Top 10
Batman: Arkham Asylum
I'm standing perched on a gargoyle in a dark room, somewhere deep in the Arkham Asylum sewers. There are about ten of the Joker's henchman in the area, all armed. Some are patrolling back and forth, a couple are hanging out off to the side, some are lingering, chatting by a wall, and two more are guarding the tower that I need to reach. There are few places to hide.
Focus on your surroundings. Look for an advantage.
I activate the x-ray in my cowl and survey the area. The wall ahead of me is hollow at the base, right behind the chatty group of guards. Below that and to the side, in a trench, is an open duct leading into the small, hidden area behind the wall, but two of the henchman are in the area. One turns his back. I fire my grappling hook, swinging to another gargoyle. Before he has time to turn back around, I descend like a predator, grabbing his partner and stringing him up by his ankles, unconscious. He turns around. His heart rate spikes; he's confused and scared, and runs to find his missing partner. I glide down to the duct entrance and make my way to the hidden area sealed behind the wall.
The wall is crumbling; some explosive gel would take it right out, probably with enough force to take out the group of gossiping bad guys gathered in front of it. But the commotion will draw all the other guards to this spot. Fortunately, the duct exit is on the opposite side of where I entered. I place the gel on the wall, and place more on the weak floor beneath me, which is also the ceiling to a small tunnel beneath that. I make my way to the exit of the duct and detonate the first charge. As planned, the henchman are caught in the blast and the rubble, and all knocked out. Also as expected, more come running to investigate. As one runs through the lower tunnel, I detonate the second charge, taking him out.
In the chaos I dash out of the duct and grapple up to another gargoyle. I have to act fast, while they're scared and panicking. I throw three batterangs into the crowd, knocking their guns from their hands. I glide to the floor and deliver a hard and fast kick to one. I get up and turn around to fight the other two. I knock one down while the other goes for his gun. I turn to deliver a downward punch to his shoulder, knocking him to the ground. The last one comes from behind me and attacks; I quickly counter, grabbing his arm and delivering a hard strike to his face. Only the two on the tower are left. I fire my line launcher right over one of their heads and deliver the old speeding kick to the face move again as I shoot across the room. As soon as I deliver the kick, the other guard turns to attack, but the moment I land I just continue running straight and then around the tower; before he even knows what's happened, I'm behind him. One quick strike and he's on the floor.
Oh yeah. I'm Batman. No other game has made me feel so much like the character I'm controlling. Arkham Asylum, for me, was the ultimate wish fulfillment game that made me feel as empowered as the Dark Knight himself.
STALKER: Shadow of Chernobyl
I've sung this game's praises in places far and wide across the internet. I can't speak of it highly enough; I love this game. The Zone is a harsh, desolate and unforgiving landscape. The ruins of civilization surround you, whatever riches they may have once had to offer long ago picked clean by salvagers and treasure hunters. Necessities such as first aid, food and weapons are in short supply, hazardous environmental anomalies and mutant wildlife make travel deadly, and the underground labs and bases you'll be exploring are host to worse horrors. Exploring the topside of the zone instilled a profound sense of desperation, where even small victories were immensly satisfying.
Likewise, exploring the underground labs and military bases were some of the most terrifying experiences I've ever had in a game. You never know what's going to try to kill you; the almost invisible, ninja-like bloodsucker mutants, the completely invisible, telekinetic poltergeists, lumbering behemoths who shake the earth with their every step. All the while you're caught between competing factions of bandits, scientists, the military, and the warring Freedom and Duty militias. I love this game.
Psychonauts
I want to have Tim Schaefer's babies. Most people who know me also know this. I worship the man. He's brilliant and you need to look no further than Psychonauts for proof of this fact. Psychonauts is a fine example of design and narrative being blended perfectly. Ostensibly, Psychonauts is a cleverly-written action platformer about Raz, a young boy in a psychic summer camp, as he explores the psyches of various characters. But Psychonauts becomes so much more than the mere sum of its parts thanks its level design.
A perfectly smooth, black and white cube floating in empty space. As valves begin to burst open, sides of the cube explode into jungles of ephemera. A bed, a crib, building blocks, stacks of books; psychic censors -- meant to expel foreign or troubling thoughts from the mind -- pour out from valves in hordes.
A hopping retro night club/roller coaster that hosts a never-ending dance party. Faceless automatons dance ceaselessly while the guests ride around obstacle courses on psychic levitation orbs. Dance platforms hover in the air, the music never stops, bright colors plaster everything in sight... truly, this is a happy place. So you're bouncing around on your levitation orb, collecting items and exploring every nook and cranny of the dance party palace. But what's this? This room looks different. It's quieter and there are toys scattered about. You punch a conspicuous looking chest and are greeted by a fiery red light. Jumping into the portal, you're surrounded by flames and monsters as childrens' voices cry out for help. Being suitably freaked out, you escape. That was... unexpected...
A sleepy suburban neighborhood, or at least, it is at first glance. As you continue down the streets, they spiral out into oblivion. The whole thing looks like an MC Escher painting. As if that weren't strange enough, there are no regular people in this town. It's populated solely of suspicious-looking robots, acting out roles such as housewife, gardener, and road worker. Actually, there are the girl scouts, but they seem to be strangely hostile and withholding of information. And then there are those cameras and eyes that seem to pop out of bushes, mailboxes, fire hydrants, and, well, they're everywhere!
A strategy board game. The player's opponent is Napoleon, who always wins.
A peaceful city of "lungfish" monsters being brainwashed and dictated over by a giant, monstrous human.
A small Mexican town that looks like a black velvet painting, populated by painting dogs who are being terrorized by a rampaging bull.
These are all levels in the game that exist inside the minds of its various characters. Sasha is a cold, calculating man who has his emotions under tight control at all times... until those valves break, and his deepest troubles come exploding to the surface, exposing the deep-seated memories of loss that permeate his subconscious. Mia buries her nightmares under a carefree and fun-loving exterior, as demonstrated by her endless dance party being built upon the remains of a personal tragedy. The suburban nightmare is the product of paranoid conspiracy theorist Boyd. The board game is the result of humiliation and general low self-esteem suffered by Ned, a descendant of Napolean himself with a strong inferiority complex. The black velvet painting come to life is birthed from the mind of Edgar, an artist failing to accept the reality of a past that might not be quite so horrible as it seems.
Psychonauts's levels told entire narratives with no more than their visual design, all within an already well-written and hilarious plot.
A perfectly smooth, black and white cube floating in empty space. As valves begin to burst open, sides of the cube explode into jungles of ephemera. A bed, a crib, building blocks, stacks of books; psychic censors -- meant to expel foreign or troubling thoughts from the mind -- pour out from valves in hordes.
A hopping retro night club/roller coaster that hosts a never-ending dance party. Faceless automatons dance ceaselessly while the guests ride around obstacle courses on psychic levitation orbs. Dance platforms hover in the air, the music never stops, bright colors plaster everything in sight... truly, this is a happy place. So you're bouncing around on your levitation orb, collecting items and exploring every nook and cranny of the dance party palace. But what's this? This room looks different. It's quieter and there are toys scattered about. You punch a conspicuous looking chest and are greeted by a fiery red light. Jumping into the portal, you're surrounded by flames and monsters as childrens' voices cry out for help. Being suitably freaked out, you escape. That was... unexpected...
A sleepy suburban neighborhood, or at least, it is at first glance. As you continue down the streets, they spiral out into oblivion. The whole thing looks like an MC Escher painting. As if that weren't strange enough, there are no regular people in this town. It's populated solely of suspicious-looking robots, acting out roles such as housewife, gardener, and road worker. Actually, there are the girl scouts, but they seem to be strangely hostile and withholding of information. And then there are those cameras and eyes that seem to pop out of bushes, mailboxes, fire hydrants, and, well, they're everywhere!
A strategy board game. The player's opponent is Napoleon, who always wins.
A peaceful city of "lungfish" monsters being brainwashed and dictated over by a giant, monstrous human.
A small Mexican town that looks like a black velvet painting, populated by painting dogs who are being terrorized by a rampaging bull.
These are all levels in the game that exist inside the minds of its various characters. Sasha is a cold, calculating man who has his emotions under tight control at all times... until those valves break, and his deepest troubles come exploding to the surface, exposing the deep-seated memories of loss that permeate his subconscious. Mia buries her nightmares under a carefree and fun-loving exterior, as demonstrated by her endless dance party being built upon the remains of a personal tragedy. The suburban nightmare is the product of paranoid conspiracy theorist Boyd. The board game is the result of humiliation and general low self-esteem suffered by Ned, a descendant of Napolean himself with a strong inferiority complex. The black velvet painting come to life is birthed from the mind of Edgar, an artist failing to accept the reality of a past that might not be quite so horrible as it seems.
Psychonauts's levels told entire narratives with no more than their visual design, all within an already well-written and hilarious plot.
Deus Ex
What can I say? Deus Ex is not just in my top ten of the decade but also in my top ten of all time.
It's the not-too-distant future and the world is kind of a mess, under almost constant threat of attack by numerous organized terrorist organizations and ravaged by a plague referred to as the "Grey Death." There's a vaccine for the disease but it's in precious short supply, and restricted for use by only the most rich and powerful. Corporate power has risen to the level of government and the poverty gap is at an extreme; there are the haves and the have-nots, and very few in-between.
In this brave new world, you assume the role of JC Denton, an agent of an international anti-terrorism/police force called UNATCO. Beginning the game as a new recruit, freshly implanted with nanotechnology upgrades to your body, your first mission is to reclaim Liberty Island -- the home base for UNATCO -- from a group of terrorists who have taken over the area surrounding the statue. After this you'll embark on several routine but suspiciously connected missions that eventually unravel into a conspiracy years in the making, and with you at its center.
I could go on about its mash-up of genres (which is sublime, by the way). I could go on about the intricate, conspiracy-theory 101 course that is the game's plot. I could go on about the depth of RPG elements, the freedom of play styles, the openness of the environments and level design. However, all of this boils down to one simple design law: choice, and there is one particularly resonant instance where this core philosophy was made most clear to me.
My brother has just be revealed as a traitor, working for the National Secessionist Forces against UNATCO. He's convinced that UNATCO is the real threat to the world. I'm not so sure. However, he's my brother, and I trust him. He sends me on a mission send out a signal to his friends in the underground. Upon completing the mission, we're both discovered as traitors, and UNATCO is on their way to his apartment to arrest him. I race back to Paul's place so we can flee the country and meet his allies in Hong Kong. The soldiers are already at the entrance to the building, so I go up the fire escape and through the window.
What can I say? Deus Ex is not just in my top ten of the decade but also in my top ten of all time.
It's the not-too-distant future and the world is kind of a mess, under almost constant threat of attack by numerous organized terrorist organizations and ravaged by a plague referred to as the "Grey Death." There's a vaccine for the disease but it's in precious short supply, and restricted for use by only the most rich and powerful. Corporate power has risen to the level of government and the poverty gap is at an extreme; there are the haves and the have-nots, and very few in-between.
In this brave new world, you assume the role of JC Denton, an agent of an international anti-terrorism/police force called UNATCO. Beginning the game as a new recruit, freshly implanted with nanotechnology upgrades to your body, your first mission is to reclaim Liberty Island -- the home base for UNATCO -- from a group of terrorists who have taken over the area surrounding the statue. After this you'll embark on several routine but suspiciously connected missions that eventually unravel into a conspiracy years in the making, and with you at its center.
I could go on about its mash-up of genres (which is sublime, by the way). I could go on about the intricate, conspiracy-theory 101 course that is the game's plot. I could go on about the depth of RPG elements, the freedom of play styles, the openness of the environments and level design. However, all of this boils down to one simple design law: choice, and there is one particularly resonant instance where this core philosophy was made most clear to me.
My brother has just be revealed as a traitor, working for the National Secessionist Forces against UNATCO. He's convinced that UNATCO is the real threat to the world. I'm not so sure. However, he's my brother, and I trust him. He sends me on a mission send out a signal to his friends in the underground. Upon completing the mission, we're both discovered as traitors, and UNATCO is on their way to his apartment to arrest him. I race back to Paul's place so we can flee the country and meet his allies in Hong Kong. The soldiers are already at the entrance to the building, so I go up the fire escape and through the window.
As soon as I enter the room, they're already at Paul's door, demanding his surrender. Paul begs me to leave while he holds them off. They threaten to blast open the door. Reluctantly, I turn away from my brother and escape back through the window. It doesn't matter. I'm still captured, and later, while escaping my prison, I find Paul's body in the morgue. I grieve for my brother, whom I will never see again, whose friendly, familiar voice will never again chime in on my communications link with words of advice.
Jump forward to my second playthrough of the game. Once again, I'm standing in Paul's apartment. UNATCO soldiers are outside, demanding his surrender. He tells me to run and save myself while he holds them off. No. This time I'm not turning away. I'm seeing this through. I plant proximity charges on the wall by the entrance, take out my assault rifle, and take cover behind the couch. UNATCO soldiers blast the door open and run into the room. The charges explode, taking out the point men, as Paul and I leap into action, guns blazing, killing the rest. We run out to the lobby. Paul stands at the top of the stairs, firing into the group of soldiers gathered on the first floor while I toss gas grenades. Together, we make our way to the front door. This time we're both captured -- alive. While making my escape I find Paul in the doctor's office, where he assures me that he can escape on his own. Later, I meet him in Hong Kong, alive and well.
The first time, it never occurred to me that I could stay and fight with Paul. I had been in this situation in games countless times; forced to watch one of my allies valiantly sacrifice him/herself for me, and unable to do anything to prevent it due to the linearity of the game. That character dies so I can live. That's how the story is written. Done. Deus Ex was the first game to give me that kind of choice. It broke my expectations of what a game can and should be.
Metal Gear Solid 2: Sons of Liberty
Hideo Kojima is an artist. There, I said it. Want proof? Did MGS2 piss you off? Did it fascinate you? Did it confuse you? Did it defy your every expectation? Yeah, I thought so. Congratulations, you felt exactly what Kojima wanted you to feel.
Like everyone else, I came to this game expecting another stealthy, shootery tale of Solid Snake taking down another Metal Gear and saving the world. Silly gamer. Of course, that's how the game began, before Kojima ripped the rug from under you.
Hideo Kojima is an artist. There, I said it. Want proof? Did MGS2 piss you off? Did it fascinate you? Did it confuse you? Did it defy your every expectation? Yeah, I thought so. Congratulations, you felt exactly what Kojima wanted you to feel.
Like everyone else, I came to this game expecting another stealthy, shootery tale of Solid Snake taking down another Metal Gear and saving the world. Silly gamer. Of course, that's how the game began, before Kojima ripped the rug from under you.
Now you're controlling Raiden -- a young rookie, raised for combat in virtual simulators. He's green, he's never seen a real battle, he's skinny and pale, kind of withdrawn, a bit of a loner, not very emotionally available... Huh. He sounds kind of like me, maybe not in such a good way.
Then, the game has you enter your name and blood type into a computer. That'd weird -- what was the point? Whatever, you shrug it off.
You continue through the game, which seems all too similar and yet all too different from the first game. You're replaying almost identical scenarios, yet they rarely work out quite the same way. You consistently meet with failure or anti-climactic, hollow successes. Eventually, you're captured, tortured and stripped. As you make your escape, naked, everything around you begins to break down. The Colonel because to speak gibberish. The game feels like it's starting to glitch out. Has Kojima lost it? What the hell is going on?!
Eventually, you encounter Snake, who hands you a sword.
Raiden and Snake are faced with dozens of enemy soldiers. Snake locks and loads and does what he does best: shooting stuff. Raiden, amazingly, has never been more effective than he is with the sword. Sword-wielding enemies close in on the team and Raiden cuts them down. Raiden does all of this while the player controls him from a distance. A 3rd person view suits the control scheme for the sword, which uses the thumb sticks instead of the triggers. Instead of looking through Raiden's eyes, aiming down the sight of a gun, and focusing on a single enemy, Raiden is aware of his full surroundings, and reacts with lightning speed.
And then, just as suddenly as this new style of play is introduced, it's taken away. Raiden is faced with a horde of Metal Gear RAYs, forced to fight them one-by-one with a missile launcher. You're back to playing Snake-but-not-Snake. And what happens? You give up. Raiden can't hold them all off. It isn't until the game's climax, when all guns are removed from your inventory and you're forced to duel Solidus Snake in a sword fight, that Raiden truly finds his purpose.
This is the only fight in the game where the player's success has the direct result of also being Raiden's success. Raiden does succeed, he does so without Snake, or the Colonel, or Rose or Olga, or anyone else. His success isn't hollow, but hugely significant; he's killed the game's antagonist, his father-figure, one of the sons of Big Boss, a man who was, genetically speaking, Snake's equal. Raiden discards his dog tags, which are shown to be printed with the player's name and blood type entered previously.
BioShock was praised for being a game about games. Its entire design was a response to the linearity of even "open-ended" games, and to the player's expectations of games. BioShock handled this theme quite well, and uniquely, but really, MGS2 did it first. Kojima confronted the player with their own expectations and preconceived notions of what a game sequel should be and twisted them. By emulating Snake, Raiden met with failure and empty victories because he was trying to be something he wasn't. Likewise, by trying to recreate MGS1, the player experienced disappointment in the identical scenarios and their own hollow victories. It wasn't until Raiden rejected the player and their expectations that he was able to truly succeed. It wasn't until the player was given a new way to play that they were able to appreciate MGS2 as a new game.
Raiden was made to disappoint fans. The script was made to disappoint fans. The gameplay was designed to be slightly frustrating. But delivering a successful piece of entertainment made only to be consumed and forgotten was not MGS2's purpose. MGS2 was about its form: what is a game? What do we expect from games? What should we expect from games? Kojima is often blamed for wanting to be a director of films, but MGS2's whole purpose was to strip away the notion that games are films. They should be concerned with more than their narrative elements, and use their own unique mechanics to say something new.
Half-Life 2 (and Episodes)
I think it's safe to assume that the brilliance of HL2 and its episodes is just fact at this point. Is there anyone left who does not revere these games? There's simply no reason not to. The combination of animation, writing and acting that convinces us all the Alyx is a real person; the level design and its use of visual narrative that convinces us that City 17 and its surroundings are real places; the stunning vistas, the subtleties of the design (using color and geometry to lead the player without their knowing), the action, the iconic monsters... I could go on and on, but what's the point? We all already love these games for all these reasons and more. I simply don't have much to say because, well, you already know it all.
Shadow of the Colossus
The story of a man called Wander, his horse, Aggro, and his quest to save his dying love. Pursued by a priest and his soldiers, Wander carries his love to the temple in the Forbidden Lands where a spirit, Dormin, claims it can revive her. In order to do so, however, he must slay the Colossi that inhabit the Lands. Shadow of the Colossus is one of the few games to illicit a very real emotional response from me. Not just once, but several times over.
The first time I ventured out into the open of the Forbidden Land was stunning. What was this place? Who lived here and what happened to them? These questions are never answered and that's part of the beauty; the feelings of loneliness and being lost and forgotten. There wasn't much to find there apart from the colossi. Exploring the Forbidden Land was a treat in and of itself. Seeing the next ruin, a swamp, a desert, a lake, was all the incentive I needed to explore this place. It's just me and Aggro exploring the great unknown.
The first time I encountered a Colossus. I have to kill this thing?! How?! I awed at its beauty, terrified that it could kill me with one big stomp. I felt like some kind of fantasy hero dragon slayer; I was a lone swordsman about to bring down the biggest game in town. I climbed its body, stabbing its various weak points, until I emerged victorious.
The first hollow victory. The Collosus falls, lets out a bellowing cry and dies, and for what? It serves no purpose other than my own. I'll do whatever it takes to save her, but surely, this is one of the greatest tragedies of my life. Am I doing the right thing?
The first time I notice the changes in Wander's appearance. A few Colossi dead at his hands and he looks... different. He's bloodied, dirty, tired, weak... and darker.
When Aggro falls into the ravine. My only companion in this wide expanse of emptiness and sorrow, now gone. My quest is nearly complete, but how can I continue alone? Alright -- alone, then.
When I finally complete my quest. My pursuers find me as Dormin is freed. This is what they sought to prevent. Dormin takes over my body and transforms me into a massive demon. I attack my pursuers, but as they flee, the priest creates a vortex to seal the evil, which is now me. I return to my own form as the vortex pulls me in. I struggle against it, employing every cheap trick I can think of. When running is not enough, I attempt jumping and rolling. I'm trying to exploit the game's mechanics and I can't. The vortex is too strong and, despite my best efforts, I can't fight it. It takes me, while my love remains out of reach, far across the temple. I die alone. That's my reward.
Portal
Has any one game created so many memes? The Weighted Companion Cube, the cake is a lie, Still Alive. All have permeated our subculture and continue to be popular three years later.
How about the purity of the design? One weapon with two functions. The game is short, sweet, and leaves you wanting more. There are rooms, these rooms have puzzles, and you have to solve them to advance. That's tetris brought to a whole new, modern level. Pure.
The art direction? The clean, clinical veneer of the facility gradually gives way to its grimy, rusted innards, as GLaDOS gradually reveals her murderous intentions.
The humor. The writing. That's what cinches it for me. Few games have made me laugh out loud quite as much as Portal did. If joy counts as an emotional response, and if the ability to illicit an emotional response qualifies something as art, then I would put Portal on that list without a second thought.
Every Day The Same Dream
It's just a simple, free Flash game, but it's had a haunting, lasting impact on me that I can't ignore. I implore you to go play the game before reading this piece. It only takes about 15 minutes and I promise you, you won't regret it. Reading this first will have a strong impact on your experience, and you should experience it fresh, without expectation.
I wake up to my screeching alarm. I turn it off. I get dressed. I step out into the kitchen, where I'm greeted by my wife.
"Honey, you'll be late for work." What? No, "good morning"? I try to talk to her. "Hurry, you're late for work."
I exit my apartment. I take the elevator down. I get in my car. I sit in stop-and-go-traffic for far too long. I arrive at work.
"You're late," my boss says, "Get to your cubicle." I sigh and head into the office. I pass by a row of identical workers all busy at their computers. I pass by another row of identical workers, all busy at their computers. I pass by another row of--
f**k this.
I see the green sign pointing to the roof at the opposite end of the room, as if it's a traffic signal telling me to go. I don't even think about it. I walk right past my cubicle, make my way up to the roof, and jump.
I wake up to my screeching alarm.
Every Day The Same Dream places you in the role of a disaffected corporate automaton living out his own personal Groundhog Day. There are several actions you can take that derail your day from its usual routine. You can complete them in order until reaching the game's end.
The other actions never occurred to me on that first day. I walked into that building, saw my life, and said "no."
So what does that say about me?
Okami
I am creating life. With a swipe of a brush, I can make flowers bloom, trees sprout, and ward off death itself. If ever there was a way to make the player feel empowered, and significantly so -- not just in the sense of having a bigger gun than everyone else -- this is it. As the sun deity Amaterasu, I bring color and light to a world engulfed in darkness and despair. So simple but so powerful.
True, the game as a whole is great. The Zelda-esque adventuring and exploration, the fast-paced combat, the uniquely gorgeous, painted art-style, the quirky characters; these are not elements to be ignored. While all of those elements contribute to my love for the game, none of them, despite their brilliance, compare to the feeling of being so much more than just another hero, and being so powerful and so mortal at the same time.
Honorable Mentions
I'm not a big multiplayer guy, especially when it comes to shooters. It's not that I dislike them, but rather that I hate playing these games with strangers. It isn't fun for me, competing against or cooperating with a bunch of faceless avatars, many of whom are spouting racial slurs and homophobic rants. Left 4 Dead lets me play with a small group of friends, but it does so much more. I think just about everyone has their go-to L4D crew. And it brings you closer to them, in a weird way. You learn each other's more subtle cues; you develop a sense of understanding usually reserved for tight-knit, elite military units in actions movies. Eventually, the four of you operate like a well-oiled machine, and working with anyone else seems like an invitation to suicide.
Dragon Quest 8
I used to love JRPGs. That was my go-to genre. That love died a slow, painful death as I watched every other element of the industry race ahead while JRPGs remained steeped in their archaic design philosophies. They all began to blend together, with generic plots, generic characters, and outdated play mechanics. I ceased to be able to tell one game of the genre from any other. The genre needs a massive re-imaging to survive, a game to turn it all on its head and venture forth into the brave new world.
Dragon Quest 8 is not this game. It's about as generic as you can get. The story is shallow and the characters cliche. Random encounters, poor balance requiring grinding, uneven pacing... and yet, I love this game. The only thing I can say is that it's charming. I don't know how else to put it. The world is typical, but it's beautifully rendered. The characters are archetypes, but bursting with personality. The English accents, the cute dialogue, the cel-shaded art style -- this game just made me fall in love with it. It does nothing special, but for me it was the swan song of the genre I once loved so much. It brought me right back to those days when I didn't mind grinding for hours, or random encounters, or cryptic methods to obtaining rare items for bragging rights. I put this game in my PS2 and feel like I'm 11 years old again. It just makes me happy.
Oh my GAWD! Remember how awesome this game was the first time you played it? How long we had all been waiting for another good Star Wars game -- no -- another good Star Wars ANYTHING? Light Side points! Dark Side points! The possibilities of the now-scoffed-at binary morality system seemed endless. Exploring planets, becoming a Jedi, playing out your role in a grand space opera. KOTOR was afternoons spent playing with Star Wars micromachines brought to life (or as close to life as Star Wars is likely going to get). Unadulterated joy.
Silent Hill 2
One of my biggest regrets is that I never finished Silent Hill 2. It's too scary. In general, I'm not a fan of scary games. They're too scary. However, what sets Silent Hill 2 apart is how it's scary. Yeah, I'm scared by the monsters, shadows, mist, sounds, and just general atmosphere. Silent Hill 2's atmosphere works on two distinct levels. The narrative level, as the demon-ridden, evil town covered in fog and crawling with evil horrors, and the formal level, as the manifestation of protagonist James' subconscious, which is a driven by guilt, masochism, and a staggering amount of repressed sexual hang-ups.
Therefore, it isn't simply the monsters themselves that terrify me, but what they represent. The slutty zombie nurses, the naked female mannequin legs, the pyramid heads... it call came to a head for me when you witness one of the pyramid heads raping one of the mannequin leg monsters, while James watches from a closet.
Yeah-- dark.
Diablo 2
For the many (many, many, many) completely sleepless nights that this game caused. World of Warcraft never reached this level of game-as-crack for me. In fact, Diablo 2 is the only game that has caused me to play it until the sun comes up (and often, even longer than that). Offline, online, with friends or with strangers, it didn't matter. I had to have it any way I could get it, any time I could get it. And when my mom took it away from me for playing too much, I was tweeking hard. I found where she hid it and stole it back. In hindsight, she did the right thing.
God I love this game. Too much.
My first Ratchet and Clank game. Apparently, I was really missing out. Playing Ratchet and Clank Future is like playing a Pixar movie. For actually caring about collecting all the knick-knacks and leveling up all the weapons, for the sheer pleasure of exploring the game's many and diverse alien landscapes, for Quark's loveable bravado and cowardice, for Clank's dry wit and clever quips, for Ratchet's quest to find the Lombaxes, for the Groovitron (forcing an unresistable urge to dance on your foes is the best weapon in any game ever), for Mr. Zurkon, for all the pretty colors, I say "yes!" to Ratchet and Clank. Color me fanboy.
Grand Theft Auto: Vice City
Grand Theft Auto 3 created the big, open sandbox city. San Andreas expanded it to several cities and a wilderness in between. But few games really show an understanding of themselves as much as Vice City. Claude was a silent everyman, CJ a misunderstood antihero, but Tommy was a homicidal psychopath whose every word was dripping with acrimony. There wasn't anything redeeming about him and that's what made him so much damn fun. He killed people. He blew stuff up. He caused complete and total mayhem. He reveled every minute of it and his psychotic joy was totally and completely infectious.
Then there's the setting. Vice City captured the excess of the '80s by blowing it out of proportion and creating a modern day Sodom. And the soundtrack still remains one of the best, capturing every aspect of the 80s that we all were hoping to forget.
Mass Effect
The shooting is a little bit lackluster and the sidequests are boring and unrewarding. But Mass Effect is a roleplaying game and the roleplaying is where it shines. The Mass Effect developers defined the larger aspects of Shepard before the player ever got a chance to touch him/her. Strangely, by imposing a definition on who Shepard was, it gave the player more freedom to define who Shepard is. Through its grey morality system and paraphrased dialogue options, the player was able to define the more complex aspects of Shepard's personality, and what makes him/her tick. I was always pleasantly surprised with how Shepard interpreted my directions. Mass Effect struck an odd balance between linearity and player freedom that just worked.
God of War 2
God of War 2 is possibly my favorite PS2 game of all time. A big part of that is due to the character of Kratos. Kratos is a villain. I sympathize with his hatred for the gods and his quest for revenge, but I never feel as though his actions are morally justified. Kratos is a villain, through and through. However, there's something incredibly liberating in playing a villain.
Yet, for some reason, I almost never play an evil character when given a choice. God of War 2 is the only game that forces you to be a straight-up bad guy. There is no other way to play the game; there is no roleplaying; I don't have a choice in the matter. Oddly, I find that very freeing. If I don't have a choice, I may as well just accept my fate and enjoy the ride, which is exactly what happens when I play God of War.
Most Under-appreciated
The Witcher
Actions have consequences. I sell some weapons to an "organization" of Elves. Later, one of those weapons is used to murder a man in cold blood. The village is persecuting a witch out religious zealotry. I sympathize with the witch and try to protect her. As a result, I wind up slaughtering the angry villagers in her defense. A civil war is brewing between humans and non-humans. Throughout the game, I try to remain neutral. When everything finally comes to a head in the end, I find myself with few allies. My neutrality has bought me only vitriol and apathy from both sides.
There is no morality in The Witcher. There is no right or wrong, there are only actions and consequences. Dragon Age attempted the same, and succeeded, but not as profoundly as The Witcher did. Your actions in The Witcher create ripples, the effects of which are felt throughout the game. When those actions have their final consequences, it's far too late to simply reload an old save and choose another option. I'm surprised more games don't do this, but I wish they would. The Witcher was, sadly, widely overlooked and deserved some attention.
The Longest Journey
Yeah, yeah, it was technically released in 1999, but it didn't make it to the U.S. until 2000, so I say it counts!
The Longest Journey is like a master class in world building. It tells the story of April Ryan, a young art student living in the future. Like most her age, she's wracked with feelings of apathy, cynicism, uncertainty, fear, etc. She's going through some "stuff." To make matters worse, she thinks she's going crazy, as her dreams begin to invade her waking life in all-too-real ways.
As if life weren't complicated enough, she finds herself integral to the continued existence of two worlds. There's our world, Stark, which is ruled by technology and logic, and there's another world, Arcadia, which is governed by magic and faith.
But that basic premise doesn't do any kind of justice to the game. Narratively as well as thematically, Stark and Arcadia are worlds that feel very real. Stark is an extension of our own reality. It's wracked with wars, big and small; consumerism is a way of life; democracy faded away so gradually that no one even seemed to notice. People live simply for the sake of living, and everyone, April included, is either apathetic or cynical about the whole situation, never really caring to do anything. It isn't quite dystopia but it's still pretty depressing. It's a world whose neon metropolises and grimy inner cities indicate a society that resigned itself to a bleak fate long ago. No one has hope because they've forgotten what the word even means.
Contrastingly, Arcadia is built on hope. It has its own problems: wars, bad omens, the end of the world and all that. Yet the people of Arcadia are robust and strong, and their faith in themselves is completely infectious.
Then there are the more obvious, narrative elements of these worlds. Stark borrows heavily from the usual cyber-punk, Bladerunner-inspired futureworld. The details are what make it stand out. April's student hostel, her neighbors, the school, the art galleries; the ephemera of society that make it what it is, despite its outside appearance. Yes, the world has kind of given up, but they didn't do so deliberately. Life continues, as do its pleasures and quirks.
Arcadia is a mash-up of just about every fantasy world you've ever seen. Yet, it still manages to be so completely alien at times. Typical elves and dwarves are replaced with numerous bizarre, original species, all of which have their own customs and cultures. It just feels real, in large part due to the fact that we only see a sliver of it. We see one part of one country, while it's made clear that there's a whole other planet out there, not at all like our own. Arcadia is built on faith, and as with faith, it's the not knowing that can sometimes make it so important.
Finally, The Longest Journey was, for all intents and purposes, the last gasp of the point-and-click adventure genre. While it has seen a resurgence lately, with the likes of Sam and Max and Tales of Monkey Island, at the time it was dying, and for all we know, The Longest Journey would be its funeral dirge. Somewhat appropriately, TLJ still remains possibly the best of the genre.
Vampire: The Masquerade - Bloodlines
As a whole, Vampire is a disappointment. But for the first 1/3 or so of the game, it's unmitigated genius. The sense of atmosphere in those early parts is unparalleled. The haunted hotel level is, hands down, the most scared I've ever been in a game, and there aren't even any enemies trying to kill you.
It starts with little things. A chair mysteriously falls over. The door to a dryer opens on its own. You hear a pitter-patter behind you. You turn around and--
What was that?
Did you just see something? You could swear you just saw something. It looked like a man but... it came and went so fast. Was it just something in your eye? Is the game really so effective that you're seeing things that aren't there?
Despite the mess of the later game, Vampire deserved more recognition than it got. Maybe it has something to do with the bugs. Maybe it has something to do with being released at the same time as Half-Life 2 and World of Warcraft. Yeah, that might have something to do with it.
Imagine if Middle Earth found itself embroiled in a very sudden, and largely unwanted, industrial revolution. Old traditions butt heads against new ideas. Magic is in direct competition with science, the two physically unable to coexist. Entire cultures find themselves fading into obscurity, facing extinction.
Now imagine being free to be whoever you want to be in this world. I'm a beautiful female outlaw who uses my sexuality or a gun to get what I want, more concerned with my own survival than the fate of the world, but when push comes to shove, I'll do the right thing. Now I'm a gnomish mob boss. I lack any moral compass, taking whatever I want. I have a small army of lackeys to do whatever I demand of them -- why dirty my own hands? I'm a valiant paladin spell-sword, committed to doing justice. Despite my best intentions for the world, my magical leanings make things harder for me. I'm forced to rely on myself more than on society, as society's machines refuse to allow me dominion over them. I'm a sharpshooting elven scientist who believes the old world has to be steamrolled to make way for the new, ancestors be damned.
Arcanum was widely considered a spiritual successor to Fallout and Fallout 2. An easy comparison to make, considering its isometric perspective, 2D graphics and turn-based combat. Personally, I found the world of Arcanum far more fascinating than the wasteland.
You know, both Arcanum and Vampire were developed by Troika, who also win my award for most under-appreciated developer of the decade.
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