Further to my review of Shank over at Rules of the Game, I wanted to examine the fight with Cesar, the man responsible for the murder of Shank’s girlfriend and the last encounter of the game. It stuck in my mind as something particularly interesting about Shank, in the way this fight feigns openness for the player’s attack strategy to make it seem different from the rest of the game. It is set up to be the “true” culmination of the skills learned in Shank, as if the previous boss encounters were merely warmups. Even though this encounter is the only thing I found interesting about Shank, it’s not something that would have been very useful in the middle of a review.

I said in my review that the traditional boss fight is challenging in the way it represents the culmination of each set of encounters at the end of a given “chapter” or “level” of a game. The tactics for each boss fight should be no surprise, as they should collect the skills developed during the course of the game. However, the challenge of a boss fight is removed when “tactics” become prescriptive of player action: whether it is requiring a particular attack to be used, or a weapon or ability that was obtained during the course of the preceding level. In the interest of player accessibility, the prescriptive boss fight is the easiest to grasp without a full understanding of the combat system. This was the approach that Klei Entertainment took with most of their boss characters in Shank.

In Shank’s fight with Cesar, there are two main differences from other boss encounters that should be evident to the observant player. Firstly, it is a fair fight. While he is a little bit taller, the size and appearance of Cesar is consistent with Shank and the goon characters that have already been faced. He is equipped with a sword, two pistols, and a knife. Secondly, it is not immediately apparent that a special activity must be performed as in the other boss encounters. That is, in the fight with Cesar the player is never explicity told to perform a one-button act to deal damage once the boss character is stunned by regular hits.

The fight is set up very similar to the one with Cassandra in the second level; however, she is much easier to defeat with persistence and repetitive attacks within a shorter period, when compared with Cesar’s overall toughness.

The use of weapons and melee attacks do not behave as they do in the regular encounters of Shank; against Cesar they are not nearly as effective. However, this can be accepted in the context of Cesar being the final boss and less susceptible to basic attacks. In the way most games increase difficulty by making enemies tougher, Cesar is simply given characteristics to absorb more damage.

Instead of an instruction, Shank gives some non-specific advice for the fight with Cesar: “Wait for an opening, and then counter-attack.” This strategy is always available to the player, though it is rare that it must actually be applied during the course of the game. Instead of reinforcing the combat philosophy – which should be typical for any self-respecting beat ‘em up – the amount of player skill is largely the result of finding ways to bypass it completely. As a result, this sudden encouragement to use the combat system may come as a surprise for some players that have had no reason to explore it until this point.

The player is then forced to come up with a strategy that may have worked in the typical encounter, but now this strategy is met with much deadlier resistance. This will result in the player becoming frustrated with the lack of feedback that had previously been so liberally granted. Since the player was able to get away with the typical buttonmashing strategy, those unfamiliar with the other aspects of combat (blocking, dodging and grappling) may not necessarily have the skills to figure out this fight for themselves.

This will result in two approaches, assuming the player doesn’t give up:

1. Chip away at him: the slow and steady approach where damage is done by the weapons, just not at the rate that the player may want.
2. Find an exploit.

Chipping away is the safest option, as it is controllable and the most predictable. There are three phases to the battle with Cesar, based on amount of damage inflicted. At the start of each phase, the player is presented with two health potions. As long as the player can survive through each phase, they are guaranteed a power-up and should (theoretically) emerge victorious without their health reaching zero.

However, chipping away at a boss can be tedious. This is despite the fact that the solution will eventually work given enough time and endurance with a rudimentary attack combination such as dodge, shank, jump away, dodge, shank, jump away, etc. None of the weapons prove to be more effective than the others with this approach, however. A katana/shank combination that was devastating in the game only provides a moderate increase in damage to the standard shank combo, and therefore isn’t worth the trade-off in losing speed from a heavy attack. The grapple move cannot be performed arbitrarily, which is consistent in the game for all enemies bigger than Shank. The disembowel move with the katana, which proved to be extremely useful against large enemies in the rest of the game, will only cause Shank to be locked into one of Cesar’s counter-moves after dealing only a moderate amount of damage. The chainsaw takes too long to recover from, and all of the guns may as well be doing nothing. The quick fire rate of the dual pistols allows the player to keep a safe distance, but they take the risk of Cesar returning fire, and his pistols do more damage. Attempting this first strategy reminded me of my time with Lucifer at the end of Dante’s Inferno¹. It wasn’t pleasant, and I did not learn anything except patience, perseverance, and the true strength of my thumb muscles (something I’ve learned many times before, but in much more palatable video game experiences).

“Wait for an opening, and then counter-attack.”

The player is thus forced to find a weakness, and exploit it.

In Shank, a “counter” move is available when Shank is in close quarters with an enemy, and the left trigger icon appears on screen. If Shank is in close quarters with Cesar, this same icon will pop up. And as long as the player hits LT in time, they can counter him and do a little more damage than with a normal attack.

However, this counter-attack isn’t enough to deal substantial damage. The player must then fall back to chipping away at Cesar until receiving the opportunity to counter again. The timing must be perfect, and by moving in close the player runs the risk of some of Cesar’s highly damaging combo moves that they have no way of blocking. The player is stuck in a loop that may require several attempts to be able to beat Cesar.

The player then starts to optimize: If I am going to get close, how do I maximize my return on applied damage?

If the player experiments – or visits online forums, if they are impatient – they will learn that the best way to beat Cesar is to grapple him. But this isn’t possible! The player complains. You can’t grapple characters larger than Shank! And this would be true, if the developers were following the rules they have set. But as evidenced by the previous boss encounters, the rules of the game in the levels leading up to these encounters don’t necessarily apply.

The grapple can only be performed without the katana armed, because the right trigger is used for the special heavy attack for the katana. All other heavy weapons can be equipped, but the chains are particularly effective. The way to perform this move is actually very similar to the “double-team” throwing move in the co-operative campaign. Once the player is able to move in for the counter-attack, they must quickly hit “RT” to grapple after the counter. Shank will pick up Cesar and perform a pile driver, taking almost a quarter of his health bar. After the player performs a few of these attacks the battle is won.

Once the counter-grapple is learned, it is incredibly easy to perform. The only skill required is the ability to time the counter and grapple button presses, not use Shank’s arsenal of weapons in attack combinations. The weapons are available for this, of course – they just aren’t as effective. And all things considered, next to useless.

Cesar doesn’t change up his fighting style except for a “gutting move” with his sword, which is similar to what Shank does with the katana. This new move appears during the second phase of the fight. The attack can be easily avoided, as there is a red blinking “tell” like every other boss and large character encountered in the preceding game.

The lack of dynamics for this fight based on Shank‘s combat system makes it predictable, and as long as the player can minimize damage taken to set up this counter-grapple move, they will win. And there are plenty of health potions to correct any missteps, when the return on risking close-quarters damage is suddenly increased.

The battle with Cesar is not as open as the initial setup impresses on the player. The counter-grapple is the skeleton key for this fight, and Cesar can be bested quite quickly using this method. This is compared to a more substantial investment of time spent optimizing a “chip away” strategy. Keeping this technique hidden from the player may give the illusion of openness, but as anyone experienced with video games knows the player will use any means necessary to maximize their success in the least amount of time used for trial and error. Ultimately the battle with Cesar is no different than the other boss fights in the way it uses one move to deal the most damage, and although a disappointing finale it fits in well with the rest of Shank.

Shank is overconfidence in a borrowed design that is only partially understood. It is a one-button brawler that adds depth in the most unnecessary of areas for a video game of this genre: story. In all favorable reviews, comparisons list off the beat ‘em ups that came before it – whether it’s the gun and swordplay of Devil May Cry or the rudimentary street fighting of Streets of Rage – as if Shank belongs in their company. And perhaps it was inspired by these titles, but inspiration is very different from execution.

Read the rest over at Rules of the Game.

Around this time last year, I complained that the trial version of Batman: Arkham Asylum was a poorly constructed demonstration of the final game, and lamented the days when demos were complete pieces of a larger game that allowed the player to make an educated decision on a purchase. Last week, Capcom released Dead Rising 2: Case Zero, a stand-alone introduction to Dead Rising 2. It is a mission – or “Case” as they were called in the original game – that takes place in the backwater town of Still Creek. Dead Rising 2 will be a multiplatform launch, so the exclusivity of Dead Rising 2: Case Zero on the Xbox 360 appears to be a token sign of loyalty to those that made the original so successful. The Prestige Points statistics levelling system returns, so that any character built in Case Zero can be carried across to the new game, as long as it is purchased for the Xbox 360. Case Zero costs 400 MS points, or around $5 US. Essentially, it is a pay-to-play demo.

On its surface, the intent of Case Zero is to explain how main character Chuck Greene gets to Fortune City, the setting for Dead Rising 2. Establishing Chuck’s character and his background, we are introduced to his situation and what got him there. However, the story in Case Zero isn’t set up as a “prequel”, proper. That is, the ending of the mission in Case Zero is Chuck Greene and his daughter driving to Fortune City. Anything could have happened before that; what happens in Case Zero isn’t essential to the story. Instead, Chuck’s detour in Still Creek is more apt as an introduction to developer Blue Castle Games’ rendition of the Dead Rising universe and the game’s mechanics. In this regard, Case Zero is one of the best video game demonstrations I have ever played.

Since Case Zero must be purchased, there is the theoretical incentive for the developers to create a finished product that is characteristic of the framework of the main game. In many modern demos, there are disclaimers on the menu screens that it doesn’t represent the final game, or that the developers make no claims the demo is a finished product. By contrast, Case Zero is intended to be a stand-alone product; a full game.

The difference between Case Zero and its successor is one of scale. Case Zero can be completed in under two hours by the experienced Dead Rising player. The town of Still Creek is small: as a result there are fewer missions, and the time limits for each task are shorter. There isn’t much time to get comfortable, so the player must hit the ground running.

In the first ten minutes of the game (including the introductory movie), Case Zero establishes the following:

1. Zombrex is an experimental drug that staves off “zombification” for 12 hours with each dose. It is the most important resource in the game, as it will help keep Chuck’s daughter Katey alive. It is also the most scarce.
2. There are time constraints. Chuck must be able to give Katey her dose of Zombrex every 12 hours.
3. With Chuck’s truck stolen during the opening movie, they must find a new source of Zombrex, and a way to get out of town.
4. There is a safe house, including a save point (restroom), where the player starts.
5. There are objects everywhere to be used as weapons. Items can be combined to make new improvised weapons. The first combination is right next to where the player starts.

The player is then free to go and do whatever they please, understanding that there are hard constraints to this wandering. However, unlike the original Dead Rising, the constraints are not merely appointments to be kept so that the “big story” can be broken, which was perfectly fine in the context of Frank West’s occupation. For Case Zero this appointment is a life-or-death situation. Late on the dosage, and Katey becomes a zombie.

The importance of this task contributes to a darker atmosphere in this version of the game, as the stakes are suddenly higher. Things feel more serious, and there is a palpable sense of urgency. There is no government agency on hand to assist in investigating the outbreak. There is no helpful janitor watching everything through a mall security system. Although Dead Rising tried its best to be frightening, the camp underneath was consistently exposed through its often ridiculous exposition regarding the zombie outbreak. In Case Zero, the outbreak has spread throughout the continental United States. The Military are trying to contain the situation using lethal force. Chuck and his daughter are alone in a town without transportation, and must find a way to live for another day.

I enjoyed my time with Dead Rising; I often point to it as a reason I own an Xbox 360. Frustrated with the direction the genre took with Resident Evil 4, I saw it as the answer to my zombie outbreak survival simulator needs. Sure, the game was more than a little hackneyed at times: a cast of ridiculous caricatures to rescue, B-movie plot devices added as subtext to the adventure, and fear as the product of being without a weapon in the middle of a large crowd of slow-moving zombies.

As in the original Dead Rising, there are plenty of distractions that get in the way of the main objective. Whether this is bludgeoning your way through packs of zombies just to move around, rescuing the twelve different survivors scattered around town, or trying to find objects that will combine into new weapons, there is no shortage of activities.

Immediately noticable is the difference in controls. Dead Rising controlled like an old game; Frank’s movements were clumsy and exaggerated. Chuck Greene’s movements appear smoother and more natural than the original game, though the scope of movements are still limited to running, jumping and climbing over low ledges. A roll or dodge action would have been beneficial, though like the original game, it is possible that this action is an ability that is unlocked upon reaching a higher character level.

After stumbling across an old motorcycle chassis, Chuck decides this is his only hope for getting out of town. It is also learned that the Military are on their way to Still Creek, and since Katey is infected they will quarantine her. Instead of entrenching himself with Katey and waiting to be saved, Chuck has even more incentive to leave town before the Military arrives. This inversion of player expectations is a fantastic twist similar to the recent film The Crazies, where “quarantine” was just another word for mass killings to prevent further outbreak.

With these objectives in mind, Case Zero reinforces the time management aspect of the original Dead Rising. In a very short time – approximately 12 hours – Chuck must find the remaining parts of this motorcycle, and get out of Still Creek before the Military arrives. And remember to give Katey her dose of Zombrex.

Finding the missing motorcycle parts to reassemble it involves helping out some townspeople that have survived and searching through the abandoned buildings of the town. Picking up each part takes up an inventory slot, but unlike the item-fetching quests in Left 4 Dead 2, they can be used as weapons. For example: upon finding the motorcycle chassis, Chuck loads it into a large bin with wheels on it. Heart sinking, I thought about making my way back to the safe house through the crowd that had already closed up behind me with this unwieldy gear. However, there’s an action button for this bin. Moving forward and pressing this button allows the bin to be used as a plow, creating some hilarious visuals. As long as I didn’t stop running I was invincible, zombies launching into the air in my wake.

It is so easy to get distracted with activities like this. Once the Hunting Store is accessed, there are plenty of new weapons to play around with, including a broadsword reminiscent of the True Eye Cult leader’s weapon from the original game. It cuts a vicious arc through any crowd, with the swing appropriately weighty and leaves Chuck open for attack.

Indeed, Case Zero gets melee modeled right, so that heavier weapons like the sledgehammer will have a longer swing arc and recovery, while lighter weapons like the baseball bat will allow for quicker attacks and less damage per swing. This is a significant improvement over the original game. There are also two types of attacks: normal and strong (which includes a suitably gory animation). Unfortunately, weapon durabilities appear to be unchanged and do not reflect the materials.¹

In Dead Rising 2‘s first official trailer the “Paddlesaw” was revealed: two chainsaws taped onto each blade of a kayak paddle. This weapon alone seemed to sell the concept for Dead Rising 2. To avoid disappointing the fans that have anxiously waited to use this weapon, the Paddlesaw can be built in Case Zero after finding the kayak paddle and making a trip to the hardware store. Other combinations include molotovs (whiskey and newspaper), and a spiked baseball bat (baseball bat and box of nails). You need a workbench to complete these weapon upgrades, which are scattered throughout town. I can see this system being interesting to experiment with, but the set combinations seem limited, and quantities don’t matter. For example, the “Drill Bucket” only needs one drill and a bucket, yet the finished product actually contains three drills. The Paddlesaw only requires one chainsaw and the kayak paddle. Why couldn’t I attach two circular saw blades to the ends of my kayak paddle instead? Why couldn’t I fashion new ammunition for my shotgun with a box of nails?² Including this weapon combination system is a huge improvement on its own, but the scope of possibilities already feels limited on this small scale.

The most noticeable improvement to combat is in the use of firearms. In Dead Rising, guns could be shot from the hip but didn’t provide much accuracy at a distance. And aiming produced a view straight from Resident Evil 4, without the ability to strafe and shoot at the same time. In Case Zero, shooting from the hip is more predictable (though still not accurate), and aiming and shooting has been taken from the typical third-person shooter, complete with full use of the left and right trigger buttons for aiming and firing. Firearms are still underpowered compared to melee weapons, but in the close-combat situations typical of the Dead Rising series, if you are struggling to aim a gun you’re already dead. Once again, ammunition is not available separately from weapons. This was especially puzzling when I stumbled upon a military quarantine camp that had supply boxes that could only be used as weapons.

In the game’s only boss fight firearms become essential, however. This is another extension of the design from the previous game where victory is assured by running away, dodging return fire and shooting the boss character in the face. There is no encouragement of tactics or use of the game’s environment. While I could stun the boss character with the IED (propane tank and box of nails), I was only able to do serious damage with the Assault Rifle. I have a feeling this will be the same in the retail game, as I can’t see how any significant improvements have been made through use of the environment to defeat the zombie horde, let alone individual adversaries.

Like the original Dead Rising, there are a number of endings available to the player in Case Zero depending on whether they succeed in their main quest to escape Still Creek before the military arrives. The most troubling of all the failure conditions was forgetting to give Katey her dose of Zombrex. This occurred at nightfall, when the zombies become more powerful, and I was stuck behind a crowd trying to get back to the safehouse. Surrounded, I was furiously swinging a feeble two-by-four to make my way through the unyielding ravenous horde. The urgency was unbearable. Suddenly the game stopped, and I was given a scene where Chuck says “I’m too late.” You don’t see anything else except Chuck standing hopeless in the middle of the street. The fate of Katey is left to the imagination of the player.

While the characterization of Chuck and Katey can hardly be called deep, there is something in their relationship that echoes many horror and post-apocalyptic films that involve family. Survival is important, yes, but should it come at the cost of your loved ones? This theme was made prominent by the recent film adaptation of The Road. I don’t expect the emotional weight of McCarthy’s work to be carried by this game, but it lends the air of something greater than the typical survival horror tropes when the father of a doomed child is willing to risk everything for them regardless of the situation’s apparent futility.

Case Zero is not a predecessor or prequel to the retail version of Dead Rising 2. Rather, it is an excellent demonstration that successfully encapsulates the systems and mechanics that have been revised since the release of Dead Rising. For players that enjoy what Case Zero has to offer, it serves as a suitable appetizer for what is to come in the retail release of Dead Rising 2. It also acts as a refresher for experienced players of Dead Rising. For everyone else, its containment as a separate game provides enough closure that it can be left behind without wondering if it was representative of the final game, which most retail game demos fail to do. And if zombie outbreak survival on a small scale is enough for some players, Case Zero can be replayed without ever owning the full version of Dead Rising 2. In the town of Still Creek there are additional weapon combinations to experiment with, survivors to rescue, and unlimited zombies to kill – all under a prescribed time limit that is embedded in the game’s mechanics. Case Zero confidently stands on its own, but its most important contribution to the Dead Rising series is its ability to fully demonstrate the systems and mechanics in the world of Dead Rising 2 in an easily accessible package.

Dante: “Where are the others? Why aren’t the other damned down here with me?”
Lucifer: “This isn’t their Hell, Dante. It’s yours.”
- from Dante’s Inferno

Dante’s Inferno is a half-hearted action game that gets caught up in its own spectacle. The offensive content of this video game is enough to repulse the casual observer, but those that actually play it will find its sins go far deeper: it is a video game that makes its own existence unnecessary with a combat system wrought by designers who have learned nothing about action games in the last five years. The result is an artifact that only serves as another reason why video game enthusiasts continue to bleat loudly and thump their chest while struggling to justify the cultural legitimacy of video games. Dante’s Inferno is a game that sought and received a lot of attention, but for all the wrong reasons. Electronic Arts’ campaign to promote the game was an embarrassing display, but fascinating in how it adapted to the response of the video game community. And yet the worst criticism levelled at the actual game upon its release was that it was a poor imitation of God of War, while glossing over the general offensiveness of the content – both visual and ludic – in what can only be labelled as acts of sloth. Dante’s Inferno is a mark upon the rich history of video games that reveals more failures than successes, but still manages to recognize the most noble of attempts. However, Dante’s Inferno has no hope of being a work as accessible or impactful as the ones that are the subject of so many retrospectives. Dante’s Inferno will be remembered, but not for the reasons Visceral Entertainment had hoped.

The biggest mistake that EA made with Dante’s Inferno was their marketing campaign¹. The callous way they manipulated video game culture did more to damage the public image of video games and the video game media than actually advertise the game itself. While the campaign may have received a lot of attention, the majority of it was negative and was mostly related to three things: the marketing push for “Lust”, the marketing push for “Greed”, and the fact that a lowly video game – surely the basest form of modern entertainment – was attempting to adapt an untouchable piece of classic literature. The most startling fact amongst all this degenerate drum-beating was how little was mentioned about the actual video game, as if this campaign was intended to distract from it.

In fact, when Dante’s Inferno was first rumored to be in development in late 2008, many people thought it was a joke. How could anyone hope to adapt a 700 year old poem and use it as the setting for a video game? The wells of creativity had truly run dry, and game developers were turning to other sources in the same manner that Hollywood has recently taken to trawling the shelves of comic book shops. This made Dante’s Inferno an easy target for critics: what better way to prove a video game’s worthlessness than pointing out how it represents everything that is wrong with the industry? The game became a pariah, and subject to the scorn of what seemed like the entire internet.

In the face of such adversity, the team responsible for Dante’s Inferno had to create a product that would surmount the horde of critics that were simply waiting for it to fail. One could argue the old adage that any publicity is good publicity, but the events leading up to this game’s release were setting it up for Daikatana-like disappointment. Buckling under the hype is not an option if Dante’s Inferno was to succeed in the eyes of the press and the game-buying public that accept their recommendations. It would simply be another nail in the coffin of video games’ cultural legitimacy.

The demo for Dante’s Inferno was released in December 2009 and showcased the setup for Dante’s journey into Hell. It was engaging in the sense that God of War was engaging: the game begins with the spectacle of fighting an omnipotent adversary, and moves forward in the name of cutting things to pieces while defying gravity with double-jumps and following button prompts as each new enemy is killed in dramatic fashion. This sampler proved to be enough to illustrate the game’s direction and its aspirations. Many of the game’s detractors labelled Dante’s Inferno a shameless clone, and this claim is not without substance. However, for those that would never get to try such a game otherwise, Dante’s Inferno initially appeared as a suitable alternative that would not require investing in more hardware. This assumption would prove to be wishful thinking.

After a few hours of play, Dante’s Inferno exposes itself as an unambitious entry into the third-person action genre, but a surprisingly structured adaptation of the poem. It is a rock concert of a video game: full of puerile imagery and middle fingers given to Christianity’s dark history. However, setting out to compare the poem and video game in a review would be folly; any player of video games who claims to have read it was probably just skimming the Wikipedia summary, anyway². Dante’s Inferno is not meant to be an adaptation in the purest sense; rather, it is a video game that wishes to turn Aligheri’s Hell into a battleground of depravity, parading horrid displays in front of the player as they are corraled through its wretched depths.

The designers at Visceral clearly did some research – every aspect of the Inferno itself as described by Aligheri is represented in some way, as if they made a list and checked everything off. While the imagery of Aligheri’s Inferno was left to the reader’s imagination, Visceral have tried their hardest to make the player’s skin crawl – it certainly took a twisted imagination to come up with what has been presented. And there really isn’t any other way this could have been done. This is Hell for a modern age: nothing’s shocking anymore, and so to get the player’s attention, the team of artists at Visceral had to overcompensate resulting in some questionable and outright offensive content. The atmosphere that is developed relies entirely on this principle, with the expectation that the egregious failings of the game will be forgiven. This would prove to be an arrogant assumption by the designers.

Dante Aligheri’s The Divine Comedy is no religious text; it is one man’s interpretation of the afterlife seen through the lens of the prevailing opinions of fourteenth century Christianity. Setting himself up as the protagonist allows the reader to see it through his eyes. To create a video game based on what is essentially a Tourist Guide wouldn’t be very exciting, though. There must be action. There must be jumping puzzles. There must be blood.

So Visceral came up with the idea of making Dante’s character a Knight of the Crusades, who is painted as a troubled and evil man. He sews pieces of tapestry to his chest in what appear to be fits of self-punishment, having been responsible for some unspeakable acts in the name of cleansing the Holy Land of non-Christians. There is certainly some underlying criticism of these events by the game’s creators, through a series of haunting montages done in stylized animation reminiscent of Gerald Scarfe’s work on Pink Floyd The Wall (1982).

The reason for Dante’s descent into Hell is because he wants to save the soul of his betrothed, Beatrice. As a result of Dante’s indiscretions in the Holy Land, she was killed in his absence and her soul is being held captive by Lucifer. She represents the symbol of purity and Dante’s broken promise, so naturally saving Beatrice is the only way Dante can redeem himself.

After Dante is stabbed in the back, Death arrives to claim his soul for Hell, beginning Dante’s quest to save the soul of Beatrice. Making Dante’s first major encounter a fight with Death says something about the game’s ambitions. This is Dante’s boot in the door, but he doesn’t leave without taking Death’s Scythe with him in an act that sets the stage for the exaggerated action that is sure to follow. Dante’s Inferno is typical video game pastiche, yet establishes itself as an epic, bloody adventure.

The game is clearly presented as Dante the character’s Inferno, so taking these liberties with the source material is expected. It is a man’s personal quest to atone for his sins, driven by the guilt of his actions while away from his betrothed. The shouting and virulent rage expressed by Dante while performing the more powerful of his attacks is pronounced. It is not just pure anger; it is a plaintive cry. He wants release from his suffering and inner anguish. For an instant one might even sympathize with the character. Then the game happens.

Dante’s Inferno isn’t coy about its influences. The combat’s fluidity and system of combinations make it an action game that at least meets the basic requirements of the genre, but it is far from being genre-defining. To create a God of War clone without improving on this inspiration draw obvious criticisms about its lack of ambition. What’s worse is that these criticims were used to elevate the God of War series to paragon of third-person action games. It is here that reviewers lose sight of the real issue: neither game is mechanically original, and if anything do more to further constrain the third-person action genre with prescriptive combat. One only needs to look at the negative reviews of God of War III to see that reviewers are finally recognizing a regressive design philosophy.

Shortly after obtaining Death’s Scythe, Dante gets the “Beatrice Cross” for his secondary attack. The Beatrice Cross is a multi-part projectile that resembles something out of the Castlevania series. With these two weapons, Dante has two paths for weapon and skill upgrades: Unholy (Scythe) and Holy (Beatrice Cross). To perform these upgrades, Dante must collect and spend souls. Unlike God of War and Darksiders, these souls are not random and available with every kill. To upgrade Unholy or Holy skills, you must either “Punish” or “Absolve” each enemy you are faced with. Punishing will grant unholy souls, while absolving will result in holy souls.

This is actually a good system in theory, even if it makes no logical sense that an undeniably evil man is able to absolve sinful souls. Apart from the standard mobs, Dante will encounter various historical figures or “Shades” as they appeared in the original poem and will be given the choice to punish or absolve them of their sins. Doing either will result in more souls than the typical monster, so these encounters are usually the ones that allow the player to upgrade the skills in each path, so it definitely becomes a conscious choice. Initially, experimenting with the first two tiers of abilities in each path gives a sense of depth to the game. The rudimentary combinations seem tight and serviceable.

However, after traversing the first circle of Hell, the combat system’s weaknesses start to reveal themselves. The Scythe feels thin and reedy in comparison to the chunky Chaoseater of Darksiders³ or the switchblade precision of the Dragon Sword from Ninja Gaiden II⁴. The Scythe was taken from Death himself, but presents itself as so much junk to be upgraded. There is a compulsion to hit the attack buttons harder, as if it makes a difference. There is a hit counter like any self-respecting third-person melee game, but aside from a couple of Achievements there is no reason to pursue drawn-out combinations. There are no style points like in Devil May Cry or the recent Bayonetta that grade the player on their performance.

As the game increases in difficulty, it becomes easier to punish souls because it is faster. Most lower-level enemies are actually killed in one hit by punishing them. The player is untouchable when absolving a soul (which involves mashing the “B” button repeatedly), but this does serious damage to the flow of action. As a result, the player doesn’t want to punish everything in sight because they are evil; they simply want to keep moving. This is more pronounced when absolving the Shades, which starts a ridiculous mini-game that determines how many Holy souls the player will get.

With even a few points spent upgrading the Beatrice Cross, the player doesn’t have to get close in order to engage any adversaries. Maximizing the Beatrice Cross powers through the Holy path of skills ensures the player is all but invincible for a good portion of the game. It can be used with no penalty (that is, no mana draw), and can be hammered until all feeling in the thumb is lost. Using the Beatrice Cross quickly becomes tiresome as the challenge is drained from the proceedings.

Combat is the primary focus of Dante’s Inferno, and it is exposed as weak and unsatisfying under analysis. It devolves into a utilitarian system that is tedious to participate in. The combat has been constructed to simply illustrate a point: the player is fighting things. The spells and special attacks that are supposed to add variety become worthless when under assault because there is no reason to use them, despite feeling compelled to do so. The game’s combat system is simply unwilling to comply. The player surmounts every encounter through brute force: the combat is an exercise in hammering on the same buttons over and over, just to survive and make it to the next area.

If this fault in the combat system is not detected early in the game, it will most certainly be exposed in the game’s latter half. The difficulty⁵ increases unforgivingly to compensate for a repetitive and unchallenging combat system, clumsily concealing what should have been an increase in the combat system’s complexity. There are enemies that are suddenly able to block all of Dante’s attacks, have unblockable attacks, and the player is forced into situations where the magic abilities that were previously untouched must be relied upon, while hammering away on the Beatrice Cross for crowd control. To have combat become monotonous after only a third of what the game is offering means the designers have made a mistake. It leaves the player no choice but to hate the game for the painfully limiting constraints of what should be its strongest attribute.

Yet in spite of the uncontrollable wells of anger that spring up due to the game’s inability to control its own difficulty curve, there is still the need to continue. There is a nagging curiosity to see what else Visceral has created for their interpretation of Aligheri’s Hell.

And nothing says “Decent into Hell” like rappelling with human entrails down the faces of cliffs made up of undulating corpses. These brief interludes allow the game’s scenery to be taken in; to hear the moaning of restless souls begging for mercy that never seem to fade into the background. And there are a number of foreboding areas that successfully convey Dante’s role as intruder: the bubbling pools of human filth in Gluttony; the river of boiling blood in Violence; the Forest of Suicides where Dante finds his mother and continues his downward spiral into self-loathing.

Yet these are modest interpretations of Hell when compared with the inhabitants of each circle. The Temptress and her outward-reaching crotch-tendril⁶. The shapeless Gluttons that cover Dante in all manner of excrement. The hook-armed babies that erupt from the exposed nipples of a 40-foot zombie Cleopatra. These were the wretched of humankind as imagined by Visceral to make the player squirm. And it works, until the veneer of repulsion is scratched away by the frustrating limitations of the combat system and replaced with simple hatred of the obstacles.

And if it wasn’t enough just to observe the environment, the designers felt the need to make its presence known through pointless interactions with it, like mashing buttons to open doors, chests, and fountains. There are the puzzles solved with barely a thought, serving only as interruptions to the flow of play. It becomes hard to justify the forgiveness of a game that relies on a distressing aesthetic to obscure its failings.

Rather than divide the game up into obvious stages, Visceral stuck with the structure of Inferno and placed the “Boss” characters where they appear in the poem. For example, King Minos – the sorter of sinful souls – must be fought before entering Hell proper (after Limbo), and Cerberus guards the gates into Gluttonous realm. Some areas don’t have bosses, and others bring forth characters from Dante’s life who must be slain and absolved. There is resistance everywhere, and it’s made frighteningly clear that the player shouldn’t be there.

However, the Boss encounters are just more examples of how the game’s combat system fails to emerge from self-sabotage. The Boss creatures are disturbingly impressive to behold – that is, until you have to fight them. There are no “hot spots” in the purest sense; rather, there are prescribed routines that must be followed in order to proceed to the next damage state. And this would be almost bearable were it not for the stilted and imprecise controls that are aggravated in these isolated scenarios, and weapons that feel powerless against them in what feels like intentionally drawn-out fights just to show off the design of these creatures. There are tight windows of opportunity that must be taken in each of these fights, and punishment for missing them is always a significant portion of Dante’s health bar. This is not balanced difficulty: this is the designers resorting to unfair tactics. The response, naturally, is hammering on attacks when these opportunities arise, and using defenses like Divine Armor to recuperate while still being able to take damage. This teaches the player nothing of the game’s combat system – only how to survive it. When the boss creatures are defeated, it is not the glorious thrill of victory that is felt. It is exasperated relief that these battles will never have to be fought again.

In what seems like inches from completing the game, The Malebolge is introduced. The description of each area is taken from the poem, but the theme is not. The ten pits are set up as a series of discrete challenge arenas and bear a resemblance to the hidden challenges in Devil May Cry 4 – something only skilled players should attempt – but they are optional in that game. Instead of carrying themes like the rest of the game, the Malebolge throws an assortment of monsters at the player that have been fought countless times before, and issues a directive that must be completed prior to gaining access to the following pits, such as get a 100-hit combo or stay aloft for eight seconds. This is the sign of a developer who has run out of ideas or time (or both), but through some slavish sense of duty wants to remain faithful to their source material. There was no buildup of difficulty in these challenges, just a bunch of random encounters with some arbitrary way of measuring success. The dramatic change of pace for the Malebolge effectively kills any momentum that was maintained to that point, making the subsequent fight with Lucifer feel like an obligation.

It’s only fitting that the final battle with Lucifer is longer than the others – this is the end of Dante’s journey through Hell. However, the challenge of Lucifer is not one that was fostered and developed for the duration of the game, like the Archfiend in Ninja Gaiden II. The player is suddenly expected to apply skills learned during the gauntlet of the Malebolge (if they were paying attention and not just trying to survive it), and make it through Lucifer’s two forms.

Realistically, the first form of Lucifer provides no course of action for the player except to continue hammering the same attacks as they have been for the whole game while hoping they will make it to the next area. The quick time events allowing the use of the Scythe during this sequence further illustrate its frustrating ineptitude as a weapon. If the player manages to make it through this encounter, they get to face Lucifer on foot.

In this form, Lucifer does not inspire fear – only more exasperation. He is identical to all the other humanoid bosses that were encountered in the game. Aside from some very powerful distance attacks, his movements and melee patterns are predictable. The player watches as Lucifer’s manhood swings between his legs during the battle, as if possessed. The only distraction is wondering how many animators it took to create this feature.

After Lucifer’s patterns are learned it becomes a war of attrition with distance attacks because it is the only way to mitigate damage. Lucifer will also begin to block the Beatrice Cross at some points, forcing the use of the Scythe and further highlighting its decrepitude. The fight lasts what seems like an eternity, as a steady rhythm of Beatrice Cross attacks and rolling dodges is engraved into the mind of the player while they slowly chip away at Lucifer’s health bar. The fight with Lucifer is not so much giving the player a final exam as it is pulling the rug out from underneath their feet.

After defeating Lucifer, Dante is shown naked and reborn, looking at the shores of Purgatory. The heart sinks at what EA and Visceral have planned for this series. What is Dante going to do next? Take on Purgatory? Purgatory is full of people who are allowed to atone for their sins and make their way to the top of a tower into Eden, and eventually Paradise. It’s hard to wrap the mind around what someone would even fight in Paradise. While one can allow Visceral a little flexibility for making the killing happen where it actually makes sense, basing a game on anything other than self-flagellation while ascending a tower is a challenge destined for levels of criticism only hinted at during the buildup to Dante’s Inferno. And since Dante’s Inferno was not universally reviled⁷, someone is thinking about a sequel. Probably two of them.

The Hell of Dante’s Inferno is disturbing, but it is effective. It represents Aligheri’s visions of the worst of humankind, often degenerating into parody to make its point – but it is made nonetheless. Visceral obviously took the time to create a Hell that would both revolt and captivate, to ensure the player is engaged in their surroundings. However, this is no walking tour of Hell. This is a video game, and the easy disassembly of the combat system proves there is little to retain the player when it is easily grasped and mastered through its circumvention. Dante’s Inferno manages to work as the structure for a video game, but it is the execution of the game that is enough to make anyone familiar with them want to throw their controller through a window in disgust. A game that could have risen above mere imitator with the support of its source material becomes frustrating and unnecessary. It is the Hell of Mashing 10,000 Buttons. From the incredulous first announcement to the repugnant advertising campaign, Dante’s Inferno will not be forgotten. Indeed, Dante’s Inferno will receive its place in video game history for many reasons, but not one of them is because it was a good video game.

Darksiders is a wave of nostalgia. It is playing A Link to the Past (1991) on a Super Nintendo console borrowed from a friend away for summer vacation. It is the limited edition comic book with holofoil cover that never existed; in the game are the characters that do battle on these imaginary pages. Darksiders is what happens when a comic book artist has something to say about a video game’s design. The art direction of Darksiders provides a solid foundation for this original setting, where a generous layer of grunge and oversized pauldrons was applied to a formula so revered by video game culture it has become all but untouchable. This aesthetic becomes one of the strongest points of Darksiders, as it is so convincing that the flagrant plagiarism happening underneath can be overlooked. This is not mere homage; the team at Vigil Games has created a video game. The intent of the game’s design is clear from the beginning, and like the adventure it contains, does not deviate from this prescribed pathway. Darksiders has scope and it has goals, but it does not over-reach. The mechanics are inviting and do not ask for anything but the player’s attention. Darksiders demands to be played.

Darksiders has been criticized mainly for its lack of originality; it seems pointing out an obvious trait of video games in general is cause enough for dismissal. The negative commentary claims everything Darksiders has to offer has been done previously – and better – elsewhere. The most popular example being the one-button finishing moves and gratuitous vivisections of the God of War series. However, when playing Darksiders there should really be only one series of video games that comes to mind: The Legend of Zelda. And this should come as no surprise, as it was always the intent of Darksiders Creative Director and comic book artist Joe Madureira¹. Typical for the reception of such an endeavor, Darksiders was the victim of offhanded associations from people who didn’t play the game, or worse – they weren’t paying attention while they played it².

The individuals that purport to dictate taste through these indolent opinions are propagating a disease within video game culture, one that results in some offensive double-speak regarding the advancement and future of the industry. They want innovation, but they don’t want anything too different. They complain about formulas and sequels, yet express deep reverence for a character or game design as old as video games. No one can do platforming like Mario, or solve puzzles like Link in The Legend of Zelda. These memories are untouchable, and the games that inspired them incorruptible³. By adopting this philosophy, the people who play these games with veneration overflowing in their hearts are limiting themselves to the regurgitations of the same formula, made by the same people, to the hollow ringing of cash registers. And in spite of it all, there is never a shortage of criticism when the big studios keep producing these duplicates. This feedback loop is the unfortunate ecosystem of the video game industry.

For the first half of Darksiders, the plagiarism is so obvious that it becomes a running gag as to see which tool will be received in each dungeon. One dungeon had hard to reach switches, which were obvious call signs for a boomerang. Only in Darksiders it’s called a “Crossblade.” The hook shot? It’s been suitably grittied up as the “Abyssal Chain.” Despite this overt imitation, these items were still fashioned to reflect the world of Darksiders. It also calls into question the Zelda series itself: aren’t the recent installments of the series essentially a facsimile of every Zelda game ever made? What Darksiders has going for it is that it isn’t a Zelda game. The genre bullshit can be cast aside because there is no genre – Darksiders is copying a game that has been in a genre of its own since its creation. Darksiders works because it is similarly consistent in its approach. It applies a formula that is obvious from the start and sticks with it for the entirety of the game. As a result there are no surprises, and the disappointments are only from attempting to assign attributes to the game it was never meant to have.

Darksiders begins in some generic North American city in the midst of what is clearly the Apocalypse. The player receives control of War, who arrives with all the bombast expected from one of the mythical Four Horsemen: by emerging from a meteor that had just destroyed a building. Like many recent video games it uses the familiar method of getting a player interested by providing an overpowered character at the start and then thrusting them into the chaos. None of the immediate threats pose any challenge. The player is expected to learn the controls, and to see the endpoint for their avatar in action. Kill, destroy, and ravage as War is attacked by the forces of Heaven and Hell alike. However, the other three Horsemen are missing. Something is wrong. At the end of the starting area there is a fight with the archdemon Straga that there is no hope of winning. War is cast down into some kind of molten limbo, where judgement is passed by the Charred Council. They deem that War’s solo trip to Earth is the cause behind the destruction of Humanity.

From the beginning of Darksiders, the player is encroaching on someone else’s plan. After wrongful accusations about being the catalyst for Armageddon, War must make things right. And nobody wants him to do that, either. They’d rather this wayward Horseman just languish in Hell for eternity with the demons that are allegedly his allies (thus, Darksiders). This is a mission to regain War’s honor and restore balance to the Universe. There are no allies in Darksiders; every one of the allegiances that is formed has its price. Even after the Charred Council permits War to walk the Earth again, they send The Watcher along for the trip to keep War under control. The Watcher is never slow to criticize the player’s actions, yet still manages to act like Link’s fairy companion in Ocarina of Time (1998).

Darksiders is assuredly a revenge story. It will feel familiar to anyone who plays video games. Contrary to the populist sentiments directed towards Darksiders, revenge stories are not new or unique to any particular video game series. In fact, they make the best kind of motivation for the action in video games. It is easy for anyone to grasp. The player doesn’t have to think about anything other than satisfying this basic need, which often involves killing indiscriminately. Darksiders ensures there is ample opportunity for the player to do exactly that.

In stark contrast to the game’s chaotic introduction, the adventure begins at a leisurely pace as War returns to a vastly different Earth. The burnt out and blackened cityscapes are realized like a comic book that isn’t shy about using color to illustrate the desolation. I’d compare the philosophy behind the use of color to Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time (2003), where a sinister atmosphere can still be conveyed without sacrificing detail or a varied palette for the sake of general dirtiness and a main character drowning in angst. The jagged structures and exaggerated monster design show a consistency of vision employed in each of the game’s environments, and their appeal endures for the course of the game. Even the cutscenes are framed like comic book panels that are only missing the speech bubbles. It captures the spirit of comics that were more interested in showing their readers something that was “cool” to look at – whether it was gratuitous violence or neverending capes – instead of a story worth following. Anyone who read Image Comics in the 1990s will recognize that the world of Darksiders fits comfortably within that period⁴.

To name War’s sword “Chaoseater” was a dangerous gamble. It would either seem unoriginal and juvenile, or it would tap into the collective subconscious of players who grew up on comic books with similarly ridiculous heroes, evoking a singular reaction: “fucking awesome.” Not only does the name awaken the awkward pre-teen that used to beg for money from their parents to spend at the comic shop, it is pretty much the final word on confrontation in this game. It is a sword that eats chaos, the most uncontrollable thing in the Universe. Its thirst for destruction is insatiable. Chaoseater is an artifact bred from the comic book mentality: physically impossible yet invigorating to possess. There is an inertia behind this sword, and you cannot help but succumb to its pull. When you decapitate some beastly demon, you feel it. It is an unstoppable force. Like War.

Combat is straightforward and unassuming. There is usually only one button to press. Press it a few times, lock on with the Left Trigger, and suddenly War is juggling demons like Dante in Devil May Cry. There are hit counters as well, but this is just a number on the screen. Nobody’s watching.

For the most part, War’s multitude of weapon upgrades and special moves are for the player’s entertainment alone. With the exception of the end of dungeon bosses, the player could hammer the main “Attack” button for the entire game and still succeed as in Fable II (2008). Though Darksiders loses a good portion of its appeal with this approach, because Fable II had all that other stuff like property buying and getting married and avatars growing horns out of their head.

The accessible combat system creates a smoothness that resembles Batman: Arkham Asylum (2009). While swinging Chaoseater, War can be directed to his next target to build up a chain of hits. At the end of the skirmish, a group of stunned monsters are left begging to be put down. Pressing “B” will execute a finishing move that differs for each type of enemy, dialing up the theatrics but providing no other benefit. It doesn’t make it any less satisfying, though.

The flourishes of combat in Darksiders are meant to fill in the gaps of the overarching adventure. The Zelda series has always been about adventure through exploration, and combat was an obstruction on the path towards the ultimate goal. Darksiders has a more developed combat system in comparison: it allows the player to relish the details. It is satisfying without being punishing, and there are enough combinations and special attacks that keep it consistently engaging. It allows experimentation because it allows preparation. It is not about reflexes.

As a result, combat is slow relative to other third-person action games, and easy to get a grip on without ever feeling overwhelmed by the adversaries that are presented. Darksiders revels in the little things: the basic, but satisfying finishing moves, watching War’s horse Ruin erupt in flame out of the ground beneath his feet, running through a desert on horseback while being chased by a giant worm – these displays are all unmistakably inspired by those two-page spreads of a favorite comic book hero performing some inhuman feat.

Too weak to take on Heaven and Hell’s armies, War must develop his powers. This is achieved primarily through wandering around and killing things. With each kill, an assortment of souls are dropped: regular souls (for currency), Life, and Wrath (mana). War will gain passive and active powers by completing quests and dungeons or by purchasing them from Vulgrim, the demonic vendor that always seems to be in the right place at the right time. This should all sound very, very familiar.

With the arrangement and distribution of War’s catalogue of abilities, Darksiders also makes a point of ensuring that increases in power are granted to the player in controlled bursts. There is also an excellent tedious-repetition-to-reward ratio. With this constantly in the mind of the player, there is never a time where total mastery over the game’s challenge structure is felt. The player must still work for their rewards.

Chaos Form, which is an ability introduced about half way through the game, allows War to change into a fiery demon, providing a brief period of invincibility and higher damage output. The only way to recharge this power is to build up Rage through attacking more enemies. The game provides no ability to increase the size of the Rage meter, and the slower recharge rate ensures that the ability is used sparingly. There are also areas where heavy weapons are available on a per-encounter basis: a high-powered plasma rifle dropped by heavily armoured Angels, or an exploding spear gun dropped by Demons. These weapons are meant to deal with large crowds quickly with their fast rate of fire and damage output. However, both weapons severely limit mobility, and are further examples of power being suppressed in this game. This cautious release of offensive weapons and abilities provides a great contrast with Prototype (2009), which gives away too much, too fast to the player so that the system of challenges beings to break down almost immediately⁵.

The Mask of Shadows is an item given to War during the buildup to the final battle with The Destroyer. Its function is to show objects in the Shadow world that would otherwise be invisible in the Real world. Its sole purpose is to find pieces of the Armageddon Blade, the only weapon that can be used against the Destroyer.The Mask of Shadows could have been the equivalent of the Magic Mirror in A Link to the Past. Had this item been given to War earlier, it could have effectively doubled the size of the game world in Darksiders: opportunities for more puzzles, more treasure hunting, more mobs to fight. However, this becomes a question of balance with the main story. How would this expanded world have been worked into War’s quest? Instead of a game world that could unravel into repetitive quests and unnecessary backtracking, the exploration is kept restrained and manageable. The final goal always remains visible so that the player remains focused.

As enjoyable as the weapons available in the game are, there are two key weak points in War’s arsenal: the Tremor Gauntlet and Ruin, War’s horse. The Tremor Gauntlet is actually an upgrade of War’s existing gauntlet, which already allows War to run along ledges as in Prince of Persia (2008)⁶. The gauntlet alone was fine, as eventually no jumping puzzle in Darksiders felt complete without a few sections of cliff or ledges to scale. The mistake lies in making the Tremor Gauntlet a weapon – it was one weapon too many. Chaoseater is undeniably the best weapon in the game, and perfectly suited for the primary attack. The Scythe can be purchased as an alternate attack, though its use is mainly for crowd control and fast distance attacks. The Tremor Gauntlet is completely ineffective in combat; the other two weapons completely outclass it for every combat situation. The Tremor Gauntlet is granted because it is the only item that can break passages blocked by ice, and in that regard is no more useful than the Crossblade or Abyssal Chain in combat. Instead of making the Tremor Gauntlet a levelable weapon alongside Chaoseater and the Scythe, why not spend the effort developing more attacks for Chaoseater? A resourceful player is able to max out the Chaoseater’s abilities fairly easily. In this case, it would have been more beneficial to add more powers to War’s two main weapons, instead of trying to come up with completely new ones for the Tremor Gauntlet that will go unused.

Not surprisingly, the biggest mistake made was relegating Ruin to a “power” that is obtained about half way through the game. The numerous Zelda comparisons in the video game press weren’t without their references to Epona, but the relationship between War and Ruin is one established purely on functionality. And it’s a frustrating one, because Ruin is on the fucking box. Starting Darksiders you’d almost expect to be reunited with such a beast early on in the game – it’s preposterous that a Horseman of the Apocalypse has to earn his horse. This is explained through the story, however, as Ruin was captured and broken by the Demon hordes in your hundred-year absence. When the reunion finally does happen, it is glorious: On horseback, War’s attacks are much more devastating as large, gory swaths are through demon mobs. For a brief moment you feel like the Apocalypse ride again. But these moments are painfully fleeting. Instead, there are just a few select areas where Ruin can be used as transportation, or as a solution to an invisible bridge puzzle.

While most of War’s weapons and powers have obvious analogues in the Zelda series, they nevertheless feel like they belong in the world of Darksiders. Yes, there are puzzle contrivances, but what kind of Zelda imitator would this be without them? Following through with this line of thinking will result in some very disturbing questions: just what is a Horseman of the Apocalypse doing all this stuff for, anyway? Jumping around and pushing blocks? Hunting for Keys? Swimming? Reasoning with angels and demons? There is but one task for the Horsemen of the Apocalypse: to act as harbingers of the Final Judgement. Except that this is a video game. Asking serious questions about such a manufactured fantasy setting makes about as much sense as trying to reconstruct Todd McFarlane’s backstory for Spawn. There comes a time where you have to let go and allow this outlandish video game to run its course. And in Darksiders this is during the encounter with the Jailer, a sub-boss of the first dungeon. A bulbous, throbbing monster with glowing pustules that would make fine targets for the recently obtained Crossblade. It is exactly here that the player sees the limits of this video game’s ambitions. With a game this honest and forthcoming about its intentions, it is hard to fault Darksiders for reinforcing the limits that have been set for it. The best part of familiarity is how it can be so inviting.

To call the world of Darksiders “open” would be grossly inaccurate, but still an unfortunate byproduct of modern video game marketing. Any game released in recent years must proclaim its openness and freedom for serious consideration by the masses, because that’s what video games should aspire to be. In truth, Darksiders is open like the Zelda games are open. That is, there is a hub world with fixed limits that contains a mix of open areas and dungeons interspersed in the Apocalyptic wastage, and with the acquisition of equipment or powers access is gained to previously blocked and hidden areas. Darksiders encourages exploration once War starts to gain back his equipment and abilities, but this exploration is far from being formless. The player was placed on a path at the beginning of the game and they must follow it in that order if they hope to accomplish anything.

Of course, this wouldn’t be a modern video game without some form of fast travel, despite the world being set within obvious limits. Instead of providing Ruin from the start, the game introduces Serpent Holes to travel between areas. These aren’t simply waypoints, though, as control of War is still maintained as he travels through an ethereal realm to get to the opposite end, representing the destination in the physical world.

The problem with the Serpent Holes is that they are necessary. In Diablo II, where waypoints are almost like progress save points, they are there as a safety net should the player die and want to retrieve their corpse in a reasonable amount of time. If the player chose to, they could fight their way from the base camp out to the corpse and collect experience points on the way – it was entirely up to the player. In Darksiders, because the monsters and wandering enemies are sparse it’s simply not that rewarding to run between the game’s main areas like that. Yes, the monsters all respawn randomly – and there are certainly some areas that provide excellent “grinding” locations to harvest souls – but because these are relatively isolated, just wandering around to try and have fun with the combat system tends to be harder than it should.

Indeed, Darksiders genuinely creates a feeling of wanderlust. In that sense, Darksiders is more like the recent portable Castlevania titles in the way its effortless blend of combat and exploration always yields some trivial reward: experience to upgrade weapon damage, money (souls), Life shards or Wrath shards to upgrade the associated gauges. Exploration will also reveal artifacts that can be traded to Vulgrim for souls. There just isn’t enough of this meandering. In Metroid or Castlevania, once a new ability is gained there is an immediate desire to try it out and to see what is newly accessible. The game’s designers have done their best to establish that careful balance between the linear progression of the main quest, and modest exploration. As much as the Darksiders world demands to be expanded, the limits only serve to maintain perspective for the ultimate objective. Any openness perceived inside the game world is never overwhelming; this is an adventure where the end was always intended to be in sight.

The game’s difficulty begins to increase when you are first presented with “challenge rooms”, which are areas that are blocked off until you defeat everything in them. This should be familiar to players of the Zelda series, Devil May Cry, God of War and the recent Bayonetta. These challenges start on the approach to the Twilight Cathedral, the first dungeon. The previously lazy and loose combat suddenly becomes important to think about, though the only skill required is an attention span. The monster patterns are recognizable. Attacks are blockable. There is War’s growing repertoire of powers that only get stronger. These are areas that have been constructed to provide legitimate challenge and encourage active participation in combat. It is Zelda if Shigeru Miyamoto was a mean-spirited bastard. The difficulty is not punishing, but it is nonetheless present in the tasks it lays in front of the player. It is a warning that this will be no light-hearted affair.

Nevertheless, criticism has been directed at the unassuming level of difficulty in Darksiders, but these assertions are hastily made. Part of the reason the difficulty of Darksiders is dismissed is that it can be inconsistent. The Twilight Cathedral⁷ is the most enjoyable dungeon in the game for its carefully distributed challenges, monster encounters, and final fight with Tiamat, the end boss. It is also the hardest, as the final encounter with Tiamat sets the bar so high the remaining bosses – even the Destroyer himself – are pushovers by comparison because of the special abilities and weapons that have been collected to that point. Even though the guiding hand of the designers is present through the game’s proceedings, constantly establishing limits, the balance of difficulty is not transparent. These easily perceptible missteps cast doubt on the entire affair for any player that’s looking for a reason to dislike the game.

Entering the first dungeon clearly illustrates the intentions for the rest of the game, even though it doesn’t always follow through on this promise. The Twilight Cathedral is where most of my deaths in the entire game occurred. The use of the Crossblade in the first part of the fight with Tiamat assures many frustrating false starts before the pattern is learned and controls are mastered. The second part of the fight requires use of dodge and timing War’s stronger attacks with Chaoseater while he is weakened. And since it is early on in the game, War’s health bar is no buffer against the onslaught. Victory in this battle is one of those rare feelings you get with a video game; it doesn’t make you want to put down the controller, even with the ridiculous punishment that was just experienced. It makes you want to take on the rest of this post-Apocalyptic wasteland, and the armies of Heaven and Hell that struggle for control of it. Even though the remaining dungeons don’t match up to this first encounter, they still feel substantial and satisfying. They are exactly as long as they need to be, and are a fair balance between puzzles and combat.

Every boss fight seems to end with a video showing some exaggerated killing blow from War, like ripping the wings off of a dragon or gutting a sandworm like a fish. These theatrics should be familiar to players of Devil May Cry and God of War. While satisfying to watch (typical complaints about lack of interactivity at these points aside, of course), this disconnect is even more pronounced in Darksiders, because the combat is already streamlined in comparison to these two games. Despite their dramatic nature, the actions shown in these cutscenes always had nothing to do with the activities War had to perform moments earlier to weaken the boss. To require a player to execute some relatively menial task when an especially extravagant move lies in wait just to be shown in a closing video is a little insulting. Darksiders should have a little more faith in the Player. A game like Devil May Cry 4 gets away with this because the attack patterns are not prescribed based on the weapons that happen to be featured in a particular dungeon. The rest of Devil May Cry 4 is mostly a movie anyway – placed back-to-back, the cutscenes would make one of the greatest action films of all time. Darksiders allows uninterrupted control during its boss fights, and then suddenly rips it away at the end, leaving a massive void between the player and their investment in the game’s action during these pivotal moments. After Tiamat, bosses are mere puzzles to be solved – just like Zelda.

Any goodwill generated for the game up until the last dungeon is almost completely lost, however, as the player is subjected to the self-awareness of the designers. The Black Throne is what happens when a development team thinks their game is too short. It is a dungeon divided into three parts, representing three bonds that imprison Azrael, an Angel that has decided to help War find the true cause of the Apocalypse. This dungeon is a crippling change of pace, as it includes an overabundance of puzzles involving the Voidwalker. The Voidwalker is a portal gun obtained in this dungeon that can only be used on designated portal tiles. The locations of these tiles are found throughout the dungeon, but the accompanying puzzles are nowhere near the complexity of the game that obviously influenced this mechanic. And while the puzzles are not hard to solve, limitations on camera movement and viewing angle make these sequences unnecessarily challenging. These puzzles are broken up by fighting the same boss three times, and a particularly tough challenge room where the player is suddenly faced with managing health versus ridiculous escalations in enemy toughness. It is painful design trope used to stall out the end of the game, and disrupts the balance in encounters that had been carefully maintained until then.

After conquering the Black Throne and obtaining the Mask of Shadows, War must search out the hidden shards of the Armageddon Blade. Like Zelda and Metroid, the player is required to backtrack through the entire game world looking for things that were always there, just inaccessible. And while this sequence could easily have bordered on tedious backtracking⁸ and brought more attention to a world that has been carefully constructed to limit excessive exploration, instead it gets right to the point. The locations of these shards are obvious, and if the player has paid attention during the brief bouts of exploration prior to this mission, they should already know where they are. This part of the game is also an opportunity to collect the remainder of the Abyssal Armour set with War’s full compliment of abilities. It is the montage before the final battle; these were preparations for the climactic confrontation with the Destroyer. And the fight is on horseback, as it should be.

Upon victory, Darksiders is fully primed for a sequel in an expected, but nonetheless exciting reveal. It does not feel cheap or gratuitous. Instead, it instills a feeling of hopefulness. Darksiders is not a perfect game – as it has been mentioned here the shortcomings are obvious to anyone who is looking for them. Nevertheless, Darksiders succeeds in adapting a venerated formula to introduce a new world to anyone who is willing to take the time to play inside of it. It ensures the Player is invested in its lore, as adolescent as it may be, so that they are committed to playing a sequel. The ending is Joe Madureira and Vigil Games saying: “See you next month.”

Examining Darksiders strictly from a mechanical perspective would reveal a design that is copying a familiar formula while referencing recent successes in the third-person action genre to make itself relevant for modern audiences. It is uncanny in its implementation of The Legend of Zelda formula, and yet it is incredibly satisfying to be able to play what amounts to a missing Zelda game without the actual Zelda aesthetic, characters, and well-worn concepts. Darksiders does not pander to an aging audience like Ghostbusters: The Video Game⁹. Darksiders is preserving old designs, not copying them. Novels and film borrow liberally from each other all the time. If done right, no one argues the lack of inventiveness in these media or its modernization of archetypal themes and stories to reach new audiences. So why must video games be held to an impossible standard of originality, just because they are relatively new to these forms of creative expression? And with video game enthusiasts clumsily trying to compare video games to these cultural mainstays for indications of their worth, one would think that Darksiders is easily forgiven its brazen plagiarism. Equating quality with originality is a dangerous assertion to make about video games.

With Darksiders, Vigil Games has taken something familiar from the collective consciousness of video games and created more than an homage: they have made a video game that is entirely captivating on its own to play. It is easy to submit to the unique aesthetic and cohesive presentation of the game world, its vibrant characters, the satisfying swordplay, and modest exploration. It ensures the player remains inside the game, while keeping the occasionally awkward storytelling out of the way. Darksiders is not always easy, but the game is never antagonistic. The guiding hand of the designers is always present, ensuring the player is rewarded suitably for the adversities they encounter. It is an adventure that has been carefully manufactured, its restraint in scope allowing players to fully experience the setting with mechanics that are already comfortable. Darksiders is a video game that understands its place, and does not attempt to rise above its station as genuine imitator. Darksiders lays out its aspirations in full view at the beginning of the game, so that disappointment only comes from assigning attributes the game was never meant to have. Darksiders is a celebration of its uniquely realized setting, and it is up to the player to put aside any pretenses saved for obvious exploitations of video game history. And when they do, they will not play an homage. They will play a video game.

Including the New York Public Library as a playable mission in the demo¹ should have been a dead giveaway. As one of the signature setpieces in the film Ghostbusters, allowing players to take part in a second trip to this locale with familiar faces in tow, is essentially what Ghostbusters: The Video Game entails. It collects a series of touchstones for players to reminisce about, while attempting to tell a new story. Except the story reclaims entire sections of the film and its sequel, patching together plot points, locations and famous adversaries in what amounts to playing inside a world of Ghostbusters: Greatest Hits. You are constantly harangued by Walter Peck and the new Paranormal Contract Oversight Committee. You have to fight the Stay Puft Marshmellow Man (again). You get to destroy the Sedgewick Hotel (again). About the only thing interesting is the encounter with Ivo Shandor, the Architect of Dana Barrett’s apartment building from the first film, who remained a legend that was never really explored. In Ghostbusters: The Video Game, you discover how obsessed with the Gozerian cult he really was, as the Ghosbusters slowly uncover a plot designed by Shandor years ago, to bring about the coming of The Destroyer.

This brief incursion into Ghostbusters lore comes too late in the game, and it’s frustratingly obvious that the previous missions were filler to relive everyone’s favorite moments from the films. But as you play the game, its intentions are clear: this is not meant to be a video game as much as it is intended to be those Greatest Hits, as it was not designed for an audience who plays video games. Rather, it was created to placate fans of the movies that also happen to play video games.

As a result, both Terminal Reality and Atari are banking on this brand recognition to give the game a passing grade. Any critic or reviewer that has been paying attention over the last eight years would see this game for what it is: old, outdated, unnecessary. So why the relatively high scores², respectable sales performance³ and praise as wistful recollections? The answer is simple: Nostalgia is a dangerous weapon used to great effect in the video game industry. It will beat people senseless – especially in a hobby that helped many people through their childhoods.

If Terminal Reality were feeling ambitious when they started the project, they could have made Ghostbusters into a game that stood beside other “open-world” ⁴ titles like Red Faction: Guerrilla, inFamous, and Prototype that seemed to be in fashion in the first half of 2009. The entire concept behind Ghostbusters is ripe for exploitation with this formula, where side-missions can be completed while following the main plot to key story-driven missions in the streets of New York City. Even the films themselves establish such a framework: the Ghostbusters are either starting out (Ghostbusters) or making a comeback (Ghostbusters II), completing small tasks on the way to fighting a greater evil. The entire film worked towards a final confrontation. This should be familiar to anyone who’s ever played a video game.

Ghostbusters: The Video Game is not just another example of the lack of ambition on the part of game designers to develop a captivating product, but of the industry at large: stuck in the past assuming that the weight of intellectual property and the familiar will bear heavily on the opinions of those that play their game. Ghostbusters: The Video Game is not just old because it reuses scenes, jokes and events from the films, but also because of its unwavering approach to the game’s objectives. Its linear design is based on the most rudimentary of movie-tie ins. While the actual “ghostbusting” remains fun until the end, it’s hard not to view Ghostbusters: The Video Game as anything more than a third-person shooting gallery with proton packs. In this regard, the game fails on two fronts: it cannot provide an engaging framework for a game, and it cannot provide an engaging enough story to excuse the simple mechanics.

I was hoping for something like Indiana Jones and the Fate of Atlantis, where the creators clearly took the source material to heart, and created a brand new adventure that may have borrowed from the original films, but didn’t overtly copy them. Instead, the game carried the spirit of the original source so that it wouldn’t seem out of place next to the films that inspired it. Ghostbusters: The Video Game had the potential to do this as well, and would have made the limitations of the game a little easier to tolerate. The story and script were handled by Dan Ackroyd and Harold Ramis – the writers responsible for the original films – and the best they could come up with falls hopelessly short of these expectations.

Ackroyd often said in the interviews promoting the game and his involvement with it that Ghostbusters: The Video Game is “essentially Ghostbusters III“⁵, or the sequel that everyone wanted but never received. And to revisit the same locations so predictably says a lot about their opinions and assumptions of the fan base. The fans want wish fulfillment, they want cheap thrills. They want the security blanket of their youth. And they got it.

The dialogue will make you laugh, and the sarcastic delivery of most lines will certainly bring you back to watching the movies as an impressionable youth. The fluidity of the dialogue is also impressive. Either the actors are drawing from experience, or more time than usual was spent in the studio. In either case, it suits the game and presents a playful atmosphere reminiscent of the films. Any scenarios intended to invoke fear are always undermined by a one-liner or wisecrack from one of the team, which is something the films did so well. However, the cutscenes between levels felt long, as if the development team were trying to assemble a movie. Except it doesn’t actually work when the game is already stripped to the bare essentials.

Apart from the infiltration of Ivo Shandor’s hidden island laboratory, players have seen everything else before. There is precious little information offered to substantiate the lore presented in the previous films. Reusing old plot points with different characters is common practice. To take Ghostbusters: The Video Game as the third film would therefore be a mistake, as I doubt any studio would support such a horrible script. And this is yet more evidence of the divergence between video games and their clumsy and pleading comparisons to the film industry: a bad plot in film is a pretty good plot for a video game, even as we “turn our brains off” as the reviewers love to justify. No one should play video games because they want to watch a movie. They would be wasting their time, and that of everyone else when they start complaining about the lack of interactivity afterward.

The depth to the system in Ghostbusters: The Video Game is through upgrades that can be purchased with money earned on each mission: better traps, four types of particle beams, modifications to the PKE meter. In other words, the most callous and unimaginative reason to ask someone to keep playing your game.

I’m willing to give Egon the benefit of the doubt for some of the weapons that were invented specifically for this game – the character was clearly a wizard with technology. They also keep with genre conventions to some degree: Boson darts are the shotgun, the freeze beam slows enemies, etc. However, simply pausing the game will allow the purchase of these upgrades. In fact, there is one mission where a new technology is suddenly activated on your proton pack in the middle of a mission, meaning you had been carrying it all along. I can understand the need for a certain technology to be available for a particular mission, but the mission progression should be designed so these upgrades could be purchased or handed out at the beginning of each. Allowing this kind of freedom to access new technology at any time removes the need for a planning phase. Even in such a linear game as this, the addition of something so simple would at least give the illusion of challenge.

Trapping ghosts is still satisfying right until the end. The game really makes you work for it. You feel the bend and pull of the makeshift equipment in your hands. With the “Slam Dunk” modification to the trap, ghosts can be captured in one shot if you Slam a ghost near a trap. In either case there is an exaggerated feeling of relief when the ghost is finally caught. You have to take a few seconds to regroup, even though there are five other ghosts floating around above you. The moment has to be savored. There are so precious few of them in this game.

A dynamic of the game that only reveals itself later on is teamwork. This isn’t as necessary at the beginning, where fallen teammates were an inconvenience during a boss battle. In the later missions, there are multiple ghosts requiring attention from your particle thrower, and even then they will require more than one person to knock it into submission. During these encounters, you need your teammates to survive. Even though a ghost may be seconds away from being trapped, you have to drop everything and revive your teammates or you will die attempting to do everything yourself. An example of this is in the Museum mission, where you must manage the ghostly possession of civilians as well as your own teammates, all the while attempting to capture the ghosts that are responsible. It’s a harsh lesson, but one that was clearly presented by the films. The war against the supernatural in New York City is not a solo effort.

In fact, starting with the fight against the Librarian partway through the third chapter, the game starts to show promise. Aside from the constant direction and commentary from your teammates, the encounters with large ghosts and mission bosses are challenging as you manage damage and try to recover teammates. It can be a frustrating system as you attempt to compensate for the middling squad AI, but at the end of each battle there is a sense of accomplishment. It’s like repeating the last 10 minutes of Ghostbusters and Ghostbusters II each time. These encounters are the reason you keep playing.

And yet the game really starts to break down in the last act when travelling towards the final encounter with Shandor. It becomes difficult in the way you have to manage projectile enemies, swarming enemies, ghosts that must be trapped, and larger monsters. This is a sharp spike that throws off the previously established rhythm of the game. It is no longer about “hunting” ghosts, but fending them off with random blasts of particle beams just to get some space to do your job.

The final showdown with the mayor of New York City – possessed by the ghost of Ivo Shandor, no less – provides a two-stage battle that evokes something startlingly similar to the conclusion of Ghostbusters II. Though Terminal Reality must be given accolades for this encounter, as it is an extremely satisfying, drawn-out fight in the spirit realm, instead of the lucky shots at the end of each film that were favored in the name of pacing. The game’s plot had genuine closure, and all was right with the world (again).

So it’s quite puzzling as to why Terminal Reality assumed that multiplayer would be a big draw for people after the main game was completed, when all it really amounts to is a collection of random task-based missions that can be played co-operatively. It was wasted effort, considering that it had no hope of competing with more attractive options for online play at the time. And Terminal Reality wasn’t even responsible for this component of the game; it was contracted out to Threewave Software. Assuming that this freed up more time to be spent on the single-player campaign, the overall package doesn’t show it.

Nevertheless, there are the collective opinions of the press that must be resolved. If anyone took the time to consider what was being offered by the game, it would be very hard to justify the 78% average that the XBox 360 and Playstation 3 versions have received. Reading any number of reviews⁶ will yield the same sentiment: if you like Ghostbusters, this game is for you. But what if I like video games? No one dared look at this game critically, or in depth beyond pointing out obvious faults – it was perfectly acceptable to give the game an average score an move on, business as usual. There is no need to desecrate happy childhood memories. But sometimes there is.

Make no mistake: Ghostbusters: The Video Game is a tie-in to the films. The producers of the video game said as much: the release of the game was intended to coincide with the anniversary of the theatrical release of the first film, and the remastering of the films on Blu Ray. And yet any other movie tie-in is automatically approached with contempt by the video game press, as if these other video games were the reason the industry overall was being cheapened. Except that’s exactly what’s happening in this case. It’s just that no one wants to see it.

A recognizable piece of intellectual property can be made into a good video game – there are already a number of examples from recent years – but they, too, suffer the same fate of being intellectual property first, and a video game second. The most recent case of this is Batman: Arkham Asylum, where the general sentiment was “a Batman game that isn’t terrible.” How special developers Rocksteady must feel!

If players are happy to “play Ghostbuster”, Ghostbusters: The Video Game certainly succeeds on that crude level. But why should it get a passing grade just for fan service? It’s the same reason why video games should not be given the right of way because it supplies “a good story”⁷. These are games, and should be judged as such from the beginning. Giving these types of games an acceptable grade assures that we we will see more of this half-hearted approach, proving once again that we are destined to recycle the same material with better graphical fidelity. Being satisfied with “good enough”, assures a future of being fed leftovers from the trough of nostalgia.

Ghostbusters: The Video Game isn’t long, and so despite the numerous faults that have been pointed out here it doesn’t take long to finish. The thrill of wrangling ghosts and capturing lasted until the end, even with the spike in difficulty. The production is also well done: Atari spared no expense in obtaining the music and original actors (they even dug up William Atherton to play Walter Peck). All the earmarks of a work inspired by these movies is there. But this is looking through the Ghostbusters Yearbook, and we’re all grown up now, and the Ghostbusters are old friends that aren’t as interesting as your remember them. Ghostbusters: The Video Game could have put a familiar face on the proven, comfortable sandbox/”open world” formula. Bust ghosts with your pals Venkman, Stanz, Spengler and Zedmore. But do it inside the structure of a game that is well-equipped for such a theme. Invent your own story. Save the city of New York again, on your terms.

So the question for the player becomes: Am I interested enough in a recycled story to continue?

Even though Ghostbusters: The Video Game takes place in 1991, the game is still stuck in its own past as a hopeless artifact of the 1980s. A retread referencing old jokes, old plot points and forever doomed to be a nostalgic curiosity. If Terminal Reality had worked on making a video game instead of a finely polished homage, there might have been something in Ghostbusters: The Video Game worth praising. As it stands, nostalgia is the selling feature and weighs heavily on the game’s proceedings. For some, that is obviously enough. However, complaining about a lack of advancement in video games, while cuddling with one that is mired in our collective childhood means there is really only one person to blame. And there will be no sympathy.

With Borderlands, a game described as a “role-playing shooter”, developers Gearbox hope to capture the audience that spends many sleepless nights wandering through forgotten strongholds while pillaging corpses and undefended treasure chests. They want to make the grind of the modern Fantasy role-playing game appealing to those repulsed by the thought of more swords and sorcery and Siberian tiger mounts. Gearbox is going post-apocalyptic wasteland on this formula. They’re going to make this grind cool.

Borderlands is influenced by games that are second jobs thinly veiled as “entertainment.” There are enough trappings in most that the player does not immediately recognize it until they are separated from the system. Maybe the rewards are frequent enough; the increase in character abilities more steady and immediately gratifying. But Gearbox fails to dress up Borderlands to hide from the player the laborious byproduct of the genre. As a result, Borderlands merely resembles a mechanical facsimile of its influences.

If you watch the introduction of Borderlands, you can’t help but be absorbed into this new universe. Just like your favorite Guy Ritchie movie, the characters are introduced with so much flair, you can’t decide who you like more. The Hunter brandishes a sword with deadly confidence, his sniper rifle casually draped over his shoulder. The Soldier sits brooding and alone, ashamed of his past as a mercenary. The Siren seductively walks towards the camera, showing off her Phasewalk ability. Brick makes his presence known as the freight train that plows through entire mobs. All this to the tune of Cage the Elephant’s “Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked”, where I imagine Gearbox screaming “WE ARE DOING THIS FOR YOU, PLEASE LOVE US” in the background. And you want to! You want to start playing immediately after the big white block letters of “Borderlands” stretch across the screen, your transport driving underneath them and kicking up clouds of dust behind it.

So begins Borderlands, a game that proceeds to eliminate any sort of intelligence that’s left in a horribly fractured genre and give players what they presumably want: the ability to shoot stuff with impunity, travel through “open” maps and gather a shitload of randomized equipment.

At first, Borderlands delivers on its promise of unbridled gunplay. There’s a lot of shooting, gun collecting, and medkit using. It even resembles a decent first person shooter most of the time. However, Borderlands takes more of its cues from another genre: the action role-playing game. A bastardization of a once-proud genre, where the soulless pursuit of more gear, more experience points and some arbitrary final confrontation are good enough to sustain the experience. Like the games in the genre before it, Borderlands tries so hard to capture the essence of Blizzard’s flagship titles that it succeeds at duplicating the mechanics without infusing it with any purpose or consequence.

Blizzard learned a lot from Diablo II, and revised their formula until it stood tall and shining like a golden money-making obelisk. With World of Warcraft, they managed to capture everything we loved about the current definition of role-playing game. The environments may have consisted of stretched-out textures over low-polygonal objects, and the characters no more than cartoons – but the overall appearance of the game was so cohesive, so varied and captivating to look at, none of these technical issues mattered. World of Warcraft was a place we didn’t mind looting and grinding in. The simplest of tasks were kept entertaining. The entire experience had been calculated with precision, because Blizzard knows what they are doing.

Borderlands clearly understands the formula – it copies the basic tenets of it all too well. Kill, loot, equip. Repeat. Repeat until your bags are bulging with junk that has to be sold at vending machines, until you don’t need money any more because it is overflowing out of your backpack and lying around everywhere. Watch in horror as you feel compelled to search abandoned fire pits and the guts of wild animals for more.

Where Borderlands lost me is in its unflinching repetition. This isn’t pleasant repetition as in World of Warcraft. The game expects you to grind through these bland, desolate environments without question, but it is never made exciting or interesting. This is grueling work, in the hopes that a character can be built to survive the wilderness just to advance into a new area for more gear and more quests.

A first-person shooter is conducive to fast paced combat, and Borderlands ensures this pacing is established early on. Even in the first few missions I was doing more backpedalling than I had ever done in all the shooters I’ve ever played. And I’ll admit that the feeling of running away from overwhelming hordes of monsters in Diablo II was revisited during my first hours with Borderlands. But this defensive strategy creates a rather large problem in a first-person game: you can’t see where you’re going. So backpedaling with reckless abandon will occasionally put you off the edge of a cliff, or worse: back you into a corner that can’t be jumped out of as you are mauled to death.

The most notable aspect of the combat in Borderlands is the “Second Wind” ability, which is a nice way of the game giving you one last chance to escape. This becomes apparent when you find yourself drifting into areas that are clearly above your level and you start dying more often just to add some variety to the process. If your health is reduced to zero, instead of dying (respawning) you get a chance to keep fighting. It easily compares to being incapacitated in Left 4 Dead. You can keep shooting and switch weapons, but you can’t move and your health is depleted a lot faster. Instead of getting rescued by a teammate, you simply have to kill something – anything – to put you back on your feet. It’s actually the most fun I had with the game, because if there was a boss character or particularly tough monster I had to kill that I dropped to 10% health before being dropped myself, I could finish the job in a completely fitting act of revenge. As a break from the rest of the game’s monotony, these tense moments probably seemed more exciting than they should have been. But even they grow tiresome, as you have no choice but to plow on through areas more appropriate to your level to get better weapons, upgrade skills and then face more difficult encounters.

The environments only show brief flashes of colour and accents in its washed out, sun faded locales. Fallout 3 was rightfully depressing, but Borderlands feels like a parody in the way it mocks the first-person shooter genre with some entertaining one-liners from each of the Player avatars. Yet at every turn I had to search for some kind of personality to draw from the game. It was like Borderlands was telling me I should be happy with just firing my gun. I was not.

Borderlands prides itself on the variety of weapons in the game. And to its credit, I don’t think I ever picked up the same gun twice. There are thousands of variations of pistols, automatic rifles, sniper rifles and shotguns to be obtained, each with their own unique attributes and elemental enhancements. And anything worth carrying can only be picked up from item drops. Mass Effect had a similar variety in weapons, but the game also provided modifications that could be added to the weapons, so that players could create their own builds. And this was on top of everything else! Borderlands needs this kind of complexity; for a game that’s entire focus is on collecting new and more powerful guns, not including some kind of modding system for the weapons in Borderlands feels like an obvious oversight. Furthermore, there is no money sink apart from the cost of respawning – providing weapon durability ratings would at least encourage players to balance the use of their weapons with the cost of repairs.

One of the selling features for Borderlands – like many contemporary video games – is co-operative play. There are four characters and associated class types to choose from. However, there are no limits on what classes can be selected for each party. What Gearbox has created is a slightly more complex Left 4 Dead. Borderlands is a game meant to be played in co-op, with minimal character development and customization. The available classes clearly complement each other, so when attempting the campaign solo it’s harder than it should be. Challenge is good, but when you’re playing a first person shooter that should only require skill at aiming, the game experience begins to break down.

This lack of depth is clearly at odds with the marketing of Borderlands, as it was heavily advertised as a “role-playing shooter.” Taking the game at face value, its definition of “role-playing” is the stat-bumping, item collecting and quest gathering from non-player characters who amount to nothing more than vending machines. As a shooter, it depends on a number of elements from the stat-bumping part: accuracy ratings, critical hit ratings, and proficiency with weapons. But as long as you can click a mouse button or pull the trigger on a gamepad, only the critical hit rating seems to make a difference. And yet aim-assist is available in the game’s options. It’s a feature that isn’t new to consoles, but for a game that’s reason for being is shooting a gun, this feels like direct sabotage of the game’s purpose. And without NPCs that serve to contribute to the game’s atmosphere, the Player is left with very little actual “role playing”, and the descriptor only serves to further dilute its meaning in yet another video game.

Borderlands has borrowed the fast paced first-person combat from a genre that’s made a comfortable home on the console, and the statistics and obsessive-compulsive need to collect loot from superficial role-playing games like World of Warcraft. With these influences Gearbox has created a morass of design elements that only serve to pollute both genres it borrows from. It ultimately offers nothing of value, because all it has done is combine these elements to create some vile video game Frankenstein that surely only appeals to those that like watching numbers fly around on the screen.¹

What becomes readily apparent after playing Borderlands only for a short while is its lack of a driving force behind the proceedings. A typical feature of both modern role playing games and the first-person shooter is some narrative to keep the player moving forward, and Borderlands has nothing worth mentioning. I was simply going where the job board in each zone told me. I was playing because the entirety of what the game offered was dropped in front of me at the start. There was nothing in the back of my mind that made me want to press on. And after eight hours of play, I should have a firm grasp of an overarching objective to make me keep playing.

There is also too much space in Borderlands: traveling between quest objectives, I was constantly staring at wide open areas with nothing to shoot but skag and midgets in masks. Even though the enemies may change from area to area, Gearbox didn’t bother to develop the small things: the reason people enjoy spending so much time doing basically nothing in places like Azeroth. Players will find things to do – and the simplest of tasks are made interesting by the game’s environment. Borderlands may riff on the post-apocalyptic theme, but with so much wasted opportunity for characterization between the players and the environment it amounts to nothing but an insipid interpretation of a setting that was ripe for exploitation. Borderlands‘ capacity for style is limited to the opening video.

Borderlands was a game I looked forward to this year, and I find it insulting that Gearbox was cynical enough to design a game that people would play to collect more junk and experience points to max out a meager skill tree. Its moderate success² in the game review circuit all but guarantees that there will be imitators and sequels trying to improve on the formula only half-realized by Borderlands.

In this manner, the video game industry creates new genres instead of refining existing ones. Instead of perfecting existing control schemes, the industry insists on developing and promoting motion control to access previously untapped demographics. Video games as a medium barely have a chance to keep up, let alone the language to describe them. Instead of preserving history through genre refinements, the industry’s drive for revolution constantly overwrites the past, to the detriment of video games and support for their serious consideration.

Borderlands is genre blending for the sake of box copy. It is a classic example of cynical game design that hopes the players won’t notice, while they kill things over and over for more loot and more money that gets put towards outfitting a character that ultimately doesn’t matter. In fact, the same could be said of the game itself, as over the course of a few hours it becomes increasingly difficult to determine what this game will be remembered for. Falling apart on even a cursory examination, it prompts the debilitating question: why am I playing this? It will make you hate video games for being so unambitious. The offense of Borderlands is one far greater than simply being a bad game: it is genre pollution.

Prototype is excess. It is what happens when game designers grow up with American comic books post-comics code and the type of Japanese animation that is more interested in overblown displays of power than telling a story. It is a game with rules that are designed to be broken at every turn. The player is rewarded for brazen and barbaric tactics. In Prototype, there are too many abilities and limitless power, yet no loyalty to an ideal. Like X-Men‘s Dark Phoenix, Alex Mercer is granted godlike status with no one to stand in his way. The game revels in bloodshed and in selfish pursuits that amount to little more than breadcrumbs on the trail of some government conspiracy. Prototype is advertised as a “superhero” video game. But Alex Mercer is no hero. He isn’t even an anti-hero. He is a plague on humanity. And at the end of it all, after everything he has wreaked upon the city of New York, this descriptor proves to be the most accurate.

After a few hours of play, Prototype will come across as a patchwork of unfinished concepts. On the one hand, it offers up such a varied selection of powers and skills that it will suit any playing style, and in theory adds levels of complexity to completing the tasks that are presented to the player. Yet on the other, Prototype provides two completely overpowered vehicles that will get any job done a lot faster, without the strategic use of Alex’s talents. This is a game that needs rules put in place. While I wanted to figure out other ways to approach Prototype‘s challenges, the winning strategy was to cause enough havoc to summon a strike team, and then steal their vehicles. Aside from some fairly engaging boss battles where vehicles were not options, the challenge in Prototype is the player’s own restraint.

Prototype suffers the fate of similarly themed films that are released in the theatres at the same time. The Playstation 3 exclusive InFamous covers the familiar “regular person becomes super-powered entity” theme as well, and the games were often compared to each other in the video game media circuit. This comparison was unfair, because aside from that one superficial quality they are completely different games. The most important difference being that InFamous approaches the situation with a morality angle – about as complicated as the one in Jedi Knight II: Jedi Outcast – but still, it’s something to shape the behavior of most players.

The most logical comparison to Prototype is actually UbiSoft’s Assassin’s Creed. They are free-roaming games set inside the walls of a city, with optional objectives scattered about that can be completed in between the story-driven missions. The movement options are equally flexible, yet more amplified in Prototype – but then you’re supposed to be a superhuman. Subterfuge also plays a large role, in that your identity must be kept secret under most circumstances and to infiltrate some objectives. Of course, once you’re spotted you may as well prepare to kill everything in sight in Prototype. In Assassin’s Creed, especially near the end of the game, this kind of carelessness results in a quick death, as you are pursued by what seems like the entire city.

Prototype suffers as a concept because it is an old game. The appearance I can live with; despite the bland textures, monotonous architecture and aging graphics engine it’s not completely horrible to look at. Where Prototype shows its age is the underlying design. It could have worked five years ago when the “open world” trend was still being explored in the wake of Grand Theft Auto III‘s success. However this is 2009, and people have come to expect certain things from their “sandbox” games. Prototype smacks of a developer that is still playing catch-up to the design philosophy that lets players create their own experiences. Instead, they hope that all the stuff they included in the game – the variety of powers, the gratuitous violence, the numerous missions – will distract from the design of a developer that is still experimenting with the concept instead of refining it based on the games that have preceded it.

Yet there is something strangely fascinating about Prototype‘s ability to exaggerate everything. Whether it’s jumping 30 feet into the air from a standstill and landing in a crater, running from sidewalks up the sides of the world’s tallest buildings, or bringing down helicopters with a giant tendril, Radical Entertainment are constantly referencing the superhero as interpreted by an adolescent male. He’s full of angst, he has limitless power, and he is here to fuck shit up. The driver behind the whole story – discovering who was responsible for Alex’s condition – constantly asserts his hatred of authoritative figures and the selfish desires to find out what happened, no matter what the cost in human lives. Even Alex’s appearance – a fashionable leather racing jacket with hoodie that’s always up over his head – just externalizes the immaturity of the character¹.

In any game with an “open world”², the narrative will always suffer. So the game includes missions that must be completed to further the plot, unlock new areas or powers, or because the developers think this is A Good Idea. What Prototype does well is make these story based missions as clean and concise as any of the side missions, where parts of the “Web of Intrigue” are revealed through short movies. The Web of Intrigue consists of memories absorbed from the many civilian and military characters inhabiting the city. The similarities to the Weapon X project were startling – right down to the grainy footage that was used effectively in the X-Men films to depict pieces of Wolverine’s past. Some of the side missions require you to obtain these memories, while others can be gathered from people you find wandering the streets. None of them are truly disposable, as they all provide a small piece to support the story being told by the main mission. The fact that they are incomplete and so short allows them to be found at any time without sacrificing the narrative. However, the story consistently appears to be penned by an angst-addled teenager, making some of the events that transpire a little tough to accept without rolling your eyes. Alex’s need for information is one of the central themes in Prototype, but you’d never know it with the game’s unwavering focus on the violence that must always transpire.

Despite the game’s perceived openness, the actual execution of these side missions is immersion breaking. For example, if you are tasked with killing a certain number of soldiers within a given time limit, they will descend on your location once you get to the mission area. However, whether you succeed or fail in this mission, the military will suddenly disperse and it will be as if nothing ever happened. There is no high alert; the military aren’t even aware of your presence unless you break your disguise.

Where this system really breaks down is how the rewards are structured for completing the missions. Even though I enjoyed running around New York causing mayhem with no repercussions during the side missions, the experience points received don’t come close to the rewards for completing the story missions. So unless you just want practice with Alex’s various powers or are a completionist and want to obtain all parts of the Web of Intrigue, halfway through the game when Alex is loaded out with most of his special abilities there is no reason to pursue them any longer. It’s not like you’re saving people and there is some intangible reward for completing a mission because it was the right thing to do.³

Though I have to give Radical some credit, because they tried their hardest to keep the story out of the way of the player’s experimentation with the game’s environment and Alex’s powers. Because there are so many things that Alex can do, it’s as if they expect players to occupy themselves through mass killing and exaggerated acrobatics from the tops of skyscrapers. This can be broken up by few timed missions where you have to race across the city, or glide from the tops of the building to hit a target. These non-destructive missions can be pretty fun. But their marginal nature ensures the player knows that’s not what this game is about.

At the beginning of Prototype, the player is given a bit of background before being placed into what resembles The End of Days. Buildings throb with corruption, smoke fills the air, bodies and rubble line the streets. Around you, the people left standing shamble around like zombies and the remaining military garrison level entire city blocks to stem the tide of a viral outbreak. Alex has every ability in the game at this point, and you are given no other objective except to defend yourself in the chaos. Claws come out, and slaughter ensues in a shower of blood and severed limbs. Earthquakes erupt at your feet as you pound the ground with oversized fists. This is a glimpse of the future, as the remainder of the game will be told as a flashback. It’s another take on the Metroid or Castlevania approach where a fully equipped avatar is given to the player right away to hold their attention and instill a singular purpose: become this character.

At every turn, Prototype wants to convey this limitless power through Alex. He can smash tanks with his mutating fists and leap from building to building without even having to fly. And yet Radical Entertainment felt the need to give Alex such a prodigious list of abilities, that some even cancel each other out. Why would you worry about levelling your bare fistfighting skills, when you have the Hammerfist that can level people and vehicles alike? You can glide, but once you’ve maxed out the jumping and Air Dash abilities there’s really no need for gliding to quickly get across the rooftops of the city.

Aside from vague references to Alex’s condition being the reason for his powers, there isn’t any explanation given as to why he is able to do these things. How does Alex’s condition fit into gliding, the whipfist, or his ability to conjure spikes from the ground? It seems that the expectation of the designers is that you’ll want to play with this character simply because there are so many things that he can do.

Then there is the disturbing ability for Alex to absorb any human – whether infected or not – into his body. The “Consume” power adds health to Alex and gives him the appearance of what he absorbed, and the entire City’s population becomes a bottomless well of health regeneration. As if killing people indiscriminately wasn’t enough, innocent bystanders are a resource to be abused by the player in their pursuit of more death and destruction.

Prototype exhibits a total lack of regard for human life in almost all aspects of play. However, the most fascinating aspects of the game were the stealth and subterfuge elements that were inserted as if to counter the constant aggression from the player towards the game. Since Alex is a wanted man, it is essential that his powers aren’t used in the open, civilians aren’t killed in view of the military or the military be engaged directly. Disguises are easily obtained by Consuming any NPC in the game. A lot can be accomplished in disguise: whether it’s infiltrating a military outpost, hijacking a tank, or just trying to blend into a crowd after being noticed. Gaining the “Patsy” ability later on is ingenious: instead of just keeping your identity secret, you can actively call out civilians or soldiers as “The Enemy” for a quick distraction. As you can imagine it doesn’t end well for them.

The implementation of the Disguise system is impressive; you can disappear almost instantaneously as long as you can find a covered location to hide and change your appearance. In fact, evasion itself becomes a game once a strike team is alerted to your location. When Alex is fully equipped, running away from a strike team over skyscrapers, diving into alleyways and grabbing civilians to change your appearance can be extremely gratifying, and resembles the many escape sequences from Assassin’s Creed. And yet the game doesn’t really encourage this resolution because you are rewarded more experience points for killing the strike team rather than avoiding them. It’s this straightforward approach to conflict that begins Prototype‘s collapse under its unusual need to constantly parade every method of destruction imaginable in front of the player.

With all the planning that went into Alex’s multitude of abilities, Radical still felt the need to include controllable vehicles in the form of tanks and helicopters. This was a grievous miscalculation on the part of the designers, as it undercuts one of the game’s key themes: providing ultimate power through Alex himself. Vehicles detach players from this philosophy as they impart the easiest way to complete any mission. Start killing people to attract the attention of the military who will summon a Strike Team, steal their vehicles, and total annihilation of the opposition isn’t far behind. Near the end of the game when the missions become tougher as most of the city is infected and your identity is harder to disguise, it becomes second nature to run to the nearest tank and start plowing through the crowd. Prototype is no longer a superhero game; it is Grand Theft Auto with tanks.

Even the story missions don’t pressure you to use your powers. While some may force you to purchase an ability to proceed, you don’t actually need it; it’s just a way for the designers to help unskilled players make the mission more manageable. It’s not like there is a roadblock preventing you from physically proceeding, like in a Metroid or Castlevania adventure. There are no rules in how to advance Alex’s abilities; the open character development system allows players to purchase any of the abilities as they become available through the course of the game. But because there are so many, and they are all but overridden by vehicles, what is the incentive for players to spend any time developing the ideal character build? Aside from additional health points and the vehicle piloting skills, there’s really no need to focus any attention on the other skills except to get past the story missions that require them as prerequisites. Alex can do some amazing things, and the idea of perfecting combinations and devastator attacks is certainly appealing. But when there is a skeleton key for every single objective in the game, the player’s experience is short circuited by making the easy route so accessible.

Radical Entertainment wanted to convey power; they wanted to show Alex as an elemental instrument of destruction. Regardless of the loose connections to a story that reveals his origins, he has no allegiance to a cause. He will kill and maim and destroy until he finds what he is looking for. About halfway through Prototype, I started to question the game’s motives and messages. Between all of the carnage and explosions and chaos, is there a message? Or is Prototype exactly what it seems: a playground of death and destruction, even worse than the criminal fantasies of the Grand Theft Auto series?

When I’m running through the streets of New York, I can kill whoever I want, whether for sport or to Consume them for health. I might attract the attention of the military; perhaps even cause them to chase after me. But if a strike team arrives, there is no risk of me being captured. There are two outcomes: either I die fighting, or I kill the entire strike team leaving countless victims behind (innocent and military alike) and receive an experience point award for this result. It’s not like being chased by escalating police forces in Grand Theft Auto; in those games, there is more of a chance of me dying. The only real solution to avoid the wrath of police pursuit is escape. In Prototype, I am granted the powers to overcome an entire army. There is no risk of failure, only inconvenience.

Prototype gives no constraints to the player, and no moral compass to let the player know where they stand in the game world. There are no penalties for killing innocents or the military aside from attracting attention; instead, you are rewarded for killing people indiscriminately with health or experience points. Alex’s motives are selfish, and everything in his way is expendable in the search for the reasons behind his condition. It’s a teenage power fantasy horribly unbalanced in favor of the player, where great power comes with no responsibility. Prototype is a game desperate for limits and rules; we have already advanced past the playground stage in open world games. Prototype only serves as another example to illustrate how much the lauded “freedom” aspect of sandbox games are taking on negative connotations.

Upon inspection, Alex Mercer has no personality, either. He is rage, he is angst, he is a plague personified. He is actually one of the most reprehensible characters I’ve ever played in a video game. Nevertheless, Prototype tries its hardest to ground him in humanity by including a sister that is the catalyst for most of the main missions, even one that requires him to save her. Except Alex is all but invincible; there is no danger in any of his pursuits. How can we possibly sympathize with this character! It’s an aborted attempt at adding depth to his personality, because in every single act before and after these interludes with his sister he is responsible for the deaths of hundreds.

The story takes an unexpected – and completely inconsistent – turn near the end of the game, where the target you were after isn’t your target anymore, and there is a lot of exposition where you are supposed to nod your head profoundly, learning the real reason for Alex’s condition. Alex is a virus that has taken human form, and is responsible for the infection of New York City. Then he has to fight an arbitrary boss character. What was gained in the aftermath? Peace of mind? Alex wasn’t even human; none of this should matter to him. It feels like a disingenuous closure to justify what has happened over the course of the game. The ending seems so completely disassociated with the proceedings that it’s almost as if Radical thought they had to come up with an ending just so people would stop playing, because at the end of the game Alex is practically a god, and could easily consume, terrorize and destroy the city until it is dust.

And yet I played this game until completion. I was gripped by its unrelenting need for attention as another building crumbles, or another frightened mob of civilians is mowed down by a tank under my control. I stared in awe as Alex leapt across the city, yanking helicopters from the sky and destroying them with a flying kick off the roof of a skyscraper. Prototype is purest spectacle. I was able to tolerate it, even accept it for its duration, because it speaks to some power fantasy inside all of us, where we daydream about the ability to produce some hidden talent for exacting fatal revenge when slighted. Prototype taps into this primordial dark side, and for a while I liked it. But like Dark Phoenix, I wondered how long I could sustain giving in to these urges while sacrificing my humanity as everything around me turned to death.

Prototype is instant gratification if you enjoy violent video games, but it is severely lacking in focus. It is confused, just like the adolescent personality it often reflects. There is no message, except that being a bad person can be fun, rewarding and perfectly acceptable. As an exercise in inventive displays of power, Prototype had the potential to demonstrate a system that makes constructive use of Alex Mercer’s powers. Instead it overloads the player with features, to thinly disguse the lack of meaning and senseless destruction behind their activities. Prototype is a video game desperate for limits. As it stands, it is adolescent fantasy taken to new heights of excess, where infinite power is given with no moral guidance. And with the freedom imparted to do anything, it seems like an awful waste without motives to stand for something, instead of nothing.

This is the second part of a two-part review of Prince of Persia (2008) and the “Epilogue” (2009) downloadable content. There are spoilers, but you already knew that. This review examines the “Epilogue” adventure and its relationship with the original game. The review of the original game can be read in Part 1.

Whether fans of Prince of Persia (2008) want to accept it or not, Epilogue (2009) is canon. At its core, it is a meandering journey through the corrupted Underground Palace that adds neither depth to the original story, nor game mechanics of any real consequence to the original game¹. So what was the purpose of this new content? The cynical answer to this question would be “to get stupid people to pay for the intended ending to the original game.” And while I can agree with that statement, there are parts of Epilogue that skirt the edges of something great – something that should have formed the basis for the original game. Epilogue implores us to keep the candle burning for this series, in a last-ditch attempt to convince us that UbiSoft hasn’t lost their touch with the franchise they resurrected so successfully six years ago. Prince of Persia (2008) was just the beginning; we can expect more from the obviously planned sequels. Except Epilogue fails to convince us that there is anything worth waiting for.

How a company like UbiSoft could fall so shamefully and completely to the allure of downloadable content, when it has been pressing boundaries in areas of game design that we could only hope for in big budget titles, is colossally disappointing. The Epilogue feels tacked on; the lingering strands of the story left behind by the heartbreaking ending to the original game are left feeling just as undeveloped.

Instead, Epilogue adds a new area to explore and perform more of those one-button maneuvers that had grown so tedious in their limitations by the end of the original game. To satisfy the player obsessed with collecting things, in place of Light Seeds there are a meager ten Frescos of Light scattered throughout the Underground Palace – but they aren’t much of a challenge to obtain if you’re paying attention.

As the new chapter progresses, it is expected that the relationship between the Prince and Elika would take a darker turn. Elika, a woman who had been selfless for the duration of the original game, is brought back to life by her friend that should know she would disapprove. And yet beyond the slap in the face at the beginning of Epilogue, their relationship is no worse for wear.

Since Ahriman’s corruption is back, it’s time for the Prince and Elika to set things right in the world again. This time, they’re just going after her father. The scope of this postscript was obviously scaled back to provide an adversary for the sequels.

On the way to Epilogue‘s conclusion, the agreement between Player and Game set out by Prince of Persia is redefined. The challenges are not as forgiving as the original; there is a lot more trial and error. There are far too many areas where it requires the Player to perform a long string of moves without the platform break points that were so prevalent in Prince of Persia. Furthermore, the ooze-dodging sequences that were spread so far out to be unnoticed are now everywhere, as if to artificially extend this chapter through an increase in difficulty. This is a glaring contradiction when Prince of Persia had clearly established lower expectations of the player in the original game. As much distaste as I had for the lack of control in Prince of Persia‘s mechanics, this sudden lack of flexibility cheapens the experience. This is Prince of Persia, not Frogger.

Yet despite its shameless repetition and mildly challenging lever-throwing puzzles there is a glimpse of The Sands of Time, where the jumping and wall-scaling puzzles come closer to approximating that experience than the original game. The Tomb, which is a series of walls that must be moved and adjusted to be accessible, was my favorite part of Epilogue. In one room, the walls must be rotated and angled so that by the end of the puzzle, you have wall runned, climbed and swung over every inch of them. It wasn’t terribly challenging, but it felt like it was the Prince versus the room itself. It’s an approach that the original game would have benefited from, considering how little exploration and combat was involved to offset its lack of difficulty.

The first boss encounter is with Elika’s father, who is entirely consumed by Ahriman’s dark influence. Naturally, you don’t defeat him right away – you will come to face him a few more times before Epilogue‘s conclusion. To add some variety, boss characters from the original game were brought back as well. These encounters serve no purpose except to provide speed bumps in the progression through the game.

This was an incredibly lazy design decision, and even more insulting after the Player had spent the course of the original game trying to kill them (and succeeding). To get around this obvious disregard for the Player’s intelligence, UbiSoft Montreal created the Shapeshifter, who can take the form of the Hunter or Warrior bosses from the original game. Their role in the fall of Elika’s kingdom is unknown. Epilogue hopes you don’t care.

But that’s not the point of the Epilogue; it’s made pretty clear that this chapter in the new Prince of Persia story is merely a stage to set up the final confrontation between the Prince and Elika’s father, the Fallen King. When the King fell into the pit at the end of the original game, there was the sense that he would be seen again. After all, he is the reason that Ahriman was released into the kingdom in the first place! The dream-like sequences that are revealed through the course of the original game show the events surrounding Elika’s death, her father’s choice, and her resentment towards him for sacrificing peace in the Kingdom for her life. No matter how well-intentioned his actions were, he is ultimately responsible for the state of the kingdom.

But was it truly necessary to kill him? Is there no place for redemption? The Prince himself illustrated over the course of the original adventure that it’s possible, and it’s a key theme of the game’s story. Killing is such an extreme reaction when there are examples throughout the original game that the corruption itself can be removed. You don’t go around destroying the land; with Elika’s assistance, you heal it. When the Prince is corrupted by falling into the ooze, he is saved by Elika. When the Prince’s corruption is an actual plot point, he is healed by Elika. The Fallen King is not a character in this story; he is simply grouped with all the other boss characters you’ve had to face to that point.

As a result, Elika’s relationship with her father is never truly resolved; instead, you simply fight him over and over in his Ahriman-possessed form until he is killed in a very anti-climactic encounter. The Prince isn’t even directly responsible for his death, just for pushing him onto a spiked throne. This isn’t closure – this is a video game exposing itself.

Even as the Fallen King is slain, even as Elika sullenly departs to be with her people and rebuild a lost civilization, you want to turn the next page. You want to find out how this all ends. For an instant there is the glorious thought of promise and possibility with the sequel that is surely on its way. And then, in a massive, crushing realization via some tortuous form of refrigerator logic², you realize what has just taken place. You resent Epilogue for its unfulfilled promise of closure, and are sickened at how a game publisher has so unceremoniously left the player twisting in the wind after offering nothing more than a footnote to the text of the original game.

This is the first part of a two-part review of Prince of Persia (2008) and the “Epilogue” (2009) downloadable content. There are spoilers, but you already knew that. Taking UbiSoft Montreal’s intentions at face value one should be able to review both as a complete game, but I don’t think it would be fair to the intent of the original…but I’m getting ahead of myself.

When I finished Prince of Persia (2008), I was left feeling incredibly disheartened. The game’s ending made me question what I had been spending the last seven hours trying to achieve; it basically undoes everything you have been setting out to do for the entire game. But I did not feel frustrated; rather, I felt the ending was necessary – and the game brilliantly makes you a willing participant in this sequence of events. It does not give you a choice because it is something that you know, deep down, needs to be done. Prince of Persia is not an action game. It is barely an adventure game. It is a roleplaying game without the choice and the number crunching and the inventory management. You are given the role of the reluctant hero, thrust into a situation that clearly requires significant physical and emotional investment, and ultimately tasked with making a decision that has but a single response.

As a storytelling device, Prince of Persia excels. In fact, if this was a review for an interactive storybook, Prince of Persia would be the best and most beautiful interactive storybook of 2008, The End. But it is not. It is a video game.

As a video game, Prince of Persia leaves me wondering whether this is yet another milestone on the road towards the future of video games that I have come to dread. It leaves far too much out of the hands of the player, and instead relies on a few button presses to initiate the marvelous acrobatic moves that take place on screen in the march towards an inevitable conclusion. Prince of Persia manifests every video game enthusiast’s complaint about linearity and player freedom. And because it is so overt, it is identified as the greatest fault committed by this game.

Should Prince of Persia be held to a different standard because it simply illustrates what we all know is true about video games that rely on narrative? The way it showcases the story as the main driver behind the action is no different than the most linear of first person shooters, but there is a degree of skill involved in running whatever gauntlet a FPS would present. Prince of Persia is flexible in its controls, easily forgives failure, and yet when it tries to offer complexity in the form of Player-initiated exploration and a structured combo system for combat, they are in such sharp contrast as to be superfluous to the game’s design. Prince of Persia is in constant struggle with what is expected of it, and what it wants to achieve. And the game ultimately suffers for it.

It’s obvious from the beginning of Prince of Persia that Assassin’s Creed (2007) was a big influence on the Prince’s movements. Taking what they learned from the previous Prince of Persia Trilogy, they created movement animations in Assassin’s Creed that make traversing the dusty streets of Jersualem an acrobatic yet completely natural exercise.

It’s strange, then, that movement in Prince of Persia feels so inhibited, as if the freedom of movement was scaled back to suit the game’s unwavering linear progression. The fluidity of movement is still there, but jumping and running through Prince of Persia feels like bouncing off the walls inside a glass box.

At first, the game captures some of the appeal of the previous Trilogy, in the way that it slowly teaches you how the Prince can wall run, swing from bars and columns and scurry along ceilings. But the variation in movements are revealed in the first map, so that all future obstacles bear an uncanny resemblance to what has been seen before. And the Powers obtained after collecting lightseeds – abilities that feel like they should open up the game – are just extensions of the Prince’s isolation from the environment.

Under analysis, Prince of Persia reads like a continuous Quick Time Event ¹. There are on screen instructions if you want them, but survival is just a few timed button presses away. There aren’t many combinations to remember, and there is evidence in plain sight as to how each obstacle should be approached. There is no pressure for perfect execution of these maneuvers because you can’t actually die. Elika, the Prince’s companion throughout the game, is there to save him.

I didn’t hate the game for this, because it allowed me to enjoy the artistry poured into dressing up this game, and the free-flowing banter and backstory that takes place between the Prince and Elika. But none of it is required to proceed. It’s just there. You’re walking the garden path right along with them.

With such a limited range of movement, one would expect that exploration is permitted to make use of these environments. And despite the obvious care and detail that went in to constructing them, the environments impose the same constraints.

The dark god Ahriman is on the loose, and the land is plagued by Corruption. Setting off on their adventure, the primary objective of the Prince and Elika is to relieve this corruption by cleansing four different areas in the unnamed kingdom that provides the setting. But you don’t have to heal these lands in order: UbiSoft Montreal has given the Player a choice as to how they complete this objective. Which was a mistake.

UbiSoft Montreal took control from one area (the core mechanics of the game), and placed it into another (the game’s flow of narrative) unnecessarily. The game is trying to tell a story, and by allowing the Player to control the narrative it makes the design of key plot points and encounters impossible. It simply confirms that the game’s designers were not even confident in their own philosophy for the mechanics: freedom, but not really. The Player may feel like they have a choice in the matter, but the ultimate destination will always be the same, so why even allow this choice if it’s going to make telling a continuous story impractical? It’s the same reasoning that the designers of Medal of Honor: Airborne used to make it seem like their FPS was “open” by allowing a free drop at the beginning of each mission. And yet passing the first few checkpoints you find yourself still inside the corridors of a first-person shooter. What’s the purpose, except to hijack all meaning from the words “freedom” and “choice” in game design?

It’s frustrating, then, to be presented with such beautifully crafted environments that cannot be fully experienced. This is distressingly evident once the Boss characters from each map are defeated, which removes the corruption and creates light seeds that must be collected. At every wall vertex and unscalable cliff, the words “How do I get up there?” always found their way into the reaction to these intentional obstacles. Dejected, there remains only one choice: go where you’re told.

On each wall or cliff face, there are obvious wear marks showing you where to proceed. When they aren’t leading to the Boss characters, they lead to light seeds. These paths inscribed in stone leave nothing to the imagination. Even as the Powers of Ormazd are granted over the course of the game, the Seals related to each power are the only way they can be used. Flying through the air like a button on a string, you’re still a tourist in this world.

And yet there is nothing to hold the player back, or to slow progression. Each level is only moderately challenging to get through, with the biggest task overtaking the Boss characters at the end of them as they increase in power and ability. What few puzzles lie in wait are of the turnstile- or lever-pulling variety, and provide little more than a break in what is already a leisurely stroll throughout the game’s world.

You can’t die, so even in the limited exploration that is necessary to collect light seeds there is no risk. Elika saving the Prince from death is a mechanic that gives purpose to the Prince and Elika’s relationship, but like Ninja Blade ² comes across as the ability for the Player to correct his mistakes instantly, and not be forced to learn from them. This extends to the combat system, which can be elaborate if the Player decides to learn the combinations and time them correctly. But there is no incentive to do it, as simply bashing enemies with the sword when the buttons flash on screen and rolling to avoid corruption is sufficient.

Nevertheless, the constant direction by Prince of Persia feels like a respite from the typical overstimulating action of its contemporaries. It presents a form of play that allows the player to take in their surroundings, with a series of forgiving button combinations that do not require their full attention. They are just constantly admiring the surroundings from a distance.

So are we merely bearing witness to Prince of Persia‘s world, and the two fearless companions as they leap and fly and careen through it?

Prince of Persia‘s primary function is to tell a story. It had me in its grasp for the game’s duration, and made me think there is still hope for real storytelling in video games. It is a story of friendship and sacrifice, but told in a meaningful and completely natural way. The fact that I could see all this from the limited conversations I was subjected to – I rarely pressed the button that initiated more dialogue – is an accomplishment for UbiSoft Montreal. It’s a welcome change for someone who grew up with the disposable commentary between shooting galleries or the text riddled with spelling mistakes printed in some grubby instruction manual.

The relationship between the Prince and Elika is not romantic. Rather, it is a platonic bond that is strengthened by their need to see to each other’s safety. They also have a mutual respect for each other’s abilities: the Prince is valued for his plucky optimism and ability to surmount the obstacles they are faced with, and providing the brawn to defeat each Boss character. Elika, on the other hand, is respected for her otherworldly powers and choice to only use them when necessary, and her dedication to the preservation and restoration of her people. The relationship unfolds as best it can as the game progresses, given the Player’s ability to explore each map in any order.

The bond that develops makes the ending of the game completely acceptable: over the course of their adventures it’s made exceedingly obvious how much is owed to Elika by the Prince; she ensures his safety without question. It is only natural that he wants to do his part to save her, despite the consequences. That I was able to accept this plot conceit, means that the game has succeeded on that level.

So where does the “game” part of the experience emerge? The endgame is a foregone conclusion; it’s obvious how this story will resolve itself, and yet the player keeps going, thinking in the back of their mind that perhaps there is another way to resolve the conflict. The Prince himself says many times how they should just abandon their mission and start a new life away from the corrupted lands they are trying to save, since it keeps proving to be too big for the two of them to handle. And yet they continue, because the very least they can do is try.

It’s that same attitude that is reflected in the entire game: the constant desire to do more, to do something different, to make use of the environment that is on display. Maybe there is another way to scale that wall, or get across the chasm. But, like the story of Prince and Elika, there is a prescribed path that must be followed.

Prince of Persia is never sure about the level of interaction it wants from the Player. Providing freedom to explore the maps in any order, yet providing only meager means to move through them. Revealing a compelling narrative, yet permitting the Player to assemble it in any sequence. There never seems to be a comfortable compromise between telling a story and engaging game design, without resorting to hotbuttons and only moderate changes in difficulty to ensure the pacing of the story is maintained.

Prince of Persia struggles with the Boss encounters that close off each map. Each of them has a history, explained through dialogue as the Prince and Elika visit the different areas they are guarding. However, because each area can be played in any order, this back story cannot be told in succession to give a more representative picture of how each of these adversaries fits in the history of the world, and their role in the fall of Elika’s people. Therefore, there is no building towards a climax; instead, we are constantly reminded that Ahriman is our main objective³. The evil presence is just there, permeating every facet of the corrupted world, and yet the encounter with him is probably the most uninteresting aspect of the entire game.

Since there are only a few enemies scattered at random in each map, it raises the importance of these Boss encounters. And because you’re fighting the same four bosses in each of the main areas, the game arbitrarily assigns a few new wrinkles to their attacks and defenses, but no real increase in difficulty. These encounters become less and less enjoyable as you make your way to the end of each of the main areas – the repetition makes the Boss characters merely obstacles that must be overcome, like a chasm full of pillars or hard to reach handhold in a cliff face. This repetition does nothing more than underline the predictable – and safe – essence of the experiences in the game.

To compensate, Prince of Persia creates a fairly complex combo system that involves timing and positioning. This context-sensitive combat becomes even more pronounced when the hotbutton events flash on the screen. In this manner, combat in Prince of Persia is completely detached from the movement system. The movement system should be more complicated – much deeper than the combat system. Prince of Persia‘s environments are meant for exploration, yet the limitations in movement reduce any complexity in that regard. And combat is based on an unsatisfying system that degrades into button mashing on prompt simply because it works instead of thinking ahead and stringing together combos.

The inadequacy of the combat system culminates in the final confrontation with Ahriman, where you don’t even use it. You are simply charged with dodging giant fists and the black tide of corruption crawling up a wall you must run across. This is in stark contrast to every other boss that was faced in direct combat. There is no satisfying finish, there is nothing in the encounter that hadn’t been done in the rest of the game many times over – as simply navigating the terrain! The encounter could have been a closing movie and would have still produced the same effect.

Which is why I’m disheartened. I don’t think Prince of Persia is a good game. It was the vehicle for a story I had to see through to completion. A video game should not get a free pass because of its story. It is a game, first and foremost.

By removing the relative complexity of the typical third-person action game and Prince of Persia‘s progenitors, it is essentially creating one massive Quick Time Event. No real control is ever held by the player, and yet the game tries so very hard to make this interesting. And while this philosophy isn’t such an egregious transgression as Ninja Blade, this new Prince is setting a very dangerous precedent.

Challenge and complexity should never be completely sacrificed. What better way for a Player to appreciate the story than if they must earn it? The Story can effectively be used as a reward. I don’t want to watch my video games; I want to interact with them. I want to explore the world that has been so meticulously crafted; not allow it to be limited to a backdrop. I want to ask the question “how do I get up there?” and be allowed to answer it. I want to control the resolution of events, or at least be presented with the convincing illusion I can do something about it. I want to play.

So when the Prince does what we all expect of him at the end of Prince of Persia, there is a presiding feeling of accomplishment: the Prince’s destiny was fulfilled, as he repaid the debt to Elika the only way he knew how. But there is also regret: this achievement is predetermined, and like every other person who will play this game receives the same outcome to these events. You turn the page, and it reads like it does for any other.

Prince of Persia does not hide the fact that the Player has left no mark on this world. Like the indelible scratch marks on the walls of the many canyons and structures that have been traversed, Prince of Persia remains untouched by the actions that have led to its completion. And as the world falls into ruin once more, they are left wondering with foolish hope if the next Prince will have better luck in averting these circumstances.