Blips: Blue Book Value

Source: Gran Turismo 6 is the racing game of our dreams
Author: Dan Solberg
Site: Kill Screen

OK, I'm a week delayed getting back to regular posting, but give me a break, I was driving through the polar vortex. Speaking of driving, I've also been playing quite a bit of Gran Turismo 6, and wrote a review for Kill Screen (check out their fancy new website too). It's a very good game.

The big thing that ended up being left out of the review was how GT6 handles microtransactions, an element that I was concerned about going in. Well, turns out there's no real cause for worry as Polyphony all but hides the real-money marketplace from you. It's a totally irrelevant factor in the game unless you explicitly seek it out, and the game never pushes you to do so. While I applaud this approach, I also wonder how much this diminishes potential profits. It's a smart design choice seemingly made at the expense of contemporary financial sense. Heck, while Forza allows you to pay something like double the price of the game in DLC, GT6 is giving it up for the initial price of admission and still offers more vehicles and tracks than its Xbox rival.

There's something desperate about GT6 too, provoking the thought that because the game is only available on an "after-market" console, that the developers needed to offer more than usual to encourage players to keep their old machines plugged in. The result is that GT6 presents an argument for itself that's extremely convincing and comes off as a product of its time and circumstance more than most. To play Gran Turismo 6 now feels like taking advantage of a tremendous deal, and as much as I'd hope Polyphony would continue these practices come GT7, I have my doubts. So I say, get in on the action now before the microtransactions and DLC inevitably rear their heads once Gran Turismo goes next-gen. I'd love to be proven wrong here.

Selfish Superhero: inFamous (PS3) Review

Cole has a decision to make. He just earned a stranger’s trust by defending him from some thugs. Cole can either accept a humble reward for his help or he can kill the stranger and steal everything he has. Cole checks his Karma meter, it’s glowing blue: the color of a hero. He decides it’s in his best interest to spare the stranger, accept his thanks, and earn “good” Karma points in the process. Finally, Cole has enough currency to upgrade his basic attack.

In inFamous, you play as Cole MacGrath, a courier with the newfound superpower to control electricity. You can shoot electric bursts, grind on powerlines, and even summon lighting to reign down from the sky. Cole’s story begins in true comic book fashion, a massive explosion from some kind of high-tech/magic device endowed him electric abilities but killed hundreds in the vicinity. For Cole, the event was both an accidental windfall and an unequivocal tragedy. What to make of a horrific event that blessed him so profoundly? Where to go from here? This begins the game with a clean slate, allowing you to shape your Cole as either a superhero or a supervillain. In the aftermath of the explosion, Cole’s hometown, Empire City, is overrun with mutant hoodlums and garbage-hoarding militias and it's up to you to quell their influence over the quarantined populace while getting to the bottom of the conspiracy behind the explosion that started it all.

inFamous is structured as an open-world game in the vein of the Grand Theft Auto series. You can initiate missions that progress the story, engage in side-quests that boost your abilities, or hunt around and explore the city at your own pace. In fact, the traversal and combat mechanics are the most satisfying parts of the game, presenting you with a plethora of options for approaching any given scenario. I used “shock grenades” for most situations since they were a powerful, versatile opener for most hostile situations. The grenades can be banked off of walls, stuck to enemies, and upgraded to automatically restrain weakened targets for bonus experience points. In contrast, the "story" of inFamous is comic book gibberish, told through breakneck exposition over flashy motion comic cutscenes. inFamous is much better as a vehicle for sandbox roleplay than it is at pre-written characters and three-act structure.

The central system at work in inFamous is the Karma gauge, which, depending on how you play the game, is how you craft Cole into a hero or a villain role. At key points of certain missions, you'll be faced with a decision. The game pauses and, through voiceover, Cole clearly spells out two possible courses of action: one "good," the other "evil." You receive Karma points for executing these actions, edging the needle on your Karma meter into either the blue or the red, respectively. At certain levels, and with enough experience points from completing missions, you can purchase upgrades for the powers that match Cole's current affinity. "Good" powers prioritize minimal damage and suppressive rather than lethal force, while "evil" powers make everything blow up more spectacularly, without regard for collateral damage.

The folly of the Karma system is that switching affinity is impractical. Cole either needs to be very good or very evil to maximize his powers, and the way side-missions are meted out through the length of the game, there are really only enough points to skew all the way in one direction. You can't be evil and have some good powers or vice versa. It's all or nothing, which removes the constant string of decision points from carrying any real sense of moral conscience. These choices are more opportunities to complete whichever action will reward you with Karma points in line with your current affinity.

Cole's moral choices basically dissolve to good=selfless and evil=selfish options, but since I was always making my choices based on upgrade paths, my decisions were ultimately selfish. And my Cole was supposed to be a good guy! This colored my perception of Cole to be a sort of disingenuous hero. Sure he helps people and saves the city, but he's just out for his own notoriety all the same. It becomes clear that Cole's moral decisions are actually just branding opportunities. In one side mission you even go full-on Don Draper and select which poster design you'd like your supporters to paste around town. You're going to play the part of the “guy with superpowers" either way; it's just a question of target demographics.

Cole's callous demeanor feels intentional on the part of developer Sucker Punch. He's a street-hardened character whose gravelly voice evokes Christian Bale's Batman. When you accomplish "good deeds" your friend Zeke calls you up to tell you how you're turning the city around and making everyone happy, and your responses are always dismissive, if you reply at all. Cole has his singular goal in mind: to get to the bottom explosion that granted his powers but sent his city into a downward spiral. There is an attempt at narrative-driven character development through Cole’s strained romantic relationship with paramedic, Trish, but every favor done for her is done begrudgingly. Any past romance is subdued, as both characters seem to bury their feelings to focus on the crisis at hand. They never get around to having “the talk” that they persistently claim to want to have. In the end you're just running errands for her in a shallow attempt to get on her good side, like any other quest-giver.

There's more to inFamous than just the morality sliders, but since Karma manifests in just about every action you take, it's by far the game’s dominant characteristic. This is expounded by just how engaging Cole's combat and traversal abilities are. Most enemy encounters involve innocent pedestrians caught in the crossfire, so you have to choose to be "good" and pick off bad guys one by one or you can be "evil" and hurl electro grenades and rockets with abandon. Downed enemies can be executed or restrained. Playing as a hero, bystanders would cheer me on and gawk in passing. Sometimes they even throw rocks at enemies to help you take them out. It’s to Sucker Punch’s credit that whether you’re playing the hero or the villain, Empire City reacts appropriately.

Still, while the initial choice between good and evil was reflected through the entre arc of inFamous, the smaller decision point scenarios are misrepresentative of actual moral dilemmas. There is never any option that does not benefit Cole in some way, and, blue or red, you rack up points all the same. Negative consequences are temporary and easily reversed. Save or kill the stranger, you’ll never think about him the rest of the game. Despite what the Karma system implies, Cole is actually morally detached, not engaged.

Who’s to say that anyone wouldn’t become a bit sociopathic given the circumstances that lead to Cole gaining superpowers? For someone with that kind of strength, the difference between saving a life and taking one is pressing “O” instead of “X.” The Karma system doesn't reflect on Cole's humanity so much as his distance from it. Video games are full of self-serving protagonists; just think about how many homes you've entered in games without knocking or being invited in. inFamous does not subvert the power fantasy, but does offer moments to reflect on video game hero privilege.

No matter who loses, Cole wins.

Half-Tucked: Uncharted: Drake's Fortune (PS3) Review

Nothing dates a game quicker than its alignment with a fashion trend. Enter the half-tuck, a clothing statement brought to the mainstream by action hero protagonist, Nathan Drake in 2007 for his debut in Uncharted: Drake's Fortune (UDF). What exactly is the half-tuck? It's when you tuck in about half of your shirt, starting front and center, and continuing to tuck about 3/4 of the way back on one side. The rest of the shirt hangs loose. Nathan Drake wears a plain ol' grey long sleeve T-shirt in UDF, but the look can also be accomplished with a button-up for a more pronounced contrast between tucked and untucked.

The problem with the half-tuck is that it's an inherently conflicted fashion statement. It's a style that is visibly and hopelessly contrived, like sculpting your hair to look like you have "bed-head." You want to appear like you don't care about your appearance, but obviously you care a whole lot. The half-tuck is a signature of UDF, but it's also metaphor for the game's aspirations and shortcomings.

What are you supposed to think when you see someone sporting a half-tuck? Perhaps that even though they don't have time for fashion, they can still be fashionable. The half-tuck implies dressing with nonchalance or in a great hurry. They would have tucked their shirt in all the way if they simply had the time, but they don't and dammit they have more important things to worry about! Maybe they were even interrupted in the act of tucking and were so preoccupied that they never got around to finishing the task.

This is the dream back-story of the half-tucker, but in reality you're envisioning a desperate individual in front of a mirror delicately pinching tufts of fabric around their waistline, failing, and starting the process all over again, until reaching just the right aesthetic to illustrate the unspoken tall-tale. It's either that or it looks like the individual is just really bad at shirt tucking. Not helping matters is the half-tuck's frat-boy association as a cousin to the much maligned collar pop of the mid-00s.

The thing is, Nathan Drake, and the whole of UDF sort of pulls off the half-tuck, but not without revealing the artifice behind it. UDF is a gorgeous game, rendering ocean ripples, jungle foliage, and crumbling stonework in exquisite, realistic detail. Drake himself is a handsome guy, believable both as an adventurer and action movie star. There's a cocky swagger to the half-tuck that sets out to deflect focus from the contrivance of the situation. The pretty visuals and captivating character performances are essentially UDF's big, shiny belt buckle, doing their part to sell the whole ensemble. If the game wasn't otherwise so chock full of enemy bullet sponges and prescribed arenas it might have had me. Drake realizes and embodies the "interrupted" half-tuck fantasy as the whole game revolves around dudes with guns surprising him when he's going about his treasure hunting business. While this duality of activities suits Drake quite well as a character, as an interactive experience UDF feels torn between wanting to be a film and a game.

Surprisingly UDF actually has more problems being a game than it does a movie. The blockbuster action flicks that UDF tries to evoke (most obviously the Indiana Jones series) are delivered to viewers with a snappy pace and constant forward progress. The old 7-second shot length standards for film were brought to the fore in blockbusters to ensure that the film was holding viewers' attention, constantly offering fresh angles and scenes. Through UDF's cutscenes and more directed, narrowly focused adventuring bits, it possesses that blockbuster energy. However, when most firefights break out, that momentum slows to a crawl or stops entirely, like an ill-conceived long-take in desperate need of an editor.

Nathan Drake and that whole of UDF is in the constant state of interruption, and not to its benefit. While the incredible body count Drake racks up is truly preposterous and at odds with his archaeologist chops and nice-guy demeanor, gunfights also bog the gameplay flow down, like the game is stretching to fill time. There are a couple sequences where you navigate narrow waterways on a jet-ski as foot soldiers fire upon you and floating explosive barrels that line your path. Conventional action movie logic says that jet-skis should go fast, and if you can take out some key barrels and enemies on your way from point A to B, then you've got a potentially thrilling scene on your hands. The problem is that you'll die and restart the sequence from the beginning if you try to run n' gun it. In order to best the gauntlet, you have to treat the area like a stealth sequence, edging your way around corners, taking out nearly every shooter and barrel from a distance before treading out into open water. It's the wrong kind of nonsense.

The jet-ski areas are the most extreme example of the failed logic behind UDF's pacing, but this approach is apparent in nearly every instance where you enter a room full of waist-high barriers. The level design itself is actually quite inventive in most cases, but third-person shooting, when dialed to the repetitive settings of UDF, in incongruous with the cadence the game is otherwise going for. Is Nathan Drake an everyman or a super-soldier? Depending on which part of the game you're playing, either could be correct, but never both at once. You see where I'm going with this?

In fact, Drake's half-tuck is perfect, too perfect. It remains in immaculate order throughout the entire game despite numerous climbing and jumping sequences that would surely untuck a lesser man's garment. Over time, the half-tuck becomes more of a running motif than a simple costume accessory. At every vault, splash, and shimmy, the half-tuck defies the laws of physics and remains in place, an unflinching facade. While that dedication is something a script supervisor could be very proud of, it's all too telling of UDF's style-over-substance approach to game design. On occasion, exceptional style can be enough to go on, but with UDF, we're not talking about high-concept fashion. We're talking about the half-tuck.

Ride or Drive: DiRT 3 (PS3) Review

Learning to drive a car can be a stressful experience. When I was in high school I took driving lessons from a certified instructor named Mr. Neeble, a stern old man with the relentless cadence of a film noir mobster. Imagine already being nervous about sitting behind the wheel, then as you're trying your damnedest to stay in your lane and stop at all of the proper signals, you have to listen to a constant deluge of mantras like "Hands at 10 and 2!," "Check you mirrors!," "Eyes on the road!," and my favorite "Don't be a tailgater bumperchaser!" I left each session in a shaking state of full-body tension, but somehow I passed the course. Mr. Neeble may have put me through the ringer, but my driving did improve.

I learned to drive in my parents' car, but some drivers education programs employ vehicles with an extra steering wheel and pedals for the passenger-side instructor. The logic behind this being that the instructor can override the student's driver-side controls at any time as a safety measure. The passenger-side controls provide some piece of mind for both the driver and the instructor since the instructor can correct minor errors on the part of the student without risking any broken laws or bones.

The stakes in the off-road car racing video game DiRT 3 are considerably lower. Weaving suped-up machines at top speed through winding, narrow passes on paths of mud and gravel during a rainstorm in the game is considerably trickier than merging onto the highway in real life, but mistakes don't result in expensive repairs or bodily harm. As a simulation game, DiRT 3 presents players with an opportunity to compete in realistic off-road competitions of a professional caliber, without the danger and costly equipment of real driving.

Even with such a promising premise, I often felt like I had to fight the DiRT 3 for control, as if Mr. Neeble had become so frustrated by my incompetence that he just took over the game from a passenger-side wheel. Though fidelity-reducing driver assists like automatic braking and cornering stability are totally optional, the steep learning curve of the cars' handling models pushes you toward these training wheels. Elsewhere, my predestined progress through the game's single-player DiRT Tour campaign often felt more like a string of sponsored ad spots than a story of rising through the ranks.

Here's how it all goes down. After selecting your vehicle and the race in which you want to compete, you’re treated to a hefty load time of almost 30 seconds. The loading screen is comprised of slow tracking shots of your logo-emblazoned car. These pans are designed to make the vehicle look impressive from dynamic angles, but I found it difficult to focus on anything beside the arresting corporate decals. While it’s true that real rally vehicles are covered in sponsored icons, half-minute close-ups before every race came across as a pre-loaded advertizing scheme. Oh well, I didn't get this game for the loading screens anyway.

Next comes the actual race, which if you’ve never played a DiRT game before and have the assists turned off, you will not win. In fact you’ll be lucky to finish better than last place. DiRT 3 prides itself on its simulated car handling (supporting an array of peripheral wheels), which requires high attentiveness to the angles, surfaces and inclines of turns and mastery of environmentally responsive steering. In short, it’s pretty hard for a newcomer to keep the car on the road, facing the right direction. Rather than retrying the same track over and over (if you actually finish the race, a retry also means sitting through another load screen), I was more driven to actually make progress and attempt new tracks where I might have better luck. I switched on a couple assists and successfully soldered forward. Mr. Neeble would probably have been pretty disappointed.

So, let’s say you’re won a couple events. In most racing games you accumulate an overflowing garage of cars from your in-game winnings. While there are plenty of autos in DiRT 3, you never really own them. When you win races in DiRT 3, you earn points and those points go toward unlocking predetermined sponsorship offers from various racing teams. This gives you access to vehicles with gaudy logo treatments. Most of the cars in a given class seem to have about equal horsepower, making aesthetics the key variance. It's too bad you’ll need to squint to see distinctions between many of the cars underneath their corporate-sponsored shells. Additionally, the most recent team unlocked will always award the most bonus points for using it, which is how the game passively invites you to give each of their sponsors time in the spotlight. The "endgame" vehicles are not insane supercars, they're just big-time advertiser deals from DC Shoes and Monster Energy for car models already accessible.

The result of all this ad noise combined with toggling on all of the assists is that the DiRT Tour just about drives itself, stopping only to let you choose your next sponsorship experience. “That rocked! Upload that footage to YouTube,” the disembodied voice of your unseen bro pal beckons post-race. DiRT 3 pushes you to share video footage more than any other single mechanic. You don’t have to be content merely sifting through the game’s myriad sponsorships, because with a little effort, you can be an advertiser too. You know, for that driving sim you like with all the ads in it.

It’s a bummer that I felt this way about the game for most of the campaign's length because there’s a phenomenal driving game underneath all of the sponsored clutter, contextually authentic as it may be. After I finished the campaign, I switched off most of the assists with the intention of bettering my driving skills. I was pleasantly surprised to find that I’d improved considerably since my initial failed attempts and continue to become more entrenched in the simulation style of which DiRT 3 is capable. That's right, I'm still coming back to DiRT 3; it's a less claustrophobic experience once you complete and break away from the campaign's narrative.

I should mention that during the DiRT Tour there was one consistent bright spot: gymkhana. For the uninitiated, gymkhana events focus on performing tricks (donuts, jumps, drifts, etc.) instead of racing, and they take place in areas full of daredevil-inspiring obstacles instead of linear tracks. At some point you unlock the open-ended DC Shoes (natch) Battersea compound which has no timer or score missions, just Achievement-style objectives that you can choose to engage or leave in the background. Not only is it an absolute blast to fling your car over steel girders and under semi-truck trailers in Battersea, there's a freedom and a playfulness to gymkhana that is just flat-out missing from simulation racing. There may not be enough to the gymkhana events to justify an entire game around them, but they serve as great complement to the unforgiving rigor of the rest of DiRT 3's driving. And yeah, Mr. Neeble would probably hate gymkhana, which makes it all the more appealing.

There are two layers to the DiRT 3 experience. The top layer is a thin, beautiful sheen; it keeps up appearances and pays the bills through corporate partnerships. Players can casually remain on DiRT 3's top layer, and they'll likely have a decent enough time. The bottom layer houses the deep simulation, and is where DiRT 3 really gets its legs. The problem is that the power relationship between these two layers is imbalanced in favor of the weaker, top-level experience. Also an issue is how there's no clear path for players to make the transition from top to bottom. During the campaign, DiRT 3 smothers you with attention, but once you complete the Tour, you're thrown out the door in the middle of the desert. The game makes you earn your freedom and tasks you with finding your own purpose for continuing to play it.

DiRT 3's learning curve mimicked my own driver's education experience more than I would have liked, but in some ways, the contrast of knowing that I'd once again bested a Mr. Neeble-esque gauntlet, makes the thrill of unassisted driving all the more resonant.

:top image modified from Gamersyde:
:body image from Obsolete Gamer: 

:reposted on Medium Difficulty: 

Confessions of a Last-Gen Gamer

Back in September, Sony unveiled a third body design for the PlayStation 3 (PS3) console, which left many game journalists puzzled, or at best, indifferent.  There was no headline-grabbing price drop, despite the system being constructed from cheaper materials.  The timing was odd and anticlimactic: too far away from a projected PS4 release next holiday season, yet somehow too close.  Maybe Sony wanted a new piece of hardware on shelves to counteract the Wii U launch.  If nothing else, a cheaper manufacturing assembly could only improve the PS3's per-unit profitability, a problem for Sony since the console debuted in 2006  Speculation went on, but the big question was "who is this for?"

The answer: me.  I live and breathe games, but I've yet to own a PlayStation 3 or Xbox 360, until now.  It's a little embarrassing to admit this in the age where anyone who talks about games first must prove their "gamer cred."  But it's true, for the past 6 years, I've been a "last-gen gamer."  With my new PS3 this year, I've finally entered the current generation of consoles.  It didn't have anything to do with the console redesign, just that this was finally the right time for me.

For years I got by just fine, discovering older games that I never had the chance to play, while keeping abreast of current game culture through various podcasts, news feeds, reviews, and feature stories instead of actually playing the titles being discussed.  On the upside, there are so many interesting older games that I could dedicate time to, instead of overlooking them in favor of the constant cycle of zeitgeist-of-the-week titles.  For a long time, I was quite content to revel in undiscovered 8 and 16-bit treasures, absorbing Mass Effects and Assassin's Creeds from the sidelines.  Sure, I've missed those big communal gaming moments, like the collective puzzle-solving of Fez upon release, but that was all part of the gamble.  However, since I spend so much time and effort writing about games, it became clear that I could no longer hang back.

In large part my decision to withhold buying a current generation console until now was based on money.  I was a PS2 loyalist from launch who wanted nothing to do with Xbox and it's giant jewels-for-buttons Halo controllers.  This was also high school, so let's not dwell on biases.  Naturally, I was interested in continuing the legacy by purchasing a PS3 in 2006, but the $600 price point was a nonstarter.  I was then a very recent college graduate, trying to practice personal fiscal responsibility and independence.  I didn't want to throw down that kind of money on something as seemingly frivolous as a new video game console, especially when the price of games also increased to $60 from 50.  The PS3 was even too expensive to feel comfortable asking for as a birthday gift from my parents.  Besides, for that kind of money I'd rather have invested toward something truly extravagant like an arcade cabinet or a pinball machine.  I knew from history that console prices eventually lower; they always had.  I figured I could just wait for Sony to come to me, but that wait was much, much longer than I expected.

Despite this, being a last-gen gamer isn't depressing like you might think.  In fact, during my current-gen fast I discovered several substantial benefits of forgoing day-one-purchase culture.

1: Hindsight.  2012 alone has seen the release of hundreds of games—far too many for a single person to play in one year.  Coming to a console after-the-fact means I can easily select the critical standouts and avoid the noise.  Games are a unique medium when it comes to the quality of sequels, often iterating on their predecessors, improving functionality and addressing unresolved issues from the previous title.  If I can buy LittleBigPlanet 2, I really don't need the first one.  This logic doesn't apply to all franchises, but is especially applicable to sequels plagued by critical labels like "more of the same" which were otherwise touted as technical improvements.  I spend less time and money, but still get the best of a particular brand of experience.

2: Cheap games.  This one's pretty simple.  I don't need to spend more than $20 for new, in-box retail games that originally sold for 3 times as much.  Deluxe reissues and trilogy collections abound, including DLC add-ons for a fraction of what they would have cost a la carte upon debut.  As for downloadable games, they're digital, so there's no "limited pressing" impulse buy.  Digital supply is virtually unlimited, so there's no need for consumers to rush out and pay a premium for fear that a game might be hard to come by later.  Plus, even downloadable games go on sale from time to time.  This isn't even taking into account used games, which can reduce costs even further, despite having to deal with blocked online modes and anti-resale DRM.

3: Avoid the hype.  It's refreshing to exist outside of the realm of tech-lust.  In fact, I'd say I'm more appreciative and caring of the technology I do possess because I'm more invested in its longevity.  Part of the appeal for early adopters of new technology is the sexiness and air of luxury that comes with owning something few but the elite crop of die-hards have.  Perhaps it's just come as a part of getting older, but I don't feel an intense need to be a member of that club anymore.  I like new stuff, but if a product is built for the long haul, it'll still be around when a purchase becomes more personally convenient.

The wait-and-see approach has its downsides though.  Conversations about current games are richer when drawn from the physical experience of actually playing them.  Even with a background in previous console generations, I can only assume so much based on descriptive video footage and commentary.  Also, much the way services like Netflix and Hulu have been accused of killing the simple pleasures and unexpected discovery of channel surfing, a last-gen gamer making the leap forward is more likely to invest in a "greatest hits" game collection than try out B-tier titles that try something unique, but flounder on the overall package.  For example, I may give the supposedly provocative, yet middling shooter, Spec Ops: The Line, a shot someday, but it's certainly not on my initial list of must-plays.

Ultimately, I recommend being a last-gen gamer, at least for one console generation.  It was a great run — I've learned quite a bit about my own consumer preferences and have observed the video game industry from a more objective, disconnected perspective.  As long as you're not a collector, last-gen gaming is a super cheap way to maintain a gaming hobby.  I've only joined the corporate-indoctrinated fray because writing about games has become more than a recreational exercise for me, and at some point I was missing essential tools for the job.  There's not one correct way to play or interpret games, and by extension, there is a diversity of gamers who consume games at their own pace.  I don't know if there are enough last-gen gamers out there to make an impact on the video game marketplace, but no matter—flying under he radar is sort of the point. 

:image modified from The Daily Mail:

Review: Journey (PS3)

I used to persistently need the latest video games simply because I was driven to have the new thing.  Now, I'm content to wait months, even years after a game's release to pick it up, knowing I'll pay significantly less for it.  Despite this, I stay up to the minute on the ongoings of the game industry and see a renewed value in playing games upon release that have significant online integration or a collective sociocultural metagame.  The third-person wandering/jumping simulator, Journey, is one of those critical zeitgeist titles that not only has everyone playing, but also musing about.  In what has become a rare case for me, I actually got to spend a decent amount of time with a truly contemporary game; enough to play it through more than once and watch other people play as well.  It's a special game that strengthens and validates my convictions toward games as an artistic medium.

Journey is thatgamecompany's third PS3 game, and also their best.  You play as a robed figure with a glyph-laden scarf which determines how high you can jump based on its length.  The measure of your scarf can be increased by finding hidden glowy things throughout the world.  Other than that, the basic task is to explore the sand-covered landscape, traversing platforms toward a shining mountain top that seems many miles away.  If online, sometimes another human player will join your game and play along, but you don't have to stay together if you don't want to.  There are a few pitfalls and some light puzzle solving, but the bulk of what makes Journey special is what it does with this seemingly bare-bones design.

The easiest parallel between Journey and works from a different creative medium is film.  I can't think of another title that has executed cinematic gameplay to such a loyal extent as Journey.  Given 2011's proclivity towards silent film, the comparisons are all the easier.  Journey contains no dialogue, just chirp tones that can be used for communicating with an anonymous online partner.  Much like Melie's fantastical works, thatgamecompany created a world of constant visual wonderment: a cinematographer's utopia.  You have control over the camera most of the time, but at key moments the game takes over.  This could be to show a particular action sequence from a flattering angle where the sunlight optimally beams through archways making your sandy path glisten, or to frame the mountain top that serves a your destination in a way that makes it seem ever-distant.  The game's duration is on par with a typical full-length feature, making replays feel like rewatching a beloved film out of your home video collection.  You know how the plot goes, but it's exciting when your favorite scenes pop up again.

The multiplayer component of Journey seems like the kind of mechanic that would be at odds with this cinematic flair, but it actually supports it.  Because players' interactions are so limited, there's no way to grief your partner that will ruin their experience.  You could chirp a lot, which would be strange, but there's even a stage in the game where that ability is all but shuttered.  At worst you could attempt to leave the other player in the dust or simply disable the online feature.  At best you make your way through Journey and complete it as a twosome.  There's something to be said for playing Journey solo.  It's a solemn, contemplative experience: quiet and a little sad.  As a pair, there are plenty of scenarios that, ironically, I can best describe as dialogues:

"Wait up."
"OK, I'll stay here."

"Let's do this."
"I'm ready."

"This is crazy!"
"I know!"

"Where did you go?"
"Over here.  Coast is clear."

"Hello?"
"..."

"There's something down there."
"Follow me."

"Oh man, this is it."
"Let's go together."

The way in which I generated theses words in my mind is akin to writing speaking parts for characters in a painting.  Imagine Seurat's Sunday Afternoon where you get to play as the pet monkey.  If only a phoenix made of ribbons would emerge out of the water.  The point is that Journey stirs your imagination, during play, to fill in the gaps it purposefully creates with its minimalist approach.  I haven't played another game that does that.  You build a relationship with the other character making completion of the game's trails more emotionally resonant than the solo experience.

I've noticed a number of critics not just reviewing the game, but recounting their playthrough(s) of Journey, as if there's significant variation in the stories to tell.  I mean, how different could they be from mine?  It's not like Journey has MMO levels of complexity to its online interactions and player agency, yet people are compelled to spin their personal tales.  I only refrained myself because I've seen so many other writers touch on the subject, and people are saying rather similar things.  Surely this is an intended outcome of the game's design, making the player feel like they've taken on some sort of trek, albeit virtual, that had them invested enough in the game world to empathize and identify with the characters.  Are some players just being sentimental or is Journey designed to evoke sentimentality from those willing to participate in the silent melodrama?  For me, it's the latter.

Part of what makes Journey open to these types of responses is that it limits the number of technical hiccups that could possibly break the mood, shifting the focus on the characters literal forward progress.  The action moves with a serene fluidity, allowing you to build momentum and glide along with an exaggerated tangibility that feels just superhuman enough.  My main gripe with thatgamecompany's previous title, Flower, was how much time I spent missing my targets and having to stop and slowly turn around, with only the Sixaxis controls at my disposal.  With Journey, not only are motion controls optional, but when speeds do ramp up you can simply enjoy engaging with the slope instead of having to meet some objective all the while.  The resulting achievement is that moment-to-moment gameplay in Journey maintains a consistency in your character's relationship to the world and keeps players' attentions focused on those interactions.

At the end of Journey, the game tells you the usernames of the actual humans you played with, which is the right amount of metadata to allow into this game, and presented at the right time.  It's as if the game knows you could be about to disconnect with its world, and pulls you in one last time to say, "Yes, you just finished a video game, but something real happened here."  My reaction to this was to press "start" and do it all again.