Driving Game

Cleanly! Scores of hours logged at Spa, Magny-Cours, Zandvoort and a dozen other Euro-American racing cathedrals, and all in the service of doing everything cleanly. Passing cleanly on the inside of a straightaway, or neatly nipping through the inside of a corner and slamming the door shut on the guy caught outside.

The Line is clean and perfect, and if I hit all my marks then my driving will be smooth and beautiful. My tires whine a bit as I accelerate through the Parabolica at Monza, but they don’t shriek and the the car doesn’t try to bust loose. My control is perfect, and that is the entire point of the game.

But God, the concentration and practice required. Sometimes I want to play a racing game and I look at my wheel sitting beneath my desk, and at GTR 2 atop my bookcase, and I just can’t go through that. It’s eight at night, there’s an icy draft seeping in through the windows of my apartment, and I just completed a long day of revising the same article until it was good enough to send back to my editor. Who will want more changes, and I’ve already gone from Draft A through Draft L. I want to play a racing game, but my sims want perfect reflexes and sharp senses, and I’m too used up to try and pilot a GT3 around Valencia. The torque alone is more than I can bear right now.

Yet GRID is so messy, like all arcade racers. All the cars slip and slide with greased tires across glass tracks. A simple 90 degree right-hander turns into a crescendo of shrieking rubber, roaring engines, and crunching metal and glass as cars smash each other into walls. I try a clean pass, outbrake my opponent going into a corner, take the line on the exit… and pound my wheel in frustration as he shoves me straight into the tire barrier. We were second and third, but now the entire field is driving past as as I try to extract myself from the the scrum.

We hit the barriers at 85 mph and my windshield is cracked and starred so badly that I can hardly see the track. Replays of the race will show that the front of my car now describes a check mark. It was straight line before. But my crew chief is on the radio telling me that I’ve “got some damage, but nothing too serious.” I reverse into my opponent, slewing him around as he tries to get back into the race, then roar off in pursuit of the long-gone field. The car still handles like it just rolled out of the factory.

Arcade racing games, like the ones that Codemasters produce, merely take real-world racing as their theme. TOCA and GRID are, to borrow a term from Tom Chick, Car-RPGS (caRPGs). You hop behind the wheel and work your way from driving sedans to super grand tourers, buying new cars and kit and unlocking new challenges along the way. Progress is constant, and all your training is on-the-job. Races are combat, where you put bruising hits on the opposition and use guardrails to help you negotiate sharp corners. The great skill in a caRPG is not driving, but in playing automotive pinball through the field until you accumulate enough prize money to move up to the next tier of challenges.

As an aside, arcade racing games also make sure to include lots of tedious bullshit to appeal to the entitled mouth-breathers who thought Gone in 60 Seconds and The Fast and the Furious were the Godfather and Easy Rider of their generation. If GRID is making a selling point out of the fact that you can drive the 24 Hours, or wrestle an old TVR around Donington Park, why is it making me master the pointless unfun of drifting? What could possibly make them think I’d care about such a thing? Let me be clear: drift racing is to real racing as tequila is to good liquor. There are people who are passionately devoted to it, but they a small, crazy subgroup that most of us would rather ignore.

But once I adjust to GRID’s icky collisions and near-gripless cars, I do find myself enjoying the cheerful madness of the racing action and its wise inclusion of a “flashback” that lets me undo catastrophic mishaps. Taking a Mustang sideways into a corner, punching the throttle at the apex and wrestling with the savage force of its fishtailing is exactly the kind of thing I want from an arcade game. I begin to enjoy the take-no-prisoners savagery of the races, especially when you nudge someone else into a wall at top speed and cause a massive pile-up in the rear-view mirror. I love the sudden quiet and solitude that follows the moment you just crashed the entire field somewhere in a chicane behind you.

Still, what I really want is a game that occupies the sweet spot between the mad chaos of a GRID or Need for Speed and the taut immersion of a SimBin game. A game that places a premium on smart, clean driving but doesn’t demand the monk-like devotion that characterizes a racing season in RACE or GTR 2. I love great racing and good driving, but sometimes I don’t want to be my own race engineer, or approach a play session the way Lewis Hamilton must approach a race weekend at Silverstone. Rather than taking a slug of GTR 2 with a GRID chaser, I’d like something that blends their strengths. Something that still keeps the racing clean, but not immaculate.

A Very Thankful Weekend with Joker and Bats

Writing about my slight case of Thanksgiving Blues actually chased them away. By the time we sat down to dinner on Wednesday night, I was filled with holiday cheer and ready for the weekend to come. When work started back up on Sunday night, I had enjoyed a mini-vacation that was everything it could and should have been. Shockingly, it included a lot of gaming.

While my girlfriend proceeded to demolish Braid and The Secret of Monkey Island: Special Edition in the space of three days, I was hopelessly lost to Arkham Asylum. A lot of people compared it to Bioshock, but I’d have to say Arkham owes a lot more to Beyond Good & Evil. That explains why I never found myself getting bored and why I’ve gone back to the game on a higher difficulty immediately after completing it the first time.

The melee combat and the battle with Poison Ivy stand out in particular as areas where Arkham borrowed wholesale from BG&E, but the way Arkham keeps mixing up the challenges is very much in the same spirit. Before you have a chance to tire of beating thugs, you have a stealth sequence in which you pick them off one by one. Before the stealth sequence can slow down the game, you are working your way through the next section of the map. Then you fight a miniboss and get a new tool.

For the most part, I would say that Rocksteady were very careful about ensuring they never provided too much of a good thing. Although I must say that two encounters with Scarecrow would have been sufficient and I got a little tired of the fights against the super-thugs, since the trick was the same every time and Arkham Asylum goes to that particular well quite often.

Aside from those very slight missteps, Arkham Asylum was a smashing success for me. What I particularly loved was how the game consistently raised the stakes and tension every time I thought it had maxed out. The game opens with Joker seizing control of the Asylum and before you’re a quarter of the way through, you’ve had to rescue Jim Gordon and fight Bane. No sooner have you won that victory, and started thinking that you’re on the way to restoring order, than you discover Joker is planning on creating an army of Banes once he gets hold of some research materials. Even as you parry that attack, Ivy gets loose and starts to destroy the entire island.

Learn about Jokers fantastic retirement benefits!

Learn about Joker's fantastic retirement benefits!

At no point did I feel like the writers or designers were trying to stretch their premise and put some filler into the game. From the start it is clear that the Joker has a plan to keep Batman putting out fires throughout the long night, and it is totally in keeping with Poison Ivy’s character that she causes a completely unforeseen catastrophe midway through the game.

In fact, I was impressed with how right Rocksteady got each of Batman’s enemies. Fighting Scarecrow is a battle against insanity, and we get a deadly cat-and-mouse through Batman’s disintegrating reality. Bane is a knock-down, drag-out fight with a dangerous brute. Croc, as Batman says, is just an animal, and animals get trapped. Ivy uses plants to transform the battlefield until it favors her, and uses seduction to provide herself with cannon fodder.

I’m not certain how I feel about the final battle with Joker, because the thing about Joker is that he’s not difficult to defeat. It’s defeating his labrythine plots that poses the problem for Batman. Joker himself, however, is no great combatant. Rocksteady worked around this, but their solution seemed a bit off to me.

Somehow, this game always looks like a production still from a great movie.

Somehow, this game always looks like a production still from a great movie.

Still, it feels like a proper Batman adventure from top to bottom, and it was wonderful to hear Kevin Conroy and Mark Hamill reprising their roles for this game. And I must thank Crispy Gamer’s Russ Fischer for highlighting one particular sequence that really nails what it means to be the Dark Knight. He writes:

Arguably, the two missing elements are Gotham City and Bruce Wayne. Both of these, however, are almost more useful as things Batman wants and can’t have. Gotham, no matter how corrupt, is a dreamscape compared to Arkham Island. The city’s skyline is bright and tantalizing and unobtainable. Bats has to see the night out; he can’t just run to the city and do an easier gig.

There’s a reason, too, that the big Wayne building dominates that skyline. If Batman wanted to truly retreat from the insanity of Arkham, Bruce Wayne is the shell to hide in, and that building on the horizon is a reminder of his existence. The horror of Wayne’s childhood is all that he is allowed to revisit, and the game’s story is stronger for it. If we’re going to wallow in the madness of the lunatics who burst into existence along with Batman, we should really wallow deep, and Bruce Wayne is the shallow end of the pool.

If he hadn’t pointed this out, I would have missed the resonance of this one particular sequence midway through the game. Just after a truly nightmarish, harrowing encounter with Scarecrow and a tough slog through Croc’s lair, Batman breaks emerges from a tunnel built into one of the island’s cliff-faces.

It is the first clean breath Batman has drawn in what seems like hours, and the oppressive ugliness of the preceding scenes have done an admirable job of making you feel the same revulsion and emotional exhaustion he must feel. You stand on the edge of the cliff, a lovely promontory from which not a yard of Arkham is visible, and stare across the stretch of calm, moonlit water to the Gotham skyline. It is a sublime, peaceful moment.

Then you jump from the cliff and glide in a sweeping arc back toward the island, literally descending back to its madness and turning your back on the only peaceful vision you will see.

Mere Refinement

The other day, Troy Goodfellow was lamenting Crispy Gamer’s “Game of the Decade” bracket challenge, which saw Civilization IV and Peggle pitted against one another, with the result that Peggle came out on top. Now contests like these are patently silly, but they do spark conversation and the conversation that followed is where I started to get annoyed.

A number of people made the case that Civilization IV is “just a refinement of a previous design”, which diminishes its achievement, especially when compared with something like Peggle. Except they didn’t really make a case, because there’s no case to make with that statement. They just gave a sage nod in the direction of originality and Greater Significance represented by Peggle.

Not for the first time, I am thinking that the “IV” in its title does Civ IV a disservice. It creates the illusion that Civ IV is yet another iteration on Sid Meier’s old design, when the truth is that Civ IV is considerably more. Most of its mechanics don’t even appear in the first two games, and I certainly couldn’t have imagined fifteen years ago how Civ IV would be handling diplomacy, combat, religion, or governance. Culture would not even have occurred to me.

Perhaps the core elements of the design are the same, but if that’s the standard, then we can safely dismiss every FPS since Half-Life. Civilization and Civilization IV both take place on a square tiles, take cities as the chief game piece, and involve researching your way through human history in competition with other civilizations. But that’s about where the similarities end.  If you’re going to say that’s still “just a refinement”, then I never want to hear you breathe a word about the originality of a game in which you point guns at things and shoot, or take characters on adventures in which you gain experience and improve your skills.

Then there is the fact that so many in our little community race to denigrate anything that is not ostentatiously innovative and new. Like Daisy Buchanan attempting to impress Nick with her worldly disenchantment and entitled ennui, gamers are quick to sigh and inquire why everything seems so old and derivative. We are cultivating a studied boredom with everything that bears of a whiff of the familiar, while lavishing excessive praise on the accessibly novel. Truly great games like Civilization IV get lost between the narrow mainstream and the falsely discriminating taste of the enthusiast set.

A Long Way From Here

The truth is, I’ve never much cared for Thanksgiving Day. When my family used to host every year, it meant a day and a half of housecleaning while my parents became testier with every second that brought us closer to Zero Hour. Plus, I hated most of the food we made for the feast. Green bean casserole? A box of stuffing? That weird can-shaped blob of cranberry “sauce” quivering atop a china serving dish?

And turkey has never really deserved its reputation, when we get right down to it. It’s 50 / 50 whether it’s going to be tasty or bone-dry. My sister might have finally cracked the code last year when she brined the hell out of it, but that’s probably the only memorably delicious turkey I’ve had.

As for the celebration, well, for years that meant dealing with my mercurial grandparents and aunt. My grandfather was perhaps the only one who seemed legitimately happy to be eating with us, and most of that was sweet potato-induced. “Hooo!” he’d cry as he peeled back the aluminum foil over the dish. “Look at that!”

But my grandmother or aunt would usually decide, without warning, that it is time to leave right now and vanish into the car before the coffee and pie had been served. Sometimes my grandfather would just disappear after dinner, and then we’d look out the window and see him, arms folded, in the back of the Buick.

Dessert conversation among my parents, sister, and brother-in-law usually revolved around what was that all about? On the television, we’d make a desultory effort at watching the Lions get their asses kicked, but the Lions have been unwatchably bad for as long as I can remember.

So I’m not really very sorry not to be celebrating Thanksgiving Day with my family this year. I feel terrible that I’m now reduced to seeing my sister and her family about once or twice a year, but the holiday itself has always been a bit too much trouble, too strongly associated with anxiety and inconvenience.

But I am crushed to think that Wednesday night, for the first time I can remember, I won’t be sitting down to spaghetti casserole by candlelight with my parents. We won’t be watching Jason Robards’ You Can’t Take It With You, which my parents recorded off PBS many many years ago, or drinking my father’s chocolate eggnog at the intermission.

Almost as bad, I won’t be putting up the Christmas tree this year, which traditionally marks the first time my parents break out The Chieftains’ Bells of Dublin and the John Denver & The Muppets Christmas album. Thanksgiving itself might be the heart of the holiday, but the real family traditions lie on either side of it. And this year I couldn’t make it.

My partner and I have a nice weekend planned, and God knows we need a break. We couldn’t spare the time to make it back to Indiana, so we made reservations at our favorite restaurant in Cambridge. We have some great movies to keep us company through the weekend (I’m looking forward to introducing her to Easy Living) and plenty of sweet treats and relaxing beverages. My mother passed along the spaghetti casserole recipe, and my father air-mailed us a copy of You Can’t Take It With You. I have the supplies for chocolate nog. It will, in some ways, be the first Thanksgiving that is my own, and in others it will be very much like home.

But I can’t shake this sense of dislocation. For over twenty years I’ve been home for Thanksgiving Eve and I’ve hung decorations on Friday afternoon. Even when I was away at college I made sure to make it back no matter how hellish the traffic got around Chicago. So as I drink my coffee here in Central Square, and watch last light fading over Mass Ave., I keep asking myself, “What am I doing here?”

The High Cost of Wargaming

Before I ever heard of Doom, a wargame made me a lifelong PC gamer. It was Adrian Earle’s Fields of Glory. Hardly anyone seems to remember it now, and in fairness it had some significant problems. But the little marching soldiers, crackling musketry, and drummers beating the attack made it about the most wonderful thing I’d ever seen.

I didn’t go to Babbage’s looking for a wargame, but my intentions were lost the moment I saw the box art and read the copy. My father had promised me a game that day, something to see if PC gaming was all it was cracked up to be, and that was what I wanted. We ignored the action games around us, and took home a wargame. A flashy one, true, but a wargame nonetheless. From that game flowed a lifetime of strategy and wargaming.

That couldn’t happen today. Wargames have been driven from store shelves to make room for acres of Sims expansions, real-time strategy clones, and a prodigious selection of shooters, many of which no clerk should sell in good conscience. The specialty software shops are gone, their place taken by the protracted adolscence represented by GameStop and the lowest common denominator approach championed by the trinity of  Wal-Mart, Target, and Best Buy.

Most outlets no longer bother to review most wargames. The service that PC Gamer, Computer Gaming World, and Computer Games Magazine provided in their heyday has been dropped by their online replacements. When these magazines slapped an Editor’s Choice award on a gnarly, stat and hex-heavy wargame they were saying, “If you are a gamer, of any sort, you need to play this.”

They were right to agitate against the narrowing of the mainstream gamer. Steel Panthers was a brilliant game, and people would see that if they just gave it a chance. Writers like Bill Trotter encouraged gamers to take that chance.

But let’s not overlook just how difficult wargame publishers have made it for gamers to justify taking those chances. Glancing through their catalogues, it looks to me like they have given up on doing anything to win new customers and have instead decided to milk their core players for every penny.

A few nights ago, after getting bulletins from GamersGate, Steam, Impulse, and Direct2Drive about a bunch of intriguing sales and almost pulling the trigger on a few of them, I felt guilty because I never remember my old friend the wargame when it comes time to grab a new title. So I cruised over to the Matrix Games site and started browsing the catalogue to see if the $20 I was debating spending on Demigod or an indie-game compilation could be spent on a wargame instead.

Helpfully, Matrix has a $20 or less section in its store. Less helpfully, this section includes add-on packs and strategy guides along with complete games. Only a dozen items can be purchased for less than $20 at the Matrix Store, and most of them only digitally. The way it sounds on the store site, Matrix only makes the digital copy available to the purchaser for 30 days. While I would hope customer service will provide extra downloads after that date, the given terms do not seem like much of a deal.

Outside of that section the convenience and security of physical ownership comes at a steep price, one that seems immune from the passage of time. 2007′s Guns of August is $45. 2006′s Conquest of the Aegean is $70!  2003′s Korsun Pocket is $40.

Matrix not an outlier by any means. You’ll get as fair a deal from them as you will anyone else, except maybe some of the specialty shops you can find online or in big cities. The entire wargame market is significantly pricier than the PC game market in general, and rarely grants discounts.

This creates a problem for me, because I feel like I am being punished for not fitting the traditional wargamer demographic. I’m 26, at the start of my career, and my disposable income is minimal. Matrix Games, HPS, and the rest of the gang have a business model that only seems to work if you’re a little older, a little farther along in your profession, and a little wealthier. That, or you simply value wargaming so far above other genres that a good wargame is worth two or three lesser titles.

Unfortunately, that’s not the case with me. There is no way I can justify to myself, and certainly not to my partner, that I should spend $40 – $60 on one game when my typical game purchases are less than $20. And I can’t honestly say to myself that I’ll get more enjoyment from a game like Guns of August than I will from buying, for the same price, Stalker, Company of Heroes Gold, Europoa Universalis 3 Complete, and Psychonauts. That’s a steep opportunity cost.

Now I’ve spoken with wargame designers in the past, and I know that making a profitable computer wargame is forbiddingly difficult (which is why so many of the greats stick to the tabletop formats). And Matrix must be doing something right to be thriving when so many of the old publishers have folded or come under the Matrix umbrella.

But I guess I just don’t see a future in it. I’m a gamer who has been conditioned to pay $5, $10, and $20 for his games and, on balance, I spend quite a bit of money each month on new acquisitions. But I expect a certain amount of utility for my money, and the ratio seems all wrong with wargames. So all of it gets siphoned into other genres, where publishers are more willing to discount their back catalogue titles.

Worse, I can’t convince my non-wargaming friends to give the genre a chance. Ten or fifteen years ago, I could sell friends on Steel Panthers, Close Combat, and The Operational Art of War. Now they are likely to nod while I talk about how great TOAW3 is, but they get to the website, look at the screenshots, look at the price… and they pass. Better to stick with the familiar rewards of JRPGs and RTSs than dive into something that looks like Spreadsheets and Hexagons XII.

The risk to publishers, I suppose, is that they will dismantle a business model that works (however tenuously) in favor of going after customers they are not certain exist. If they start cutting older titles down to $20, and the existing customers just start playing the waiting game while new ones fail to materialize, the publishers are sunk.

But frankly, I don’t think that would happen. How many devoted wargamers would wait three years for a price cut? How likely is it that someone is abruptly going to decide to buy, at full price, a wargame that he has ignored for six years? On the other hand, how many gamers might give themselves the chance to get hooked on wargaming, if publishers would only make games available to them? I could personally guarantee a half dozen titles that I would jump on tomorrow if they hit the $20 price point. I can also guarantee that I won’t buy any of them the way things stand right now.

Nothing Good about 2001

I told Troy Goodfellow that 2001 would be a problematic year for me in the decade retrospective that he is running. Still in high school and not working a job, I had a small gaming budget and could only buy one or two new games per year. Being an impressionable idiot, I decided to give that honor to Black & White.

I’m sure there were good strategy games that came out that year, but I missed all of them in favor of spending weeks with a game that didn’t work. Now, at the close of the decade, I can finally tell my tale.