Gaming Reverie

The results are in: Beck is no longer zany. Scientology-ridden, to be sure, but wacky? Fun and wild? Erm, no. And that new album of his? Modern Guilt? Not so good. Slightly weird, otherwise average pop music.

But absolutely brilliant, all the same. This brilliance does not come from the fact that the album was produced by Danger Mouse (the Gnarls Barkley producer), or that it’s “psych-rock,” but because of the way that Beck quietly expresses his sorrow and personal guilt as a performer. You see, this is above and beyond what Beck did in Sea Change, album that sounded sad and involved sad lyrics. It’s on a higher emotive tier than Depeche Mode, who combined happy pop tunes to suicide-note-esque lyrics.

Beck’s Modern Guilt has sad lyrics, a happy, upbeat tone, and a performer who is audibly struggling with where he wants to fall on the spectrum. I’ve never heard anything like it. His voice doesn’t have the emotional energy and power of songs like It’s All in Your Mind, nor the clap ‘n’ dance flow of stuff like New Pollution.

That’s right… Beck’s not quite sure where it’s at. Har.

And the fact that you can hear that feeling, through both his timbre and lyrics, is startlingly beautiful. Beck, you won me over again, you dick, this time with postmodern emoting.

“Modern guilt I’m staring at nothing/ Modern guilt I’m under lock and key”

Remember the original Mega Man? Back in prepubescence, I played the very first in the fourth-storey computer nook of my 4-storey house. I was in there, cramped in pj’s with an NES late at night. I remember my family had friends over, and they were about to watch Beetlejuice for the first time. I had no idea, at the time, that it might be brilliant.

But I remember that it slightly pained me, to walk downstairs instead of beating the Gutman stage that had plagued me so. If I could have cried, I would have. But I was somewhat conditioned not to cry.

Anyway, Mega Man 9 is coming out. With the same graphics as the first. This, my friends, is something that has never happened. This is, like, the equivalent of the first time a director decided to go back to black & white.

Presenting: a return to 8-bit form.

The industry, the game industry (as it were), may have hope. Maybe it’s about something besides graphics and rendering.

I truly find this astonishing. A play-through of 1-8 has never been more necessary. Perhaps I’ll even post my thoughts on the series on this very page.

Keep your eyes peeled in thin layers.

The last few hectic weeks, I’ve taken a warm liking to Grand Theft Auto 4. Its been the soft, tasty biscotti for the coffee that is my PS3. Make that an americano, actually. Four shots.

I’m admittedly a hooker-killing virgin; it’s my first game in the series. But while I’m completely amazed by the game, I’m still not convinced that this iteration has achieved anything different as far as gameplay. Instead, there are some wonderful additions to the main design, all in the name of technology. You use texting to control the frequency of most of your social life. You use dating sites on the internet, while checking your mail and deleting spam. The only thing missing? In-game blog posts, with comments from leading roles in the game.

This is all very real and all very cool, but it also allows for a heavy waiting period for something many players would call the Actual Game. If I hadn’t heard rave reviews from practically everyone, I may have been convinced this game was purposely distracting itself from the story of the game. But of course, it’ll all come in due time. I’m 10 hours in, and the missions are finally starting to mean something more than small, unnecessary deviations from major characters and themes. Protagonist Nico Bellic, an eastern European immigrant new to New York Liberty City, isn’t developing much personality thus far sadly, aside from making obvious mistakes as far as who to deal with, and who to kill. But he’s still likable. And slightly more complex than GTA’s previous ugly, testosterone-controlled gun-toters. Maybe eventually I’ll learn something about his war-heavy background. Maybe that’s my prize at the 20 hour mark.

Sure, it’s a “sandbox” game: one where you are free to roam around Liberty City, pushing pedestrians, killing hookers, getting drunk, and crashing helicopters (yes, even into buildings — gasp!). But by playing the first few hours there’s a sense that the missions won’t ever amount to anything.

It’s as if Nico took a trip to Liberty City planning on doing nothing but commit petty crimes, for people he barely knows or cares about. And that’s all that keeps happening. I feel like I’m stuck in the asscrack of his shitty self-fulfilling prophecy.

Beautiful game, though.

Video games. Glare of my life, fire of my thumbs. My savior, my soul.

Put a controller in your hand. Con-troll-er. Say it: two steps down the palate to end, awkwardly, at ‘Er.’ Lips pursed, you resemble a mouth-breathing goon. It’s OK, friend. Feel the ergonomic delight. Cradle it. Too intense? Briefly put it down. Take a breath, and seek out a beverage. The refrigerator is just in the other room.

I can wait.

Now, look at yourself for a moment. You are playing a game, aren’t you? Maybe you are not. Perhaps you’re playing a Wittgensteinian sort of game; a language game. Maybe there’s a game in your love-life; a game of wits; a game entirely, utterly in your head. A game of chance. A game of WoW while you’re reading this, you multi-tasking God, you. Pat yourself on the back. Gently, now.

These games, they all exist, but here I will be only speaking of the video variety. And let me tell you, it’s a great variety to write about. Seriously, vices never felt this good. Not here, in life. Example: I’ve yet to see a person gaily jump 10 feet in the air. Collected coins never made a ding when picked up off the street. I can’t skip unnecessary cut-scenes. No level-ups, and my bosses are too big to conquer.

I will be writing to you daily. My name is Austin Boosinger, and I will gladly take your hand if you choose to join me. Play this game with me.

Look at this cavalcade of pixels.