We’ve discussed the texture of games, media self-consciousness, escapism, and other ideas before, but it was only recently I realized the importance of narrative in gaming. It’s what made all the difference between 120 ill-spent hours on Curt Schilling’s magnum opus and 40 thrilling hours of Mass Effect 3.
120 hours. That’s a grotesque figure. This weeks-long undertaking started off well enough, with many of the merits outlined in the Times review on full display, but then things started getting repetitive, and the paper-thin story failed to compensate. It was, like, I don’t want to slay exactly ten rats in a nearby cave! Again. I want escape, a tale well told–not an opportunity to moonlight as a virtual Orkin Man. By that point, though, I had sunk too many hours into the title, and I had to tie it off.
Conversely, there’s Mass Effect 3. You’ve likely seen the TV commercial replay ad nauseum. Well, the game was worth every penny. Pacing was expertly crafted. Choices I made in preceding entries had significant weight. This was a story years in the making that was written for me and by me. 40 substantial hours went by in a blink. As the credits rolled, I concluded the core mechanic of a game must engage–be it slingshotting birds across the sky, or destroying fruit, or fitting blocks snugly into place, or popping off alien heads with a high-powered rifle–and sometimes, secreted away on that shiny disc, is a really good once upon a time.
That’s twice now in a single week I’ve bought lunch from a roach coach, and delicious as it’s been, mobile food is just a small part of a larger idea I’ve been experiencing lately. “Roach coach” doesn’t do this place justice, by the way, not by a longshot. It’s a gourmet food truck. A confession: when I first heard the term years ago, I thought the phrase originated from the fact that these vehicles looked like roaches, with their doors fully unfurled. The more mainstream reading only occurred to me recently.
But that’s merely an aside. What’s so engaging about the concept is that quality food can be found through non-traditional channels. It’s this idea that you can hitch your passion to a simple website, a Twitter feed, and a truck to the approbation of the market. I suppose there’s this added appeal, too, of having to find your food, rather than have it waiting at the same brick-and-mortar location. It was nomadic! And delicious.
Along the same lines, I backed my first-ever Kickstarter project on Tuesday. There was an hour left on the timer, and I had to pull the trigger. To be able to help fund an old-school adventure game, then witness its production, warts and all? I couldn’t pass up the opportunity. These were the same guys who made the original Monkey Island, a title which may very well have twisted me during my formative years.
It’s the democratization of development, and it’s thrilling. Like the gourmet food truck, there’s this recalibration of power, an upending of old institutions. A return to the roots. It’s this idea of having your dollar go directly to someone who creates. Have I gone granola? Maybe. Perhaps this post is organic, locally sourced and lovingly baked with only the finest of earth-friendly adjectives.
No matter how much I enjoy the company of people–or have grown to enjoy the company of people, I should say–I still loathe the company of people on the road. You would call this “traffic.” And I bore witness to the full horrors of it today with a double dose of rush hour, starting at 7:37 AM EST. Keep in mind I usually don’t roll out of bed until closer to 8 AM, so to be up and fully conscious on our public thoroughfares was an accomplishment. Medal’s in the mail, I know.
I had to bring my car into the shop, hence the early rise. Within minutes of leaving my driveway, though, I beheld a long stretch of automobiles, extending far into the horizon in fits and starts. What would normally have taken me seven minutes to traverse more than tripled in duration. We’ve discussed this idea of automotive integrity before, where driving is a kind of covenant with the road founded on speed or, at the very least, motion. Gridlock, accordingly, is an absolute affront to this.
My old man used to commute from Long Island to Stamford every day. How? I imagine “necessity” was part of the answer, but I wonder if there was tougher stuff, some mental grit, at work. How do you tolerate traffic? Do you rely on audiobooks, or the radio, or some other diversion? Disregard those last two questions. That was my poor attempt at engaging you in true social media fashion. Feel free to share your input by using the commenting system below, which doesn’t exist at all.