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The B[ack]log: The Snake is a Lie

Ludwig Kietzmann — 2008-05-31T11:30:00+00:00

This article contains enormous spoilers, just so you know.

Playing Metal Gear Solid 2: Sons of Liberty again, after all these years, has had an interesting effect on my opinion of it. Which is to say, I actually like it now. I'm tempted to compare it to a maturing, fine wine, a substance I'm sure was heavily consumed during the game's development, but the truth is that Sons of Liberty remains every bit the unhinged and convoluted mess I remember it to be. A mess that, with patience and even the slightest idea of what you're getting yourself into, becomes considerably easier to navigate. Wait ... does that make me the wine?

Interestingly, your impression of Metal Gear Solid 2 is likely to be more positive if you never bothered to finish it. Upon first completion, it leaves a bad taste in the mouth, an inkling of bitterness that ultimately overpowers every other memory of your experience. Indeed, my recollection of the game brought about nothing but a feeling of anger -- the Metal Gear Solid sequel I expected and the one I played seemed to differ greatly -- and a dull ache at the back of my head. I'm sure that's due to the game's mind-warping plot and, if not, the injuries sustained by having the carpet constantly yanked from under me. Thankfully, subsequent visits allow you to spot Hideo Kojima's fingers and give them a good stomping.

Removed from the narrative stunts and bizarre situations, the gameplay in Metal Gear Solid 2 is, without a doubt, superior to that found in the original adventure. You'd think that alone would make it the better game, but... we'll get to that. Sons of Liberty greatly expands upon the franchise's peculiar and still unique brand of stealth, not to mention the mental capacity of the formerly inept and forgetful guards. Whereas genre competitors like Splinter Cell adopt a serious approach and encourage you to linger within shadows, Metal Gear Solid's alternative to direct confrontation has always been a tad more playful. It's just like those youthful days of hide-and-seek in the park, the critical difference being that you get shot if someone finds you. Rough neighborhood.

The corner view allows you to study the environment, as well as Snake's excellent mullet.
The single greatest leap in minion intelligence comes in the shared realization that they're not alone. Guards will whip out radios and demand heavily armed backup before chasing you around the corner. No longer will they forget about you as soon as you disappear from view, engaging in systematic searches because, hey, you were there just a second ago! And forget about that cunning cardboard box disguise -- a suspicious box will be properly aerated first.

"Sons of Liberty asks an interesting question: What do you want from a sequel? "

With improved, sneaky maneuvers and more cunning (albeit still comical) guards to foil, how is it that Metal Gear Solid 2 unites so many faces and palms? The game's infamous surprise, of course, is the introduction of a different protagonist following the game's rain-drenched prologue, though you may want to switch out the "different" adjective for something like "foppish," "effeminate" or "flimsy." Raiden was certainly no Solid Snake, despite having identical moves, gadgets, weapons and motivations. The white-haired whiner's greatest contribution to gaming, perhaps, is delivering proof that players actually care about nonsense like "characters" and "story."

Raiden's role -- and that's a word I and the game's characters use intentionally -- closely mirrors that of Snake's in Metal Gear Solid. So much so, that Metal Gear Solid 2 borders on being an outright remake of the previous game. I'm not sure whether it's intentional or not (does it matter?), but Sons of Liberty asks an interesting question: What do you want from a sequel?

We angrily assault message boards when our favorite franchises take an unexpected turn, in the fear that number two or number three will fail to capture those feelings we had before. Essentially, we want a similar, familiar experience with a just tweak here and an interesting twist there. That's what Metal Gear Solid 2 delivers, with several elements that can be directly linked to Snake's Shadow Moses mission.

Just like Snake, Raiden suffers through a lengthy torture and interrogation sequence towards the end of the game -- in an identical room with identical equipment, no less. Entering via an underwater passage and a cargo elevator, his mission is to infiltrate an isolated, guarded installation that is merely a front for something more sinister. A group of bizarre, melancholy weirdos stand in his way, once again led by a clone of pre-Solid Metal Gear villain, Big Boss. The high-ranking individuals Raiden is sent to rescue perish immediately after encountering him. A mysterious cyborg ninja aids him along the way, even repeating Gray Fox's warning of hidden mines. Add in a sniper section, throw in a remote-controlled rocket sequence and switch out the Hind battle with a Harrier fight, and you have your sequel.

Stop staring at his crotch.
Of course, what drags this one down is the change in avatars -- you're still not playing as Solid Snake! Indeed, Metal Gear Solid 2's true cleverness (and utter pretentiousness) comes through when it integrates its "perfect sequel" structure directly into the story. Raiden, switch off your console. This mission is just a simulation.

Though hugely impractical and exceedingly unbelievable, the situational simulation that Raiden finds himself in is actually an elaborate machine, meant to replicate a soldier on par with Solid Snake. Every battle and every circumstance encountered throughout the game, while sincere from the point of view of the participants, forms part of a veiled Shadow Moses recreation. Despite being congruous with Metal Gear's theme of cloning exceptional warriors, the belief that an exactly calculated sequence of events and challenges can forge a legendary hero could be considered just a teensy bit far-fetched. Well, it would be in any other medium.

"The climax is nothing short of an insane attack on the fourth wall ... everyone talks to you like you're playing a game. And, let's face it, you are.'"

Sons of Liberty's climax is nothing short of an insane attack on the fourth wall. An uploaded virus doesn't merely affect the game's fictional computer network, but the game itself. The colonel suffers a hilarious mental breakdown, Snake assures you he's got "infinite ammo" and everybody talks to you like you're playing a game. And, let's face it, you are. In a moment very reminiscent of BioShock's late-game revelation, Colonel Campbell asks Raiden why he's even taking orders from someone he's never even met. Why are you taking orders from the colonel, hmm?

The machine meant to transform Raiden into Snake isn't confined to the Big Shell complex -- it envelops the game, or the "simulation," itself. What is a game, if not an exactly calculated sequence of events and challenges, meant to transform you, the player, into a virtual soldier? Or a thief. Or a race car driver. Or a superhero. No matter the genre, success in a game always hinges on your ability to play a specific role.

For all its deception and overwrought delivery, Metal Gear Solid 2 ultimately delivers a fun and fascinating look at video games and sequels. It may not be intentional and it may not be particularly subtle, but it's a message that should resonate with anybody who's ever wanted to become someone else in a game. Have you?

WE LOVE KATAMARI
TOMB RAIDER: ANNIVERSARY
ELITE BEAT AGENTS
DIRT
METAL GEAR SOLID
METAL GEAR SOLID 2: SONS OF LIBERTY

The B[ack]log chronicles Ludwig Kietzmann's fight against that seemingly insurmountable and entirely self-inflicted obstacle, the ever-sprawling backlog of games that are either unfinished, unplayed or unloved. Every week (HA!), Ludwig hopes to subtract at least one and ramble on about it for a few paragraphs ... if you don't mind.
If you do, let him know:

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The B[ack]log: Metal Gear?!

Ludwig Kietzmann — 2008-05-16T18:30:00+00:00

Filed under: Sony PlayStation 2, Sony PlayStation 3, Retro, Action

The B[ack]log finally returns with a special, three-part look at Metal Gear Solid:

It seems I've become the architect of my own failure. Instead of demolishing the skyscraper of untouched games in my living room, I recently and rather foolishly added three more stories to it. Three very involving, convoluted and relentlessly ridiculous stories, mind you, but ones that I've already been through once. With the release of Metal Gear Solid 4: Guns of the Patriots close enough for me to start using the word "impending," I thought it was time for a Metal Gear Solid replay.

A word of warning: While I've tried to steer clear of plot-related spoilers, we're talking about a game that's nearly ten years old. FYI, the Titanic sinks at the end.

One of the main criticisms of Metal Gear Solid and the franchise as a whole is that the use of cutscenes and dialogue sequences can be self-indulgent, if not downright excessive. When delivered by the acerbic wit of the internet, this complaint often manifests itself as, "I want to play a game, not watch a movie." My counter to that is, uh... Hmm. I guess don't have one. It's completely true. And while you do need a measure of patience in order to navigate all the chatty characters, surprise soliloquies and carefully choreographed action scenes, I don't believe any of it makes Metal Gear Solid any less of a game. Heck, the first ones to point this out are the characters themselves.

At the outset of Metal Gear Solid, you're tasked with infiltrating a nuclear weapons disposal facility (OR IS IT?) gripped by a frigid climate and a band of outlandish super villains. It's a one-man sneaking mission, and the "one man" is Snake, a soldier skilled at snapping unsuspecting necks and grinding mountains to dust with his vocal chords. Aiding him via radio transmission is a team of helpful specialists and a retired colonel who's really quite poor at filling you in on all the operational details.

Hey, I'd be hiding too if I didn't have A FACE.

Being the start of the game, however, he will dispense some helpful advice, such as which button to press in order to crawl. While plenty of games will bend over backwards to remove tutorial information from the context of the game's world, Metal Gear Solid's characters have no difficulty broaching the traditionally taboo topic of "buttons." Need to save your game? Call up Mei-Ling, a charming "data analyst" who saves your progress and dispenses a surprisingly relevant Chinese proverb at the same time. "Don't go chasing after too many items, Snake!" She may as well be talking directly to you.

The game's band of bizarre baddies -- "cartoon characters" by Snake's own admission -- also revel in reducing the fourth wall to a mound of shattered, two-way glass. Revolver Ocelot, named so for his Wild West flair and mastery of the firearm, wags his finger, warning you not to cheat. Don't even think about using auto-fire on your controller, because he'll know. More famous, perhaps, is the battle against Psycho Mantis, a telepathic creep who enjoys telling you what's on your mind, or rather, your memory card. He also commands you to put down your controller, only to move it across the floor with the power of his mind. You don't get that in movies or books!

A NSFW recap of some of MGS' events.
With these sly nods to the player, Metal Gear Solid embraces its existence as a game, more so than many other titles. If the game itself can admit as much, then you shouldn't have trouble doing the same. True, it's not fully interactive all the time, but the game's slavish devotion to its characters and labyrinthine story only serves to make the gameplay more meaningful and memorable. Removed from the game's campy context (and make no mistake, there's a resounding failure of seriousness in MGS), you're just piloting a blob of polygons through a large box, with nary a care as to who dies and who gets betrayed. Similarly, taking control during crucial events -- sticking your hand through the fourth wall and meddling in another world , as it were -- makes every last plot twist that much more engaging.

Throughout the game, series mastermind Hideo Kojima gets away with a lot of narrative stunts, which simply wouldn't be accepted in most other mediums. A boss will suddenly burst into an expository flashback and explain his role in the game, or Snake will get roped into an earnest codec conversation at the least opportune of times (don't worry, the world stands still while he's yammering.) And let's not forget those moments when the game pulls out its anti-nuke message and beats you to a nodding pulp with it. It's a cheesy, unorthodox and downright odd way of delivering a narrative, but it works ... for the most part.

Even when it doesn't, I applaud the game for its stubborn refusal to shut up. It might not be representative of the medium in its purest form and you might not like having control wrestled away from you, but it's rare to find a game with such a strong voice. Ten years later, I still find that most other titles are a little too shy for my liking. Speak up, fellas!

Next week: I'll talk about the franchise's (GASP!) gameplay, with reference to Metal Gear Solid's craziest entry, Sons of Liberty. Be sure to check out GameTrailers' excellent Metal Gear retrospective in the meantime.

WE LOVE KATAMARI
TOMB RAIDER: ANNIVERSARY
ELITE BEAT AGENTS
DIRT
METAL GEAR SOLID

The B[ack]log chronicles Ludwig Kietzmann's fight against that seemingly insurmountable and entirely self-inflicted obstacle, the ever-sprawling backlog of games that are either unfinished, unplayed or unloved. Every week, Ludwig hopes to subtract at least one and ramble on about it for a few paragraphs ... if you don't mind.
If you do, let him know:

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The B[ack]log: Coming clean (about Dirt)

Ludwig Kietzmann — 2007-10-17T19:58:00+00:00

Filed under: Features, PC, Sony PlayStation 3, Microsoft Xbox 360, Driving

[The B[ack]log now returns from hiatus which, given the subject matter, is probably a bad thing.]

A few weeks ago, I experienced my first proper gaming injury... and it wasn't at all how I imagined it would be. My fantasies of physical folly usually involve a mangled foot on a Dance Dance Revolution machine or a Wii remote lodged in an eye socket, bodily damage incurred from activities that largely require, you know, activity. I considered it a dubious achievement to have unlocked pain in a part of my body simply by sitting on a couch and fervently pushing buttons. How fragile my body is!

Though the process of waking up is generally one I try to avoid -- it feels too much like being dragged through the dangling rubber strips at the top of an airport baggage claim -- I immediately knew that Monday morning was off to an even worse start than usual. The immobilizing lower back pain was the obvious clue, its origin being quite the mystery at first. Was I picking up refrigerators in my sleep? Did someone replace my mattress with a pile of rakes? Or did I really manage to hurt myself by playing Dirt non-stop for a weekend?

Here's what I think happened (the comments section is where you tell me if this sounds farfetched): Through the course of an entire weekend I was planted firmly on a couch, legs crossed, lurching and leaning back and forth and side to side with every motion of my rapidly moving car. I obviously wasn't doing it intentionally, but as anyone who's ever recoiled from a monster or ducked beneath a missile can attest to, sometimes a game can momentarily fool you into thinking you're somewhere -- or someone -- else. As a result of me subconsciously and vicariously becoming a rally car driver (or the car itself, apparently), I must have pinched a nerve or sprained a muscle or something. Dr. Google's diagnosis wasn't very specific.

I'm not sure I'd classify Dirt as a particularly "realistic" game. That isn't to say it's an arcade racer on the level of Burnout, but there are some elements to it that extend beyond the "simulation" demarcation. You'll find the handling on many of the cars can be quite forgiving, a warranted compromise that sees frustration exchanged for fun. The in-game speedometer tends to overtake the vehicle itself and the exaggerated lighting, while gorgeous, seems to imply that the reason you're driving so quickly is to escape a nuclear explosion. But despite all that, Dirt's palpable physics engine, detailed environments and its almost tangible conveyance of tires carving through the road pulls you right into reality -- though it's not quite your reality.

It really does look like this, you know.

Dirt might not be entirely realistic, but it is entirely believable. When I'm playing it, I feel like I'm in a car, hurtling through a narrow track at obscene velocities. I'm clinching my teeth because that tree over there looks like it's coming by awfully close. I know how my car will react if I so much as scrape against that protruding plant, and I can predict how I'll need to respond at the wheel if I do. Tension gives way to panic when unexpected bumps toss my view up and down or when the game's glaring hyper-sun makes it hard to see where the bloody hell I'm going. These feelings come from inhabiting the space inside the developer's transparent box, a place with demonstrable rules and consequences. I am there, regardless of where and what "there" is.

It's interesting then, that I've never felt this way about the so-called "driving simulator," Gran Turismo. Polyphony Digital's highly regarded series goes to extreme measures to recreate reality (this one) and put you inside the car of your dreams. And yet, I always feel like I'm just staring at these vehicles as they gather dust... in a museum. Both games attempt to convey the thrill of driving and both games attempt, at least from the outset, to mimic reality. Why then is the less realistic game the more believable one?

As viewpoints go, the closer to the interior of the car you are, the better.

Oh, you wanted me to answer the question.

I suspect the answer will vary between racing fans, but mine suggests that it doesn't matter how close Codemasters came to recreating a real-life rally experience. What matters is that the developers harnessed their technology well enough to create a world that follows its own rules and reacts the way you'd expect it to. Building a world like that isn't easy -- it requires graphics, sound, physics and other forms of feedback to work as cohesive whole -- but you'll recognize one when it's in front of you almost immediately. You'll spot a glaring inconsistency just as quickly in Gran Turismo's lack of damage modeling and somewhat sluggish sense of speed. In a grander sense, Gran Turismo breaks the rules of the world it's gone to such lengths to create. I don't mean to discount Kazunori Yamauchi's series as a whole, but these shortcomings tell me that burdening a game with simulation elements can sometimes detract from a self-contained world. You see, reality is important to maintain, as long as it's the particular reality encapsulated by the game.

Good heavens! I could have chosen an easier game to make this point with (hello, Half-Life 2!), but this entry in the racing genre at least makes it clear how much technology and presentation can improve gameplay that's remained largely the same. After all, Dirt's own little reality can be matched to just about every genre you can think of, and I honestly look forward to suffering further injury at the hands of an illusion.

Now, just wait until I tell you about the time I broke my leg whilst playing Civilization...

WE LOVE KATAMARI
TOMB RAIDER: ANNIVERSARY
ELITE BEAT AGENTS
DIRT

The B[ack]log chronicles Ludwig Kietzmann's fight against that seemingly insurmountable and entirely self-inflicted obstacle, the ever-sprawling backlog of games that are either unfinished, unplayed or unloved. Every week, Ludwig hopes to subtract at least one and ramble on about it for a few paragraphs... if you don't mind.
If you do, let him know:

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The B[ack]log: Elite Beat Addict

Ludwig Kietzmann — 2007-08-01T21:00:00+00:00

Filed under: Nintendo DS, Rhythm

Alex Ward isn't going to appreciate me saying this, but I recently beat Elite Beat Agents. In one sitting, I might add. If you've ever read one, you'd know that a typical video game manual generally frowns upon such protracted play sessions, urging you to take a break every hour and go stare at something that isn't comprised of polygons. That seemed like terrible advice at the time, and for two very good reasons.

The first, being the one most concerned with my personal health, was that severing the connection and stepping outside would result in a sudden depressurization and my intimate inspection of a churning jet engine. Perhaps this would have been the superior option had I packed Lost in Blue for the 5-hour flight from New York to Los Angeles, but I wisely went with Nintendo's music-and-rhythmer instead. The second reason then, was that I found myself far too enthralled to even consider giving up for a moment -- not even when I was losing.

I don't recall exactly how many attempts it took to defeat the final level, but I'm fairly certain I'd be unable to count them on my fingers. I'd have to be exposed to all manner of radiation and mysterious mutagens before the number of appendages could even approximate the numerous failures I faced, but by then I'd probably be better equipped to deal with the insidiously arranged numbers and panic-inducing spinners the game throws at you in its last scenario. It feels overwhelming at times, even ridiculous, but never unfair.

Quite possibly the least comfortable environment to play Elite Beat Agents in.

That's a tricky balance to maintain, one that forces the game's designers to decide when they're going to gently hold your hand and when they're going to stick it in a beehive. The one extreme leaves you with boredom and a limp wrist, the other inflicts pain and a strong urge to pull out and flee in the opposite direction. To strike the perfect balance is to capture that "just one more go" feeling and leave you with the sense that you can overcome the challenge if you just try a little bit harder for a little bit longer.

Though I still prefer Elite Beat Agent's Japanese sibling Osu Tatakae Ouendan for its peppy music, bold art and considerably more entertaining name, I found the Western version's steeper difficulty (at least in my mind) far more engaging. It riled me up. It made me angry. There was a seething vendetta between me and that apocalyptic music finale, a tug of war with the Game Over screen stuck firmly in the middle. I was going to stab at your numeric weak points, Jumpin' Jack Flash!

And once I did, the satisfaction and relief I felt made it all worth it. Feelings of frustration are surprisingly effervescent, and I wonder if game developers are a little too eager to destroy any and all sources of it in their finely tuned and focus-tested endeavors. Obviously, becoming frustrated for the wrong reasons (i.e. tough, but not fair) is something none of us need, but in the right amount it can function as an emotional link between the player and the game, motivating the button pusher (or stylus wielder, in this case) to defeat his digital foe and feel cause to celebrate afterwards.

Overcoming the challenge through persistence, musical memorization and good 'ole hand-eye coordination isn't the only source of satisfaction in Elite Beat Agents (the game's relentlessly charming, by the way), but it does suggest that failure and frustration need not always sour your game experience. Get mad at your games! You'll feel better when you beat them.

WE LOVE KATAMARI (PS2)
TOMB RAIDER: ANNIVERSARY (PS2, PC)
ELITE BEAT AGENTS (DS)

The B[ack]log chronicles Ludwig Kietzmann's fight against that seemingly insurmountable and entirely self-inflicted obstacle, the ever-sprawling backlog of games that are either unfinished, unplayed or unloved. Every week, Ludwig hopes to subtract at least one and ramble on about it for a few paragraphs... if you don't mind.
If you do, let him know:

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The B[ack]log: Happy Anniversary, Miss Croft

Ludwig Kietzmann — 2007-07-04T15:15:00+00:00

Filed under: Features, PC, Sony PlayStation 2, Nintendo Wii, Microsoft Xbox 360, Adventure

Jacqueline Natla is quite obviously the villain in Tomb Raider: Anniversary. In the 1996 original, the only initial clues to her evil nature resided in a somewhat condescending tone of voice and a far too serious haircut. The opening moments of the Crystal Dynamics remake, however, show a more conniving woman with flowing blond hair, almost alien facial features and suspiciously long fingers. Still a bit of a condescending hag, though.

"My company has recently turned its focus on the study of ancient artifacts, and I am lead to believe that with the right incentive, you are just the woman to find them for me," she says, addressing one of gaming's most iconic characters, Lara Croft. "I'm afraid you've been mistaken," comes the decorous reply. "I only play for sport." Ah, but Natla's done her research. "Which is precisely why I've come to you Miss Croft. This is a game you've played before..."

Though trusting the words of a noticeably vile video game character is generally not advised, they're true in this case. Tomb Raider: Anniversary is indeed a game you've played before, at least if you had the good sense to play Tomb Raider at some point in your fulfilling life (replace "fulfilling" with "miserable" if you haven't). The reworked puzzles, contemporized controls and modern presentation may set Anniversary apart from the groundbreaking effort by Core Design, but beneath those layers lies the same game with the same ideals. Either Tomb Raider was nearly eleven years ahead of its time, or the games we play just haven't changed all that much.

I really want to describe Anniversary as a game that provides the "Tomb Raider Experience." Unfortunately, said "Tomb Raider Experience" sounds like a terrible theme park ride and isn't particularly enlightening to those who haven't experienced the, uh, "Tomb Raider Experience." (I'm going to stop calling it that now.) It really demands further explanation and further inquiry, which is just as well since this column can't very well end after just four paragraphs.

It's not unusual to question why it is that I and many others enjoy raiding tombs (that is what you do in Tomb Raider, you know), and sadly, it's even less strange to view Lara herself as being the answer. Having a widely recognized and voluptuous virtual vixen associated with your game is good for business, but it becomes a bit of a problem when the woman actually becomes the game. If you weren't better informed, you'd think people were playing Tomb Raider just to see a polygonal posterior swaying from side to side, occasionally manipulating the perspective to have a gander at the other interesting and alarmingly pointy bits. Now, I'm sure there are people just like that (of course there are!), but I don't care to share the affection for the character who essentially stole the spotlight away from the real reason the game was so phenomenal.

Is that... is that supposed to be a coliseum?

Croft creator Toby Gard likely felt the same way after seeing a pouting Lara plastered across everything from magazines to lunchboxes (and magazines about lunchboxes), and left the original design team not too long after the first Tomb Raider became an unstoppable success. The series immediately began to lose focus afterwards and as soon as Lara found herself running around Alaska with a rocket launcher, well, we knew it was over. It wasn't until Eidos took the series away from a fed-up Core Design (who actually attempted to kill Lara in Tomb Raider: The Last Revelation) and handed it to Crystal Dynamics that things truly got back on track. Toby Gard even returned and helped the Soul Reaver developer do what truthfully needed to be done -- seal the post-Madonna prima donna in a tomb of her own and make sure she stayed there.

With the Batman Begins of the franchise, Tomb Raider: Legend, a new Lara was introduced, one who was three-dimensional not just in appearance, but also in terms of character. With a proper backstory, a more coherent personality and a real reason for raiding tombs, Croft stopped being an obstructive cardboard cutout and returned to being the central character in Tomb Raider, as opposed to being Tomb Raider itself. That's why, despite the usual concerns about rehashing and a lack of originality in the industry, the 1996 adventure absolutely needed a remake with a remade title character. There are still some interesting ideas in there!

At its core, Tomb Raider is about a creeping sense of isolation. Whereas many modern game focus on furiously flinging enemies at the player, combat in Tomb Raider is rarely more than a brief break in-between scaling extraordinary heights and unlocking ancient mechanisms. In fact, Tomb Raider: Anniversary is the first game in the entire series to actually get the combat right both in terms of quantity and execution. The use of the word "execution" is quite deliberate, as each encounter can now be ended by dodging a charging attacker (usually an aggravated animal) at the opportune moment and firing one fatal shot. It's dramatic, exciting and far more powerful in its understated presence. If there were ten T-Rex encounters in the game, would we still remember them?

Alright, that's definitely a coliseum. See more comparison shots at Tomb Raider Chronicles (the website, not the lousy fifth game in the series).

The real and far more intimidating enemy is the environment itself, though. Fans of the original will likely concur when I say the original game's level design was absolutely remarkable and truly memorable, to the point where seeing the environments return with glorious new lighting and textures feels like being reunited with a long lost friend -- or make that foe. You might not recall the bats and the bears that pestered you occasionally throughout your quest, but you're unlikely to forget the many landmarks you clambered across. Oh yes, the St. Francis's Folly level still greets you with a nightmarish vertical tower that needs to be traversed in order to reach outlying rooms; you'll be just a satisfied to conquer this monster again.

The mention of monsters highlights an interesting parallel between Tomb Raider and the PlayStation 2's Shadow of the Colossus, with the major exception being that the towers you climb in the latter title are usually out for a stroll. Both adventures shy away from direct combat and instead task you with figuring out how to get from point A to point B using nothing more than your character's gravity-defying abilities, creating tension in moments when you momentarily doubt if that outstretched arm will manage to grab hold of something before it's too late.

This is probably how your mind's eye sees the T-Rex scene in the original game. Trust me, it looks nothing like this.

The concept of progress through crumbling environments also goes back to the Prince of Persia series, which certainly seems to have given Tomb Raider some inspiration on multiple occasions. Jordan Mechner's classic platformer, with its myriad of traps and floors of questionable stability is a lot like Lara Croft's initial outing (sans that pesky third dimension), and when Tomb Raider made its comeback, it too drew from the fluid mechanics of the revitalized Ubisoft Prince of Persia trilogy. The last (and criminally underrated) title in that particular franchise, The Two Thrones, also trimmed its combat by implementing instant stealth kills.

While there is and will always be a place for traditional combat in games and indeed, many forms of entertainment, I'll leave you to think of more examples that challenge you with things other than snarling beasts and gun-toting crooks. I enjoy a good fight as much as the next gamer, but occasionally I'd like a break from all that,just so I can catch myself muttering aloud and wondering how the hell I'm going to get all the way up there.

(Hey, that's the Tomb Raider experience!)

WE LOVE KATAMARI (PS2)
TOMB RAIDER: ANNIVERSARY (PS2, PC)

The B[ack]log chronicles Ludwig Kietzmann's fight against that seemingly insurmountable and entirely self-inflicted obstacle, the ever-sprawling backlog of games that are either unfinished, unplayed or unloved. Every week, Ludwig hopes to subtract at least one and ramble on about it for a few paragraphs... if you don't mind.
If you do, let him know:

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The B[ack]log: Katamari Do Your Best

Ludwig Kietzmann — 2007-06-26T19:00:00+00:00

Filed under: Features, Sony PlayStation 2, Sony PlayStation 3, Sony PSP, Microsoft Xbox 360

Well, the title seemed sort of clever at the time. "The B[ack]log" represents one gamer's fight against that seemingly insurmountable and entirely self-inflicted obstacle, the ever-sprawling backlog of games that are either unfinished, unplayed or unloved. That's the "Backlog" part. After surgically inserting some brackets, it becomes "B[ack]log," a reference to both the blog format and the unique sound emitted whenever I view the stack of games I keep adding to every month. And every week, I hope to subtract at least one and ramble about it for a few paragraphs... if you don't mind. A review this is not.

It seems simultaneously appropriate and depressing then, that the first game to be ejected and examined (and then ejected again) is one primarily concerned with hoarding as much stuff as you possibly can -- We Love Katamari for the PlayStation 2.

Gamers are a greedy lot. That certainly doesn't set us apart from other human beings, but when you've played enough platformers, you do tend to feel a bit like an obese kleptomaniac gone berserk. If it's not treasure and golden statues and magnificent gems you're after, it's the oddly spinning peaches, apples, cupcakes and yams you'll want ascend the highest mountains to. And when we're faced with the predicament of choosing between the jeweler and the bakery, Katamari Damacy's solution is to empty the shelves of both, shortly before picking up the stores in their entirety along with the rest of the neighborhood. In Katamari Damacy, you want everything.

Appealing to this primordial desire to collect is probably one of the reasons we were so glad to accept -- and collect -- a sequel in We Love Katamari. Another is that picking up every piece of arbitrary junk is both the game's ultimate goal and its ultimate reward. Not many games convey your progress as immediately and obviously as in We Love Katamari, with your rolling prowess visually represented by the expanding ball of stuff and the shrinking size of everything around it. When you pick up that obnoxious brat that kicked you away earlier, you know you're getting somewhere. Interestingly, you also pick up a little irony on the way. As you're sure to remember, the original game was widely praised (by you, probably) for being a wildly unique experiment in an industry so fond of producing all-too-similar sequels. You know, games like We Love Katamari.

Artist's rendition of We Love Katamari's awful box art (also done in MS Paint)

I never could figure out exactly what message the game's director, Keita Takahashi, meant to impart with We Heart Katamari. The storyline sees the people of the world embracing the wonders of the original game, quickly demanding that the infinitely bizarre King of All Cosmos give them more of the same joy. He listens and complies quite nonchalantly, responding to their requests only because they're in complete awe of him. At one point a young man, perched atop the gigantic king's shoulder, skews his head and asks, "Complacent much?"

And really, that question is posed as much at the king as it is to Takahashi. Is the answer, "Yes, I'll do this one thing for you, but don't expect me to put much effort into it," or does the game merely serve as a reminder that the eccentric designer was and still is a bit of a one-hit wonder? Before expressing interest in designing (and presumably frolicking on) children's playgrounds, Takahashi sent some criticism towards gaming, lamenting its ability to keep you inside all day twiddling analog sticks. Of course, that's exactly what Katamari was and the arrival of a sequel further turned it into the sort of game it couldn't originally be mistaken for -- a solid, albeit unsurprising sequel.

This is Beautiful Katamari. I think.

That's hardly a dreadful description of what is an enjoyable game, but it does make one consider just how many solid, albeit unsurprising sequels it takes before interest starts to wane. Already initial impressions of Namco Bandai's Beautiful Katamari indicate that it's more of the same and distinctly devoid of that new katamari smell. Whose fault is that? In our established and understandable desire for more of what we like, did we inadvertently lessen the series' innovative impact? Wait, it's a series now... Did we do that? Oops!

Though we can't honestly fault ourselves for supporting ideas we approve of, it is perhaps a good strategy to question why we support them in the first place. If we were being honest, we'd note that in terms of raw gameplay, Katamari Damacy borders on being a gimmick thoroughly entwined with inescapable charm. Oh, you can try to imagine a humorless game of object collecting sans a perennially unhinged god and wonderfully insane music, but it'll do you no good. Separating the style from the substance is like cutting through a river with a knife. Nobody loves Katamari primarily because of its gameplay.

The arrival of Beautiful Katamari (likely to be one of those solid, albeit unsurprising sequels) this October will be just as illuminating to us as it will be to Namco Bandai, I suspect. Do we still heart Katamari for what it is -- a delightful diversion from "serious" gaming -- or is it time to restart the innovation-to-franchise cycle? I'm choosing the former for now, but even diversions run the risk of having the attention laid on them... diverted.

WE LOVE KATAMARI (PS2)

Next week: Ludwig wonders how a game that's over ten years old can be better than most of the stuff released in 2007.

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