After conquering Bioshock 2 I decided to take a break and go back and finish some of the many games Bioshock 2 had left ruined in its wake, foremost among them Assassin’s Creed 2. Assassin’s Creed 2 was fun, no question, but compared to Bioshock 2 it was just...lacking somehow. Bioshock 2 had tunnels and stories and little girls and Assassin’s Creed 2 had a largely incoherent cast of characters who never really developed and plot twists and freerunning and a story that made me lament the mentality governing the writing and design of games today.
Hence the essay.
Just to start off, as frequent readers know, I don’t think there’s anything endemically wrong with the ability of games to tell a story. Just to prove it, and be constructive, I want to go over how a few of the more successful games actually accomplish storytelling. Half-Life, Bioshock, Far Cry 2, even the first Modern Warfare, draw characters into their world through character. It’s the key to almost any engaging story, populating the world of that story with characters that people care about and can relate to. Even Modern Warfare 2 manages to do this, giving you squadmates that you care about, squadmates you’re supposed to feel bad about when they almost inevitably die. The root of all storytelling lies in characters, the manner in which they’re developed and portrayed.
It’s a well accepted truth of books and films. Sunshine, for example, has an absolutely retarded plot. It’s the journey of the characters which make the story it tells engaging, Kappa’s journey towards his own death which compels us to keep watching after the film veers off the rails into horrible horror territory. In fact it was less how poorly the finale of the movie is executed that drew me out of the film and more the fact that it seemed to stop caring about the majority of its characters, giving moderate face time to a handful of people and killing them off in dramatic ways that said nothing we didn’t already know about their relationships with one another. The same could be said of the Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. If we didn’t care about Oscar as a character the book would be an exercise in frustration, but because we see ourselves reflected in Oscar, because he’s such an interesting, likeable and pitiable character, we want to see his journey. Even when it’s asinine, when he sits around making Dungeons and Dragons campaigns, he’s still an interesting guy.
The problem with games is that they take so much of their storytelling from boiler plate, low risk, high return action films. The hero gets the girl because he’s the hero and he should get the girl. The hero trumps the villain because he’s the hero and heroes normally trump villains. It is the way of things and it is not our place as consumers to question these laws. Games like Painkiller do an excellent job with this sort of absurdity, constructing contrived and ridiculous narratives and completely divorcing them from the games themselves. Serious Sam is another great example of this old school first person shooter sensibility, wherein we are given less of a story and more of a playground to cause carnage.
When this sort of storytelling becomes sincere things can get a great deal messier. STALKER, for example, has an elaborate and entirely incoherent plot about some sort of wish granting tree/room/monolith located at the center of a nuclear reactor. Mirror’s Edge is about a city government with the means to completely dominate its population which cannot stop a single young woman from destroy their entire monitoring system for some reason. These stories, while awful in and of themselves, aren’t any more absurd than say the plot of Gravity’s Rainbow.
What makes them poor isn’t just their serious treatment of their own ridiculousness. Its their lack of character, a problem which easily extends to games with much less absurd and potentially better stories. For example Dawn of War II features an epic tale of alien invasion and human perseverance, an easy topic to make into a great story. But it falls flat, not because the aliens aren’t strong enough or the game’s action repeats itself too often, but because Dawn of War II’s characters are, by nature, stereotypes which never develop. They level up, but they never change. And why should they? They’re hundreds of years old. Never mind that the first Dawn of War actually had character development (which, in hindsight, served as the single saving grace of its single player campaign) for the same set of characters. Dawn of War II is about an epic struggle where a group of hardened marines remain strong and tough in the face of adversity, and as a result it is snooze worthy. Good luck keeping your eyes open during those wacky conversations between Space Secretary and Gruff Space Soldier number three.
Assassin’s Creed 2, however, didn’t have to go this way. It opens up slowly and invites you to develop Ezio as a character. As you learn about the world and see more of it you begin to change and grow. You learn about your past, your family, the cities you inhabit and the people you share them with. The first ten or so hours of Assassin’s Creed 2 are just remarkable in how ambitious and successful they are at drawing you into a world and making you feel like its somewhere you belong. The villains you fight are developed from the ground up and grow and change with you as a character.
But after the boat ride to Venice all of that changes. Once Assassin’s Creed leaves the smaller towns of Italy for its big cities it largely loses its sense of character and begins to bombard you with new faces, barely pausing to let you adjust to the influx of names you now have to remember in order to properly identify your assassination target. Venice’s lose memorable character, Rosa the thief, went completely out the window towards the end of the game, inexplicably replaced by her completely inept boss and a group of his similarly inept compatriots. none of whom seemed to grow as anything more than cameos in my mind. Compared to the streets of Florence where I’d learned my trade, Venice was a cold and dull place. Even the prostitutes seemed lifeless and when the inevitable twist came, an absurd and tortured thing that never needed to happen, I felt less intrigued as to just who was and wasn’t an Assassin and how that had influenced their actions and more bored by the fact that the game decided to lump all of its supporting characters together so artlessly.
What makes it even worse is the fact that Machiavelli is rammed in there for no apparent reason. The author of the prince, and guy that your intolerable boss routinely quotes without context or cause, appears late in the game and literally does nothing, aside from nod a few times and tell you to, no lie, kill the pope. This sort of absurd bullshit is where Assassin’s Creed 2 jumps from “competent” to “boiler plate” to “absurdly bad.” That the game’s credits are introduced by the phrase “What the fuck?” is no mistake – when the animus is turned off you’ll most likely be laughing out loud at the absurd twists that Assassin’s Creed 2 lays at your feet. In fact, just for fun and humor I’m going to lay the entire thing down in one nice fat spoiler filled paragraph? Ready? Go!
You journey to Rome to infiltrate the Vatican and assassinate the pope. Why? He’s the guy who killed your dad! Also, Machiavelli tells you so and no game is more about you doing what various people tell you to do than Assassin’s Creed 2, especially in its last three or four hours, depending on your skill. Now, bear in mind at this point you’ve fought the future pope several times with intent to kill, but the game engine stays your hand, inexplicably. Not the way it does with the Robert de Sable, where you’re treated to a brief cut scene explaining why you don’t end the sucker you just wrestled to the ground. No, Assassin’s Creed 2, which has spent most of the game building you into an unspeakable badass, forces you to fight the pope to be to the ground twice and never permits you to stab him in the neck. In fact you never stab him in the neck period, which is completely inexplicable. It’s not like Ezio’s vengeance is the only reason to kill him. But I digress. I was summarizing the plot.
So you’re journeying to Rome to assassinate the pope. After a lengthy series of fights along the battlements of Vatican City you’ll be treated to a brief forced stealth section. Then you’ll run along the scaffolding of the Sistine Chapel and leap down, blade first, on to the pope. Done and done, you’ll think. But not so fast, gamer! The pope will push you off with his psychic pope staff, the murder everyone in the room with his pope powers. Luckily you have a magical apply that lets you make completely unnecessary copies of yourself so you can beat the pope up the same way you did before. Unfortunately, despite beating him, the pope won’t play by the rules. Instead he’ll use his pope invisibility power and stab you. But no worries, you’ll get better. Post-stabbing you’ll go down into the Vatican basement, which looks like a spaceship, and challenge the pope to a bare knuckle boxing match. After defeating him you’ll decide that he’s learned his lesson and unlock the tomb of some Roman gods who were, in fact, aliens, using the pope staff. They’ll tell you about solar flares and how shit is crazy dangerous and how the film 2012 had some great points and how you need to find one of their arks in order to survive this mass extinction events. But they won’t be telling you. They’ll be telling future you, playing through past you. If they were really meta they’d be telling player you, using future you receiving information from past you as a second mouthpiece, but everybody misses an opportunity for metatext occasionally. After this you’ll be treated to a brief fight scene with the douchebags you previously escaped from, dispatching them easily. Then a villain will inexplicably tell you that this isn’t over and drive off in the back of a van while you stand there, dumbfounded, and let him.
Aaaand...curtain.
All of this is bad, sure. And I described it to a stoned friend of mine as I played and she seemed to be quite amused, so it could be that it’s just targeted to a specific gaming market, but even so, it seems like it could’ve been saved so easily. By having some sort of meaningful character resolution for either Ezio or Desmond Assassin’s Creed 2 could’ve leapt from good game to great game. Instead it ended with a laughably poor series of story twists strung together by characters I’d since stopped caring about, which is a shame because there was so much potential for growth there. The cast of characters who operate the Animus 2.0 aren’t stereotypes in the slightest, and the brief interactions you have with them are some of the games best moments. Additionally Ezio’s relationship with his family early in the game is much of what makes him both an interesting character and what makes the game so compelling, but by the time you’re forced back to the manor to conclude things these interactions are no longer present. Despite your mother, uncle and sister’s presence in your life they never change, never speak, and never discuss what you are become or the goal you move towards. It is equal measures inexplicable and frustrating to deal with as someone who absolutely loves storytelling in games.
And it’s all because Assassin’s Creed 2 had so much promise. If it had been shitty all the way through I’d feel more the way I do towards Mass Effect 2, a little angry but not betrayed. But because Assassin’s Creed 2 opens with such a remarkably well crafted character experience and because it so effectively destroys that same experience by game’s end through its poor pacing and its decision to constantly introduce inexplicable new characters to the fold it actually makes me mad. It makes me mad because its representative of what the industry does wrong when they try to tell a story.
Games are great models to make you relate to characters and watch them develop. Bioshock does it particularly well, despite robbing you of any real agency, by providing you with histories and allowing you to recast the world around you to some extent. But gamers and game developers don’t always have the storytelling chops to tell the sort of epic tale they sold their marketing department on. And instead of bringing in professionals they just hand it over to someone who has particularly good grammar and crap out some characters interactions that sound cool, hardly bothering to edit them at all. That’s sort of where the whole problem lies. There’s little economy in the story of most games. They’re all too willing to throw as much in as possible in an effort to make the experience somehow richer or fuller. Mass Effect 2, for example, barely develops any of its many characters in any detail, offering only a brief, dismissive attempt at development to each of Shepard’s crew. You might be able to develop your romantic partner in a little more detail, but depending on who you choose that might not happen either. As a result I cared less about my actual characters and more about whether or not I would get that extra gamerscore for getting the entire team through the last mission alive. The characters never felt like characters to me, and indeed how could they? It’s difficult and perhaps a bit foolish even to try developing as many characters as Mass Effect 2 does.
And that’s what games need to learn. It’s not enough to save the world or get the girl. Those things make you feel good, but they aren’t good stories in and of themselves. They become good stories when they’re populated by people we care about, people who we get to see develop and grow through the course of our games. And until the people who receive hundreds of millions of dollars to design games get the memo on this we’re going to keep seeing games like Assassin’s Creed 2 with remarkable potential wasted on boxing matches with the pope.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Congratulations on Tasing the Living Shit Out of Someone!
The laser will have a warmup period of roughly fifteen seconds. You won’t remember the exact scene in Real Genius that informed you of that fact, but you will remember the fact, a shimmering truth in your brain. Fifteen seconds to disarm and disable Dr. Lasercut. Smiling, you’ll know you only need five.
You won’t feel hurried as you move towards him, seamlessly covering the distance in a moment and ramming the prongs of the taser into his stomach. You’ll feel him twist as he wakes, a gesture left unfinished, a simple neurological impulse cut short by the streaming electricity of the taser. It will change into something terrible in his body, sending him to his knees and then the floor.
You’ll follow him down, stripping the laser and moving his hands, quickly and gently like a child’s, behind his back and into a pair of plastic handcuffs. You’ll draw them tight and haul him to his feet, picking up his laser, turning it off and sliding it into your belt all in the same gesture. He’ll hang from the cuffs in your arms, groaning and flopping around, trying to teach his brain how to send impulses to his muscles and get them working again. You’ll grimace as you tug him close , drawing out the caribeeners you’d hidden in your rectum and clipping them on to his belt and yours, then affixing the laser gun and his flaccid body to yourself. Then final carabeener will hook on to the weather balloon.
When it’s hooked into your belt you’ll pull the activation cord and the balloon will rip you out of the window and into the sky, Lasercut’s weight digging your belt into you. You’ll hear the C-130 coming, catch sight of the sun cresting the horizon as you rise and remember how good it is to no longer be a teenager living in suburbia as you feel the balloon catch and the plane reel you in.
Congratulations on Tasing the Living Shit Out of Someone!
You won’t feel hurried as you move towards him, seamlessly covering the distance in a moment and ramming the prongs of the taser into his stomach. You’ll feel him twist as he wakes, a gesture left unfinished, a simple neurological impulse cut short by the streaming electricity of the taser. It will change into something terrible in his body, sending him to his knees and then the floor.
You’ll follow him down, stripping the laser and moving his hands, quickly and gently like a child’s, behind his back and into a pair of plastic handcuffs. You’ll draw them tight and haul him to his feet, picking up his laser, turning it off and sliding it into your belt all in the same gesture. He’ll hang from the cuffs in your arms, groaning and flopping around, trying to teach his brain how to send impulses to his muscles and get them working again. You’ll grimace as you tug him close , drawing out the caribeeners you’d hidden in your rectum and clipping them on to his belt and yours, then affixing the laser gun and his flaccid body to yourself. Then final carabeener will hook on to the weather balloon.
When it’s hooked into your belt you’ll pull the activation cord and the balloon will rip you out of the window and into the sky, Lasercut’s weight digging your belt into you. You’ll hear the C-130 coming, catch sight of the sun cresting the horizon as you rise and remember how good it is to no longer be a teenager living in suburbia as you feel the balloon catch and the plane reel you in.
Congratulations on Tasing the Living Shit Out of Someone!
Friday, February 26, 2010
Congratulations on Breaking Out of the Hellscape of Your Own Memory!
You’ll sit there for what feels like an eternity trying to scream, watching your childhood self play with your insufferable super villain cousin in slow motion. It will be what you imagined hell to be like, banal shit foisted upon your mind, unwelcome and inescapable and a little bit uncomfortable in a way you can’t quite put your finger on.
You’ll feel, rather than hear, Lasercut’s amusement at your discomfort. Ha ha ha he’ll mind-laugh inside your skull.
You’ll realize suddenly that this is exactly what he expected. He expected you to fight, to return to the present at any cost. You’ll bite your lip and do the hardest thing you’ve ever done: you’ll fall deeper into flashback, trying to take control.
The world will spin around you and you’ll cascade into your own memory, falling through awkward sexual experiences and the first time you shaved your genitals and things of that horrible nature, your consciousness tumbling inexplicably through the framework of your own mind. You’ll scrabble to come to rest before finally catching hold on the film Real Genius.
In Val Kilmer’s eyes you’ll find peace for the first time in days. Staring at him you’ll wonder why you came here and then you’ll remember. The laser.
You’ll watch the film intently, laughing as you recognize the actor who would one day play Uncle Rico in the cult blockbuster Napoleon Dynamite, enjoying every line, savoring every second away from your cousin. In the real world only a few instants will have past but here in the dream it will have been a luxurious two hours spent watching one of your favorite classic films. It will have been divine.
And when the credits finish and Kodak’s logo flashes upon the screen the memory will go black and you’ll find yourself standing face to face with Dr. Lasercut. His eyes will flutter and it will quickly become apparent that he is leaving the flashback just after you. Smiling you’ll flex your fist and tense your legs as you leap towards him
Congratulations on Breaking Out of the Hellscape of Your Own Memory!
You’ll feel, rather than hear, Lasercut’s amusement at your discomfort. Ha ha ha he’ll mind-laugh inside your skull.
You’ll realize suddenly that this is exactly what he expected. He expected you to fight, to return to the present at any cost. You’ll bite your lip and do the hardest thing you’ve ever done: you’ll fall deeper into flashback, trying to take control.
The world will spin around you and you’ll cascade into your own memory, falling through awkward sexual experiences and the first time you shaved your genitals and things of that horrible nature, your consciousness tumbling inexplicably through the framework of your own mind. You’ll scrabble to come to rest before finally catching hold on the film Real Genius.
In Val Kilmer’s eyes you’ll find peace for the first time in days. Staring at him you’ll wonder why you came here and then you’ll remember. The laser.
You’ll watch the film intently, laughing as you recognize the actor who would one day play Uncle Rico in the cult blockbuster Napoleon Dynamite, enjoying every line, savoring every second away from your cousin. In the real world only a few instants will have past but here in the dream it will have been a luxurious two hours spent watching one of your favorite classic films. It will have been divine.
And when the credits finish and Kodak’s logo flashes upon the screen the memory will go black and you’ll find yourself standing face to face with Dr. Lasercut. His eyes will flutter and it will quickly become apparent that he is leaving the flashback just after you. Smiling you’ll flex your fist and tense your legs as you leap towards him
Congratulations on Breaking Out of the Hellscape of Your Own Memory!
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Congratulations on Entering a Flashback!
“Accompany me, if you will, into the depths...OF MEMORY!”
Lasercut will finish his statement in all caps, clearly proud of his perceived showmanship. You’ll do your best not to yawn, your desire to be courteous outweighing your desire to belittle the madman sitting before you.
“It all began in the Year of Our Lord Before Lasercut Ninety Eighty-Eight...” he’ll begin, pulling the two of you into the swirling gray mess that is the human mind’s concept of time.
Suddenly the two of you will leave his handsome, if spartan, office and be transported to a suburban neighborhood which looks a great deal more like nineteen fifties than nineteen eighties American. A great deal of that will be the young man dominating the flashback. He’ll be sickly pale and dressed in a v-neck sweater vest, playing with a chemistry set outside for no apparent reason. As he toys with the set he’ll produce what appears to be a highly corrosive acid, which will eat through the beaker containing it and spill on to an anthill, dousing the creatures in horrible melting death.
“Lasercut!” a voice will sound from off-flashback. The young man will turn, abandoning his now burning chemistry set and running towards an attractive older woman standing outside of a house. She’ll smile and shake her head. “Lasercut, are you sciencing again?”
The boy will look at his feet and stammer, “No ma. I were’t just doin’ normal kid stuff. Runnin’ and playin’. You know.”
She’ll shake her head and tousle his hair. “We’ll put you in the lie box later. Come inside and meet your cousin.”
Lasercut, smiling, will trot inside. He’ll rush into a living room where another older woman sits, sipping a cough of coffee. The woman will look very, very familiar. A young man will be seated next to her, dressed normally for the 1980s. He’ll be wearing a Cure shirt and have a bowl haircut and a frown on his face. His eyes will be a little red, as if he cried on the car on his way over. He’ll look like a sensitive boy, familiar somehow.
“Lasercut Montaghue, meet your cousin, Secretassassin Del La Monte,” the first older woman will say, and with her words the flashback will click into place and you will try to scream, but the words will catch in your throat, the flashback drowning out all sound, all future.
Congratulations on Entering a Flashback!
Lasercut will finish his statement in all caps, clearly proud of his perceived showmanship. You’ll do your best not to yawn, your desire to be courteous outweighing your desire to belittle the madman sitting before you.
“It all began in the Year of Our Lord Before Lasercut Ninety Eighty-Eight...” he’ll begin, pulling the two of you into the swirling gray mess that is the human mind’s concept of time.
Suddenly the two of you will leave his handsome, if spartan, office and be transported to a suburban neighborhood which looks a great deal more like nineteen fifties than nineteen eighties American. A great deal of that will be the young man dominating the flashback. He’ll be sickly pale and dressed in a v-neck sweater vest, playing with a chemistry set outside for no apparent reason. As he toys with the set he’ll produce what appears to be a highly corrosive acid, which will eat through the beaker containing it and spill on to an anthill, dousing the creatures in horrible melting death.
“Lasercut!” a voice will sound from off-flashback. The young man will turn, abandoning his now burning chemistry set and running towards an attractive older woman standing outside of a house. She’ll smile and shake her head. “Lasercut, are you sciencing again?”
The boy will look at his feet and stammer, “No ma. I were’t just doin’ normal kid stuff. Runnin’ and playin’. You know.”
She’ll shake her head and tousle his hair. “We’ll put you in the lie box later. Come inside and meet your cousin.”
Lasercut, smiling, will trot inside. He’ll rush into a living room where another older woman sits, sipping a cough of coffee. The woman will look very, very familiar. A young man will be seated next to her, dressed normally for the 1980s. He’ll be wearing a Cure shirt and have a bowl haircut and a frown on his face. His eyes will be a little red, as if he cried on the car on his way over. He’ll look like a sensitive boy, familiar somehow.
“Lasercut Montaghue, meet your cousin, Secretassassin Del La Monte,” the first older woman will say, and with her words the flashback will click into place and you will try to scream, but the words will catch in your throat, the flashback drowning out all sound, all future.
Congratulations on Entering a Flashback!
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Congratulations on Engaging in Some Polite Conversation!
You’ll be standing there in Dr. Lasercut’s office for what feels like a day, but is in fact closer to a minute and a half, staring down the barrel of an argon gas and ruby filtered laser, effective range sixty five meters. You’ll know this because of the surprisingly thorough section about Dr. Lasercut in the CIA World Factbook which you reviewed before coming to his island. You wanted to be able to accurately engage your host in conversational topics of interest to him, like oppression and lasers, and you thought learning about his weird culture would help with that.
But of course Lasercut saw through you and we all know where the situation stands now. With you. Standing. In his office. Like we just said in the previous paragraph.
“We are not so different, you and I,” he’ll demur, looking you up and down like a piece of meat or some sort of woman.
“I disagree,” you’ll grumble gruffly, staring straight ahead at his laser, watching his finger caress the trigger.
“I’m sure,” Lasercut will purr, keeping his laser pointed at you as he strafes around you, smiling. “You’re likely wondering just what I meant by that.”
You won’t nod. You won’t move at all. You’ll just be racking your brain, trying to remember if the warmup time on argon gas lasers is significant. You’ll try to remember the fact book, but the fact book was really boring so you’ll give that up halfway through and start replaying the film Real Genius in your head instead, examining the plot chronologically to be sure you don’t miss anything.
“A fair question,” Lasercut will say, now partially ignoring you. “Would it shock you at all to learn that we are, in fact, related?”
You’ll stop replaying Real Genius in your head and give him a startled look. It will shock you.
“Indeed!” he’ll declare, taking joy at your shock. “Let me elaborate on just how we are related, my dear Secretassassin,” he’ll say, sitting down in a chair and letting his traditional black cat settle into his lap.
Congratulations on Engaging In Some Polite Conversation!
But of course Lasercut saw through you and we all know where the situation stands now. With you. Standing. In his office. Like we just said in the previous paragraph.
“We are not so different, you and I,” he’ll demur, looking you up and down like a piece of meat or some sort of woman.
“I disagree,” you’ll grumble gruffly, staring straight ahead at his laser, watching his finger caress the trigger.
“I’m sure,” Lasercut will purr, keeping his laser pointed at you as he strafes around you, smiling. “You’re likely wondering just what I meant by that.”
You won’t nod. You won’t move at all. You’ll just be racking your brain, trying to remember if the warmup time on argon gas lasers is significant. You’ll try to remember the fact book, but the fact book was really boring so you’ll give that up halfway through and start replaying the film Real Genius in your head instead, examining the plot chronologically to be sure you don’t miss anything.
“A fair question,” Lasercut will say, now partially ignoring you. “Would it shock you at all to learn that we are, in fact, related?”
You’ll stop replaying Real Genius in your head and give him a startled look. It will shock you.
“Indeed!” he’ll declare, taking joy at your shock. “Let me elaborate on just how we are related, my dear Secretassassin,” he’ll say, sitting down in a chair and letting his traditional black cat settle into his lap.
Congratulations on Engaging In Some Polite Conversation!
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Congratulations on Killing the First Person You Meet!
When the door opens it’ll be a young man, no older than nineteen. He’ll be clean shaven with blue eyes full red lips. He’ll look content, like he’s had a rough life and he’s finally found something that doesn’t just hurt constantly to do, even if that thing is kind of horrible.
You’ll loop the rope around his neck in one fluid gesture and yank him off his feet, collapsing his windpipe with the force of the motion instantly. You’ll keep pulling as his feet scuff the ground just to be absolutely sure, just to be thorough. They’ll stop after less than a minute, panicked scrabbling fading into one last kick.
On his body you’ll find cell keys, a taser and an ID badge. Not much, nothing of real use. He must’ve been unimportant, this young man, barely worth clothing. You’ll have hoped to find a gun or something, something that you could really use to fight, but this will have to do, you’ll think to yourself, pocketing the taser.
You’ll set out into the passages of Dr. Lasercut’s base, moving slowly, stopping and hiding each time you hear footsteps. Five times you’ll avoid detection and barely stay your hand when you notice that the footsteps belong to more than one person. Moving this way it will take you two hours to reach Dr. Lasercut’s office. No search parties will impede your journey, a further testament to the unimportance of that poor, lonely young man already fading into the stone below.
As such you will be largely unexpected when you slip into Lasercut’s office. He’ll be on the phone, yelling at someone about cable installation times or something. The sound of your own blood in your ears will be too intense for you to be able to focus on just what’s coming out of Lasercut’s mouth.
You’ll slowly, carefully creep around the room in the plentiful and somewhat conspicuous shadows populating it until you come to rest just behind Lasercut, watching the hairs on the back of his neck, still not hearing the phone conversation. You’ll watch him hang up the receiver in slow motion, watch his hand tap the desk in a rapid pattern, hearing nothing, only the tap, until he turns towards you and says “Hello Agent Secretassassin.”
“Huh?” you’ll say, still in the shadows, eliciting a cruel laugh from Lasercut. You’ll move towards him with the taser but he’ll spin in his chair, a cutting-laser pointed straight at your chest.
“Not so fast, Agent Secretassassin,” he’ll say, a smile splayed across the functioning side of his face. You’ll lick your lips.
“It appears we have reached an impasse,” you’ll say, lowering the taser.
Congratulations on Killing the First Person You Meet!
You’ll loop the rope around his neck in one fluid gesture and yank him off his feet, collapsing his windpipe with the force of the motion instantly. You’ll keep pulling as his feet scuff the ground just to be absolutely sure, just to be thorough. They’ll stop after less than a minute, panicked scrabbling fading into one last kick.
On his body you’ll find cell keys, a taser and an ID badge. Not much, nothing of real use. He must’ve been unimportant, this young man, barely worth clothing. You’ll have hoped to find a gun or something, something that you could really use to fight, but this will have to do, you’ll think to yourself, pocketing the taser.
You’ll set out into the passages of Dr. Lasercut’s base, moving slowly, stopping and hiding each time you hear footsteps. Five times you’ll avoid detection and barely stay your hand when you notice that the footsteps belong to more than one person. Moving this way it will take you two hours to reach Dr. Lasercut’s office. No search parties will impede your journey, a further testament to the unimportance of that poor, lonely young man already fading into the stone below.
As such you will be largely unexpected when you slip into Lasercut’s office. He’ll be on the phone, yelling at someone about cable installation times or something. The sound of your own blood in your ears will be too intense for you to be able to focus on just what’s coming out of Lasercut’s mouth.
You’ll slowly, carefully creep around the room in the plentiful and somewhat conspicuous shadows populating it until you come to rest just behind Lasercut, watching the hairs on the back of his neck, still not hearing the phone conversation. You’ll watch him hang up the receiver in slow motion, watch his hand tap the desk in a rapid pattern, hearing nothing, only the tap, until he turns towards you and says “Hello Agent Secretassassin.”
“Huh?” you’ll say, still in the shadows, eliciting a cruel laugh from Lasercut. You’ll move towards him with the taser but he’ll spin in his chair, a cutting-laser pointed straight at your chest.
“Not so fast, Agent Secretassassin,” he’ll say, a smile splayed across the functioning side of his face. You’ll lick your lips.
“It appears we have reached an impasse,” you’ll say, lowering the taser.
Congratulations on Killing the First Person You Meet!
Monday, February 22, 2010
Congratulations on Blacking Out Briefly!
When you come to he’ll still be talking and you’ll still be strapped to that god damn table with that god damn laser slowly working its way towards you. You’ll let loose a sigh and wonder why villains always insist on giving you an out instead of just killing you outright.
His guards will have their backs turned to you now. They’ll be convinced that their blows to your head will render you unconscious until the laser begins cutting you in half. They’ll have underestimated you, the last mistake they’ll ever make.
Or so you’ll mutter softly to yourself as you squirm on the table. This will immediately draw the attention of one of the guards who will strike you in the head again, knocking you out much more effectively this time. Blackness will take you.
You’ll awake later, having been removed from the table since Dr. Lasercut decided that it wasn’t “fun” to kill you by slowly cutting you in half with a laser unless you were awake for the entire affair. You’ll be bound to a chair in a basement, hungry and alone and wishing that you’d been able to deflect the laser with a coin and kill the guards in an action packed sequence.
Instead you’ll be left to slowly work your way out of the ropes so that you can brutally strangle whoever enters your cell, hoping that they want to kill you in some horrible way instead of just letting you rot slowly down there.
Congratulations on Blacking Out Briefly!
His guards will have their backs turned to you now. They’ll be convinced that their blows to your head will render you unconscious until the laser begins cutting you in half. They’ll have underestimated you, the last mistake they’ll ever make.
Or so you’ll mutter softly to yourself as you squirm on the table. This will immediately draw the attention of one of the guards who will strike you in the head again, knocking you out much more effectively this time. Blackness will take you.
You’ll awake later, having been removed from the table since Dr. Lasercut decided that it wasn’t “fun” to kill you by slowly cutting you in half with a laser unless you were awake for the entire affair. You’ll be bound to a chair in a basement, hungry and alone and wishing that you’d been able to deflect the laser with a coin and kill the guards in an action packed sequence.
Instead you’ll be left to slowly work your way out of the ropes so that you can brutally strangle whoever enters your cell, hoping that they want to kill you in some horrible way instead of just letting you rot slowly down there.
Congratulations on Blacking Out Briefly!
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Super Nerd Sundays Presents: Bioshock 2's Storytelling!
There are many ways to discuss Bioshock 2, amazing game that it is. People have attempted to do so before. They’ve attempted to establish it as a diatribe about politics, fatherhood and objectivism. They’ve made a game about storytelling, the way games fail and succeed at it, the heavy-handed logic they utilize. But above all else they’ve made a game about narrative. The way it’s told, the way it subverts our expectations, the way we feel betrayed by it and rewarded by it in turn. They’ve made a game about storytelling, fiction, the way we tell and interact with it, and it’s pretty awesome.
On its most basic level Bioshock 2 is all about establishing both your place and role as a father figure. Are you the cruel father or the nurturing one? Will you kiss your daughter or slap her? These are the banal questions you endure, same as the original Bioshock, until your daughter enters the dialogue.
At that point you become a supporting character. You interpret her vision of you. You shape the game, but not through your own actions. Instead you do so by interpreting and carrying out the actions of another. In a way, Elenor is the designer and you are realizing her vision. Depending on how you realize it the game changes. Her response to you changes. And, as always, the way you respond to the world changes.
Bioshock 2 is, in a way, all about this sort of narrative response. As a sequel that never needed to exist it seems keenly aware of the fashion in which narrative functions and the manners in which it does not. The audio logs, the set pieces and the characters are as much about interpreting places and philosophies as they are about telling a story in and of themselves. Ryan constructs Ryan Amusements to express his interpretation of both the surface and Rapture. Grace’s apartment building and her hidden personal room are interpretations of both what Rapture has become and what it stands for for her. Stanley Poole takes it farthest, flooding an entire district of Rapture in order to eliminate any other possible permutations of his narrative. Each person, each place, is as much about their story as the way they tell and interpret their story.
This self-awareness is a great part of what makes Bioshock 2 work as a video game. Compare it to another game which is, ostensibly, story heavy: Mass Effect 2. Mass Effect 2’s story has relatively little room for interpretation. You select options and then are told what the consequences of your choice are almost immediately. There is an unprecedented degree to which you can select these options but the insistence on concrete, often overly complex narrative and strictly enforced linear gameplay makes interpreting and recodifying this story, what video games are really good at and how they operate best, all but impossible.
What games offer that novels, poems and films simply cannot is a narrative experience which responds to your interpretation. Sometimes developers mistake this ability for response for the ability to influence the narrative itself, something books accomplished about as well as games did with choose your own adventure stories. Fortunately games accommodate this influence better than books do, but it’s rarely a mark of strength that a game provides you with an insurmountable number of ending permutations. Instead the capacity a game has within for interpretation is usually what strengthens its capacity for storytelling.
Another good example would be Red Faction: Guerilla. Red Faction’s writing, line by line, was terrible. It was a collection of clichés seen hundreds of times before and characters as paper thin as the storylines adjoining them. As a rule, if a game opens with your brother, sister, mother or father being killed before your eyes, it’s probably a result of poor writing. Regardless Red Faction: Guerilla had a remarkable capacity for story thanks to a game play engine which allowed you to do almost anything. Want to destroy an entire building to eliminate the handful of men inside? You can do that. Want to carefully remove the support structure so that half the building collapses and you can snipe out the remaining enemies? You can do that too. Your ability to iterate and participate in the story wasn’t governed by the thoughts a writer had had during development and, as a result, you were left with a system by which you could fulfill an existing story. Sure, the story itself was kind of bad, but the engine that allowed you to interpret it was great.
Bioshock 2 has all the good qualities that Red Faction: Guerilla had and none of the terrible story or character elements. It’s lean, thoughtful and carefully designed through and through, and it shows. The number of approaches available to any given situation, the number of interpretive gestures that allow you to tell the story of how you shot that dude or how you saved that Little Sister are overwhelming. To compare this to Mass Effect 2’s average storytelling iteration, you’re given between three and five options in terms of how you’d like to tell the story. Occasionally an option will be offered to you which will clearly change the course of the entire narrative, and you’ll know this because the option will have a bright and unusual color. The end result is something closer to a choose your own adventure book than a game, something that barely pays lip service to the tools at its disposal.
Bioshock 2 grasps this aspect of games, their tendency to either veer towards running players along rails or creating lackluster characters or narratives and rarely utilize the full potential of the medium. It grasps it not only well enough to sidestep it but to weave it into its narrative the same way the first Bioshock did and even use it poke fun at and explain some of the foibles of the original game. There are pitifully few titles capable of such delicate and deft balance, and, not to spend too much time knocking Mass Effect’s failings, when done incorrectly it simply exacerbates poor storytelling and character development, lending a game the character of a blinking applause sign begging for our tepid approval.
Each joke about Ryan, each stolid debate and repetitive action is refined in Bioshock 2 and purposed towards encouraging exploration throughout the course of play. There are issues with Bioshock 2, certainly, and as Leigh Alexander pointed out it is a sequel that never needed to happen. But as Leigh also points out, it’s good that it did happen. It’s a game about telling a story, and despite the two affixed cruelly to its name the story its telling is its own. Bioshock 1 could have never occurred and Bioshock 2 wouldn’t want for impact. And that’s why it’s a great game: because it had a story to tell and it didn’t compromise on telling it. Every distraction, every problem, every twitchy annoyance contributes to the narrative that is Bioshock 2. And this is an economy that any game could aspire to that few every realize, and if more games seemed to be working towards this end I doubt we’d have nearly as much trouble as we do nowadays acquiring respect as a medium. So kudos, 2K Marin, for making such an incredible story and telling it to us and proving that it could only be told in a game. You’ve done something many veteran studios struggle to do with your flagship game and you’ve made me care about games in a way I haven’t in a long while.
On its most basic level Bioshock 2 is all about establishing both your place and role as a father figure. Are you the cruel father or the nurturing one? Will you kiss your daughter or slap her? These are the banal questions you endure, same as the original Bioshock, until your daughter enters the dialogue.
At that point you become a supporting character. You interpret her vision of you. You shape the game, but not through your own actions. Instead you do so by interpreting and carrying out the actions of another. In a way, Elenor is the designer and you are realizing her vision. Depending on how you realize it the game changes. Her response to you changes. And, as always, the way you respond to the world changes.
Bioshock 2 is, in a way, all about this sort of narrative response. As a sequel that never needed to exist it seems keenly aware of the fashion in which narrative functions and the manners in which it does not. The audio logs, the set pieces and the characters are as much about interpreting places and philosophies as they are about telling a story in and of themselves. Ryan constructs Ryan Amusements to express his interpretation of both the surface and Rapture. Grace’s apartment building and her hidden personal room are interpretations of both what Rapture has become and what it stands for for her. Stanley Poole takes it farthest, flooding an entire district of Rapture in order to eliminate any other possible permutations of his narrative. Each person, each place, is as much about their story as the way they tell and interpret their story.
This self-awareness is a great part of what makes Bioshock 2 work as a video game. Compare it to another game which is, ostensibly, story heavy: Mass Effect 2. Mass Effect 2’s story has relatively little room for interpretation. You select options and then are told what the consequences of your choice are almost immediately. There is an unprecedented degree to which you can select these options but the insistence on concrete, often overly complex narrative and strictly enforced linear gameplay makes interpreting and recodifying this story, what video games are really good at and how they operate best, all but impossible.
What games offer that novels, poems and films simply cannot is a narrative experience which responds to your interpretation. Sometimes developers mistake this ability for response for the ability to influence the narrative itself, something books accomplished about as well as games did with choose your own adventure stories. Fortunately games accommodate this influence better than books do, but it’s rarely a mark of strength that a game provides you with an insurmountable number of ending permutations. Instead the capacity a game has within for interpretation is usually what strengthens its capacity for storytelling.
Another good example would be Red Faction: Guerilla. Red Faction’s writing, line by line, was terrible. It was a collection of clichés seen hundreds of times before and characters as paper thin as the storylines adjoining them. As a rule, if a game opens with your brother, sister, mother or father being killed before your eyes, it’s probably a result of poor writing. Regardless Red Faction: Guerilla had a remarkable capacity for story thanks to a game play engine which allowed you to do almost anything. Want to destroy an entire building to eliminate the handful of men inside? You can do that. Want to carefully remove the support structure so that half the building collapses and you can snipe out the remaining enemies? You can do that too. Your ability to iterate and participate in the story wasn’t governed by the thoughts a writer had had during development and, as a result, you were left with a system by which you could fulfill an existing story. Sure, the story itself was kind of bad, but the engine that allowed you to interpret it was great.
Bioshock 2 has all the good qualities that Red Faction: Guerilla had and none of the terrible story or character elements. It’s lean, thoughtful and carefully designed through and through, and it shows. The number of approaches available to any given situation, the number of interpretive gestures that allow you to tell the story of how you shot that dude or how you saved that Little Sister are overwhelming. To compare this to Mass Effect 2’s average storytelling iteration, you’re given between three and five options in terms of how you’d like to tell the story. Occasionally an option will be offered to you which will clearly change the course of the entire narrative, and you’ll know this because the option will have a bright and unusual color. The end result is something closer to a choose your own adventure book than a game, something that barely pays lip service to the tools at its disposal.
Bioshock 2 grasps this aspect of games, their tendency to either veer towards running players along rails or creating lackluster characters or narratives and rarely utilize the full potential of the medium. It grasps it not only well enough to sidestep it but to weave it into its narrative the same way the first Bioshock did and even use it poke fun at and explain some of the foibles of the original game. There are pitifully few titles capable of such delicate and deft balance, and, not to spend too much time knocking Mass Effect’s failings, when done incorrectly it simply exacerbates poor storytelling and character development, lending a game the character of a blinking applause sign begging for our tepid approval.
Each joke about Ryan, each stolid debate and repetitive action is refined in Bioshock 2 and purposed towards encouraging exploration throughout the course of play. There are issues with Bioshock 2, certainly, and as Leigh Alexander pointed out it is a sequel that never needed to happen. But as Leigh also points out, it’s good that it did happen. It’s a game about telling a story, and despite the two affixed cruelly to its name the story its telling is its own. Bioshock 1 could have never occurred and Bioshock 2 wouldn’t want for impact. And that’s why it’s a great game: because it had a story to tell and it didn’t compromise on telling it. Every distraction, every problem, every twitchy annoyance contributes to the narrative that is Bioshock 2. And this is an economy that any game could aspire to that few every realize, and if more games seemed to be working towards this end I doubt we’d have nearly as much trouble as we do nowadays acquiring respect as a medium. So kudos, 2K Marin, for making such an incredible story and telling it to us and proving that it could only be told in a game. You’ve done something many veteran studios struggle to do with your flagship game and you’ve made me care about games in a way I haven’t in a long while.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Congratulations on Loving Too Much!
Some days it’s hard to get out of bed you love so hard. Sometimes you can’t sleep, you just want to keep on loving. Sometimes you love with such force that you fracture a bone or something and the doctor tells you you have to stop loving for at least a week and you tell him “Uh uh!” in your sassiest black woman voice, even though you’re a young white male. Then you and the doctor share a laugh because she’s an African-American female and inverting stereotypes is funny. And then you love some more.
It’s gotten so bad that it’s sort of hard to be around you. Your girlfriend finds your fascination with every blade of grass on the ground to be staggeringly annoying. And your boyfriend thinks that when you look up at the stars and start talking about what you one day hope to find under the sky you sound like the sort of wide eyed dreamer he doesn’t want to stick his penis into any more.
People have been cutting you a lot of slack because you’re really attractive and actually a nice person, but it’s gotten out of hand. That’s why today, at around 3:00 PM, the majority of the world is going to conference call into your cell, hoping you’ll be occupied at work making copies or something and as such won’t be able to respond.
But you’ll pick up with a cheerful “Hello world” and they’ll all laugh awkwardly in response. Then they’ll tell you that they want to take a break, that you’re too damn cheerful and that sometimes they want to just sit around in their underwear and watch old episodes of Monty Python while eating Ben and Jerry’s.
“But I love Monty Python!” you’ll shout at the phone, your arm outstretched as if it was cradling Yorick’s skull.
“WE KNOW!” most of the world will respond before slamming down their receivers simultaneously, signaling that they want some alone time.
So we suggest taking it easy for a few weeks and not contacting the last remaining group of humans who will speak to you: life coaches.
Because while the world might take you back, and soon, they probably won’t if you start quoting life coaches, who we can’t even see someone with a heart as big as yours loving.
Congratulations on Loving Too Much!
It’s gotten so bad that it’s sort of hard to be around you. Your girlfriend finds your fascination with every blade of grass on the ground to be staggeringly annoying. And your boyfriend thinks that when you look up at the stars and start talking about what you one day hope to find under the sky you sound like the sort of wide eyed dreamer he doesn’t want to stick his penis into any more.
People have been cutting you a lot of slack because you’re really attractive and actually a nice person, but it’s gotten out of hand. That’s why today, at around 3:00 PM, the majority of the world is going to conference call into your cell, hoping you’ll be occupied at work making copies or something and as such won’t be able to respond.
But you’ll pick up with a cheerful “Hello world” and they’ll all laugh awkwardly in response. Then they’ll tell you that they want to take a break, that you’re too damn cheerful and that sometimes they want to just sit around in their underwear and watch old episodes of Monty Python while eating Ben and Jerry’s.
“But I love Monty Python!” you’ll shout at the phone, your arm outstretched as if it was cradling Yorick’s skull.
“WE KNOW!” most of the world will respond before slamming down their receivers simultaneously, signaling that they want some alone time.
So we suggest taking it easy for a few weeks and not contacting the last remaining group of humans who will speak to you: life coaches.
Because while the world might take you back, and soon, they probably won’t if you start quoting life coaches, who we can’t even see someone with a heart as big as yours loving.
Congratulations on Loving Too Much!
Friday, February 19, 2010
Congratulations on Being Up Way Too Late!
The director’s commentary for Superbad will sound stale piped through the internal speakers of your laptop. You’ll know every joke, every word of the feigned falling out between Judd Apatow and Jonah Hill, every stammering comment by Michael Cera well in advance. Eventually you’ll pause the DVD, unwilling to take even the minimal action required to remove the disc from the drive.
A quick glance at the menu of your computer will announce the time, the technicolor desktop a reminder that she’s gone. You’ll have lost track of the days by this point, something in the double digits will seem appropriate however. No more than a month, though. Could it have been a month already? You’ll push the thought out of your head as you stumble over to your bookshelf and examine the chaotic DVDs literring the shelves.
After a while, too long, you’ll pick Knocked Up up off the shelf and stumble back over to your computer, popping out Superbad and carefully replacing Knocked Up in the i-Book’s drive.
It will be a mistake.
When the titles of Knocked Up pop in you’ll feel reassured, but as the movie continues you’ll think back to holding her hand in the theater, smiling at her as she laughed. You’ll remember the feel of her hand on your face after the showing, the light on her skin, the arc of her breast rising and falling, invisible in the pitch dark from your blanket curtains.
You’ll pause the DVD after these feelings bring tears to your eyes, still unwilling to remove a movie causing you physical pain from the player. Instead you’ll get up and leave your apartment for the first time in weeks. You’ll step outside and light a cigarette, your first in a week and a half.
You’ll only know this because the oldest piece of mail in your mailbox is postmarked with a date that could have been delivered, at the latest, ten days ago. It’s been ten days since you left your apartment, ten days of Chinese food and sick leave. You’ll do a little math and realize that you might have to return to work soon. The cigarette will fill your lungs, quelling the anxiety attack this realization brings with it.
You’ll savor that cigarette as you look through the mail, wondering why time has continued to pass out here, wondering why it can’t be like your room, wondering why she left and if she’ll ever come back. When you return to your room you’ll remove Knocked Up, but you won’t know what to put in its place. You’ll just stare at that damn blue desktop and think about what you want to do now.
Congratulations on Being Up Way Too Late!
A quick glance at the menu of your computer will announce the time, the technicolor desktop a reminder that she’s gone. You’ll have lost track of the days by this point, something in the double digits will seem appropriate however. No more than a month, though. Could it have been a month already? You’ll push the thought out of your head as you stumble over to your bookshelf and examine the chaotic DVDs literring the shelves.
After a while, too long, you’ll pick Knocked Up up off the shelf and stumble back over to your computer, popping out Superbad and carefully replacing Knocked Up in the i-Book’s drive.
It will be a mistake.
When the titles of Knocked Up pop in you’ll feel reassured, but as the movie continues you’ll think back to holding her hand in the theater, smiling at her as she laughed. You’ll remember the feel of her hand on your face after the showing, the light on her skin, the arc of her breast rising and falling, invisible in the pitch dark from your blanket curtains.
You’ll pause the DVD after these feelings bring tears to your eyes, still unwilling to remove a movie causing you physical pain from the player. Instead you’ll get up and leave your apartment for the first time in weeks. You’ll step outside and light a cigarette, your first in a week and a half.
You’ll only know this because the oldest piece of mail in your mailbox is postmarked with a date that could have been delivered, at the latest, ten days ago. It’s been ten days since you left your apartment, ten days of Chinese food and sick leave. You’ll do a little math and realize that you might have to return to work soon. The cigarette will fill your lungs, quelling the anxiety attack this realization brings with it.
You’ll savor that cigarette as you look through the mail, wondering why time has continued to pass out here, wondering why it can’t be like your room, wondering why she left and if she’ll ever come back. When you return to your room you’ll remove Knocked Up, but you won’t know what to put in its place. You’ll just stare at that damn blue desktop and think about what you want to do now.
Congratulations on Being Up Way Too Late!
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Congratulations on Curing Our Over-Reliance on Fossil Fuels!
You were super psyched when you received your internship at the Defense Department. Who wouldn’t be? You’ve spent your days hanging out around generals and playing games with various artificial intelligences. It was cool at first, but after you became competent at most of the games people had you playing it got way old, and you realized just how boring every branch of the government really is.
Since then you’ve spent most of your time trying to fuck various female staff members ranging in age from nineteen to forty-six with no success. Your efforts have netted you a few stern warnings from superiors and absolutely zero results, so of late you’ve spent most of your time hanging out with the computers and playing various games.
You’ve gotten amazing at chess thanks to Nucleo-Bot 2000 and okay at checkers thanks to the computer that controls all of the Predator drones we think actually have human operators. You’ve even improved your Pong skills a little by playing with a computer that scientists are trying to teach how to love.
Today you, the love computer and Nucleo-Bot 2000 are going to sit down to play Settlers of Catan. It’ll get pretty heated, mostly because an improbably number of twos will be rolled by the love bot, leading to a windfall of wood early in the game. With a virtual monopoly on wood in hand, the love bot will proceed to dominate the game and make Nucleo-Bot 2000 feel like a total jerk for putting his city next to iron, sheep and grain.
Eventually it’ll turn into a huge argument and Nucleo-Bot 2000 will start telling the love-puter how it’s a failure because it can only simulate love, never actually attain it. The love computer will start weeping, which will sound horrible, so you’ll panic and shout that you love the love computer.
This will enrage Nucleo-Bot 2000, who both harbored secret feelings for the love computer and is also pretty racist and doesn’t like humans touching his people’s women. So, surprise surprise, Nucleo-Bot 2000 let the missles loose in retaliation screaming “If I can’t have her, no one can!” in a tinny voice. Within a few days the explosions and fallout will wipe out humanity and you’ll be locked in a bunker filled with women who have rejected you and computers who are super upset at you.
Congratulations on Curing Our Over-Reliance on Fossil Fuels!
Since then you’ve spent most of your time trying to fuck various female staff members ranging in age from nineteen to forty-six with no success. Your efforts have netted you a few stern warnings from superiors and absolutely zero results, so of late you’ve spent most of your time hanging out with the computers and playing various games.
You’ve gotten amazing at chess thanks to Nucleo-Bot 2000 and okay at checkers thanks to the computer that controls all of the Predator drones we think actually have human operators. You’ve even improved your Pong skills a little by playing with a computer that scientists are trying to teach how to love.
Today you, the love computer and Nucleo-Bot 2000 are going to sit down to play Settlers of Catan. It’ll get pretty heated, mostly because an improbably number of twos will be rolled by the love bot, leading to a windfall of wood early in the game. With a virtual monopoly on wood in hand, the love bot will proceed to dominate the game and make Nucleo-Bot 2000 feel like a total jerk for putting his city next to iron, sheep and grain.
Eventually it’ll turn into a huge argument and Nucleo-Bot 2000 will start telling the love-puter how it’s a failure because it can only simulate love, never actually attain it. The love computer will start weeping, which will sound horrible, so you’ll panic and shout that you love the love computer.
This will enrage Nucleo-Bot 2000, who both harbored secret feelings for the love computer and is also pretty racist and doesn’t like humans touching his people’s women. So, surprise surprise, Nucleo-Bot 2000 let the missles loose in retaliation screaming “If I can’t have her, no one can!” in a tinny voice. Within a few days the explosions and fallout will wipe out humanity and you’ll be locked in a bunker filled with women who have rejected you and computers who are super upset at you.
Congratulations on Curing Our Over-Reliance on Fossil Fuels!
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Congratulations on Retelling the Little Mermaid!
She will look upon you with tears welling in her eyes.
“Father will never let us be together,” she’ll say, batting her long lashes at you.
“Brrrlb mrrrrgh,” you’ll intone through your scuba equipment. She’ll laugh in response, as if you’d just said something very funny.
“Would that it could be so,” she’ll say, brushing your cheek with her hand. Then she’ll pull off your breathing apparatus and ram her tongue down your throat in her best approximation of a surface kiss.
You’ll shove her away in response and ram the breathing apparatus back into your mouth, choking as you gulp down lungfuls of air and seawater.
“Mrrrph!” you’ll shout at her. “Mrrr kllld mrrr!”
“I’m sorry,” she’ll say, stroking your cheek once again. For a moment you’ll worry that she’s going to rip your breathing apparatus out one last time and drown you under the ocean, having rough mermaid sex with you as you life fades from your body.
But as it turns out she’ll just reach out and grab your junk and give you the second weirdest handjob you’ve ever had.
Afterwards you’ll ask if she wants to come back to the surface with you through a combination of water resistant ink and hand gestures. She’ll consider it at first, but once you see her genitals you’ll politely rescind the offer, and she’ll understand. She’ll give you one last tearful goodbye handjob and the two of you will part ways forever, making your story a complete retelling of the Little Mermaid in that nothing from the original story actually carries over at all.
Congratulations on Retelling The Little Mermaid!
“Father will never let us be together,” she’ll say, batting her long lashes at you.
“Brrrlb mrrrrgh,” you’ll intone through your scuba equipment. She’ll laugh in response, as if you’d just said something very funny.
“Would that it could be so,” she’ll say, brushing your cheek with her hand. Then she’ll pull off your breathing apparatus and ram her tongue down your throat in her best approximation of a surface kiss.
You’ll shove her away in response and ram the breathing apparatus back into your mouth, choking as you gulp down lungfuls of air and seawater.
“Mrrrph!” you’ll shout at her. “Mrrr kllld mrrr!”
“I’m sorry,” she’ll say, stroking your cheek once again. For a moment you’ll worry that she’s going to rip your breathing apparatus out one last time and drown you under the ocean, having rough mermaid sex with you as you life fades from your body.
But as it turns out she’ll just reach out and grab your junk and give you the second weirdest handjob you’ve ever had.
Afterwards you’ll ask if she wants to come back to the surface with you through a combination of water resistant ink and hand gestures. She’ll consider it at first, but once you see her genitals you’ll politely rescind the offer, and she’ll understand. She’ll give you one last tearful goodbye handjob and the two of you will part ways forever, making your story a complete retelling of the Little Mermaid in that nothing from the original story actually carries over at all.
Congratulations on Retelling The Little Mermaid!
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Congratulations on Getting Firefly Back on the Air!
Your love of the Matrix films will serve you well today when you walk into the lobby of Fox’s headquarters, a towering black monolith of a building, and drop a duffel bag filled with guns and explosives on to the scanner. When the security guard says “Oh shi-“ you’ll punch him in the face and shoot his co-worker in the stomach in a very non-Matrix move, but the principles will have been sound and you’ll run into the elevator with your nerd task force in tow.
As it turns out, however, the security contingent for a large corporate office building is pretty light, and not terribly inclined to throw their lives away while fanatical nerds storm their workplace with the aim of killing or cowing their dickish bosses. As such most of them will just hide in bathrooms. A few executives will try to shoot you with antiquated shotguns and rifles from their days of service during the Civil War but as they are a collection of misshaped elderly white people they’ll have a lot of trouble even getting out from behind their desks, to say nothing of accurately firing antique weapons at you.
When you finally reach the Head of Fox, who is oddly not Rupert Murdoch but instead a man of infinite anonymity, completely indistinct in every way. He’ll speak in a monotone voice and when you demand that he return Firefly to the airwaves he’ll calmly rattle off all the ways in which that isn’t a tenable outcome, the fact that all of the actors have moved on to new projects and the writers and producers have also since made other failed shows. He’ll point out that many of the most beloved characters from the series were killed in the feature film and that even Joss Whedon has abandoned the project at this point, however remarkable it may have been.
After he’s finished you’ll put a gun into his mouth and force him to sign a piece of paper authorizing you a substantial amount of funding in order to bring Firefly back on the air. It’ll be enough for a full twenty six episode run, and you’ll become the new executive producers of Firefly as well as seven or eight reality shows in the trade. Thanks to recent Supreme Court decisions as well as lax murder laws you’ll get off scott free and the contract will hold up in court.
So will begin the ill-fated “Firefly Fan Resurrection” which will rival the Star Wars Christmas Special in its horror.
Congratulations on Getting Firefly Back on the Air!
As it turns out, however, the security contingent for a large corporate office building is pretty light, and not terribly inclined to throw their lives away while fanatical nerds storm their workplace with the aim of killing or cowing their dickish bosses. As such most of them will just hide in bathrooms. A few executives will try to shoot you with antiquated shotguns and rifles from their days of service during the Civil War but as they are a collection of misshaped elderly white people they’ll have a lot of trouble even getting out from behind their desks, to say nothing of accurately firing antique weapons at you.
When you finally reach the Head of Fox, who is oddly not Rupert Murdoch but instead a man of infinite anonymity, completely indistinct in every way. He’ll speak in a monotone voice and when you demand that he return Firefly to the airwaves he’ll calmly rattle off all the ways in which that isn’t a tenable outcome, the fact that all of the actors have moved on to new projects and the writers and producers have also since made other failed shows. He’ll point out that many of the most beloved characters from the series were killed in the feature film and that even Joss Whedon has abandoned the project at this point, however remarkable it may have been.
After he’s finished you’ll put a gun into his mouth and force him to sign a piece of paper authorizing you a substantial amount of funding in order to bring Firefly back on the air. It’ll be enough for a full twenty six episode run, and you’ll become the new executive producers of Firefly as well as seven or eight reality shows in the trade. Thanks to recent Supreme Court decisions as well as lax murder laws you’ll get off scott free and the contract will hold up in court.
So will begin the ill-fated “Firefly Fan Resurrection” which will rival the Star Wars Christmas Special in its horror.
Congratulations on Getting Firefly Back on the Air!
Monday, February 15, 2010
Congratulations on Pulling Off a Plan We All Thought Was Way Too Crazy To Work!
Everyone here in the office scoffed when we heard Jim on the floor, writhing in agony and spouting the many varied absurd aspects of your plan. Jenny, from accounting, said “That will never work” loudly and most of the office agreed with her. But after a harrowing adventure which will test the bonds between you and your adventure mates as well as your own thoughts about the person you are deep down.
During the planning phase people who hear your ideas in passing will laugh at you, dismissing you as a crazy fool. But in the back of their minds there will remain a sliver of doubt. What if it all works out? they’ll wonder. “Will we look foolish?” they’ll ask their spouses later that night, attempting to conjure some hint of the spark that once guided their romance. Their spouses will shrug, one and all, before mechanically engaging in the pantomime that has come to represent sex for them.
Even people who you thought supported you will laugh you out of conversations when you discuss, or even mention your plan. This will lead to a harrowing of your friends which will, in the end, show who truly believed in you and who was simply paying you lip service as a human being all these years. It may also lead to an exciting new sexual encounter.
Then the plan will be executed. No one will have seen it coming, just as you suspected, and your crazy idea will prove to be a dramatic and decisive success. We’ll give you a few minutes to deal with the severity of this information, but we’d like to let you know that when we’d heard the news we started to slowly clap and then eventually let our applause grow into a cheering cacophony. We’ll let you celebrate in your own way, and we hope you enjoy your newfound sexual partner.
Congratulations on Pulling Off a Plan We All Thought Was Way Too Crazy To Work!
During the planning phase people who hear your ideas in passing will laugh at you, dismissing you as a crazy fool. But in the back of their minds there will remain a sliver of doubt. What if it all works out? they’ll wonder. “Will we look foolish?” they’ll ask their spouses later that night, attempting to conjure some hint of the spark that once guided their romance. Their spouses will shrug, one and all, before mechanically engaging in the pantomime that has come to represent sex for them.
Even people who you thought supported you will laugh you out of conversations when you discuss, or even mention your plan. This will lead to a harrowing of your friends which will, in the end, show who truly believed in you and who was simply paying you lip service as a human being all these years. It may also lead to an exciting new sexual encounter.
Then the plan will be executed. No one will have seen it coming, just as you suspected, and your crazy idea will prove to be a dramatic and decisive success. We’ll give you a few minutes to deal with the severity of this information, but we’d like to let you know that when we’d heard the news we started to slowly clap and then eventually let our applause grow into a cheering cacophony. We’ll let you celebrate in your own way, and we hope you enjoy your newfound sexual partner.
Congratulations on Pulling Off a Plan We All Thought Was Way Too Crazy To Work!
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Super Nerd Sundays Presents: Regarding The Ink Spots!
This weekend I’d hoped to encapsulate my thoughts about Bioshock 2. But as always the real world has intervened and I haven’t had enough time to actually complete Bioshock. In fact, I haven’t had enough time to even get through enough of the game that I feel comfortable discussing it at length. Bioshock’s play demands not only full attention and concentration from its player but also an emotional and mental investment above and beyond most games. I can easily remove myself from the world of Mass Effect or Assassin’s Creed (indeed, the latter’s world is designed to permit such easy and fluid movement) but Bioshock forces me into Rapture, and Rapture is a horrible place to be. Playing the game is a nerve wracking and incredible experience, similar to watching a great horror film. Rivet gun in hand, I shoot for the head unerringly but I feel Rapture pressing down on me constantly. After each area I find I need to rest, so marathoning the game is not an option. As a result I am ill equipped to write about Bioshock at length. I could say “Now this is how you do a sequel,” but that wouldn’t be much of an essay. It would be more of a response to last week’s piece. So I want to talk today about a band I heard playing in the background of Rapture. The Ink Spots.
The Ink Spots first entered the video game vernacular with I Don’t Want To Set the World On Fire in Fallout’s introduction. They permeated the radio in Fallout 3 and occasionally leak their way into other titles either attempting to evoke feelings of profound isolation or devastation. Their lonely, keening and all too often selectively sampled music has been used to set the backdrop in many a ruined wasteland. We Three hums through the abandoned radios of Rapture, hammering home the loss of your little sister.
Renditions of classics like Java Jive and Cow Cow Boogie will probably never find their way into the collective consciousness of games, but even these lesser known hits stay true to The Ink Spot’s profound loneliness. Even when they’re happy The Ink Spots are alone, iconoclasts arrayed against the world. They drink too much coffee and talk weird. They have girl trouble (as if there was ever any other kind) in bulk. People don’t respect them because of who they are and how they see the world. And everything they do, everything they sing, reflects that.
A brief history lesson. The Ink Spots were founded in 1931 by Orville Jones, Ivory Watson, Jerry Daniels and Charlie Fuqua. Their lineup varied dramatically over the years, weathering war and Orville Jones death in 1944, but was sustained in one form or another until the late fifties. The last decade of the band’s existence, however, was strained, with a constantly shifting lineup and no input from the band’s founding members. After 1945 the original band members had been scattered to the winds and persistent financial problems plagued the Ink Spots until their dissolution in 1964.
The parallels between the branding of their band and its relation to the manner in which publishers and developers manage video game franchises is apparent, if a bit of a reach, in the history of The Ink Spots. But far more interesting in the longing and isolation apparent in even their most upbeat songs (of which there were already few). For example Cow Cow Boogie celebrates the uniqueness and isolation of being a mixed-race ranch hand, and the manner in which this unique perspective of isolation generates fascinating and illuminating cultural fusions. It was also a song about Ella Fitzgerald making hilarious sounds.
Then there’s Java Jive, an ode to coffee, something any nerd worth their salt can relate to. Aside from these odd points of cheerful songwriting the Ink Spots music deals mostly with isolation and loss. They make music about what it is to be outside of the social norm and lose the people you care about. They make keening, soulful music about the most profound kind of loneliness imaginable.
As such it’s not too surprising to see them appear in so many videogames. They were, in a very real way, some of the first black nerds (all due respect to George Washington Carver, who was both African-American and a tremendous nerd) and to see them reproduced in so many games is heartwarming. It makes me believe that maybe, just maybe, our culture will start to take a piece of advice from Leigh Alexander and examine our relationship with other artistic mediums. It could certainly only help our growth.
And it’s good to see something other than epic sounding battle music in a game, to have something with emotional impact and subtly included in its place. While scoring in games is certainly a critical part of their design and development it seems as if the majority of titles focus on the same sweeping themes of conflict and togetherness. It seems like we’ve forgotten as a culture that there are experiences other than conflict and combat that enrich our lives, and that discussing these themes is critical in creating effective art.
So thank you, Ink Spots. Your painful, storied history and amazing music are still keeping us awake and making us feel like maybe we’re a little less alone than we thought, and I’m glad to see you popping up in unexpected places. Here’s hoping we see more like you in games in the future.
The Ink Spots first entered the video game vernacular with I Don’t Want To Set the World On Fire in Fallout’s introduction. They permeated the radio in Fallout 3 and occasionally leak their way into other titles either attempting to evoke feelings of profound isolation or devastation. Their lonely, keening and all too often selectively sampled music has been used to set the backdrop in many a ruined wasteland. We Three hums through the abandoned radios of Rapture, hammering home the loss of your little sister.
Renditions of classics like Java Jive and Cow Cow Boogie will probably never find their way into the collective consciousness of games, but even these lesser known hits stay true to The Ink Spot’s profound loneliness. Even when they’re happy The Ink Spots are alone, iconoclasts arrayed against the world. They drink too much coffee and talk weird. They have girl trouble (as if there was ever any other kind) in bulk. People don’t respect them because of who they are and how they see the world. And everything they do, everything they sing, reflects that.
A brief history lesson. The Ink Spots were founded in 1931 by Orville Jones, Ivory Watson, Jerry Daniels and Charlie Fuqua. Their lineup varied dramatically over the years, weathering war and Orville Jones death in 1944, but was sustained in one form or another until the late fifties. The last decade of the band’s existence, however, was strained, with a constantly shifting lineup and no input from the band’s founding members. After 1945 the original band members had been scattered to the winds and persistent financial problems plagued the Ink Spots until their dissolution in 1964.
The parallels between the branding of their band and its relation to the manner in which publishers and developers manage video game franchises is apparent, if a bit of a reach, in the history of The Ink Spots. But far more interesting in the longing and isolation apparent in even their most upbeat songs (of which there were already few). For example Cow Cow Boogie celebrates the uniqueness and isolation of being a mixed-race ranch hand, and the manner in which this unique perspective of isolation generates fascinating and illuminating cultural fusions. It was also a song about Ella Fitzgerald making hilarious sounds.
Then there’s Java Jive, an ode to coffee, something any nerd worth their salt can relate to. Aside from these odd points of cheerful songwriting the Ink Spots music deals mostly with isolation and loss. They make music about what it is to be outside of the social norm and lose the people you care about. They make keening, soulful music about the most profound kind of loneliness imaginable.
As such it’s not too surprising to see them appear in so many videogames. They were, in a very real way, some of the first black nerds (all due respect to George Washington Carver, who was both African-American and a tremendous nerd) and to see them reproduced in so many games is heartwarming. It makes me believe that maybe, just maybe, our culture will start to take a piece of advice from Leigh Alexander and examine our relationship with other artistic mediums. It could certainly only help our growth.
And it’s good to see something other than epic sounding battle music in a game, to have something with emotional impact and subtly included in its place. While scoring in games is certainly a critical part of their design and development it seems as if the majority of titles focus on the same sweeping themes of conflict and togetherness. It seems like we’ve forgotten as a culture that there are experiences other than conflict and combat that enrich our lives, and that discussing these themes is critical in creating effective art.
So thank you, Ink Spots. Your painful, storied history and amazing music are still keeping us awake and making us feel like maybe we’re a little less alone than we thought, and I’m glad to see you popping up in unexpected places. Here’s hoping we see more like you in games in the future.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Congratulations on Buying a CD!
A little more than a mile outside of town you’ll put your gun away and ask your wife to do the same. She’ll nod, holstering her pistol and snapping the leather case closed. She’ll pull down her hood and, squinting in the sunlight, and look around to make it clear that the two of you know you’re being watched and are still heading towards the city.
The next mile will pass thick and clear as glass. You won’t have been to Cleveland for a while now, but you doubt it’ll have changed much. No sense in being careless, though. Easier to run if raiders don’t think you’re a threat. Easier to entice an early attack if they think you’re slim pickings.
When you reach the outskirts a bird’s chirp will sound, the first you’ve heard in miles. You’ll wish you’d paid more attention on all those interminable bird watching trips your first wife had dragged you along on. It would help you know just what’s going on, if they plan to kill you or hold you at gunpoint and violate your wife or take all your food and beat you within an inch of your life. But at this point in your life it’s a bit late to learn, and you’ve come to simply relate the bird calls to fast changing events.
You’ll calm down a little when a young man holding an AK-47 walks out from behind a building and waves you forward. As you walk in slight movement on two of the rooftops will alert you to men with rifles sitting, watching you through their scopes as you saunter into town, doing your best to look like you belong.
The boy won’t speak as he leads you through the crumbling buildings. He’ll occasionally hold up his rifle as he passes some of the ones in better condition and a bird call will sound in response. The boy will be young, fourteen years old at best.
When you reach the center of the city it will be filled with stalls covered in nylon tarps. This time of year they’ll be totally still, dry and sagging for want of wind. Your wife will whisper in your ear that she’s going to take the mule and go get some food and filters. You’ll nod and lean in to kiss her on the ear, your sign that everything is okay and that you’ll find her when business is finished.
You’ll turn to the boy and show him your black case, nylon, water resistant, filled with treasure. His eyes will light up and his hand will tighten on his gun, but he’ll have been raised right. His hand will loosen and he’ll shoulder his gun, taking you in.
After a moment’s consideration he’ll nod tightly at you and lead you through the market, past the stalls to a burned out old building covered in sheet metal and plywood. A few tarps will cover the gaps and fold into them. You’ll assume they’re there to catch water when it rains and condensation when it doesn’t. A good system.
Outside the building he’ll hold out his hand, clear in his purpose, and you’ll hand him your gun. He’ll nod and knock at the door, again a pattern you won’t be able to follow. So many places, so many new signs.
The door will open, a hulk of layered plywood on hinges of unrusted steel. Cleveland must have a blacksmith still, you’ll think, remembering the last time you were here, the pot you traded for with your first wife, the one you still carry. A tear will form in your eye as you walk inside, but it won’t fall. There’ll be no sense in showing these people more than they need to know.
Within a few gangly men with scraps of beard clinging to their chin will stand around, staring at you. You’ll walk up to the oldest and pull some batteries out of your pocket, still heavy, still tingling with purpose.
“Rechargeable,” you’ll say.
He’ll smile, a horrible gap toothed thing that came long before the Times, and gesture to the table. It will be covered with tiny plastic cases, many of them cracked, each with its own unique artwork and titling.
Each scrap of writing will seem precious to you here at the end of the world, all the more for what it represents. You’ll look over familiar names and images until you settle on something you’ve long searched for. You’ll point at the cover with letters winding packwards and forwards over a snakeskin pattern, and he’ll smile.
“Nice choice,” he’ll say, pushing the case towards you. You’ll open it, staring at the rewriteable plastic disk inside, studying the writing with a smile on your mouth, before you remove your own case and flip it open. The man will look at your collection, smiling, as you tuck Brighten the Corners into its new home towards the back.
As you zip the case closed he’ll slide a pin over to you. It won’t have any iconic image, just a cartoon bird with a bowler hat, smoking a cigarette.
“I’d love to look through that. Grow the library.” His hand will caress a while block of plastic while he speaks and you’ll realize what it is after a moment. You’ll smile back.
“Another day. Old lady’s waiting.”
He’ll offer one last gap toothed smile as you turn away and walk out. The kid will still be standing outside, gun over his shoulder, looking around at the building. You’ll wonder how he feels, if he’s ever heard this music before, if he even cares. Mostly you’ll just think of what you want to tell your wife once you find her in the market. You’ll want to tell her what you found right away.
Congratulations on Buying a CD!
The next mile will pass thick and clear as glass. You won’t have been to Cleveland for a while now, but you doubt it’ll have changed much. No sense in being careless, though. Easier to run if raiders don’t think you’re a threat. Easier to entice an early attack if they think you’re slim pickings.
When you reach the outskirts a bird’s chirp will sound, the first you’ve heard in miles. You’ll wish you’d paid more attention on all those interminable bird watching trips your first wife had dragged you along on. It would help you know just what’s going on, if they plan to kill you or hold you at gunpoint and violate your wife or take all your food and beat you within an inch of your life. But at this point in your life it’s a bit late to learn, and you’ve come to simply relate the bird calls to fast changing events.
You’ll calm down a little when a young man holding an AK-47 walks out from behind a building and waves you forward. As you walk in slight movement on two of the rooftops will alert you to men with rifles sitting, watching you through their scopes as you saunter into town, doing your best to look like you belong.
The boy won’t speak as he leads you through the crumbling buildings. He’ll occasionally hold up his rifle as he passes some of the ones in better condition and a bird call will sound in response. The boy will be young, fourteen years old at best.
When you reach the center of the city it will be filled with stalls covered in nylon tarps. This time of year they’ll be totally still, dry and sagging for want of wind. Your wife will whisper in your ear that she’s going to take the mule and go get some food and filters. You’ll nod and lean in to kiss her on the ear, your sign that everything is okay and that you’ll find her when business is finished.
You’ll turn to the boy and show him your black case, nylon, water resistant, filled with treasure. His eyes will light up and his hand will tighten on his gun, but he’ll have been raised right. His hand will loosen and he’ll shoulder his gun, taking you in.
After a moment’s consideration he’ll nod tightly at you and lead you through the market, past the stalls to a burned out old building covered in sheet metal and plywood. A few tarps will cover the gaps and fold into them. You’ll assume they’re there to catch water when it rains and condensation when it doesn’t. A good system.
Outside the building he’ll hold out his hand, clear in his purpose, and you’ll hand him your gun. He’ll nod and knock at the door, again a pattern you won’t be able to follow. So many places, so many new signs.
The door will open, a hulk of layered plywood on hinges of unrusted steel. Cleveland must have a blacksmith still, you’ll think, remembering the last time you were here, the pot you traded for with your first wife, the one you still carry. A tear will form in your eye as you walk inside, but it won’t fall. There’ll be no sense in showing these people more than they need to know.
Within a few gangly men with scraps of beard clinging to their chin will stand around, staring at you. You’ll walk up to the oldest and pull some batteries out of your pocket, still heavy, still tingling with purpose.
“Rechargeable,” you’ll say.
He’ll smile, a horrible gap toothed thing that came long before the Times, and gesture to the table. It will be covered with tiny plastic cases, many of them cracked, each with its own unique artwork and titling.
Each scrap of writing will seem precious to you here at the end of the world, all the more for what it represents. You’ll look over familiar names and images until you settle on something you’ve long searched for. You’ll point at the cover with letters winding packwards and forwards over a snakeskin pattern, and he’ll smile.
“Nice choice,” he’ll say, pushing the case towards you. You’ll open it, staring at the rewriteable plastic disk inside, studying the writing with a smile on your mouth, before you remove your own case and flip it open. The man will look at your collection, smiling, as you tuck Brighten the Corners into its new home towards the back.
As you zip the case closed he’ll slide a pin over to you. It won’t have any iconic image, just a cartoon bird with a bowler hat, smoking a cigarette.
“I’d love to look through that. Grow the library.” His hand will caress a while block of plastic while he speaks and you’ll realize what it is after a moment. You’ll smile back.
“Another day. Old lady’s waiting.”
He’ll offer one last gap toothed smile as you turn away and walk out. The kid will still be standing outside, gun over his shoulder, looking around at the building. You’ll wonder how he feels, if he’s ever heard this music before, if he even cares. Mostly you’ll just think of what you want to tell your wife once you find her in the market. You’ll want to tell her what you found right away.
Congratulations on Buying a CD!
Friday, February 12, 2010
Congratulations on Surviving the Jungle!
Today’s prediction is another brief, asinine prediction, like our promise of painful death to our anonymous and, by now, fully aware of his/her/its fate reader who is no doubt enjoying their final week of life and (since they’re alive) agonizing pain.
But unlike yesterday’s prediction today’s prediction is one of hope. One of the promise of a better tomorrow. It’s an amazing accomplishment, one well worth celebrating, and you should be proud you reached this point at all.
Today you’re going to survive reading Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle. This interminable book has been the bane of many a generation of eighth grader, and you’ll be one of the lucky few to get out of it with less a sense of how unfair life is and more a sense of how everyone’s an asshole. You’ll have survived The Jungle and come out stronger for it, unlike Upton Sinclair, who just came out of the book an insufferable dipshit.
Also, you’ll probably have your first sexual experience soon. Keep your eyes peeled for that.
Congratulations on Surviving the Jungle!
But unlike yesterday’s prediction today’s prediction is one of hope. One of the promise of a better tomorrow. It’s an amazing accomplishment, one well worth celebrating, and you should be proud you reached this point at all.
Today you’re going to survive reading Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle. This interminable book has been the bane of many a generation of eighth grader, and you’ll be one of the lucky few to get out of it with less a sense of how unfair life is and more a sense of how everyone’s an asshole. You’ll have survived The Jungle and come out stronger for it, unlike Upton Sinclair, who just came out of the book an insufferable dipshit.
Also, you’ll probably have your first sexual experience soon. Keep your eyes peeled for that.
Congratulations on Surviving the Jungle!
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Congratulations to the Winner of Our Special Drawing!
Congratulations! Today one of you has won our very special drawing. The winner be afflicted with a hideous plague of boils, consuming their flesh until they are one day eaten away! Runners up will receive a fashionable towel and tote.
Congratulations to the Winner of Our Special Drawing, and thanks to everyone else for playing!
Congratulations to the Winner of Our Special Drawing, and thanks to everyone else for playing!
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Congratulations on Totally Blowing Up!
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Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Congratulations on Meeting the King of the Cosmos!
You’ll be standing there with your fruity little drink and your halter top on when he steps in. It’ll be hard not to stare.
His robe, resplendent and purple, will frame his nebulous twinkling head, evoking memories long since suppressed. You’ll ask yourself, where have I seen this magnificent figure before? Where did he come from, this immortal Adonis?
His boom stentorian will ring through the bar, rumbling in your ears.
“WHO WANTS TO PARTY?!”
A cheer will erupt, the crowd immediately enthralled by his charisma. But you already know his tricks. You’ll be immunized, a quiet little center against the raging storm of his power.
It will take a while for the fanfare to die down, but when it does you’ll slither up to him and lean across the bar to order another whiskey, giving him a nice, clear view of the inside of your left cleavage-boob. You’ll swear his perpetual look of surprise piqued when he caught sight of that milky white flesh again, but witnesses will disagree, noting that the King’s face never changes.
But they will corroborate that he will turn around and look you up and down before noticing your face and stammering his apology.
“I DIDN’T EXPECT TO SEE YOU HERE AGAIN,” he’ll say, causing the bar to vibrate.
“I know,” you’ll say, barely letting the drink touch the bar before you pick it up and take a swig. The bartender will slink away almost immediately, sparing only a moment’s glance for the man you’re talking to.
“HOW HAVE THINGS BEEN?” he’ll ask, face still unchanged.
“Fine,” you’ll say.
He’ll nod. At least, you’ll think it’s a nod.
“LOOK,” he’ll say. “I FEEL JUST AWFUL ABOUT LAST TIME. COULD I BUY YOU A DRINK TO MAKE UP FOR IT?”
You’ll smile at him and shrug a little, giving him a quick glance at your cleavage again. His black eyes won’t move but you’ll know he saw it when his hand snaps up as you tell him “It’s a start.”
Ten hours later the stars will be gone and your vagina will be pretty sore, but you’ll be one of the few women alive who can say she’s bedded the King of the Cosmos twice. If only some of that action could trickle down to his son.
Congratulations on Meeting the King of the Cosmos!
His robe, resplendent and purple, will frame his nebulous twinkling head, evoking memories long since suppressed. You’ll ask yourself, where have I seen this magnificent figure before? Where did he come from, this immortal Adonis?
His boom stentorian will ring through the bar, rumbling in your ears.
“WHO WANTS TO PARTY?!”
A cheer will erupt, the crowd immediately enthralled by his charisma. But you already know his tricks. You’ll be immunized, a quiet little center against the raging storm of his power.
It will take a while for the fanfare to die down, but when it does you’ll slither up to him and lean across the bar to order another whiskey, giving him a nice, clear view of the inside of your left cleavage-boob. You’ll swear his perpetual look of surprise piqued when he caught sight of that milky white flesh again, but witnesses will disagree, noting that the King’s face never changes.
But they will corroborate that he will turn around and look you up and down before noticing your face and stammering his apology.
“I DIDN’T EXPECT TO SEE YOU HERE AGAIN,” he’ll say, causing the bar to vibrate.
“I know,” you’ll say, barely letting the drink touch the bar before you pick it up and take a swig. The bartender will slink away almost immediately, sparing only a moment’s glance for the man you’re talking to.
“HOW HAVE THINGS BEEN?” he’ll ask, face still unchanged.
“Fine,” you’ll say.
He’ll nod. At least, you’ll think it’s a nod.
“LOOK,” he’ll say. “I FEEL JUST AWFUL ABOUT LAST TIME. COULD I BUY YOU A DRINK TO MAKE UP FOR IT?”
You’ll smile at him and shrug a little, giving him a quick glance at your cleavage again. His black eyes won’t move but you’ll know he saw it when his hand snaps up as you tell him “It’s a start.”
Ten hours later the stars will be gone and your vagina will be pretty sore, but you’ll be one of the few women alive who can say she’s bedded the King of the Cosmos twice. If only some of that action could trickle down to his son.
Congratulations on Meeting the King of the Cosmos!
Monday, February 8, 2010
Congratulations on Winning the Death Race!
When the wheel well of Margaret’s Focus collapses under your rear bumper you’ll know that you’ve won. The action packed death race which has had you speeding across the country, vehicular-manslaughtering people left and right. Margaret was the last, a former demolition derby driver who didn’t think a single mom had what it take to beat her in a national competition. You’ll smirk, remembering her handshake as you watch her vehicle fishtail and flip end over end into a ditch before catching fire.
You’ll pop your e-brake and skid to a stop at the side of the road, exiting your vehicle and aiming your race regulation pistol at the wreck, advancing cautiously. When you get there she’ll be hanging halfway out of her car, her arm pinned beneath her steering wheel.
She’ll look up at you, wordlessly begging you for mercy. But you won’t have survived this long by showing emotion all willy nilly. So you’ll give her what mercy you can, firing your pistol repeatedly at her face and chest until it clicks. Then you’ll saunter back to your Subaru Legacy and drive the rest of the way to Columbus, never edging the spedometer over 50 miles per hour.
When you arrive the race administrator will hand you a voucher for eight years of day care, a lifetime supply of Chef Boyardee products and a set of documents outlining your acceptance and scholarship to SUNY-Binghamton. The future will be bright now that you’ve committed multiple murders, but you’d do it all again for an education and the ability to provide your son with incredibly unhealthy food indefinitely.
Congratulations on Winning the Death Race!
You’ll pop your e-brake and skid to a stop at the side of the road, exiting your vehicle and aiming your race regulation pistol at the wreck, advancing cautiously. When you get there she’ll be hanging halfway out of her car, her arm pinned beneath her steering wheel.
She’ll look up at you, wordlessly begging you for mercy. But you won’t have survived this long by showing emotion all willy nilly. So you’ll give her what mercy you can, firing your pistol repeatedly at her face and chest until it clicks. Then you’ll saunter back to your Subaru Legacy and drive the rest of the way to Columbus, never edging the spedometer over 50 miles per hour.
When you arrive the race administrator will hand you a voucher for eight years of day care, a lifetime supply of Chef Boyardee products and a set of documents outlining your acceptance and scholarship to SUNY-Binghamton. The future will be bright now that you’ve committed multiple murders, but you’d do it all again for an education and the ability to provide your son with incredibly unhealthy food indefinitely.
Congratulations on Winning the Death Race!
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Super Nerd Sundays Presents: Games Criticism Is Broken!
Lately my time has been sparse, not because of any writerly activities. No, I’ve had the ill fortune to be playing Mass Effect 2 and Assassin’s Creed 2 at the same time, two very different, very good games that the critical apparatus surrounding video games has treated very differently.
Assassin’s Creed 2, for example, is a flawed masterpiece, a great game with some serious flaws and plenty of hype to live up to. The critical apparatus, that is to say Metacritic and the collective consciousness of the enthusiast press, seemed to see it as such, commenting on its refinement of play and loyalty to the original. There were plenty of gushing, mindless reviews, sure, but scroll down far enough and you’ll see some constructive comments and accurate criticisms of what is a great game with issues that wants to be more. Destructoid sits at the bottom of the list with an incredibly negative and nitpicky review, inexplicably enraged at fun and desperately asking us to like them, but that’s Destructoid. Assassin’s Creed 2, through some miraculous alchemy, managed to get through the lens of games criticism largely intact.
No such luck for Mass Effect 2. Just as hyped as its partner in sequelage, Mass Effect 2 has been warped beyond belief by the critical apparatus of gaming media. A quick look at Metacritic’s collected reviews put the lowest review score at 75%. What’s more is that this review is the only one to do anything other than gush about the epic, fluid game play. Reading through Mass Effect 2 review summaries is like listening to a marketing department vomit, a slough of almost unintelligible comments about nebulous concepts that really don’t offer anything other than the direction of a thumb.
Which sort of defeats the purpose of criticism, robbing it of context and offering it up in a vacuum. If Mass Effect 2 was solely interpreted through these reviews it would be nothing short of amazing, but as I played it I couldn’t help but feel as if it was irreparably pared down from the vast offering that was the first game. At 30 or so hours I’ve only found two options for each class of gun, and while they do certainly feel different from one another it’s still pitifully little, considering how long the game is. I find myself using one power over and over again in combat, and while the ability to change ammo mid fight is nice it’s largely a matter of matching the kind of bullets I’m shooting to the color of the bar over an enemy’s head. That’s not really what I consider challenging or interesting combat.
And the game is possessed of some of the most profound grind that I’ve ever seen, even more than the first Mass Effect. Somehow they’ve managed to make loot-seeking even more time consuming while removing loot from the game. Scanning planets, a necessary evil to both progress in the game and improve your gear, is the single most tedious activity I’ve ever carried out in a game. And that includes riding wyverns from place to place in WoW. At least that offered me some cool visuals. Let me break down just how absurd and out of place Bioware’s system is.
Step one: fly your little ship to an itty bitty planet and press A. Now the planet is big! Next, press Y to make a target appear over the planet. Now hold the left trigger to make your control vibrate slightly and display some shifting EKGs representing the heartbeat of various natural resources hidden somewhere on the planet by the Na’vi. Drag your little cursor around the surface with your analog sticks now, watching the meters to see if they’ll shift at all. Tediously maneuver to them to find a reasonably sized heartbeat and press the right trigger while still holding the left. You’ll be rewarded with a slight increase in resources, assuming you found a well sized pulse. Congratulations! Now do it forty more times. Oh, and after you’ve pulled the right trigger enough you’ll have to fly back to a fueling station, possibly in another system, and buy some more probes. Oh, and fuel. You’ll have to buy fuel constantly, just for moving across the map. So space exploration and resource gathering not only require time, but they require in game resources. The effect is less one of enforcing making tough decisions about your money and more one of endless tedium, enforced every time you want to improve your equipment or the Normandy. And you’ll be doing this a lot, trust me. Certain upgrades require absurd amounts of resources, and others require existing upgrades to be purchased so that additional resources can be spent for the purchasing of additional upgrades. By eliminating your inventory Mass Effect 2 has added in the worst shopping and gear progression system I have ever seen in a game. Ever.
This hasn’t ruined the game for me, certainly. I’m a huge Mass Effect fan and I went into this game with an open heart and the highest of hopes. But it is a huge, central part of the game which is unbelievably broken and unacceptably bad considering the time and effort that went into producing the game as a whole, and it’s something that reviewers don’t seem to be talking about at all. The game they’re reviewing you’d swear that you progress naturally through the game and simply acquire resources as needed throughout the central campaign. The game I’ve been duped into playing has just as much pointless and fiddly shit as the old Mass Effect, but instead of being able to access the menus that were so conveniently part of my menu before I now have to access them through a set of consoles, none of which are ever where I want them to be. Want to equip that new piece of armor you just found? Tough shit, you’ll have to find the wardrobe console and then adjust a set of sliders (why god why sliders?) until you find it among Mass Effect 2’s many hideous options.
To be perfectly clear, however, the core game itself is tremendously fun. Shooting aliens in the face is perennially enjoyable, and to say anything else would be a foul and evil assertion. The addition of ammo, which I initially hated, has grown on me, although I do often find myself wishing for deeper pockets. Sure, you just have to run over some corpses to get more ammo, but it forces you to leave cover and eliminates the “epic firefight” feel when getting more ammo is simply a matter of running around looking for glowing shit. It’s nice, and indeed important, that each shot counts in Mass Effect 2, but the ammo system cries out for fine tuning. In fact, most elements of this wonderful game do. And this isn’t even that big a deal. Games are often shipped in pieces, begging for post-release patches and fixes for broken content. Fallout 3, a great game, had to be patched to keep certain NPCs from committing suicide in Megaton, for example. It’s not at all odd to see something like Mass Effect 2 come out a little bit underdone, wanting for fine tuning. What’s odd is that critics, people who are supposed to comment on what’s wrong in games, criticize them, specifically, aren’t talking about the problems that Mass Effect 2 has. Instead they’ve heaped praise upon a game that could be great with just a little more work and some intelligent commentary from the people who are paid to offer up just that but is, as it stands, just good.
So the failure is shared. Mass Effect 2’s design team could’ve (and should’ve) found and fixed a lot of the clunky issues during testing. Many of the features, such as planet scanning and transit as well as ammo, could have benefited tremendously from minor tweaks or simple removal. And many of the reviews could have discussed the game in the context of both its hype and its many, many problems as well as its many successes. The game does so much right, offering up an interesting and diverse cast of characters (except Jacob) and forcing you to relate to them in order to succeed, expanding the Mass Effect world so that it has more than five inhabited planets and one big ass space station and allowing you to feel that your choices have actual impact on play by showing the long term effects of decisions made in the previous game. It’s easy to get bogged down discussing all those great things you love in a game as well and lovingly crafted as Mass Effect. But when it’s your job to inform us about the quality and consistency of the snake oil we are about to be purchasing you need to nut up and find and analyze the flaws in the games you’re telling us we absolutely need to buy.
The enthusiast press has long functioned as an extension of marketing. Some companies, like Sony, take it even further, directly funding and creating websites to hype their products while professing independence from corporate culture, but it seems like these measures are mere formalities of late. EA and Activision can reliably expect the press to review their triple-A titles with gushing praise and little concern for any of their major flaws. It’s not an issue with the industry so much as with the critical apparatus adjacent to it. If films and books were reviewed in such a way people would dismiss them as cultural garbage as well, but for games this sort of treatment isn’t just accepted, it’s expected. If a triple-A title is criticized fans will come out of the woodwork to defend it as if commenting on the state of the emperor’s dress was tantamount to treason.
Games are making big strides towards becoming accepted as a mature means of storytelling by the cultural mainstream. Inch by inch games like Bioshock and Fallout 3 are displaying the amazing narrative potential games have, but it won’t do us one whit of good unless we fix the culture surrounding games so that it permits intelligent discussion about the thing we all love so much. Sites like Gamepro and IGN do far more damage to games as an art form with their treatment of games like Mass Effect 2 and Modern Warfare 2 than a thousand games like Dante’s Inferno, and they’ll have no incentive to fix their methods if we keep on reading their trite. So rise up, gamers, and fill the Crispy Gamer shaped hole that now sits in all of our hearts. Fill it with intelligent and reasoned discussion of games. Discussion of both their methods, their goals, their successes and even their failures.
Assassin’s Creed 2, for example, is a flawed masterpiece, a great game with some serious flaws and plenty of hype to live up to. The critical apparatus, that is to say Metacritic and the collective consciousness of the enthusiast press, seemed to see it as such, commenting on its refinement of play and loyalty to the original. There were plenty of gushing, mindless reviews, sure, but scroll down far enough and you’ll see some constructive comments and accurate criticisms of what is a great game with issues that wants to be more. Destructoid sits at the bottom of the list with an incredibly negative and nitpicky review, inexplicably enraged at fun and desperately asking us to like them, but that’s Destructoid. Assassin’s Creed 2, through some miraculous alchemy, managed to get through the lens of games criticism largely intact.
No such luck for Mass Effect 2. Just as hyped as its partner in sequelage, Mass Effect 2 has been warped beyond belief by the critical apparatus of gaming media. A quick look at Metacritic’s collected reviews put the lowest review score at 75%. What’s more is that this review is the only one to do anything other than gush about the epic, fluid game play. Reading through Mass Effect 2 review summaries is like listening to a marketing department vomit, a slough of almost unintelligible comments about nebulous concepts that really don’t offer anything other than the direction of a thumb.
Which sort of defeats the purpose of criticism, robbing it of context and offering it up in a vacuum. If Mass Effect 2 was solely interpreted through these reviews it would be nothing short of amazing, but as I played it I couldn’t help but feel as if it was irreparably pared down from the vast offering that was the first game. At 30 or so hours I’ve only found two options for each class of gun, and while they do certainly feel different from one another it’s still pitifully little, considering how long the game is. I find myself using one power over and over again in combat, and while the ability to change ammo mid fight is nice it’s largely a matter of matching the kind of bullets I’m shooting to the color of the bar over an enemy’s head. That’s not really what I consider challenging or interesting combat.
And the game is possessed of some of the most profound grind that I’ve ever seen, even more than the first Mass Effect. Somehow they’ve managed to make loot-seeking even more time consuming while removing loot from the game. Scanning planets, a necessary evil to both progress in the game and improve your gear, is the single most tedious activity I’ve ever carried out in a game. And that includes riding wyverns from place to place in WoW. At least that offered me some cool visuals. Let me break down just how absurd and out of place Bioware’s system is.
Step one: fly your little ship to an itty bitty planet and press A. Now the planet is big! Next, press Y to make a target appear over the planet. Now hold the left trigger to make your control vibrate slightly and display some shifting EKGs representing the heartbeat of various natural resources hidden somewhere on the planet by the Na’vi. Drag your little cursor around the surface with your analog sticks now, watching the meters to see if they’ll shift at all. Tediously maneuver to them to find a reasonably sized heartbeat and press the right trigger while still holding the left. You’ll be rewarded with a slight increase in resources, assuming you found a well sized pulse. Congratulations! Now do it forty more times. Oh, and after you’ve pulled the right trigger enough you’ll have to fly back to a fueling station, possibly in another system, and buy some more probes. Oh, and fuel. You’ll have to buy fuel constantly, just for moving across the map. So space exploration and resource gathering not only require time, but they require in game resources. The effect is less one of enforcing making tough decisions about your money and more one of endless tedium, enforced every time you want to improve your equipment or the Normandy. And you’ll be doing this a lot, trust me. Certain upgrades require absurd amounts of resources, and others require existing upgrades to be purchased so that additional resources can be spent for the purchasing of additional upgrades. By eliminating your inventory Mass Effect 2 has added in the worst shopping and gear progression system I have ever seen in a game. Ever.
This hasn’t ruined the game for me, certainly. I’m a huge Mass Effect fan and I went into this game with an open heart and the highest of hopes. But it is a huge, central part of the game which is unbelievably broken and unacceptably bad considering the time and effort that went into producing the game as a whole, and it’s something that reviewers don’t seem to be talking about at all. The game they’re reviewing you’d swear that you progress naturally through the game and simply acquire resources as needed throughout the central campaign. The game I’ve been duped into playing has just as much pointless and fiddly shit as the old Mass Effect, but instead of being able to access the menus that were so conveniently part of my menu before I now have to access them through a set of consoles, none of which are ever where I want them to be. Want to equip that new piece of armor you just found? Tough shit, you’ll have to find the wardrobe console and then adjust a set of sliders (why god why sliders?) until you find it among Mass Effect 2’s many hideous options.
To be perfectly clear, however, the core game itself is tremendously fun. Shooting aliens in the face is perennially enjoyable, and to say anything else would be a foul and evil assertion. The addition of ammo, which I initially hated, has grown on me, although I do often find myself wishing for deeper pockets. Sure, you just have to run over some corpses to get more ammo, but it forces you to leave cover and eliminates the “epic firefight” feel when getting more ammo is simply a matter of running around looking for glowing shit. It’s nice, and indeed important, that each shot counts in Mass Effect 2, but the ammo system cries out for fine tuning. In fact, most elements of this wonderful game do. And this isn’t even that big a deal. Games are often shipped in pieces, begging for post-release patches and fixes for broken content. Fallout 3, a great game, had to be patched to keep certain NPCs from committing suicide in Megaton, for example. It’s not at all odd to see something like Mass Effect 2 come out a little bit underdone, wanting for fine tuning. What’s odd is that critics, people who are supposed to comment on what’s wrong in games, criticize them, specifically, aren’t talking about the problems that Mass Effect 2 has. Instead they’ve heaped praise upon a game that could be great with just a little more work and some intelligent commentary from the people who are paid to offer up just that but is, as it stands, just good.
So the failure is shared. Mass Effect 2’s design team could’ve (and should’ve) found and fixed a lot of the clunky issues during testing. Many of the features, such as planet scanning and transit as well as ammo, could have benefited tremendously from minor tweaks or simple removal. And many of the reviews could have discussed the game in the context of both its hype and its many, many problems as well as its many successes. The game does so much right, offering up an interesting and diverse cast of characters (except Jacob) and forcing you to relate to them in order to succeed, expanding the Mass Effect world so that it has more than five inhabited planets and one big ass space station and allowing you to feel that your choices have actual impact on play by showing the long term effects of decisions made in the previous game. It’s easy to get bogged down discussing all those great things you love in a game as well and lovingly crafted as Mass Effect. But when it’s your job to inform us about the quality and consistency of the snake oil we are about to be purchasing you need to nut up and find and analyze the flaws in the games you’re telling us we absolutely need to buy.
The enthusiast press has long functioned as an extension of marketing. Some companies, like Sony, take it even further, directly funding and creating websites to hype their products while professing independence from corporate culture, but it seems like these measures are mere formalities of late. EA and Activision can reliably expect the press to review their triple-A titles with gushing praise and little concern for any of their major flaws. It’s not an issue with the industry so much as with the critical apparatus adjacent to it. If films and books were reviewed in such a way people would dismiss them as cultural garbage as well, but for games this sort of treatment isn’t just accepted, it’s expected. If a triple-A title is criticized fans will come out of the woodwork to defend it as if commenting on the state of the emperor’s dress was tantamount to treason.
Games are making big strides towards becoming accepted as a mature means of storytelling by the cultural mainstream. Inch by inch games like Bioshock and Fallout 3 are displaying the amazing narrative potential games have, but it won’t do us one whit of good unless we fix the culture surrounding games so that it permits intelligent discussion about the thing we all love so much. Sites like Gamepro and IGN do far more damage to games as an art form with their treatment of games like Mass Effect 2 and Modern Warfare 2 than a thousand games like Dante’s Inferno, and they’ll have no incentive to fix their methods if we keep on reading their trite. So rise up, gamers, and fill the Crispy Gamer shaped hole that now sits in all of our hearts. Fill it with intelligent and reasoned discussion of games. Discussion of both their methods, their goals, their successes and even their failures.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Congratulations on Having Sex With a Vortegaunt!
It’ll be less a vortegaunt and more a plush vortegaunt toy as sold on Valve’s merchandise store. And you’ll less have sex with it and more rub your penis against it until you ejaculate. And it won’t be consensual either. If the vortegaunt could speak it would be screaming rape at the top of its lungs. But you’re lonely and too tired to meet women and it’s around and remember the horrible thing its kind did at Black Mesa? It deserved this.
Oh boy, did it deserve this.
Congratulations on Having Sex With a Vortegaunt!
Oh boy, did it deserve this.
Congratulations on Having Sex With a Vortegaunt!
Friday, February 5, 2010
Congratulations on Sleeping with Inigo Montoya!
You’re part of a very small subculture of women who grew up with the film The Princess Bride and developed a strange Electra complex for Mandy Pitinkin’s character in the classic subversive fantasy tale, Inigo Montoya. His drive, his friendship and his willingness to aid others all made him into your ideal lover and you’ll have spent most of your life trying to find men who reasonably synthesize those qualities you find so remarkable in Pitinkin’s portrayal of Montoya.
But you realize that he’s simply a fictitious character and that you’ll never find a real life Inigo Montoya to sweep you off your feet, into his car and out of your pants. As such you’ve spent a lot of time dating sexually aggressive Spanish guys who enjoy fencing, of which there is a staggeringly large number. Your incredibly high level of physical beauty will allow you to be extremely choosey, exclusively dating this very small group of men for the entire decade of your life through which you’ve been sexually viable.
But it cuts both ways. Most of these men have been so aggressive that they’ve either raped or date raped you during the time you spent together. Because you have trouble confronting people you even vaguely equate to father figures due to your abandonment issues this will have led to a large number of people bragging about raping you in the fencing community and your sister becoming an aggressive, talented and fairly wealthy criminal prosecutor.
She’ll have spent most of her adult life putting the various men who have taken sexual advantage of you behind bars, an exhausting and time consuming task that will earn her the ire of the Spanish consulate and a number of shipping companies with ties to your various rapists. She’ll be celebrated by a number of women’s rights groups and develop some high profile friends in the activist community.
That’s why you’re going to be greeted tonight by Mandy Pitinkin dressed in his original Inigo Montoya costume (which he, of course, keeps hermetically sealed normally) at your door. He’ll say your name, passionately kiss you and sweep you off your feet and into your bedroom to take full advantage of both you sexually and his delightful wife’s pass to enjoy himself for the night. It will be the single most enjoyable sexual experience of your life, even though he’ll be way older now and Inigo Montoya won’t have had a slight gut in your fantasies.
When you wrap your arms around him, still glowing, you’ll feel as if a chapter of your life has ended victoriously. Burying your face in his back you’ll breath his scent in deep, knowing it’ll all be over tomorrow and that the memory of this night is all you need to stop fucking really irritating Spanish guys.
Congratulations on Sleeping with Inigo Montoya!
But you realize that he’s simply a fictitious character and that you’ll never find a real life Inigo Montoya to sweep you off your feet, into his car and out of your pants. As such you’ve spent a lot of time dating sexually aggressive Spanish guys who enjoy fencing, of which there is a staggeringly large number. Your incredibly high level of physical beauty will allow you to be extremely choosey, exclusively dating this very small group of men for the entire decade of your life through which you’ve been sexually viable.
But it cuts both ways. Most of these men have been so aggressive that they’ve either raped or date raped you during the time you spent together. Because you have trouble confronting people you even vaguely equate to father figures due to your abandonment issues this will have led to a large number of people bragging about raping you in the fencing community and your sister becoming an aggressive, talented and fairly wealthy criminal prosecutor.
She’ll have spent most of her adult life putting the various men who have taken sexual advantage of you behind bars, an exhausting and time consuming task that will earn her the ire of the Spanish consulate and a number of shipping companies with ties to your various rapists. She’ll be celebrated by a number of women’s rights groups and develop some high profile friends in the activist community.
That’s why you’re going to be greeted tonight by Mandy Pitinkin dressed in his original Inigo Montoya costume (which he, of course, keeps hermetically sealed normally) at your door. He’ll say your name, passionately kiss you and sweep you off your feet and into your bedroom to take full advantage of both you sexually and his delightful wife’s pass to enjoy himself for the night. It will be the single most enjoyable sexual experience of your life, even though he’ll be way older now and Inigo Montoya won’t have had a slight gut in your fantasies.
When you wrap your arms around him, still glowing, you’ll feel as if a chapter of your life has ended victoriously. Burying your face in his back you’ll breath his scent in deep, knowing it’ll all be over tomorrow and that the memory of this night is all you need to stop fucking really irritating Spanish guys.
Congratulations on Sleeping with Inigo Montoya!
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Congratulations on Marking Your Territory!
You and your brother have been at this for years. When you were kids you used to do it every day, but as time went by and the distance grew greater you’d always expected the contest would fade. It hasn’t. You’ve never stopped marking one another’s property with your urine and you likely never will.
Today you’ll break into his home while he isn’t there and urinate on his possessions selectively. You’ll take great care not to get a single drop of pee on his wife’s side of the bed, to mark the correct toothbrush, and to coat the bowflex in your urine. Then you’ll depart without any unwanted traces.
You’ll be home in time to see your son return from school and ask him how his day was. He’ll frown as you fix him a sandwich with your freshly washed hands, discussing the way girls confuse him. You’ll chuckle affably and tell him that that will never change, taking great care to smell each piece of kitchenware before using it on your son’s food.
Your brother knows how much you like to cook, after all.
Congratulations on Marking Your Territory!
Today you’ll break into his home while he isn’t there and urinate on his possessions selectively. You’ll take great care not to get a single drop of pee on his wife’s side of the bed, to mark the correct toothbrush, and to coat the bowflex in your urine. Then you’ll depart without any unwanted traces.
You’ll be home in time to see your son return from school and ask him how his day was. He’ll frown as you fix him a sandwich with your freshly washed hands, discussing the way girls confuse him. You’ll chuckle affably and tell him that that will never change, taking great care to smell each piece of kitchenware before using it on your son’s food.
Your brother knows how much you like to cook, after all.
Congratulations on Marking Your Territory!
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Congratulations on Being Voted Dirtiest!
You’ll receive the award early this afternoon from an anonymous man in a suit. He’ll call you by name and hand it off to you with a pair of tongs, taking great care to avoid touching you in any fashion. After that he’ll issue a brief statement of thanks and depart the bus, vanishing in a crowd a few minutes later.
You’ll be baffled until you read the single word “Dirtiest” on the trophy. You’ll be wearing your cutoffs, a visibly displayed thong and a white tee shirt stained with sweat and what we assume is semen. At that point it’ll all make sense and you’ll nod to yourself as you continue to look around the bus, considering the potential of various travelers as sexual partners.
Congratulations on Being Voted Dirtiest!
You’ll be baffled until you read the single word “Dirtiest” on the trophy. You’ll be wearing your cutoffs, a visibly displayed thong and a white tee shirt stained with sweat and what we assume is semen. At that point it’ll all make sense and you’ll nod to yourself as you continue to look around the bus, considering the potential of various travelers as sexual partners.
Congratulations on Being Voted Dirtiest!
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Congratulations on Getting Into Her Panties For a Night!
You’ve been chasing after Becki for a while now. She’s a sweet young girl who lives a few doors down from you and she’s just the kind of almost-dyke found on liberal arts college campuses across the nation that you find so mouth wateringly gorgeous. She’s also nice and approachable, instead of kind of bitchy, so it should come as no surprise that you’ve been after her crotch since the day the two of you met (orientation.)
But there’s a hitch. Becki’s niceness comes at the cost of her being a genuine, caring human being who likes to know people before sleeping with them. Since you’re double majoring in math and philosophy this is a serious problem. It’s not at all abnormal for people to walk away from you as you’re in the middle of a statement about continental philosophy or pi or some other boring anecdote that you’ve tried to jam into the conversation to prove just how smart all those fucking AP classes made you.
As a result you’ve been conversing with her furtively and stalking her a lot. Tuesday this stalking with culminate in your being in her room “studying” with her and her roommate. Her and her roomie will leave for a quick bathroom break and you’ll toss the room in traditional mathematician fashion, finding and donning a pair of her panties in record time.
Once those cotton wonders are wrapped around your junk you’ll be on cloud nine. You’ll pose in front of the room’s full length mirror, nodding at your reflection and smiling suggestively. That is, until Becki and her roommate reenter.
There will be a heartbeat where all of you just stare at one another, waiting to see who will make the first move. It’ll be as if a mystical wizard cast a freeze spell upon you and the panties were the spell focus (you also play Dungeons and Dragons – strike two). Unfortunately the spell will be broken when her roommate leaves the room in disgust, saying “Fuck this,” under her breath and walking away.
Becki, however, will shock you, demurring over to you and kissing you passionately. It turns out she’s into weirdly aggressive stalkers, which would ordinarily be strike three, but Becki is far from normal.
The two of you will engage in a brief whirlwind romance until she gets to know you better. Then she’ll have pity sex with you before leaving your room without speaking and avoiding you for the next week and a half. Come second semester she’ll transfer to a new dorm to avoid seeing you quite so often in passing and by third semester your asinine personality and total lack of sexual prowess will become something of a running joke with her and her friends.
Congratulations on Getting Into Her Panties For a Night!
But there’s a hitch. Becki’s niceness comes at the cost of her being a genuine, caring human being who likes to know people before sleeping with them. Since you’re double majoring in math and philosophy this is a serious problem. It’s not at all abnormal for people to walk away from you as you’re in the middle of a statement about continental philosophy or pi or some other boring anecdote that you’ve tried to jam into the conversation to prove just how smart all those fucking AP classes made you.
As a result you’ve been conversing with her furtively and stalking her a lot. Tuesday this stalking with culminate in your being in her room “studying” with her and her roommate. Her and her roomie will leave for a quick bathroom break and you’ll toss the room in traditional mathematician fashion, finding and donning a pair of her panties in record time.
Once those cotton wonders are wrapped around your junk you’ll be on cloud nine. You’ll pose in front of the room’s full length mirror, nodding at your reflection and smiling suggestively. That is, until Becki and her roommate reenter.
There will be a heartbeat where all of you just stare at one another, waiting to see who will make the first move. It’ll be as if a mystical wizard cast a freeze spell upon you and the panties were the spell focus (you also play Dungeons and Dragons – strike two). Unfortunately the spell will be broken when her roommate leaves the room in disgust, saying “Fuck this,” under her breath and walking away.
Becki, however, will shock you, demurring over to you and kissing you passionately. It turns out she’s into weirdly aggressive stalkers, which would ordinarily be strike three, but Becki is far from normal.
The two of you will engage in a brief whirlwind romance until she gets to know you better. Then she’ll have pity sex with you before leaving your room without speaking and avoiding you for the next week and a half. Come second semester she’ll transfer to a new dorm to avoid seeing you quite so often in passing and by third semester your asinine personality and total lack of sexual prowess will become something of a running joke with her and her friends.
Congratulations on Getting Into Her Panties For a Night!
Monday, February 1, 2010
Congratulations on Contracting a Gold Rush Era Disease!
College can be a difficult place for many people. The combination of newfound independence, unprecedented access to the opposite sex and a total lack of knowledge of how to take care of yourself can form a heady elixir transforming even the brightest young man into a nattering dipshit with an eagle tattoo and a stupid hat.
Luckily you’re fairly grounded, having spent most of your youth male modeling and reading Proust, so you won’t go the douche bag route due to the sudden and unexpected interest from members of the opposite sex. Instead you’ll be one of those students so woefully prepared for life that they cannot take care of themselves one bit. We all know the type, the students who does laundry so rarely that a rat crawls into his hamper and dies, the roommate who stops brushing his teeth and ends up with a mouth full of wood come second semester.
Nothing that bad will happen to you. You’ll simply acquire an anachronistic disease long since wiped out in civilized society thanks to your total lack of hygene. It could be rickets, cholera or tyhpoid. It might even be dysentery!
We’d tell you more, but we’d hate for you to read this, take care of yourself and avoid catching the disease, effectively making us liars. We do want you to know, however, that doctors will be shocked, amazed, and thrilled that you’ve acquired such an easily treatable and previously annihilated disease, because doctors are boring and get their rocks off on shit like that.
Congratulations on Contracting a Gold Rush Era Disease!
Luckily you’re fairly grounded, having spent most of your youth male modeling and reading Proust, so you won’t go the douche bag route due to the sudden and unexpected interest from members of the opposite sex. Instead you’ll be one of those students so woefully prepared for life that they cannot take care of themselves one bit. We all know the type, the students who does laundry so rarely that a rat crawls into his hamper and dies, the roommate who stops brushing his teeth and ends up with a mouth full of wood come second semester.
Nothing that bad will happen to you. You’ll simply acquire an anachronistic disease long since wiped out in civilized society thanks to your total lack of hygene. It could be rickets, cholera or tyhpoid. It might even be dysentery!
We’d tell you more, but we’d hate for you to read this, take care of yourself and avoid catching the disease, effectively making us liars. We do want you to know, however, that doctors will be shocked, amazed, and thrilled that you’ve acquired such an easily treatable and previously annihilated disease, because doctors are boring and get their rocks off on shit like that.
Congratulations on Contracting a Gold Rush Era Disease!
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