I haven't had a chance to fire up either my Wii or my PS2 for the last couple of days, because November 27 marked my return to working life after a long absence (hubby and I had been enjoying the good life since November 16). Being back at work returns me to the presence of my coworkers who, as well as I get along with them and they with me, are mostly non-gamers. They have, however, shared in my joy at getting a Wii at 00:01 A.M on launch day---in fact, more than a few coworkers were surprised that I was able to get this coveted toy, and I may have earned some cool points by having the latest gadget in time for the X-Mas season.
Tonight, a former coworker was visiting the area, so my work gang gathered at our local DuClaw for a drink and some revelry. Three beers later found found me sitting at a table with my next-door-cubemate and our boss, explaining my lifelong fear of fish via an explanation of colossus number 7---codename Hydrus, the electric eel---from Shadow of the Colossus. I don't think they understood what I was getting at, but the experience brought me to an overwhelming question: How do you explain the appeal of a video game that good to the uninitiated?
It's no easy feat, obviously. Specifically, trying to explain a concept already as radical and groundbreaking as SotC to people who didn't even realize that Mario had gone 64-bit. I think in my inebriated state I managed to say "You play as this little guy---I mean this normal sized guy---who has to kill these giant [here I flailed my arms out wildly, possibly knocking over someone's drink] monsters by climbing up them and stabbing them [mimes stabbing motion with an imaginary sword, knocking over more drinks] in their glowing magical weakpoints. It's revolutionary. . . . Man!"
If I had the chance again---to explain SotC to an uninitiated but interested third party---what would I say?
It's the story of an ordinary boy, so consumed by guilt and love, that he has traveled to the ends of the earth to resurrect the object of his affection at any price. And the price is terrible. Sixteen majestic monsters---sky-scraper-sized on the screen---each a vastly complex puzzle in its own right, must be felled in order to return this girl from her undeserved grave. The game mechanics are revolutionary but that's not a point that my colleagues care about. They haven't seen a video game since their princess was in another castle.
The most magnificent aspect of Shadow of the Colossus is the ambiguous morality that it occupies. The hero, Wander, will stop at nothing to undo the wrongdoing that has caused Mono's untimely death (a death which, evidence indicates to me, probably occured at his own hand), and never stops to think whether what he is doing is right or wrong. The spirit Dormin warns Wander that the price will be great, but how great is it? At the end of the game, has Wander felled sixteen terrible creatures and undone a terrible wrong at the cost of his own life? Or has he slain sixteen innocent creatures that were set upon protecting the world from the release of a terrible evil with the power to reverse even death. . . .
This is the sort of moral quandary that I know would appeal to my colleagues if they could get past the circle-triangle-square-X mechanics of it. I'm afraid I botched it. . . . I see many gamer geek jokes in my future at work.
In closing, a short haiku on Shadow of the Colossus:
Sixteen stone giants.
A boy, a horse, a dead girl.
"Don't fall off, Fucktard."
Tonight, a former coworker was visiting the area, so my work gang gathered at our local DuClaw for a drink and some revelry. Three beers later found found me sitting at a table with my next-door-cubemate and our boss, explaining my lifelong fear of fish via an explanation of colossus number 7---codename Hydrus, the electric eel---from Shadow of the Colossus. I don't think they understood what I was getting at, but the experience brought me to an overwhelming question: How do you explain the appeal of a video game that good to the uninitiated?
It's no easy feat, obviously. Specifically, trying to explain a concept already as radical and groundbreaking as SotC to people who didn't even realize that Mario had gone 64-bit. I think in my inebriated state I managed to say "You play as this little guy---I mean this normal sized guy---who has to kill these giant [here I flailed my arms out wildly, possibly knocking over someone's drink] monsters by climbing up them and stabbing them [mimes stabbing motion with an imaginary sword, knocking over more drinks] in their glowing magical weakpoints. It's revolutionary. . . . Man!"
If I had the chance again---to explain SotC to an uninitiated but interested third party---what would I say?
It's the story of an ordinary boy, so consumed by guilt and love, that he has traveled to the ends of the earth to resurrect the object of his affection at any price. And the price is terrible. Sixteen majestic monsters---sky-scraper-sized on the screen---each a vastly complex puzzle in its own right, must be felled in order to return this girl from her undeserved grave. The game mechanics are revolutionary but that's not a point that my colleagues care about. They haven't seen a video game since their princess was in another castle.
The most magnificent aspect of Shadow of the Colossus is the ambiguous morality that it occupies. The hero, Wander, will stop at nothing to undo the wrongdoing that has caused Mono's untimely death (a death which, evidence indicates to me, probably occured at his own hand), and never stops to think whether what he is doing is right or wrong. The spirit Dormin warns Wander that the price will be great, but how great is it? At the end of the game, has Wander felled sixteen terrible creatures and undone a terrible wrong at the cost of his own life? Or has he slain sixteen innocent creatures that were set upon protecting the world from the release of a terrible evil with the power to reverse even death. . . .
This is the sort of moral quandary that I know would appeal to my colleagues if they could get past the circle-triangle-square-X mechanics of it. I'm afraid I botched it. . . . I see many gamer geek jokes in my future at work.
In closing, a short haiku on Shadow of the Colossus:
Sixteen stone giants.
A boy, a horse, a dead girl.
"Don't fall off, Fucktard."
1 comment:
I also know the pain of being a misunderstood gamer.
And how.
I also know the pain of spending two to four hours per runthrough on Colossus 16. Apparently with the help of a FAQ, Catarina learned the intended way to make it from his right hand to his shoulder.
I, however, stuck with the less scripted, and more physics-based 'Leap of Faith' method. Persistence for the win.
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