Super Nerd Sunday Presents: Heart of the Swarm!

StarCraft 2’s expansion came out a while ago, and while I played through it within three days of its release, I only just now started to settle in with its multiplayer.  And while I’m a miserable, foul little child at actually beating back Zerg, Terran and/or other Protoss, the struggle to do so is compelling and I am, slowly but surely, working on getting better.  I’m nowhere near solid, or even adept, at present, but hey.  I’ve got lots of time to learn.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.  Heart of the Swarm exists now, as an artifact.  And since I write a blog about video games, at least sometimes, I’m required to speak without any actual authority as to how amazing StarCraft 2: Heart of the Swarm is.  And as a game, it really is something.  Just as StarCraft 2 was, just as Brood War and StarCraft the First were before it, StarCraft 2 is a spectacular game.  Well crafted, well balanced, resplendent with new doodads mixed with old doodads that make the experience of crafting a little space army oh so very much fun.

And when it comes to mashing those armies against other people’s armies, man.  It’s great.  The multiplayer, even when it involves me losing (as is the case more often than not) is fucking fantastic.  And when I lose, I always understand that it’s my fault and, in some vague sense, feel like I can improve myself.  I’ve never had a moment where I rolled my eyes and murmured “fuck this game” to myself after a particularly grueling loss.  Instead I’ve gritted my teeth and thought “okay, you know how that works now – time to play better.”

It’s a marvelous comment on how well designed StarCraft 2 is that a handful of minor changes can actually throw the game into such a new and interesting space.  Heart of the Swarm really does only add three or so units to each faction, along with some tweaks to how other units behave, but the function of those units is in many cases so distinct and game-changing that, by merit of their presence, Heart of the Swarm bears little resemblance to vanilla StarCraft 2.  Factions that previously played slow and steady can now rush about the map, devastating their adversaries.  Factions that lacked stalwart early game defenses can now find ways to briefly and devastatingly turbocharge their defenses.  Units that were previously worthless are now crucial, and units that once formed the backbone of a given army are now recast as support units.

My race of choice, Protoss, has undergone some particularly massive changes.  A sea change has occurred in the composition of their air force, which now allows them to conduct devastating hit and run attacks and construct early game air defense units that can do some devastating shit when they’re used correctly (or incorrectly for that matter).  A sluggish, often ancillary aspect of the Protoss has been reformed as a viable, potent tactical option that I now have to learn to both take advantage of, and defend myself again.  That most of this change comes from the implementation of one unit, the Protoss Oracle, is even more impressive.  A single weak, unconventional unit now allows the Protoss to field early game harassment that allows them to devastate their enemies mineral lines and ground based armies in skirmishes.  This one shift totally changes the entire dynamic of Protoss play, opening up new strategies, closing down others and presenting challenges to players that simply weren’t there before.

On the other hand, traditional tactics also work quite well too.  I’ve won most of my games to date by proxy pyloning into an enemy base and cannoning them down while simultaneously warp-gating in a small army of zealots and stalkers to thin out and push around enemy forces.  It’s a nice space to be in, a middle ground of old and new that a well crafted RTS expansion can use to totally alter play for the better.  It reminds me of the introduction of the Imperial Guard into Dawn of War 2: suddenly, play is forever changed, and if you want to be successful you have to learn to adapt without abandoning the fundamentals you spent so much time learning.

Of course, this comes with a bit of a twist: StarCraft 2 has a very StarCrafty single player campaign.  Blizzard has done their best to improve the overall single player experience by making it somewhat RPG-like in many ways, but they’re really not fooling anyone.  StarCraft 2: Heart of the Swarm is about building a bunch of units, pressing F2 and then attack-moving them across a map.  If you micromanage units, it gets easier, sure, and you’ll lose fewer units and finish the map faster, but you can ignore doing that just fine.  There are a handful of inspired levels where objectives function in interesting ways and play is limited in other interesting ways, but for the most part it’s all about attack moving, building up, and then attack moving again.  A “planet to planet” tactical map system is really just a branching mission selection system that only presents two branches at a time.  The upgrade system, which requires permanent choices to be made to determine which upgraded unit you receive, is decent and rooted in a set of well considered training missions that make the function of these upgraded units clear and give you a chance to fuck around with them, but the upgrades themselves are often conditionally useful.  Sure, sometimes I’m going to want my zerlings to leap across massive spaces, but sometimes it’ll be a lot more useful to just have a shitload of the little guys popping out every few minutes.  There’s no real reason not to let players change horses in midstream, spare for the sake of a pared down UI that focuses on spectacle and, in the end, doesn’t even really do that too well.

The real change on show is a leveling system for Kerrigan that allows players to determine just how she’ll grow from battered teen into god.  Since Kerrigan is at the core of every mission, it’s a nice twist, and it’s nice to be able to control a hero unit in a single-player campaign (something WarCraft 3 did right the first time).  And the abilities really do fundamentally alter play in interesting ways, ways that can be toyed with and teased out over time because these abilities, unlike the unit upgrades, can be swapped out between missions at will.  It’s a neat twist.

But it’s wrapped in a single player story filled with sound and fury and bad writing, a campaign that hardcore fans will find satisfying and anyone else will find bewildering.  It’s a classic example of bad writing in games which will be heralded as good writing, not because it’s good per sec, but because of the spectacle associated with each line of bad dialogue (and the exceedingly low standards we as gamers bring to the table when we engage with a story).  The between-mission cutscenes could be replaced with snippits of Korean music videos, and I’d be just as happy – scratch that, happier – as I am with what Blizzard has created now.  Single-player campaigns in RTSes can be done well, but Blizzard doesn’t seem interested in doing so, and really why should they be?  The single-player campaign is a sort of trainer for them.  It’s just a tool to get players familiar with how multiplayer should feel.

That’s an iffy prospect here, however.  There’s no real analog between the fast paced, rigorous and intellectual multi that Heart of the Swarm presents and the well-tread, plodding single player missions of attrition.  In multiplayer, games are won and lost through split second decisions and bold gambits.  In the campaign, they’re won by reloading to previous save states and moving to intercept that surprise wave of baddies a little sooner.

In the end, Heart of the Swarm is exactly what you’d expect: a polished, well thought out and developed expansion to StarCraft 2.  It’s not exceptional or amazing, it’s more or less the same game you’ve known and loved and yet, at the same time, it’s totally different.  At least when it comes to the multiplayer.

Congratulations Missing Toe Buddies!

As car accidents go, you’ll get off easy.  The impact of the SUV will collapse the upper portion of the passenger’s side door and dashboard, pinning your leg and cutting off circulation to your foot.  When all’s said and done, you’ll learn that your big toe will have to go so that the foot, as a whole, can remain intact.

“Otherwise gangrenous infection would probably occur in the majority of the extremity,” your doctor will explain.  “You’d lose your foot, if not your entire lower leg.”

You’ll listen solemnly, quietly whispering your goodbyes to Fatty, as you call your big right toe, under your breath.  The surgery will pass without issue and you’ll wake up today, Saturday, next to a young woman covered in cuts and bruises, dressed like a rock star.

She’ll introduce herself as “Taryn or Betty, depending on where we are.”  She’ll smirk as she describes being dropped while crowd surfing.

“The fall wasn’t so bad,” she’ll murmur.  “Getting up was the rough part.”

When she asks you why you’re there, you’ll explain it to her nervously, purposefully avoiding looking at your foot, which will still be covered with a bandage.  Her smirk will turn to smile as you go on, until she’s finally laughing at the end of your story.  You’ll look at her, puzzled, until she removes her sock, exposing four toes and one stump where her ring-toe used to be.

“Welcome to the club,” she’ll delicately cheer, motioning as best as her injuries permit her.

This, of course, will be your story each time you tell your children how you became the air guitar champion you are today.

Congratulations Missing Toe Buddies!

Congratulations Harpy Mom!

Your brood will shuffle into the mini-van, wings bursting from t-shirts.  They’ll be fixed with dour looks – sour, bloodless faces.  Telltale scratches, bloody worry marks, will curl up beneath their eyes, into their hairlines. Their feathers will be trailing out as they move, filling the Dodge Caravan’s interior.

“What’s wrong, dearies?” you’ll croon at them before reflexively making a cawing sound, as all harpies do.  They’ll look at one another, dejected.

“We lost the big game,” they’ll collectively murmur under downturned eyes.

Your mind will wander to thoughts of ancient eras, times when this would have been a call to arms: your brood would have annihilated their adversaries with greek fire and blood soaked claw.  There would have been no “Easthampton Warriors” left to battle on the soccer field the next day.  There would only have been eyeless corpses, so stained in blood that the mark of the tears they wept upon sight of their homes were annihilated, if only just barely.

But this is the old way – this is not the way of things now.

So you’ll croon softly at your children, assure them that it’s not their fault that they puncture soccer balls with their talons and that these things, which make them atrocious soccer players, also make them tantamount warriors, craftspeople and lawyers.  You’ll sing to them, as is harpy tradition, that the world is not always in this shape and that one day, one day soon, all will awaken and those of scale and claw and flashing eye will be common upon the earth once more and all these dark days without spark or signal divine will be as a dim memory to those who remain.

Then you’ll take them to Dairy Queen, where they’ll each get a blizzard.  The lack of opposable thumbs will make eating them a messy, frustrating experience, but the Dairy Queen blizzard is one of the last vestiges of magic in our world and, as such, even as their contents is splattered about the interior of your minivan, they will give your children a respite from the horror of the modern world.

Congratulations Harpy Mom!

Congratulations Decontextualized Charlie Chaplin Impersonator!

When you show up at the party the boos will push you back out the door you came in.

“FUCK YOU, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!” a woman with frizzy hair will scream at you before spitting in your face.

You’ll walk home sullenly, kicking the prop can you’d planned to kick jollily at the party.  Whenever you try to hail a cab you’ll just get various kinds of drinks thrown at you.  At one point a cab will slow down and you’ll just be pelted with several chicken schwarma from the inebriated passengers.

When you finally get home you’ll meet up with your girlfriend, who’s just on her way out.

“HOLY SHIT!” she’ll scream, making you before she realizes who you are.  Once she figures it out (from your screams) she’ll sit there on the couch with your head in her lap petting your skull while your eyes clear.

“You really need to think your costumes out better,” she’ll murmur down at you, a charitable blurry mass of sexy cat lady.  “Also, I’m pretty sure Charlie Chaplin didn’t wear beige and red.”

She’ll be right.

Congratulations Decontextualized Charlie Chaplin Impersonator!

Congratulations Giant Rat!

It’s a tough world for a giant rat.  Giant rat traps, racists, angry people who like to take out their violent impulses on fuzzy, inhuman things.  Nevermind that you’re a beneficial symbiotic species that consumes the waste from human society, or that you have your Microsoft certification.  No one sees your value.

Well, almost no one.  Today you’re going to go to a job interview.  You’ll leave your adopted parents house (you live with a nice couple in downtown Boston who have made a habit of taking in “difficult” foster children and providing them with a home where they can flourish) and walk to the Red line.  Then you’ll ride to Kendall Square and enter one of the multitude of towering office buildings, faceless exemplars of the importance of a view in riverfront property.  Once inside you’ll wait, awkwardly and patiently, for the interview your computer science teacher helped you land to begin.

You’ll be summoned by a young woman dressed in a metal T-shirt.  She’ll have a face full of rings and rivets, a veritable scrapyard imbedded in the flesh of her face.  She’ll murmur your name with amusement.

“Wendell?”

You’ll hop to your feet and walk human style behind her as she leads you through a series of cubicles.  You’ll move through a sea of people, each of whom works at a surreally customized space.  One man will have a cubicle decorated with articles of mecha, another will have a cubicle covered with vintage pornography from the fifties.  One incredibly weird woman will be working standing up.

After moving through this sea of freaks you’ll reach an office where a man will be playing darts while sitting on an exercise ball.  When you enter he’ll present you with a ball.  You’ll climb atop it and, using your tail to balance, perch there attentively on all fours.

“So,” he’ll begin.  “You’re a giant rat.”

You’ll nod.

“What kind of challenges does that present you with on a day to day basis?”

You’ll twitch your whiskers for a few thoughtful moments before answering.

“People try to murder me on the subway a lot.”

He’ll put the darts down for a second and maneuver over to his desk on his exerball.

“Interesting,” he’ll murmur as he marks some things down on a paper.

From there he’ll ask you about your strengths, your weaknesses, your habits and hobbies.  He’ll ask you about esoteric technical protocols and favorite films.  At one point he’ll ask you about your relationship with your biological dad.

“Never met him,” you’ll respond, flicking your tail reflexively so that you slide off the ball and on to the floor.  You’ll have to scramble back up to the ball with your interviewer’s help.  He’ll hold the side as you mount and place yourself atop it.  You’ll thank him and smile, a rare occasion for a rat.

He’ll smile back, and, after another five minutes of questions, thank you for your time.

You’ll think of it as another blown job interview until you step out of the subway on your way home and see a voicemail.  On it the young woman with a face full of metal will ask if you can start work at the beginning of next week.  You’ll call her back right away, your voice rising to squeaking heights with excitement.  You’ll attribute your hiring to your ability to maneuver in confined spaces (you are still a rat after all) but after a month or two you’ll learn that you were actually hired because you reminded the CEO of his own estranged son.

“I wonder what he might’ve accomplished if he’d had a chance,” he’ll murmur, holding a plastic cup of wine in his hand.  You won’t know what to make of that statement, that night, or his decision, but you’ll appreciate it all the same.

Congratulations Giant Rat!