I can say with certainty that I have a deeply rooted love/hate relationship with "level grinding" in RPGs (Role playing games). On the one hand, I can see the intent. It seems to be an extension of tabletop games, like "Dungeons and Dragons", what with all the the numbers representing different attributes of your character. Those very numbers can be increased through myriad activities within the game. In the case of many RPGs, it's through combat and the use of those abilities that does this.
Then, there's the aspect of it being the means through which the player interacts with the content of said game. Interactivity is the way we engage with a game (moving characters around, going through menus, etc..) and, in the case of RPGs, represents the growth in skill. For example, let's take the game "Final Fantasy VII." In it your characters move around the larger part of the game world viabin what's called and Overworld (or at least, I call it that), and within each town or cave there are smaller areas as well. On the Overworld and some of these smaller areas, moving the character around the screen can trigger random moments of combat from unseen opponents.
Each battle uses menus and statistics (the amount of health characters have, any negative effects that may have come upon them, when it's their turn to attack) to allow the player to have an easily observable means of keeping up with what's happening. From here, it can even be argued that the random encounters serve to metaphorically refer to the journey the characters are going on as an almost short hand. Grinding then is the focused effort to use all of these means to increase the combat viability of the characters you control.
On the flipside (because you know there was going to be one), there is a distance between this and the story within the game. It almost feels as though I'm engaging in two wholely different activities: I'm engaging in a game similar to older tabletop games, and I'm viewing this story being told. Obviously, the gameplay and story relate to each other, as I'm playing as characters from the story, but for characters to not even mention all the progress they're making in their abilities and physicality only seems to alienate the two. I can fight a boss, almost lose, escape, level grind, come back, then beat them. After all that, not one character will mention the near death and act of focused training. The player has to engage with and disengage from the story to interact with the menu based portions, then vice versa.
Now, that isn't to say I'm wholey against any of this (as FF9 is one of my favorite RPGs of all time, and it has some of the same issues as FF7), but more to say that I have some frustrations with the way it's done. There have been games that have attempted to find a unity between the story aspects and the menus. "Infamous: Second Son" comes to mind as a more recent example. The main character in it can upgrade his different abilities, and the player ineracts with this aspects via a series of menus. The thing is, the character actively acknowledges that they can upgrade their abilities and even mirrors the player's desire for more strength and capability. It's a small thing, but it has a huge impact.
At the end of the day, I will engage in level grinding if I enjoy the overall experience of the game. At the same time, I can hope that more efficient means of combining gameplay and the more straightforward storytelling are found in addition into what we already have.
Monday, June 22, 2015
Sunday, June 21, 2015
A Look Back: The Fast and the Furious
I'm more than a little inclined to think that the "Fast and Furious" franchise is fairly remarkable. Somehow, an entire mythos and complex chronology was created out of, what essentially was, a "Point Break" remake. I found this so interesting that I decided to rewatch every film in the series (excluding Furious 7) in an attempt to better understand what makes it what it is. It should be noted that I am a person who is very much so into these films, but I had never sat down and watched them all in an attempt to see what they are and how they all work. So, I start this trip with the first film, "The Fast and the Furious."
"The Fast and the Furious" serves as an interesting psuedo-remake of "Point Break." An undercover police officer infiltrates a group of people engaged in some sort of extreme activity (in the film's case, underground street racing) that are also suspected of some sort of illegal activity. The officer then begins to, sincerely, become close to them emotionally. From here, he is faced with a dilemma: turn them in, or let them go? What's interesting isn't its nature as an almost remake, but in the way it plays itself out. By no means is it stellar, for flatness in acting and characterization are everywhere, but it plays itself very well in a few areas.
The most articulated characters are Vin Diesel's Dom Toretto, Paul Walker's Brian O'Connor, and Jordana Brewster's Mia Toretto. These three stand out the most because, well, they're the only ones with any real development. Every other character is basically the same throughout the entire film and only vaguely defined. Even so, this film excels on a number of other levels. I should say that it's important to note the film's place within the Fast and Furious franchise. I would dare say that the impetus of many of the car-based stunts in later films are built off of the truck heists within this one.
This is its greatest accomplishment, for what it lacks in quality of dialogue it more than makes up with well choreographed stunt work. The largest of these is on of those said truck heists towards the end of the film. It's one that happens multiple times throughout the film, but at this point we see it in daylight, with all the identities of the players revealed. Dom and the rest of the members of the heist encircle an 18-wheeler with their cars in an attempt to highjack it and its cargo to sell to a fence. We are given clear geography of the scene; at any given moment we know were each person is. It's pure cinema, with each action leading to the next, telling small stories that are mostly visual. This is the case for the majority of the film.
One important aspect of this movie that was echoed throughout a few of the other films is the theme of family. Dom serves as the patriarch (resonating even to his prized possession, a car he and his departed father built) and the sincerity of his concern for those in his family (read: gang or crew) is palpable. Dom, and many of the other characters work much like Rocky. Particularly, from the first "Rocky", that is to say they are dopey but emotionally sincere. For me, Dom's strongest moment with dialogue comes when he is giving Brian the history of the car he and his father built. He describes the tragic death of his father in said car, which he renovated in the years after, his nearly beating the driver responsible for the car wreck to death, and all of the subsequent trouble from that. Dom concludes by describing how his worldview has changed since the accident, saying that he lives life "a quarter-mile at a time" and that "during the ten seconds in that car, in a race...I'm free."
The entire movie thematically stems from that line. The people who race in the movies are not merely people who drive cars very quickly, but people whose cars are an extension of who they are. When they race, they feel alive, much like an athlete would when performing in their sport of choice. It is a blend of practical movement with artistry, each driver learning the ins and outs of their vehicle to better perform. A very likely reading is that each car represents some aspect of each character driving it. Perhaps, it wasn't intended and just happened to be there. Either way, it elevates the film from a mere film about racing to a film more about why they race, though only slightly.
"The Fast and the Furious" serves as an interesting psuedo-remake of "Point Break." An undercover police officer infiltrates a group of people engaged in some sort of extreme activity (in the film's case, underground street racing) that are also suspected of some sort of illegal activity. The officer then begins to, sincerely, become close to them emotionally. From here, he is faced with a dilemma: turn them in, or let them go? What's interesting isn't its nature as an almost remake, but in the way it plays itself out. By no means is it stellar, for flatness in acting and characterization are everywhere, but it plays itself very well in a few areas.
The most articulated characters are Vin Diesel's Dom Toretto, Paul Walker's Brian O'Connor, and Jordana Brewster's Mia Toretto. These three stand out the most because, well, they're the only ones with any real development. Every other character is basically the same throughout the entire film and only vaguely defined. Even so, this film excels on a number of other levels. I should say that it's important to note the film's place within the Fast and Furious franchise. I would dare say that the impetus of many of the car-based stunts in later films are built off of the truck heists within this one.
This is its greatest accomplishment, for what it lacks in quality of dialogue it more than makes up with well choreographed stunt work. The largest of these is on of those said truck heists towards the end of the film. It's one that happens multiple times throughout the film, but at this point we see it in daylight, with all the identities of the players revealed. Dom and the rest of the members of the heist encircle an 18-wheeler with their cars in an attempt to highjack it and its cargo to sell to a fence. We are given clear geography of the scene; at any given moment we know were each person is. It's pure cinema, with each action leading to the next, telling small stories that are mostly visual. This is the case for the majority of the film.
One important aspect of this movie that was echoed throughout a few of the other films is the theme of family. Dom serves as the patriarch (resonating even to his prized possession, a car he and his departed father built) and the sincerity of his concern for those in his family (read: gang or crew) is palpable. Dom, and many of the other characters work much like Rocky. Particularly, from the first "Rocky", that is to say they are dopey but emotionally sincere. For me, Dom's strongest moment with dialogue comes when he is giving Brian the history of the car he and his father built. He describes the tragic death of his father in said car, which he renovated in the years after, his nearly beating the driver responsible for the car wreck to death, and all of the subsequent trouble from that. Dom concludes by describing how his worldview has changed since the accident, saying that he lives life "a quarter-mile at a time" and that "during the ten seconds in that car, in a race...I'm free."
The entire movie thematically stems from that line. The people who race in the movies are not merely people who drive cars very quickly, but people whose cars are an extension of who they are. When they race, they feel alive, much like an athlete would when performing in their sport of choice. It is a blend of practical movement with artistry, each driver learning the ins and outs of their vehicle to better perform. A very likely reading is that each car represents some aspect of each character driving it. Perhaps, it wasn't intended and just happened to be there. Either way, it elevates the film from a mere film about racing to a film more about why they race, though only slightly.
The Tyranny of The Spoiler
Dear America,
At this point, all of us of have encountered the dreaded specter of The Spoiler. So frightening is this beast that it forces us to preface numerous articles and comments with the tag "spoiler warning", as though revealing such information will traumatize the reader beyond repair. It seems to have the power to ruin entire television series and movies, books, and even video games. It tempts us with desires to wander over to Wikipedia and peak ahead in a series. It even frames how we conduct ourselves in conversations, making whole chunks of information unmentionable. Well, folks, I'm here to tell you that we don't have to fear being haunted by this vision anymore. The reason for that, quite simply, is because spoilers don't matter.
I've put a lot of thought into why we care so much about spoilers, and I've settled onto a few things. For one, we may worry so much about spoilers concerning a certain character due to our attachment to said character. Knowing that they die, or that some other unfortunate circumstance finds them, may lead us to not consume said media anymore. Folks, I'm here to say that we're mistaken in doing so. We've put our emphasis on the wrong thing, for when we place all our emphasis on the one character, we neglect to acknowledge the whole of the narrative. This is crucial, for to do so is to neglect the extent of the story being told. We must place that character in the context of the story, for the character is a part of the story. We may then see that the series or movie was quite different than we originally thought.
Another reason we may hold so dearly to spoilers is our elevation of the freshness of our experience with a piece of media. This one, I think, is the easiest to see as misplaced. The truest and deepest sort of spoiler is the first time we consume the media, for all context is gained then. All of the nooks and crannies of the story unfold themselves in the immediate viewing and upon our time looking back at it. We can clearly see character motivations, and the little details of each moment, and we are armed with this knowledge the subsequent times after. The obsession with the sanctity of the First Time holds us back from, again, taking in the whole of the narrative. We focus upon the possibilities of what may happen within the story, and not the story itself.
So, what would it look like to put this greater vision of the narrative into play? The best place to start may be a very well-known film: The Empire Strike Back. One of the most famous moments from this film was the line, "Luke, I am your father." At this point, I hardly think we would consider this to be a spoiler since this line has permeated so much of our culture. Yet, I don't doubt that some of us would feel inclined to offer some sort of protest as to not spoil the moment. Well, I can tell you that we should not worry, and we should not protest this piece of information. For, this piece of information is not the most important part, on its own. Its power is granted by the context gained by observing what came before, and reflecting back upon it by seeing what came after.
Luke, a farm boy on a desert planet, learns that he the latest in a line of intergalactic warriors known as the Jedi. He also learns that one of the leaders of the Empire, the oppressive force dominating the galaxy, is also a Jedi, though an evil one. Luke develops as a warrior over the course of the first film, even going so far as to destroy the Death Star, a massive space station that the Empire uses to destroy planets. The second film, The Empire Strikes Back, finds Luke continuing to assist the Rebel forces in their battle against the Empire. He continues his training with the Jedi Master Yoda on the planet of Dagobah, where he learns to confront his own fears and learns of an element of this dark Jedi, Darth Vader. While training, he learns that Vader has his friends held hostage, so he rushes to Cloud City to rescue them, all the while Yoda tells him he is not prepared.
He arrives, attempts to fight, and is promptly defeated. One of his hands is cut off by Vader's lightsaber, and he is dangling for dear life upon a spire. Vader looks down at him and asks him if he knows of his father. Luke says that he knows enough; that Vader killed his father. Vader then says "I AM YOUR FATHER!" Luke is distraught, crushed, and dumbfounded. He screams out in rage and pain. This man, his actual father, is responsible for the death of millions and the death of Luke's adoptive parents, his uncle and aunt. All of Luke's search for purpose and meaning contained an element of the search for where he came from, and now he knows: he comes from the darkest source of all.
Now, it should be clear that the importance of the moment wasn't in the moment itself, but in what lead up to it. The important part wasn't the iconic line by Vader, but what that line meant for Luke. Knowing that Vader is his father means nothing in the first film since we haven't had the context of both films. The line is a culmination of moments that requires the moments before for meaning.
So, good people, we need not bow to the Sacred Cow any longer. It has chained us down, and held us back. The only reason spoilers have any power is because we give them such. Stories are made of many parts that work in conjunction with each other that lead us to feel something and to say something to us. Disproportionately elevating one part of this Whole only serves to, in the long run, cheapen the experience. Due to the interplay of our consumption of stories and the artists that create them, embracing stories based only on shock or stories based on their ability to trend (the kinds of things that seem to really fuel the idolatry of the spoiler) can suggest to the artist and the patrons of the artists that this is what works. We deserve better. We can have stories that resonate with us, while being tightly plotted, while also being fun. We can learn more about the language of storytelling so that we may be more educated consumers, thus being more open to the whole of a narrative. It may be a hard road, America, but I think that it's possible. I've come to melt down this Golden Calf, Spoilers, and remold it into a throne. Upon this throne, we shall place Elevated Narrative Appreciation. It certainly makes for a much more worthy idol.
Sincerely,
Your Baby Boy,
Fredrick Maxwell
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