Each Time I See You Again, I Fall to Pieces: LEGO Rock Raiders

Long before everything became of the awesome variety with the smash hit but Oscar-less The LEGO Movie, LEGO was a successful series of videogames in addition to being a highly-sought after collectible.*
The contemporary versions of LEGO videogames are usually incredibly successful iterations of licensed games based upon everything from Star Wars to Lord of the Rings. While gameplay has evolved from game to game, there remains a comforting familiarity with each LEGO game in that each every character is represented by a standard mini-fig, a LEGO figure that behaves almost the same in the game as it does in real life, except that in the former it moves independently of any human interaction and has knees and elbows that move.
But it’s the charm that carries through. LEGO games have this playfulness and wonder that melts the heart of any cynic with a potential criticism. LEGO game characters don’t actually speak, only choosing to converse in either vowels or consonants but never both, but they always get the point across with body language and facial expressions. It’s a way of deconstructing a story down to the bare elements of what childlike innocence must be.
LEGO games haven’t always been stellar, though. LEGO Rock Raiders (2000) is a rather tame offering that is a bare bones platformer without any platforms. It’s the videogame offshoot of a successful LEGO series at the time that featured comic books with long narratives involving the many LEGO Rock Raider characters.
That the videogame itself is not very fun to play isn’t surprising, since the winning LEGO videogame formula would get established on the next videogame era, that of the Playstation 2. What is surprising is that the winning formula for making great LEGO movies has already been established with LEGO Rock Raiders 15 years ago as seen in the games cutscenes.
In hindsight, it looks like LEGO videogames have finally achieved the level of technology required to properly make one of its games. But even before then, LEGO pieced together the charismatic performances that would define what fans have long loved about them: simple, uncomplicated characters telling stories that move along based upon their different moods.
Just finished a heroic part of the story? Your mini-fig will show you what that looks like using the simple gestures of LEGO vocabulary. Got to the sad part of the story? Your mini-fig will tug at the strings of your heart with as much emotion as two round, black eyes and a mouth can muster.
Playing LEGO Rock Raiders totally feels like a museum piece because the difference between the movie cutscenes and the gameplay is so off-putting. The movie parts look no different from the ones made today, while the gameplay hasn’t aged gracefully at all, showing that in this case, videogames are sorely lagging behind compared to what an animated movie can do.
If there’s one thing that must be said about LEGO videogames, it’s that none of them allow players to do the one thing that the real thing can: build something of your own creation. We all enjoy seeing a mini-fig building something by throwing it into a pile, but as players we’ve really missed out on building our own stuff. Here’s hoping that the current technology will allow gamers to put bricks together of their choosing to put together cars, houses, but most important of all, spaceships.
I might be the one person out there who would prefer this over an licensed product featuring many humorous movies featuring their heroes as mini-figs, but its not because I know it won’t be done well—that’s for sure, considering it’s culminated in The LEGO Movie. I just hope it’s time for LEGO gamers to get the videogame that LEGO builders have always been enjoying for themselves.

*And, it’s some kind of toy for building stuff, I’ve read.

How far I got in 15 minutes: I did two of the characters, and watched the second movie
The good: Hrrr? Thwrr? Ueooooo….
The bad: Everybody loves getting power crystals (they’re called that for a reason), but Rock Raiders struck me as a spaceship “gritty reboot” that I’m not in favour of
Will I play this game once the year is over: No
Days so far in the Year of the Play-a-DayStation: 38

Video Games are Games Because They’re Played by Players: Pandemonium

When this isn’t a video game level, it serves as a quaint bed and breakfast; a little out of the way, though.

I really wanted to be like everyone else and love the critically-acclaimed Half-Life 2 as the best game ever made at the time of its release, but something ruined it for me. I was snapped out of the game’s immersion during the escape sequence at the beginning of the game when someone had the forethought to lay down a plank between two rooftops in order to facilitate my escape off a roof with no other exit.

It infuriated me.

The awesomeness of a gravity gun notwithstanding, the greatest conceit of Half-Life 2 (or any video game, for that matter) can’t be ignored anymore: we, its players, are the most important part of the game.

Video games create detailed worlds with no purpose but to allow gamers a context to succeed in. Again, this is fine if it’s just to provide us a working environment in which we can reuse the same saw blade over and over again on those jerk-ass Combine cannon fodder. However, this is not acceptable if video games are ever going to graduate to become something other than games to be played for the purpose of winning.

Pandemonium (1996) is a glaring example of a fabricated world that exists for no reason other than to be a series of levels to be completed. As with games of the era, Pandemonium is a sidescrolling platformer that featured 2D gameplay with a 3D background. The resulting “2.5D” effect is jarring when the path our jumping protagonists is following is wide enough to circumvent an enemy obstacle, but the gameplay won’t allow it.

However, the ambiguity of the 2.5D effect disappears when the game environment challenges you to make your way through a narrow set of platforms hovering in mid-air, but this just emphasizes the original point: that video game worlds have no purpose except for a player to complete the challenge set by it. What’s fine for a 90’s era video game has become a cliché that constrains the current development of video games.

Are you an artist that wants to use the amazing world of video games to tell your story? Barring a technological or cultural breakthrough, you’ll be decorating your story environment with the well-worn video game tropes of conveyor belts, crushing slabs that operate on a timed sequence, and elevator platforms without any safety guardrails.

When they order out for pizza, this is the path the delivery guy has to take, and yet they’re stingy tippers, go figure.

It’s obvious that a game world require these kind of conceits to facilitate gameplay for a player, but then that’s all it will ever be: a game. Twenty years from now, the future equivalent of present-day video gamers will be running around the most hyper-realistic environment in order to find extremely lifelike wooden crates in order to smash them open for the spinning power-ups inside.

Regardless of the inability of the medium of video games to fully blossom into the realm of being a fully-fledged art form, gamers are still playing the same games as they were twenty years ago. The linearity of Pandemonium is like that of many video games now, it’s just that developers have gotten better at hiding invisible barriers and paths.

It remains that video games are games because they’re played by players. These players have specific requirements, and it’s this limitation that is holding back the evolution of video games—well, whatever they’re supposed to be called.

How far I got in 30 minutes: Got to the castle with its crushing vertically-arranged pillars
The good: Good level design. For a game.
The bad: Enough with the Celtic rock, at least whip out the bagpipes.
Will I play this again once the year is up: I can only accept so much chaos and disorder in my life, you know.
Days so far in the Year of the Play-a-DayStation: 27

The Difference When it Comes to “Everyone”, “Anyone”, and “No One in Particular: Lucky Luke

Some things are for everyone. Some things are for anymore. And then there are some things that are for no one in particular.

There’s a difference between these, and it’s important to distinguish between them, not least of all when applied to video games, the hobby that straddles the line between commerce and art.

Things that are for everyone are things that have a universal appeal. It can pander to the lowest-common denominator, or it can employ well-worn themes that make it instantly accessible. Things that are for everyone get that way from maximizing its appeal without any regard as to how it will turn out, or from discovering a formula so basic and true that it eloquently speaks a simple truth to all audiences.

An example would be the Call of Duty franchise and many sports franchises, with annual iteration with new features that may not warrant a new retail purchase.*

Things that are for anyone are not made with a universal appeal. Instead, they are things available for anyone to enjoy should they discover it. It’s not necessarily something difficult to appreciate or enjoy, but requires an enthusiast to make some sort of effort towards uncovering this “hidden treasure”. This foster the creation of niche markets/tastes, but dissention of opinion is going to happen with such highly individual and specialized pieces.

One can think of many “art” video games that may qualify for this title, but a good example may be Red Dead Redemption, a game that unexpectedly challenges its audience who may be more familiar with the mayhem available in its open-world siblings. You don’t have to like westerns, or Rockstar, or Grand Theft Auto to enjoy this game: you just have to enjoy a story at odds with the game’s narrative..**

And then there are things that are made for no one in particular. As it is, this thing may be perfect for you, but that wasn’t the expressed purpose. No, amid many good intentions and brilliant design decisions, a video game that was made with no one in particular attempts to please everyone, and ends up pleasing no one. It’s a cross-pollinated genre specimen that is not like either of its parents, but like the abandoned bastard it is. It’s a labor of love for its creators, and a chore for the rest of us.

That’s Lucky Luke (1998), one of the more charming games I’ve ever played that I just feel sorry for.

Lost forever to obscurity, Lucky Luke takes place during the time in the 90s when games were still accustomed to offering 2D platforming, but overlaid on a 3D background. Forever the eternal crusade of video game protagonists to march towards the right side of the screen and jump when necessary, this strange juxtaposition just aggravated the jarring disparity between imagination and technology.

Lucky Luke is a beautiful game. It’s wonderful to take a sojourn though it. But sadly, it combines the influences of a platformer and a puzzle game to become a slow-paced meander through the Old West that gives you time to appreciate the art direction.

I like it, and having such fine taste, you’ll like it too. However, regardless of our appreciation, Lucky Luke was not made for us. It wasn’t made for gamers familiar with platformers or puzzlers. It’s not for fans of Westerns, who probably have a preference for shooting cowboys wearing drabber clothes. It’s not for children, who will enjoy the lovely color scheme and the cartoon violence of killing people with bullets and overhanging cargo boxes.

Lucky Luke was made for its makers. It’s a selfish choice, but it’s the only choice available towards the creation of art. Lucky Luke is a rare creation that we’ll likely not see again, and for this it’s doomed for eternity to receive such eulogies.

If only Lucky Luke was made for anyone, and it could have been, just as all great art is. But Lucky Luke is not of such a high pedigree; instead, it delights its audience with its fresh take, and then punishes them with the responsibility of having to play through its clunky gameplay.

* Off-topic example: when Paris Hilton looks into the camera and says, “I love you, national audience,” she’s not saying she loves you as a person. She loves the public as a whole, and in doing so she gives herself to everyone. In case you lose Paris Hilton, you should keep in mind that she loves the next guy as much as you.
That’s “everyone”
** Don’t like the ending to Red Dead Redemption? Son, that’s the whole point of the game.

How far did I get in 20 minutes: finished the first stage, and then got killed by the mini-boss while wielding a frying pan I had no idea what to do with
The good: liking this game has put me into a more inclusive fan club that Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds
The bad: it’s hard to get other hipsters to notice me playing this down at the coffee canteen
Will I play this game again once this year is over: Yee-haw! Damn tootin! Well, somebody has to…
Days so far in the Year of the Play-a-DayStation: 21

Ludonarrative Dissonance – the Best Neo-Punk Name Up for Grabs: Jackie Chan Stuntmaster

Jackie’s VO may be saying “I don’t want to hurt you,” but I’m going to use this fish and beat you until you blink and disappear.

There’s this word, and it exists to describe something that happens in video games. The problem is that this word is way too complex to describe the crappy games it’s used for.

It’s called ludonarrative dissonance. I promise I won’t use it again.

This isn’t to be anti-intellectual or difficult, but we don’t need a word like that, not as a way to simply describe that games aren’t as fun as they could due to poor design.

I’ve always maintained that video games are art, but that they’re really bad art. We don’t need a fancy term like this, not when playing a crappy game like Jackie Chan Stuntmaster. We don’t need to use a term that’s even longer than the title.

What that phrase can be boiled down to is that the video game and the person playing it are telling two different stories, or narratives, as you will. So to analyze a crappy game like Jackie Chan Stuntmaster, we’ll use an equally crappy term that is fitting enough: story-breaking.

Even though the definition of a video may be tough to pin down, it all comes down to the interactivity a player has with a game. Since video games are almost always a contest for the player to compete in, the unspoken narrative of almost all video games is conquest: a princess to rescue, a race to win, all that kind of macho chest-beating kind of stuff.

As video games have become more complex, so have the stories they want to tell. But no matter how far games have evolved, players are still the same as the stories they want to experience for themselves: they want to have fun, they want to be challenged, they want to win.

Here’s a classic example of story-breaking. Besides the licensing of its titular star, Jackie Chan Stuntmaster is a very plain beat ‘em up. You don’t need to be told that punch-punch-kick is your basic combo, or that hidden collectibles are located up in the rafters. However, because this is Jackie’s video game, it’s going to tell his story, as much as he and his two pointing thumbs’ can tell.

While he’s best known now as a crotchety-old loudmouth who’s a lousy dad, Jackie Chan was famous for establishing his own brand of comedy and action into all of his post-70’s films. Almost all of Jackie Chan’s characters, coincidentally also all named Jackie*, are pacifists that would rather run away than be a tough guy and take on an army. However, what’s great for pratfalls and outtake reels is not necessarily good for a video game.

As a player, you want to kick ass; as Jackie Chan, you want to spread your brand of pacifist comedy. Needless to say, they don’t match. As a player, your brutal button pressing is story-breaking what the lovable crowd pleaser is trying to do; by following the plot and tone of the video game, it’s story-breaking the ambitions of a player that wants to succeed.

What results is a bummer of a game with two separate narratives that cancels each other out, and not just in story-telling.

When you get beat up, Jackie’s voice-over laments, “It’s not my lucky day.” However, before you spend your lotto ticket money on beer, the game suddenly tells us something else. Immediately after, upon finding a collectible, Jackie’s voice-over then contradicts himself by saying, “It’s my lucky day!” And then, there’s the part where Jackie uses a muffler to beat a hoodlum to death, something you won’t see in any of his movies or outtakes.

Video games are fascinating, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves by making terminology for aesthetic and mechanical appreciation more complicated than the game itself. There’s a simple formula, and we’d be wise not to stray from it. It’s called: punch-punch-kick

.

* The same way porn stars portray characters with their own name in their movies. Because: both Jackie Chan and porn stars perform their own stunts．

How far I got in 40 minutes: made it out of Chinatown, and was enjoying battling French stereotypes along the pier until I stopped

The good: The guy who did the overdub for “Monkey” in Kung-Fu Panda also did this game

The bad: the invisible fourth wall for much of the game made me feel like Jackie was some kind of hamster, or at least some stunt-hamster hybrid; while his movies are “so Chinese”, this game is not Chinese-y in the least, dragon heads be damned

Will I play this game once this year is up: No, and it seems the games get all the (misguided) action from his movies, but none of the overly complicated comedy bits and overacting during the “feels” part

Days so far in the Year of the Play-a-DayStation: 10