Hidden Potential (And Why the Wii Doesn't Have Any)

I watched the Super Bowl yesterday with a friend of mine who works as a game developer here in Vancouver.

One of the many benefits of living in Vancouver, besides near constant rain and high taxes and all the natural beauty your eyes can take: Becoming friends with developers.

A couple of things about watching the Super Bowl in Canada:

1. The commercials are completely different here and, for the most part, lame. (I had to watch all the "real" commercials online after the fact, including the Dante's Inferno commercial.)

2. It's very difficult to find anyone who genuinely gives a rat's ass about the Super Bowl in Canada.

My friend, who I will refer to as "Thumb-Blaster" in order to protect his identity, is probably the only person on earth to have finished No More Heroes (the man found every damn collectible in the game) and to also suffer from a pathological Modern Warfare 2 obsession. He's a terrific human being, full of curiosity, neuroses and savvy insights into life, and more importantly, how games are made.

As you've probably guessed, Thumb-Blaster isn't much of a football fan. To keep Thumb-Blaster engaged, I did my best to make nerd-centric small talk during the game's idle moments (i.e. during the Canadian commercials). We discussed Battlestar, the merits of The Saboteur, The Legend of Zelda Twilight Princess (he loved it; I'd rather have my taxes done than play it again), and so forth.

Yes, it was an old fashioned, boot-stomping, nerd-style hoedown.

During halftime, as we consumed sausages at an almost alarming rate, I asked Thumb-Blaster why Wii games haven't evolved the way that games typically evolve over the lifecycle of a console. In other words, Twilight Princess (2006) and, to an even greater degree Metroid Prime 3 (2007), looked terrific, but more recent Wii games don't necessarily look, or play, any better than those first-generation Wii titles. Early games for the PS2, 360, and PS3 have all made significant strides over time. Yet the Wii appears to have stalled out. How come?

Thumb-Blaster's response: "It's because the Wii just kind of laid it all out there."

Explanation: "It's an easy machine to understand, and to program for. Therefore, there are no hidden possibilities in the hardware to be uncovered. Basically, with the Wii, what you see is what you get."

On the other hand, Thumb-Blaster continued, the nuances of both the 360 and the PS3 are still being sussed out. "We don't really know what [these machines] are capable of yet. We're still trying to figure them out. Truth is, no one really knows what to do with the cell processors yet. Nobody really knows how to use them. People are starting to experiment, but we're still a long way from having a handle on them."

I went back to my sausage sandwich. I'd never thought of these machines as being mysterious before. I liked the idea that both machines hold some hidden, unrealized potential. Neither machine seems even remotely tapped out yet. (Hell, I'm still convinced that the PS2 has some life left in it.)

I once loved my consoles. The Super Nintendo? Man, I would have married that thing, and kissed it and loved it all night long in the honeymoon suite at the Radisson.

I've never been in love with the 360 or the PS3; not like that, anyway. Both seem a little cold and distant and distant and alien. They're like attractive women at a party who won't talk to me, but instead prefer only to peer at me askance. I've never loved them as objects; I don't think I ever could. I need them, but I'm indifferent towards them. If either one broke down, I wouldn't mourn the loss. I'd simply head to the nearest store and buy a new one.

Still, after Thumb-Blaster's words of wisdom--Thumb-Blaster is so very wise--I'm not exactly ready to rent out the Radisson honeymoon suite just yet, but I am just a tad more fond of both machines today.

The Fallacy of "Being Good" at Videogames

A friend recently described a mutual friend as "being good" at videogames. Here are his exact words: "[Person X] is really awesome at videogames," he said.

I've heard people use this expression before. "So-and-so is awesome at games," etc. For some reason this expression never fails to give me a case of third-degree red ass.

Blame it on my competitive nature. I grew up with a brother who was a year younger than me. We were peers, always working to out-do--and undo--the other throughout our childhoods.

Whenever I hear that so-and-so is good at videogames, I always want to 1. disprove this notion immediately, preferably by destroying and/or humiliating whoever this so-called good-at-videogames so-and-so is in some game-centric showdown, and 2. have myself immediately declared "good," "great," or perhaps even "awesome" at videogames via an impromptu ceremony that would involve a dais and a large trophy of some kind.

But the truth is this: I'm not good, great, or awesome at videogames.

What I am is persistent.

Even as a child, I was always the one who would stay up late at night, the sound turned so low on the television that it was inaudible (our house was very small), desperately trying over and over again to make it into the second round with Mike Tyson (Punch-Out!!), or to get the golden armor and the moon shield (Super Ghouls 'n Ghosts).

One of the core reasons that I fell in love with the medium to begin with is the democratic notion that anybody can eventually beat any game--yes, even Demon's Souls--as long as they are willing to roll up their sleeves and put in the time.

I wrote a story a few years back about the burgeoning industry of Halo coaching. In the name of research, I hired a coach for a series of lessons. He and I met online. "OK, show me what you got," he said.

I crouched behind a rock. I waited.

Suddenly, my shield was depleted. Health was waning. I spun in a circle firing into the sky.

I was dead.

Re-spawn.

I never saw him, never knew what hit me.

This was the way things continued during our "show me what you got" session: crouch, shields depleted, spin, fire at sky, panic, dead, re-spawn.

The coach was a competitive Halo player. He was, according to his biography, among the best Halo players in the world. He taught me a few things, showed me how to access areas of maps that most players assume aren't accessible; taught me techniques for depleting someone's shield instantly through various combinations of melee attacks and gun fire.

I improved. I got better. I learned to hold my own.

Once the lessons and the story were behind me, I had tangible proof that there were ways to be "good" at Halo.

If I was willing to put in the time, if I was willing to learn the nuances of the maps, I could most likely turn myself into a respectable Halo player. (My coach, someone who you would most definitely describe as "being good at videogames," told me that he typically practices between four and six hours a day. Now, that's what I call persistent.)

I realize there are exceptions out there. Exhibit A: Jonathan "Fatal1ty" Wendel.

Exhibit B: I have a friend who told me a story about a colleague who picked up Guitar Hero for the first time in his life at an office party and ripped through the entire game on Expert and didn't miss a note. Unfortunately, this guy also suffered from Asperger's Disorder.

What I'm trying to say is this: If you have a friend who is "good" at Modern Warfare 2 or Rock Band, or who can do a speed run through Super Mario 64, most of the time--hell, almost all of the time--it's because he or she put in the hours. Nothing more, nothing less.

Poet Costume DLC in Dante's Inferno: More DLC the World Doesn't Want/Need

Started playing Dante's Inferno this week. The game, despite high production values and highbrow source material, isn't all that surprising or exciting. (More on the game itself when the review airs in a couple weeks.)

A few things that occurred to me while playing:

1. Will future lazy college students play this game instead of reading the Cliffs Notes of The Divine Comedy?

2. Will you be interested in purchasing the Poet Costume when the DLC becomes available in February? No? Then how about you, sir? No again?

3. I understand that games, like this one, are expensive to make, and that DLC can extend the life of a game. But if publishers are selling Poet Costumes, and--glancing further down the list--"New In-Game Abilities" (could they be more vague?), maybe game makers are pushing too hard to create things that no one wants, or needs.

The last time I bought DLC was for Star Wars: The Force Unleashed.

I played through the extra levels, but I barely remember what I did in them, or who I did it to. The levels had none of the narrative gravity of the original game. They were well made, but were also forgettable, barely qualifying as diversions. They were a few hours of white noise that did nothing to enhance--or detract--from the original experience.

When I want more The Force Unleashed, it's the main game I think about and crave, and not the DLC.

I realize that consuming DLC is a completely voluntary enterprise. But how much of it is necessary? How much of it needs to be in the world?

Have you tried watching Deleted Scenes segments from DVDs? The reason those scenes were cut from the final product are usually painfully obvious.

Or imagine if Coppola suddenly decided to add 20 minutes of footage to The Godfather II. We'd be curious about it, and we'd all want to see it, but would it enhance the original in any tangible way?

Ditto for most DLC. It's cool in theory, but if the DLC was truly an integral part of the main game, it would have been part of the main game.

You know who I feel bad for? I feel bad for the guy who has to show up at Visceral Games on Wednesday morning, February 10th, still hungover from the Dante's Inferno launch the night before.

The poor guy has to munch some Advil, then get back to work on that "Poet Costume" the world doesn't want, or need.

Vic and I Show Up for Work Wearing the Same Exact Outfit

When the Reviews on the Run crew came to pick me up for our shoot yesterday afternoon, I opened the door to the ROTR mobile and was greeted by the sounds of laughter.

What's so funny? I wondered.

Vic, who was sitting up front, said, "You are not going to believe this, but we are dressed exactly alike."

Now, Victor has accused me of dressing like him before. And I have accused him of dressing like me. We've never determined exactly who the guilty party is here.

I assumed he was making a bigger deal out of it than was necessary...until we parked and exited the car and I got a look at what he was wearing.

Same zip-neck sweater. Same jacket. Similar shoulder bag. And, once he'd donned his eyeglasses, which he wears to play games and/or see Avatar again, he was right:

People were seeing double in downtown Vancouver yesterday.

Firefox fans = bullies/jerks

Man, I don't know about you but I'm so fucking weary of Firefox users proselytizing all the time about Firefox. I'm weary of the slack-jawed, eyeballs-rolling-into-the-backs-of-their-heads reactions I get whenever a Firefoxer notices that I'm using Safari. They act as if they've just learned that I have a metal plate installed in my head. 

Then they proceed to tell me all about the marvel that is Firefox in the same manner that one might inform me that I have a second arm and HOW COULD I NOT BE USING MY SECOND ARM???!!!!!!!!!!!!!! FUUUUUCCCCKKKKKKKKKKK!

Did it ever occur to you that I might not use Firefox because of the way you goddamn people are always trying to bully me into using it? Did it? Of course it didn't. Because you're too busy smelling your own farts. I don't care how awesome something is. It's a browser. The one I'm using now browses just fine. And it doesn't come with bullies.

Sincerely,

Ralph Farts

IGFR: The Vin Diesel Edition

The latest installments of Internet's Fastest Game Reviews are posted.

Wheelman.

The Chronicles of Riddick: Assault on Dark Athena.

So. Woot.

IFGR: Onechanbara Bikini Samur...

Today on Internet's Fastest Videogame Reviews, I take a look at Onechanbara: Bikini Samurai Slayer.

An extremely brief look.

[Rated P.N. for Partial Nudity.]

There Are Three Boobs In This Video. (Counting me.)

The latest installment of--whoosh--The Internet's Fastest Game Reviews is up on Crispy Gamer.

Today I tackle Tomb Raider: Underworld

There Are Three Boobs In This Video. (Counting me.)

The latest installment of--whoosh--The Internet's Fastest Game Reviews (a.k.a. IFGR) is up on Crispy Gamer.

Today I tell you everything you need to know about Tomb Raider: Underworld in 10 seconds or less.

Impossible, you say?

Just click the link and you'll be instantly transformed into a believer.

Laundry: An issue when you are traveling for two weeks.

Day Six of my 14-day west coast trip and I was running low on fresh everything. Before leaving Vancouver (Part One) for San Francisco (Part Two), in the name of self-preservation, I decided to do a little laundry. I asked Vic and Marcy if I could do a load or two at their house. Of course, they agreed. (Fact: there are laundry machines everywhere in Vancouver, even in the apartments. It's one of the many lovely things about Vancouver.)

Some friends of Vic and Marcy were hosting a dinner party that night. Vic told me to bring my laundry to the dinner party, and then the plan would be that he and I would cut out early afterwards, head back to their place, and I could do laundry then.

I loaded my lights and darks into a plastic bag, then headed out to meet Vic and Marcy at their friend's apartment across town. I'd never met these people before, so I felt a bit self-conscious showing up with my bag of laundry. I discreetly left the bag by the front door, with my shoes, before being introduced to everybody.

It was basically three couples, their kids--who are all in the three-to-five age range--and me. 

I put my napkin in my lap. I tried not to eat or drink too much. I tried to make a good impression on these people. I was a guest here, and I didn't want Vic and Marcy to regret inviting me along.

About halfway through the meal, a whoop went up in the nearby living room. Something was exciting the kids, who were supposed to be watching a DVD.

"What are they doing in there?" one of the moms said.

"They've gotten into something," one of the dads said.

I noticed what appeared to be one of my T-shirts lying on the floor. I'm thinking, That looks like my T-shirt, when I realize that it is actually my T-shirt.

What the kids have gotten into is my laundry. They've torn a hole in the bag, and they're dragging it around the living room. Laundry is spilling everywhere. A small, very cute boy was throwing my dirty clothes into the air like he was attending a Mardi Gras celebration.

One of the moms chased after the kids, trying to put the laundry back into the torn bag. I tried to do the same, feeling very self-conscious about the visible state of some of my underwear. (I never throw underwear away, no matter how threadbare they get.)

I kept apologizing, because I didn't know what else to do, and the mom kept apologizing, too. We quickly collected everything.

The kids calmed down eventually and watched some of their DVD. And the adults resumed talking over our empty dinner plates at the table. I sat there, trying to follow the conversation, but I had trouble finding my bearings again after the incident.

I never did do laundry that night. It got late, and we never made it back to Vic and Marcy's. A few days later, when I reached San Francisco, I decided to have the hotel do my laundry for me. $130. 

Goddamn it all.

The Reluctant Traveller: Day 1: The Sweetest Taboo

Terminal 7 at JFK and I've got an hour to kill. I decide to eat, so I browse the $8 cashew boxes and suffocating, Saran-wrapped Granny Smith's in the Balducci's take-away market. Then I spot a new place nearby: Todd English's Bonfire. It looks empty and cozy--two qualities that are typically underrated in airport restaurants.

I take a seat at the bar and ask to see a menu. I order a skirt steak and a seltzer, then begin to wonder who Todd English is.

The bartender disappears (to presumably place my order) and suddenly I realize that I'm alone here, in this bar/restaurant. I notice the slight coat of dust on the bottles of liquor behind the bar. A muted soccer match is on the plasma TVs suspended in the corners. And, of course, Sade is playing through obviously cheap-o speakers on the restaurant's sound system.

I can't tell you how many times I've heard Sade in airport bars/restaurants. What is the deal with Sade? Why is it the soundtrack of choice for people scarfing down a meal before boarding their flight? I boggle my mind by trying to contemplate all the thousands of airport bars/restaurants that are, at this very moment, playing Sade.

My skirt steak arrives. I asked for medium rare. But what I get is a piece of meat that's so raw that the pool of blood it's sitting in merits a lifeguard. I tell the bartender. He takes the skirt steak away. A few minutes later, he returns. This time, it's so overcooked, I can taste the chef's anger. "NOT COOKED PROPERLY? NOW I'LL COOK IT PROPERLY FOR HIM."

I've worked in kitchens. They're very angry places.

I pay my bill, then head to the gate, serenaded by "Smooth Operator." (Smooooooth operatorrrrrrrr.) 

I wish I'd opted for that Saran-wrapped Granny Smith.

Dumb-ass press release headline pretty much ruins my day.

I opened my laptop this morning to find an URGENT press release from a videogame company occupying my Inbox.

The headline: ABANDON INTERACTIVE ENTERTAINMENT NOW ACCEPTING PRE-ORDERS FOR FREAKY CREATURES STARTER PACKS.

No humor. No self-awareness. No tangible takeaway for anyone.

If this were an art piece in the MOMA, it would be called "ENGLISH LANGUAGE AS VOID NO. 1."

In contrast, my daily dose of Cialis spam is, at the very least, self-aware and often funny. 

Today's headline: GET INCREDIBLE SIZING PROFIT IN PANTS.

I bought yogurt, but I wasn't paying attention, and I got the prune flavor. Rat farts.

The other night I ran over to the nearby Met Food to grab some groceries. I hate grocery shopping, so I do it as quickly as I can. I practically run through the store, throwing items into my basket, like I'm trying to win on a game show. I always buy the same things. Always. But in the dairy aisle, I made a grave mistake. I bought my usual Activa package of little yogurt containers. Only instead of getting the blueberry kind, I got the prune kind.

This is so bad on so many levels, I can't tell you.

I will eat almost anything--once, in Denmark, I ate cow brains--but prunes are on my short list of things I won't eat. I hate how they look. I hate their name. I hate everything about them. I hate how I can remember the big container of prunes sitting in our refrigerator when I was growing up, which my mom would eat from, to make her more regular.

I'm choking down one of the containers this morning while sorting through a few levels of World of Goo. Bah. Blarrrgghh. Blecchhhhhh.

Prunes. Fuck you.

Breaking bread with Pete Wanat and Nick Torchia: Dining with Developers Vol. 1

Even though I tend to think of videogames as things that either: A) come from Santa's Workshop or B) are beamed to Earth from Planet Awesome, the truth is that they are made by people like you and me. Well, maybe you. Not me. 

Which is why I wanted to start a new feature called Dining With Developers. The premise behind the series is that Evan Narcisse and I will sit down in a semi-fancy (or barely fancy) restaurant with developers, ply them with alcohol and appetizers, then get them to reveal their innermost secrets and maybe even cry like on a Barbara Walters special.

The idea here is to humanize developers, to hear their stories, and to talk in depth about our beloved medium.

While at the DICE Summit a couple of weeks ago, Narcisse and I (along with Electric Playground's Victor Lucas) took Pete Wanat and Nick Torchia out for dinner at Hachi inside the Red Rock Resort. No one cried. Well, Nick did a little. It was great. How great? Click here. See? Told you. Great, right?

Internet's Fastest Game Reviews...Take one.

I've been charged with cooking up some original video content for CG. CG staffers Elise Vogel and Ryan Kuo and myself are on the case, along with my friend John Teti, the managing editor of the videogame section for The A.V. Club.

After an afternoon filled with pizza and soft drinks, we dragged a pair of ideas kicking and screaming into the world: The Internet's Fastest Game Reviews.

In less that 10 seconds, or in the case of the first video less than seven seconds (it clocks in at a near-miraculous six), we tell you everything you need to know about a particular title.

Our first attempt at lightning in a bottle is a review of Puzzle Farter.

It's fast. So put down your hoagie and give me your complete attention.

As for the second idea, we're working on it.

If you listen to only one podcast this year...

...Make it this one.

Yesterday CNET's Jeff Bakalar, Wilson Tang, and Justin Yin invited me to their small but tastefully decorated podcast studio at 28 West 28th Street to be a guest on CNET's The 404.

I brought $2 cookies for everyone from Starbucks. Bakalar was fighting off a case of what appeared to be pink eye (his right eye was watering uncontrollably).

We discussed Crispy Gamer, the upcoming Nintendo DSi, the fogging over of the lady in the bathtub in The Shining whenever it's broadcast on network TV, and my former career as an editor at a men's sophisticate magazine.

The boys also giggled uncontrollably at the term "space docking," which is on my list of things to Google today. If you've got a spare 45 minutes, give it a listen.

Street Fighter IV, Bikinis & Zombies, and Las Vegas

I've got a review up on The A.V. Club for Street Fighter IV that's polarized people.

Some comments are good, some are bad, and some are just plain insane.

The odd thing about this comment thread is that the commenters are committed to writing about the game. (Unlike most A.V. threads, which go off onto oddball tangents and never come back.)

I appreciate how focused the thread is, but I'm a little alarmed by the affinity some of these posters have for the Street Fighter franchise. To paraphrase Gus Mastrapa, the tin-foil-hat-wearing crazies came out for this one.

I also have a review of Onechanbara: Bikini Samuari Squad on CG today:

Evan Narcisse and I are off to the DICE summit in Las Vegas tonight. We're flying Virgin, a.k.a. The Nightclub in the Sky. And we're lodging at the suspect Palace Station Casino.

Home of the $40/night room, Bonkerz Comedy Club, and all the second-hand smoke you can inhale.

Stay tuned for my reports from L. Vegas as they happen.