, Ace and his pals just turn their back on a dying young man and listen to the laboured sobs as he finally kicks the bucket. And then it’s time for dramatic, black-and-white-with-splashes-of-red opening credits!
Type-0 suffers for the Final Fantasy part of its name, and especially for its place as part of the Fabula Nova Crystallis group of titles. Even before it’s time to play, there are a dozen or more terms and names I’m supposed to remember and fit together. Peristylium, Pax Codex, Qun’mi. And that’s not to mention the mounting list of standardised Final Fantasy terminology: l’Cie, Magitek, Eidolon. A newcomer to the franchise would be utterly lost, which is part of the larger issue: few entries are allowed to truly innovate without having to jam in the Final Fantasy starter kit of concepts and features. This long running series is so steeped in history, conventions, and traditions that actually playing something that doesn’t feel like Frankenstein’s monster is rare—and seemingly becoming rarer.
Type-0 wants to be different. It wants to be an epic tale, one that will touch people and cause them to reflect. But Type-0 doesn’t really know how to achieve that. That pre-start menu movie, which establishes the clever history documentary framing device, ends with the stars—the members of Class Zero—mess up some bad guys and descend into the dramatic, heroic pose, complete with dynamic camera pans and a thrilling soundtrack. This comes four minutes ‘into’ the game. Now consider the iconic scene in The Avengers, where the titular characters are all assembled and similar camera pans are accompanied by the central motif. This scene appears close to the end of the film because it’s something the entire film builds towards. This is the point where things shift up another gear, a gear nobody thought existed, and now it gets truly awesome. But in Final Fantasy Type-0 HD, the lead characters wreck some airships, pull off their awesome team pose, and then are thrust into the player’s hands and told ‘Okay, now you’re level ten and can only fight small groups of weak dudes.’ This disconnect is incredibly unfair and disappointing.
Not since Final Fantasy VI—which is, coincidentally, my favourite entry in the series—has there been a playable cast of fourteen characters. But whereas FFVI’s cast underwent growth and development and were generally fleshed out, ‘real people’, Type-0 has a varied collection of stereotypes with almost no change whatsoever. Of course, this is the struggle when fourteen characters wrestle for screen time. And don’t get me wrong: the members of Class Zero more than fulfil the requisite ‘cool and interesting’ quotas, but these characters simply don’t go away where. They feel static in a franchise that has given us numerous journeys of change and self-discovery.
But for all that, persevere. Final Fantasy Type-0 HD may be as welcoming as a brick wall, but behind the stagnant rubbish, through the incomprehensible terminology, and past the overuse of tropes, lays a very decent action RPG that deserves to be free of its shackles.
Combat is intuitive and satisfying. There were some unexpected difficulty spikes—the first of which led me to discover the lack of autosave, which is a fairly unforgiveable oversight, especially for a former handheld game—but once I learned the basics, things became a lot more enjoyable. Each of the fourteen characters plays differently enough to provide variation, but similar enough to be simple, and the ability to swap in a new classmate after one falls in battle keeps the action constant. Switching between the active party members is also a one-button breeze; overall, this side of things seemed well designed and polished.
Plenty of remnants of its life as a PSP title remain. Although the character models appear updated, many of the backgrounds look bland. Gone is the idea of every Final Fantasy city having its own personality—Type-0 recycles the same brown, grey, and beige assets. But when it does use colour, actually use it, Type-0 looks beautiful. Stepping out onto the world map for the first time and gazing over the stunning blue-and-green ocean was a definite highlight.
Final Fantasy Type-0 HD fails in all the same ways that recent Final Fantasy titles seem to fail: the convoluted plots, terms, and concepts; the extravagant cutscenes; the didactic storytelling; the use of character stereotypes as a crutch. I passionately believe that Final Fantasy can recapture that sense of innovation by simply ignoring the Final Fantasy name and the truckloads of restrictive conventions, but Type-0 is a novel idea in a stubborn franchise and that shows promise for the future.
This post was originally published at Impulse Gamer.
Final Fantasy XV was first announced in 2006 as Final Fantasy Versus XIII, part of the Fabula Nova Crystallis collection. Nine years ago, Final Fantasy XII was still a fresh commodity and I was a depressed 14-year-old who found himself unsurprisingly drawn to the pensive-looking, sword-wielding dark-haired dude gracing the promotional images for this bizarre new pseudo-spin off title.
The journey to this point—for both Final Fantasy XV and myself—has been one fraught with obstacles and communication breakdowns. For a long time, Final Fantasy Versus XIII disappeared from the public space. Everybody was talking about it, but Square Enix refused to comment. Was it vapour-ware? How far were we from release? Final Fantasy XIII was released for international audiences in late 2010. Its unexpected sequel released in 2012. And the third in 2014. Two-year development cycles—excusing the initial four-year turnaround—and yet few hints about Versus XIII.
When Square Enix re-announced that Final Fantasy Versus XIII was not dead, that it would be rebranded as Final Fantasy XV, and please be excited, I was sceptical. Square Enix had, in a multitude of ways, been a disappointment and the lack of communication served only to worsen the betrayal. Just say you’re waiting for next gen. Just say there have been some delays. Just be upfront, and we would all stand behind you. But by the time these announcements finally came, I was utterly disillusioned with the franchise and its parent company.
Cue Episode Duscae. My first indication that it even existed was a photo taken by a friend with a mobile phone and uploaded to Facebook. It showed Noctis in his awkward three-quarter pants and almost-gumboots staring at an impressive rocky arch in the distance. My friend continued to post photos of dubious quality while I let this knowledge congeal. Final Fantasy XV was, in a way, finally here—am I interested?
And then the code came and I couldn’t supress that hint of excitement. Suddenly I was 14-years-old again and Final Fantasy was my favourite videogame series by far and my schoolwork is merely an exercise in trying to include as many references to these videogames as possible.
Final Fantasy XV Episode Duscae begins with an obnoxious alarm tone and a group of groggy heroes. The camera sweeps around as Gladiolus, Ignis, and Prompto waken inside an incredibly spacious tent. But Noctis struggles. He rolls over, away from the alarm tone. He sits up… and then lies back down. He’s been sleeping a very long time—nine years—and he’s not sure if he’s ready to face the world.
Eventually, he does get up and stumble after his friends. We are blinded as he exits the tent, bright morning sun blaring down. But as his eyes adjust, we are greeted with a beautiful panorama. I am not a champion of photorealism in videogames—a complementary art style is more important to me—but Final Fantasy XV is absolutely gorgeous. The natural and fantastical are seamlessly blended. It feels perfectly normal to stroll down a highway, or hang out by the caravan at the chocobo ranch. The gas station has an attendant wearing a dorky uniform. Stop a car on the road and peek in and you will find a high-res driver model. The attention to detail is impressive, but doesn’t feel glorified; this world just exists. Yes, it’s beautiful, but so is our world—all you have to do is look.
Episode Duscae is quick to hand the player control (though the initial quest set-up and mini-tutorial could stand to be briefer) which is unusual compared to recent titles. Final Fantasy Type-0 HD, with which the Episode Duscae demo is bundled, has fourteen minutes of cutscenes before the player does anything. But Square Enix doesn’t have an incomprehensible premise to establish here: four guys need to repair their car so they can get to a place called Cauthess. Simple. Unobtrusive. I fear that the full release will ruin this, but Episode Duscae’s controlled delivery of plot has me hopeful.
The real-time action combat is a large departure from previous main series entries. Final Fantasy XII tried the seamless transition, but combat still felt slow and methodical. Final Fantasy XIII had a more frantic approach to combat, but it took part on a separate battle plan and offered the player no control of movement. Final Fantasy XV seems to have found the perfect blend. Noctis can use warp-strike to quickly initiate combat and move around the battlefield. Dodging is handled via a single button, but successful dodges use MP, which means that physically moving away from enemies and taking cover is necessary. Combat feels more tactile, responsive, and dynamic; a quick overlay showing experience earned is all the intrusion and Noctis is still fully controllable whenever this happens.
Episode Duscae has already convinced me—undone almost a decade of concerns—but there is one last thing I was particularly thrilled by: character interaction. While talking to NPCs is still generally static, the other party members move about in the background, making existence within Final Fantasy XV seem more organic. Noctis and friends talk and joke and generally act like real human beings as they wander about and fight. And the dialogue sounds believable. It’s not stodgy, overly formal, or deliberately trying to evoke ye olde English. They talk like real people, and cutscenes are particularly enjoyable because of the added non-verbal cues; the opening scene immediately establishes the sort of relationship all four characters share solely through touches on the shoulder, and so on.
As a demo, it’s impossible to foresee exactly what Final Fantasy XV will be like. Maybe Episode Duscae is the brief Gran Pulse in Final Fantasy XIII’s incredibly linear and convoluted experience. But if the final product ends up even halfway close to how enjoyable those few hours of Episode Duscae are, then we have a Final Fantasy title to truly be excited for. Don’t let me down, Square Enix.
This post was originally published at Impulse Gamer.
Assassin’s Creed Chronicles: China is the first in a three-part ‘spin off’ series—and it must be called a spin off, because Chronicles: China represents the most significant departure from the Assassin’s Creed formula since its inception. But the shift into 2.5D platformer territory seems natural and is an interesting (and unexpectedly creative) addition to the franchise.
Of particular interest is protagonist Shao Jun, one of the few surviving members of the Chinese Assassin Brotherhood, who is the second female lead Assassin’s Creed franchise. Shao Jun could easily have been male and Chronicles: China would be functionally identical; in only one scene is anything remotely related to her gender relevant. Set in a period with serious gender divides—and with Shao Jun being a former concubine to a previous Emperor—Chronicles: China pushes the equality wagon a little further up the hill. It is, however, particularly disappointing that the Assassin’s Creed franchise has relegated its two (both very superb) female leads to spin offs.
The open world has been traded in for a more linear approach: each of the eight levels/chapters is broken up into smaller sections; upon passing through each of the mini-checkpoints, Shao Jun is awarded points based on the type and success of her approach. Full stealth was often too frustrating (though, understandably, worth more points) so I tended to aim for the assassin-style: minimal detections but with kills. The sliding kills were by far the most satisfying, but Shao Jun has a lot of other impressive combat and movement abilities built around her rope dart, sword, and hidden shoe-blade. Reducing the weapon count to these three items—with four other pieces of ‘equipment’ to help distract guards—means that each feels purposeful.
The structure also means that Chronicles: China is more accessible: the control scheme is simple, which makes it easy to play through a level in twenty or so minutes and get the full range of Assassin’s Creed experiences. The stealth, free-running, assassinations, fights, treasure hunting—each level offers everything, so there’s absolutely no hassle involved. It is one of those simple pick-up-and-play titles—making the lack of mobile/handheld console options surprising.
But having Chronicles: China on a big screen means being able to fully appreciate how incredible the art style is. Every scene looks hand painted, and even the actions—Shao Jun’s movement, the blood spray from an assassinated enemy, the flickering flame trails—look like literal art in motion. I liked the art so much that I conceded to the main menu pop-up and connected my uPlay account so I could purchase the wallpaper pack with uPoints (or whatever they’re called).
I made the mistake of not turning on the subtitles before beginning the game, so Shao Jun’s whisper-quiet narration of her quest to eliminate the Templar influence in China and revive her extinguished brotherhood felt even less complex than it actually is. Shao Jun and her master return from Europe, having met with Ezio Auditore da Firenze—the series’ absolute golden child—and then proceed to smash across China, destabilise a puppet Emperor, and prevent a Hunnic incursion. Narratively, there is very little, but it was actually quite refreshing—the emphasis was firmly on satisfying mechanics and there was less (though still some) focus on trying to include any halfway relevant historical character or event.
I recall a panel at the 2014 Brisbane Writers’ Festival where Jeffrey Yohalem, lead writer for Asssassin’s Creed: Brotherhood, discussed the team’s focus on infusing every element of the game with the core tenets of the series; Assassin’s Creed Chronicles: China has adhered to those tenets in the purest of ways, stripping away anything that could be construed as convoluted.
Chronicles: China is short—I completed it in only a few hours—but with a cheap price and a handy new game plus mode, there’s certainly a lot of stabby-runny-climby value to be found. It also sets the tone for a new (supplementary) direction for the series; creating shorter spotlights means that interesting time periods and locations that might not have enough depth for a main series game can still be fleshed out. (And Chronicles: China is another step closer to that Assassin’s Creed in Japan title fans clamour for.)
It is, of course, a different experience from the main series and might not offer the familiar spread of features. But as far as ninja-esque platformers go, Assassin’s Creed Chronicles: China is superbly enjoyable. After all, how often can you be an awesome female Chinese assassin kicking butts and taking names?
This post was originally published at Impulse Gamer.
The opening cut scene of The Detail is utterly perfect. The almost-monochromatic graphic novel aesthetic establishes the bleak and gritty tone. The solemn, almost haunting music adds a sense of hollowness and captures the essence of absolute jadedness that protagonist Detective Reggie Moore embodies. And Reggie’s monologue—in which he laments the murder of a friend and muses on whether he could or would have done anything differently—beautifully illustrates the nature of choice in this crime noir adventure.
The Detail is from the same vein of adventure games as Telltale’s The Walking Dead and The Wolf Among Us, but don’t mistake it for a simple imitation. The Detail is a cleverly constructed, creatively presented, and expertly written (episodic) tale taking us into the dark side of crime. Reggie shares the mantle of protagonist with former-criminal-turned-informant Joe Miller, who’s forced back into his old gang to find out the truth behind a gangland murder. Rookie cop Kate Hayes also gets a fair amount of the spotlight, which gives us three distinctive points of view through which to experience this crime-riddled city.
Most of my criticism of The Detail Episode 1: Where the Dead Lie comes with caveats. The lack of sound effects and voice acting both leave The Detail feeling a little less lively—but to add either would likely compromise the graphic novel aesthetic. The animated ‘cli-clack’ of a door being lockpicked is superb even without sound. Likewise, the strong character personalities shine with text alone; spoken dialogue would undermine the effective design.
However, I think The Detail could benefit from ambient noise; the backing soundtrack, while solid, can become overbearing without some white noise to take the edge off. Muffled conversations while Reggie is in the police station or the occasional clinking of plates and glasses while Joe is in the Lucky Dragon restaurant would breathe more life into these locations without detracting with overbearing sounds.
Exploring areas can be troublesome thanks to a temperamental screen scroll. The camera does not shift until the character reaches the edge, making it impossible to quickly check the borders of a location. Instead, the character must slowly lumber over until the screen moves. The pace of movement is a fraction too slow; the sense of gravity brought by the slow, deliberate movement is diminished by the slightest hint of tedium.
The first episode is also a bit light on non-dialogue related gameplay, particularly of the crime-scene-investigating variety. It’s clear that dialogue choices and the repercussions of those choices are the focal point, but some meatier interactive sections would not go amiss. The single crime scene investigation has—unless my detective skills are lacking—only a single ‘secret’ to be found.
Fortunately, the dialogue choices that make up so much of The Detail are effectively implemented. Every choice impacts the way conversation unfolds and the outcomes have various effects. While the first episode has no radical, story-altering decisions, I did find that the choices I made had an impact on me.
How Reggie handles the situation with a child molester in his first segment changes the newspaper story shown in his next appearance. Reggie is an old-school cop and has a child’s life at stake, so he gets a little heavy-handed—I may have smashed the suspect’s face into the table. It saved a life, but it meant the bad guy walked; throughout the rest of the episode, I played Reggie a little more by-the-book to avoid similar circumstances.
It’s through these little ripple effects that The Detail encourages role-playing and enriches the narrative. Somehow, each of the playable characters—Reggie, Joe, and Kate—are wonderfully characterised while still giving players some freedom in dictating their personalities and actions. (And that’s not to mention the supporting cast, who manage to account for the staples of crime dramas without feeling stale or two-dimensional.)
But it doesn’t always work as planned. One particular scene—where Reggie is faced with an unconscious, underage, and half-naked girl lying in a known gang member’s house—gives the option of leaving the girl behind to a life of sex slavery in exchange for vital information. Reggie himself even comments that he must be losing it if this option is picked; here, player freedom is regrettably emphasised over consistent characterisation. But it’s the sole instance of the rich writing wavering—and is appropriately called out as bizarre by the characters involved.
Sadly, The Detail seems to pass by a little too quickly. A first playthrough with cautious, patient exploring of every last detail still wrapped up around the one hour mark; a quicker player might feel short-changed. But expanding the episode runs the risk of upsetting the delicate pacing balance; and besides, forty minutes to an hour seems dead-on for a crime drama episode, game or not.
Perhaps my favourite part of The Detail—or second favourite, after the opening—is how subtle the game design is leading up to the finale. Let me rephrase. The Detail Episode 1: Where the Dead Lie ends as sublimely as it begins. Kate encounters a combat situation that mirrors her first encounter; astute players will note the similarities in build between her assailants and opt to employ the most effective attacks. This encounter culminates in a familiar—albeit more advanced—version of the very first ‘quick time event’; The Detail teaches players exactly what it needs to know to succeed, but still retains a semblance of challenge.
The finale also excels thematically. Reggie can (seemingly) be as much of an unprofessional, disrespectful, jaded jerk—and he would be justified, given the circumstances—as he wants, but the result is the same: crime is out of control in this city and something serious needs to be done. The revelation is an excruciatingly successful hook for Episode 2. I’m eagerly awaiting it already.
This review was originally published at Impulse Gamer.
Natural Doctrine—bizarrely stylised as NAtURAL DOCtRINE—is an incredibly unusual game. While its narrative rests upon tropes typical of role-playing games, most of the gameplay conventions of tactical RPGs have been trashed in favour of some very creative and innovative new ideas. The result is an undeniably unique (and gruelling) experience, but also a divisive one.
Even calling Natural Doctrine a tactical RPG feels inaccurate; the combat system is so punishingly complex that it feels more like a limited-answers puzzle game than something requiring player strategy. Player characters and enemies alternate turns, and every unit gets a single action per round; however, nearly every action taken—both ally and enemy alike—allows other units on that team to take their turn early, or to get a second (or third, etc.) action.
For example, queuing an attack against an enemy will prompt every allied character who could conceivably target the same enemy to make a move. If the character hasn’t moved in the current round, then they will expend their initiative for this round by participating in the attack. But, if the character has already taken action, then they will be allowed to act again without any penalty to the next round of turns. Through clever execution of this—and careful targeting of the next enemy to act—players can become an unstoppable force, continually building upon the number of allies in the fray.
Confused yet? I still am. What’s worse is that Natural Doctrine’s own explanation of the battle system is nearly useless. Trial and error will be your best friend—or, perhaps, your worst nightmare. Mastering the system, and then successfully executing your plan, requires nothing short of saint-level patience—something I seem to lack. I lost count of the number of times little mistakes resulted in the entire enemy force chaining together actions to decimate my team. The death of a single character results in a game over; Natural Doctrine takes sadistic pleasure in utterly crushing your spirit.
This is all compounded by how tedious battles can be. You fight in drab, dreary, and often large locations against identical enemies with obnoxiously long battle animations. Finishing many maps requires the entire party to stand within designated zones; prepare to spend several minutes moving each character their allotted two zones of movement and ending their turn, all so you can finish an enemy-less map. It was infuriating trying to determine whether the game wanted me to advance my characters slowly, as a team, or rush headlong into battle to secure the initiative.
In the end, Natural Doctrine wants both: move quickly, as a unit, lest enemies gain the initiative and pick off the stragglers, but don’t you dare miss or, oh, whoops, you advanced too quickly and activated a mid-battle event and now there are reinforcements and your forces are divided and the gorians are going to kill you dead.
The gorians, for the record, are the big bad of Natural Doctrine: carnivorous, underground-dwelling insects hell-bent on eating absolutely everything that moves. With so simplistic a major villain, it’s no surprise that the rest of the narrative is uninspired. To its credit, there are some interesting moments where humanity’s arrogance and racism/species-ism is mentioned, but the game never really escalates beyond ‘crazy man-eating bugs are going to kill everything’. The entire plot is delivered through conversations, either after battle or, quite interestingly, during battle. It would be a positive point—the absolute absence of traditional cut scenes in favour of dynamic in-battle cutaways—if not for how clunky combat-less movement can be.
Natural Doctrine has this underlying ‘survival of the fittest’ motif running beneath its plot. This makes the number of allusions to Christianity stick out a bit; more than one of the characters is named after a saint. The pilgrimage that main character Geoff embarks upon, to become the hero humanity needs but not really the one it deserves, feels spiritual as much as physical. But, ultimately, these allusions do little to enhance what is already a paper-thin plot.
The characters are similarly flat. Their motivations are exclusively revenge or boredom until the gorians begin to present a credible threat, and then survival becomes the biggest factor. Ingbert is potentially the most interesting character, yet his motivations as a villain are entirely unexplained; later, he becomes just as bland as the rest of the cast. Perhaps the most reductive character is Vasily, a tough, sensible fighter whose incessant ‘HEY, GEOFF, LOOK AT ME’ renders her the least likeable party member and undermines the positives of having a capable female warrior.
The graphical style is reminiscent of table top games; the character models all look like little painted models. This curious but positive design choice is entirely offset by the obnoxiously intrusive user-interface that leaves very little of the screen actually visible. Coupled with the generally bland locations and drab colour palette, Natural Doctrine is not a very pretty game. Which is a massive disappointment, given how gorgeous the world map art is; the first start menu art that I saw, of Vasily overlooking ruins on a field, with mountainous forests in the distance, created an extremely positive expectation for the visual quality that was repeatedly let down.
There is a multiplayer mode in the form of a card game. I was unfortunately unable to test this, but it seems like the general consensus is positive. It is strange, however, that there is no competitive multiplayer mode based on the actual combat system; that seems like the most logical format for multiplayer, and it would have been quite a positive experience playing against another fallible human, instead of the superhuman AI in the campaign.
Natural Doctrine, from a gameplay standpoint, is incredibly satisfying when you’re in command of the battlefield and controlling the initiative. But the second that disappears—when enemies start dominating, when you have to retry a map, or when you have to hoof it to a specific zone—Natural Doctrine becomes tedious and frustrating. The battle system’s core concept is clever and unique, so dedicated and patient fans of tactical RPGs will probably enjoy such a novel experience. But the clunky user interface and unyielding difficulty reveal a poorly executed product and make Natural Doctrine almost inaccessible for newcomers.
This review was originally published at Impulse Gamer.
On the eve of the 2006 FIFA World Cup match between Australia and Croatia, I spent the long night awaiting kick-off with my football team—yes, I’m one of those ‘it’s football’ types—at our coach’s house, where we drank too much and played even more FIFA 06. This is the most vivid memory I have of playing a FIFA game—a bunch of teenage footballers playing a football videogame while waiting for a live football match to begin. It’s hard to top that for an immersive, exciting, or memorable experience—but FIFA 15 comes real close.
Sports games have always seemed to be, at least partially, about wish fulfilment. We play sports games because it’s a faster, less physically-taxing way to experience our favourite sports as a ‘participant’. But FIFA 15 seems a little less like a player-experience and a little more like an interactive viewer-experience; everything is cinematic.
The camera angles mirror those of actual broadcasts, and stoppages in play cut away to exciting replays. It seems like a stupid thing to be excited about, but FIFA 15 made me want to sit through those cut scenes (at least for a handful of matches) just to soak up the experience. The players, stadiums, and fans all look amazing—yeah, even the fans have some pizzazz this time.
It’s still not perfect—there are plenty of trademark dorky animations and glitches, like players appearing to ice-skate or slide on the pitch rather than run atop it—but it’s clear that visual fidelity is something EA have really worked on. Players (mostly) move like real players. They fall over in desperation after a missed shot. They help each other up after a clattering tackle. They flick the ball up before a throw in. All of this adds immensely to a sense of ‘realism’. The match highlights, especially, could be confused for the real deal—if you squint just a teensy bit.
Gameplay-wise, little has changed. FIFA 15 uses that same, continually refined system as all of its predecessors. The only changes I can really pinpoint are semantic: I felt stronger and more in control with the ball at my feet, able to carve through an opponent’s defensive line and slot away a couple for the highlight reel. In defence, though, I spent most of my time stumbling into or bouncing off my own teammates, opponents, and even the referee.
There were games where I was a tackling demon, and then there were games where I created three-man pileups—of my own teammates—because it was impossible to get a solid touch on the ball or opposing player. And, of course, there are always those situations where you’re screaming at the TV because you know you didn’t want to pass to that player—but I think that’s more a deficiency in my skills than anything else.
But let’s get back to that wish fulfilment point. My career as a player ended around the age of 16 when I decided to pursue professional refereeing instead (which ended a few seasons later after a tiny little spinal fracture).
With no hopes of becoming a successful player in real life, FIFA remains my sole opportunity to feel like a superstar. The player career mode is wonderful at this: create a player (yourself—though the birth year is locked at ‘94, further reinforcing the fact that I missed the bus on that one) and join a club, fight for you place in the starting eleven, represent your country, and then, one day, retire and take up a managerial position.
There are some expanded features here, but both career modes—player and manager—feel a little superficial. Maybe it’s my 500+ hours in Football Manager talking, but team management feels clunky and the scouting system lacks depth. On the other hand, the menus are gorgeous; fashion over functionality, I guess. But I was also frustrated with my limited career options as a player.
After my club (Brisbane Roar, if the screenshots didn’t give it away) refused a transfer request—I wanted to ply my trade overseas for a change of scenery—my only option was to revenge-retire and start a managerial career… at 20 years of age. I would like to see the player career mode expanded, to give it some substance. Instead of skill challenges before matches, maybe throw in some training exercises. Give me the option to be a pest and force transfer requests or become a free agent. Let me be a player.
While these modes feel shallow, they’re far from the focus. FIFA has always been about making you feel awesome, and FIFA 15 delivers this in spades. FIFA 15 is the game you play when you want to be a kickass football superstar performing gravity-defying bicycle kicks, scoring awesome goals, and then doing ridiculous celebrations. Between the impressive visuals, authentic crowd chants, satisfying gameplay, and traditionally badass soundtrack—EA sports games always curate great soundtracks—everything in FIFA 15 seems designed to create an epic and invigorating experience. For this reason, it also doubles as a fantastic party game, assuming you have enough semi-serious friends; far too many of mine seem intent on injuring my players and getting their own sent off. Just turn off auto-switch; that mechanic seems whimsical at best.
If you love rich and complex management sims with almost unnecessary levels of detail, then you might want to pass on this; look towards the terrific Excel-spread-sheet-imitating Football Manager series instead. But, if you want to feel like your favourite footballers playing the beautiful game—or can’t wait for football season and need to play-watch an almost-real match to scratch that itch—then FIFA 15 is the most visually impressive and functionally satisfying football experience out there. Y’know, apart from maybe being a football superstar.
This review was originally published at Impulse Gamer.
