As an introduction to this (rather long) piece, I wrote it back when Dead Space 2 first came out. I wanted to reconcile what I appreciated about the title with what truely disappointed me, and also briefly touch on some problems I've been having with video game criticism at large. Its part review, part critique, and part just plain old ramble.
 
I also wrote it during a series of incredibly boring lectures, so it might be slightly disjointed.

                  Whereas Dead Space 2 is a story about Isaac, Dead Space is a story about a ship. Isaac, in the first game, is largely insignificant. He’s there because he has to be, because the player needs a vessel to explore the world. The game gives him context, sure, buts it’s largely minor. Contrast this with Dead Space 2; the most obvious difference, which stands out immediately, is his voice. A mute in the original, Isaac now speaks and interacts verbally with the world around him.

                It’s important to make a distinction here between giving Isaac a voice ad giving him a character. In the original, Isaac is a character. Not really that important, only a small but incredibly deadly portion of a largely story. But he still has a back story, he has a face. And he has dialogue, though it’s buried in the objectives menus. Now the voice comes to the forefront. The player’s focus no longer falls on the environment, but is shifted into the avatar they control.

                Before we continue into a more cohesive critique of Isaac’s handling, let’s take a moment to show how this shifted focus affects the feel of each game. The opening sequences, both of which are fantastic in their own right, are executed in drastically different ways and have drastically different effects. The original begins with Nicole’s transmission, serving to establish a mood of despair (in her dialogue and voice) and create a minor connection to Isaac (in the story she represents). The support characters comment on the video, reinforcing its purpose to drive the player forward (at least in the early game), and then the game reveals the USG Ishimura. Right away, just from these few lines and images, Dead Space imbues the player with some very important notations. The name of the ship implies a future of a joint humanity, one in which racial and modern political lines have most likely fallen aside. The size and shape of the ship demonstrates the new might of the species; it’s a “planet cracker,” able to blast open entire worlds. All the characters reference the ship with admiration – the player knows this is an impressive vessel. And it looks damn cool. The view is funneled right to the construct, showcasing its advanced design and layout. This is where the vast majority of the game takes place, and the external showcase and in-universe story establishment gives important context to the action.

                Note the disproportionate amount of time spent establishing Isaac and then establishing the ship. Both characters ‑ and the USG Ishimura is a character ‑ have their story shaped by the outside. But the boat is far more complete. We know its look, we know its purpose, and we know its heritage. Isaac, not so much. How old is he? Where does he come from? Is he smart? Witty? Tough? What scares him? What motivates him? These questions are not really answered because they do not matter for the game. The player is supposed to fill in the details themselves, with their own traits imposed on this man (for the most part). Consequently, the Ishimura becomes far more interesting from a story perspective. And the game knows this, placing the player’s avatar firmly in a secondary position right from the beginning.

                Now look at Dead Space 2. This game launches with a very well executed re-cap of the previous events. This time, however, Isaac narrates. This story no longer belongs to the Ishimura ‑ it’s his now. In this exchange, the player has lost a story about the world and gained a story about a man. Naturally, this in turn changes the feel and pacing of each game. Dead Space 2 is far less concerned with establishing a world than its predecessor; recall the opening shot of the Ishimura. There is no equivalent for the Titan. The player doesn’t know what the station really looks like, and frankly, the game doesn’t care. The surroundings are a method to introduce story and game play elements, rather than the opposite relation featured in Dead Space. Let’s examine and clarify this point. In Dead Space, each chapter ended on the tram, looking at a map. Isaac had, in the chapter prior, accomplished some goal, done something which changed the nature of the ship he occupied. Then he faced a map, showing where he was, where he was going, and how it all related. The flow of it all, the sense of continuity and spatial relation, is paramount. Dead Space 2 doesn’t even have an in-game map. Who cares what the Sprawl looks like or how it’s laid out – you’ll never be backtracking or fixing something. Just moving ever forward, reacting to events and bad guys sent your way. In the first instance, the layout and needs of the ship dictate the flow. In the second, Isaac’s needs determine what happens. Returning to the comparison of openings, Dead Space’s Isaac silently moves into a control room, slowing unraveling the mystery of the ship before everything goes wrong. Dead Space 2’s Isaac head-butts a mutated monstrosity and goes on a rampage from the first minute. Obviously, the focus and mood of each game is radically different. The first is a story of ambiance, of audio logs left discarded and messages written in blood, and the second is a story of Isaac.

                Now there’s nothing wrong with a game story focused on a character, but Dead Space 2 fails in its treatment of Isaac. So we’ve established that the game is solely concerned with its playable character. The other people are just there to provide context or problems for him to overcome (the Sprawl functions in the same way). This means that Isaac must be engaging - the player has to care about him. Dead Space worked very hard to make its protagonist interesting; hours were spent talking about the history, function, and layout of the Ishimura. And it felt believable, because each piece (both story and physical area) flowed from one part to the next. A “planet cracker” would, conceivably, be this big. It would have these decks, this crew, and this design, laid out in this way. It made sense and it felt real. Isaac, in Dead Space 2, feels fake. Remember that Isaac is an engineer, a bystander who survived by a combination of smarts, skill, and luck. He wasn’t very good at combat, but he had a fancy suit and future lasers so he made his way through the world. But now, for no apparent reason, he’s an action hero superstar.

                It’s understandable for the game to do; the new focus on action over atmosphere demands a more capable protagonist. But the shift and overall characterization of Isaac should have been handled better. Initially, it’s established that Isaac is insane, haunted by the events he saw and the death of Nicole. Well that seems logical, and honestly it would be awkward to not acknowledge the psychological toll the first game must have taken. And it would be a fair guess to venture that this is the story’s attempt to rationalize the new, “edgier” personality. Unfortunately, the game confuses emotional scarring with being an asshole. There are a few moments that perfectly illustrate this point.

                Some time after the beginning sprint through the alien-infested hall, Isaac boards an elevator and the lights cut out. At this point, he knows the Sprawl is infected, and he knows what the necromorphs are. This loss of power should not be and entirely unexpected event. Distressing, no doubt, but well within the realm of the possible. A good, character appropriate reaction would be something like,” Ah crap,” or a brief, hushed, “Shit.” Both responses, with proper delivery, give a sense of distress while maintaining a premise of reality - the latter even has a swear thrown in there. But instead Isaac says, in a raspy, overly masculine voice, “What the fuck.”

                People don’t really swear that much. And when they do, the actual word itself is almost never emphasized, especially when there is no other person unto whom emphasis would be needed. So Isaac’s dialogue is overly vulgar, an unrealistic response that both diminishes his character and trivializes the situation. When he swears at everything, particularly with such exaggeration, it becomes routine, and the purpose of the swear – to make the situation seem dire – no longer has any weight. This diminishment arose earlier, when Isaac responds to the line “I’m not the one shooting at you,” with “Fuck.” Why did he say that? It certainly wasn’t a logical conclusion to this dialogue. Was this the first time he realized he was in danger? Did the deadly aliens not tip him off to that? Or was he just trying to look cool? Sadly, it seems the answer is actually the later; his lines are a ploy to appeal to the hardcore crowd, thinking that vulgarity equates to serious discourse.            

                Again, let’s compare this to Dead Space. The character did swear there, but they did so with purpose. When Isaac first visits Hammond in the control deck, he says something to the effect of,” Whoa, you startled me. Fucking asteroids are putting me on edge.” Now that emphasis looks weird in text and that’s probably not the exact line. But note that the vulgarity is reduced to a secondary level, with the important information (the asteroids are putting Hammond on edge) placed in the forefront. “Fuck” only served to show just how jumpy Hammond was. This is how people speak.

                Jumping back to Dead Space 2, the issues with Isaac’s lines extend further than his overuse of bad language. His character is one of a vulnerable, exposed man who is placed in a situation far beyond anything he could have imagined. That’s not to suggest he should be a dear in the headlights all the time, but he definitely shouldn’t be blowing off events with one-liners and wisecracks. After the tram Isaac is riding on crashes, sending him fly off and battling monsters while suspended upside down, the support character asks “What are you doing over there?” She’s referring to his location in the Sprawl, since the tram couldn’t make to the original destination. Rather than saying, “The tram crashed, necromorphs swarmed the wreckage but I’m holding out,” (a response to both gives the support character information and reinforces the situation to the player) he says, “Unexpected stop.” Well that’s all very nice and 80’s action movie of Isaac, but it runs completely contrary to his established character.

                All of this poor dialogue and characterization proves indicative of Dead Space 2’s overarching failure: most of the game’s plot and setting is designed to be a vehicle for offensive material, not a method to tell an intriguing story. We don’t even need to rely on the game itself for proof of this. The marketing campaign shows no footage of the game and makes no attempt to describe the experience. Rather, it focuses on outraged middle-aged women who function as stand-ins for the mother’s of the teenage demographic. Huzzah, games are violent and moms don’t like it. That’s great, and there’s nothing wrong with enjoying the gratuitous gore present in the franchise, but it never should have take precedent over content. Let’s take a step back to reaffirm that Dead Space 2 is not a bad game; on the contrary, it’s excellent, standing far beyond most competing titles. But it could have been better.

                Outside of this major story failing, Dead Space 2 continues the franchise tradition of outstanding visual and gameplay design.  Most obviously, the games feature no HUD or any display of information not rooted in the game world. This is an astonishing feature, and its one almost entirely unique to the series, arising as a function of their setting and integrated design.

                So Dead Space takes place in the future, and the future is always cool. Visceral has gone a step beyond making a technological wonderland for the player to explore; they’re enabled the player to essentially occupy that world.

                Every game needs some way in which to communicate key information to the player. How much health the character has, how much ammo, where they are aiming – all of these things (and several others) must be explained. This poses an interesting challenge for designers: how do you demonstrate this information without breaking immersion? Generally, games don’t. The vast majority of titles have a HUD display superimposed on the camera, standing distinct from the events taking place within the fictional world. Consequently, every time the player looks at the HUD they re-affirm their disconnect with the medium, even if it only happens latently. That’s not to suggest this system is critically flawed – it’s been standardized to such an extent as to be no longer a real issue. Additionally, there’s not really an alternative for most titles without compromising the flow of the experience.

                Fortunately, the magical space future setting provides an out for Dead Space. Everything is projected on the game world as a hologram. There are two primary effects that come from this presentation. First, everything that should be boring but necessary becomes really cool, especially if the player likes the color blue. Second, and more importantly, the aforementioned disconnect between player and game no longer exists. Everything a user must know is now justified within the canon.

                Despite all the critiquing done of Dead Space 2 in regards to its predecessor, the use of this unique setup emerges as one area of supremacy for the sequel. The original never entirely explained if the characters could see or use the tools provided to the player. Did Isaac’s friends see his magical blue line leading them exactly where they need to go? How did this technology work? Furthermore, can they see their magic health bars on their backs? And those healing packs lying around everywhere – can only Isaac see those? This is part of a concept here referred to as “world integration;”or, how well a game acknowledges and integrates the necessary mechanics for it to be playable into its story. To better explain, look at Bioshock, and how its gameplay became central to the story.

                Vita-chambers populated Rapture, essentially making your character invincible. Which, until about the halfway mark, seemed odd, especially since no other character seemed that interested in using immortality technology. Then in one amazing move the story validated their existence and rendered them central to the game’s plot. This is positive world integration. Conversely, the hacking minigame illustrates the negative form. Unless time literally froze while Jack pulled apart the machine and moved small tubes of water around, the story cannot account for this needed mechanic. Similarly, the HUD takes the standard form, being an overlay on the camera not present to the actors within the game. It’s just not integrated into the world.

                With this concept firmly in mind, look at how integrated Dead Space 2 is. From the very beginning, the characters directly reference the ability to heal with medkits found laying about. They also speak about the health bar, saying “Your rig is red.” Even the waypoint gets referenced, in a few clever ways. All of the methods to guide the player exist for the character they control as well. Just as the absence of this generally effects perception covertly, its presence doesn’t necessarily overtly establish the word either. It does, however, undeniably help in making the player accept the world they see.

                Naturally, this acceptance recalls the disconnect created by the shoddy writing, highlighting just how disappointing the story is. Considering the effort spent establishing every aspect of the game as valid, it’s so frustrating that a core feature essentially ruins the work. But it was promised that we were done with this particular topic, so let’s return to analysis of the incredible visual design.

                Isaac’s visual design expertly invokes feelings of power and control for the player. Obviously, his suit looks impressive, as do its various permutations. But also consider his size in relation to the other characters. He’s huge, occupying more of the world than any human should. This generates feelings of power, lending credibility to Isaac’s actions. Sure he can take all those hits and kill all those horrific aliens – look at the size of the guy. He stands ready for anything. Even his stance is indicative of his strength. Isaac, during portions of player control, permanently hunches his shoulders and learns forward, constantly holding his weapon at the ready. The shape and contours of his body invokes animalistic qualities: barely constrained strength and constant vigilance.

                Much of the emphasis of this critique focuses on the continuity Dead Space presents and the way in which in-game actions become justified; the unique use of camera plays directly into these notions. Most titles see the camera as a way to show the action on screen subject to the will of the scene; during story cut scenes, it’s almost always made into a film camera, using the same framing and editing techniques as a motion picture. The purpose here is not to highlight the flaws with the system, but rather to show how another approach (that of Dead Space) plays to the strengths of the medium.

                Film and gaming hold many differences, most obviously the interactivity of the later. But the former has established itself as the dominate method for telling visual stories. It’s only natural that game direction follows this trend. But consider why film exists as it does: because it involves real, physical actors in a real world, certain constraints apply. More specifically, the entire experience cannot occur as one, uncut shot that innately flows from one moment to the next.

                That statement is overly general; it’s entirely possible, no doubt, for specific films to be done in this style. But most stories that involve any sort of travel or action, beyond that which could be concretely conveyed in a play, must have tricks of editing for the sake of filming. Games by their very nature are entirely independent of this restriction. They exist only as computer code, with no real physical component. In a realm limited by imagination and not possibility, why should the camera behave as it does in the real world?

                It shouldn’t. Again, lets qualify these broad claims by remembering that the standard use of the camera is not inherently flawed. Filming techniques do convey stories very well, so it’s entirely appropriate for game designers to use these methods. Dead Space’s presentation is a boon for itself but does not render others obsolete.

                Now that we have context, let’s examine the actual game. Almost entirely from start to finish, both Dead Space titles are one long, uncut shot. This flow is rarely broken, only at the end of the game in the first title and for technical reasons (loading) in the second. This generates an unprecedented feeling of continuity. Consider when a time lapse occurs in some other story. Often, this results in disorientation, the sort of, “wait, how did I get here?” stemming from weak story contextualization. The one-shot makes this an impossibility, as the player can directly see how their character moves from one location to the next. That doesn’t imply they must accept it, only that a visual explanation exists. Whether it’s fundamentally plausible or not, and plausibility is often a problem for stories of space zombies, is an entirely separate question.

                We have yet to even begin considering the actual gameplay elements of Dead Space, and for good reason. In a modern context, gameplay no longer needs extensive consideration. Other mediums direct their efforts on presenting fresh stories and unique takes on established ideas, not on reinventing the wheel. And Dead Space is quite happy with the wheel it has. All of the actual action is entirely competent and satisfying in a way recalling every game that came before. This is in no way a criticism. The enemies look nifty and become nice and squishy after death. The guns have big bangs and make fun explosions. But even the central marketing feature, “strategic dismemberment,” is at base the tired precision aiming found in every game applied to limbs.

                Now this is a detour from the game analysis, but it’s important to think about gaming culture when considering a game’s merits. Recently, discussion of games focuses almost entirely on notions of “innovation.” And for what purpose? Well ideally it’s because a game that does not innovate is not fun, it’s just more of the same (ignore, for now, that chess has remained constant for centuries but still gets labeled “fun”). While logically correct, this concept just doesn’t hold true to reality. Was True Grit a bad movie because it had the same six-shooters as any other western? Did The Godfather suffer from not being filmed upside down, just like every other film? Of course not, and games cannot be discarded because they resemble previous products. Game design has reached a level in which all the basics have been established and standardized. Bar any major hardware shifts, the doorway for major innovation no longer exists. Genres are established, mechanics are established, and players know what to expect.

                So now what does merit consideration? Well obviously the visual design, setting, and story, but also the way in which standard elements are used and how well the experience is executed. Major design bugs or flaws detract from the game experience. Ideal gameplay is as unnoticeable as possible; games should aspire to naturalize their actions so players no longer consciously think about how they physically control the game. Each bug obviously detracts from this, as does every flaw. A poorly placed health bar, overly tough or easy enemies, confusing puzzles, stiff controls, a lack of variation in tasks or environments – all flaws that break immersion. No sane human will ever totally forget the real world, but they may forget the controller. Dead Space gives such strong feelings of immersion because it has tried to rid itself of all these flaws, and nearly succeeds. Certain sections drag on too long, and parts of the game could be plotted better, buts its overall drive sucks the player into its world. Wonderful execution replaces notions of “innovation” in establishing a game’s worth.

                Making a competent shooter is no longer a challenge; the format has been essentially cemented. Each subsequent title makes little effort to change or radicalize the nature of gaming, and there is absolutely nothing wrongwith this. If gaming is to advance as a medium, the notion that each game must have some sort of grand “innovation” applied industry wide must be discarded. Dead Space 2 is a wonderfully executed shooter supported by an entirely unique appearance, showing a method of progress in which fundamentals remain but the presentation improves. 

 As an introduction to this (rather long) piece, I wrote it back when Dead Space 2 first came out. I wanted to reconcile what I appreciated about the title with what truely disappointed me, and also briefly touch on some problems I've been having with video game criticism at large. Its part review, part critique, and part just plain old ramble.
 
I also wrote it during a series of incredibly boring lectures, so it might be slightly disjointed.

                  Whereas Dead Space 2 is a story about Isaac, Dead Space is a story about a ship. Isaac, in the first game, is largely insignificant. He’s there because he has to be, because the player needs a vessel to explore the world. The game gives him context, sure, buts it’s largely minor. Contrast this with Dead Space 2; the most obvious difference, which stands out immediately, is his voice. A mute in the original, Isaac now speaks and interacts verbally with the world around him.

                It’s important to make a distinction here between giving Isaac a voice ad giving him a character. In the original, Isaac is a character. Not really that important, only a small but incredibly deadly portion of a largely story. But he still has a back story, he has a face. And he has dialogue, though it’s buried in the objectives menus. Now the voice comes to the forefront. The player’s focus no longer falls on the environment, but is shifted into the avatar they control.

                Before we continue into a more cohesive critique of Isaac’s handling, let’s take a moment to show how this shifted focus affects the feel of each game. The opening sequences, both of which are fantastic in their own right, are executed in drastically different ways and have drastically different effects. The original begins with Nicole’s transmission, serving to establish a mood of despair (in her dialogue and voice) and create a minor connection to Isaac (in the story she represents). The support characters comment on the video, reinforcing its purpose to drive the player forward (at least in the early game), and then the game reveals the USG Ishimura. Right away, just from these few lines and images, Dead Space imbues the player with some very important notations. The name of the ship implies a future of a joint humanity, one in which racial and modern political lines have most likely fallen aside. The size and shape of the ship demonstrates the new might of the species; it’s a “planet cracker,” able to blast open entire worlds. All the characters reference the ship with admiration – the player knows this is an impressive vessel. And it looks damn cool. The view is funneled right to the construct, showcasing its advanced design and layout. This is where the vast majority of the game takes place, and the external showcase and in-universe story establishment gives important context to the action.

                Note the disproportionate amount of time spent establishing Isaac and then establishing the ship. Both characters ‑ and the USG Ishimura is a character ‑ have their story shaped by the outside. But the boat is far more complete. We know its look, we know its purpose, and we know its heritage. Isaac, not so much. How old is he? Where does he come from? Is he smart? Witty? Tough? What scares him? What motivates him? These questions are not really answered because they do not matter for the game. The player is supposed to fill in the details themselves, with their own traits imposed on this man (for the most part). Consequently, the Ishimura becomes far more interesting from a story perspective. And the game knows this, placing the player’s avatar firmly in a secondary position right from the beginning.

                Now look at Dead Space 2. This game launches with a very well executed re-cap of the previous events. This time, however, Isaac narrates. This story no longer belongs to the Ishimura ‑ it’s his now. In this exchange, the player has lost a story about the world and gained a story about a man. Naturally, this in turn changes the feel and pacing of each game. Dead Space 2 is far less concerned with establishing a world than its predecessor; recall the opening shot of the Ishimura. There is no equivalent for the Titan. The player doesn’t know what the station really looks like, and frankly, the game doesn’t care. The surroundings are a method to introduce story and game play elements, rather than the opposite relation featured in Dead Space. Let’s examine and clarify this point. In Dead Space, each chapter ended on the tram, looking at a map. Isaac had, in the chapter prior, accomplished some goal, done something which changed the nature of the ship he occupied. Then he faced a map, showing where he was, where he was going, and how it all related. The flow of it all, the sense of continuity and spatial relation, is paramount. Dead Space 2 doesn’t even have an in-game map. Who cares what the Sprawl looks like or how it’s laid out – you’ll never be backtracking or fixing something. Just moving ever forward, reacting to events and bad guys sent your way. In the first instance, the layout and needs of the ship dictate the flow. In the second, Isaac’s needs determine what happens. Returning to the comparison of openings, Dead Space’s Isaac silently moves into a control room, slowing unraveling the mystery of the ship before everything goes wrong. Dead Space 2’s Isaac head-butts a mutated monstrosity and goes on a rampage from the first minute. Obviously, the focus and mood of each game is radically different. The first is a story of ambiance, of audio logs left discarded and messages written in blood, and the second is a story of Isaac.

                Now there’s nothing wrong with a game story focused on a character, but Dead Space 2 fails in its treatment of Isaac. So we’ve established that the game is solely concerned with its playable character. The other people are just there to provide context or problems for him to overcome (the Sprawl functions in the same way). This means that Isaac must be engaging - the player has to care about him. Dead Space worked very hard to make its protagonist interesting; hours were spent talking about the history, function, and layout of the Ishimura. And it felt believable, because each piece (both story and physical area) flowed from one part to the next. A “planet cracker” would, conceivably, be this big. It would have these decks, this crew, and this design, laid out in this way. It made sense and it felt real. Isaac, in Dead Space 2, feels fake. Remember that Isaac is an engineer, a bystander who survived by a combination of smarts, skill, and luck. He wasn’t very good at combat, but he had a fancy suit and future lasers so he made his way through the world. But now, for no apparent reason, he’s an action hero superstar.

                It’s understandable for the game to do; the new focus on action over atmosphere demands a more capable protagonist. But the shift and overall characterization of Isaac should have been handled better. Initially, it’s established that Isaac is insane, haunted by the events he saw and the death of Nicole. Well that seems logical, and honestly it would be awkward to not acknowledge the psychological toll the first game must have taken. And it would be a fair guess to venture that this is the story’s attempt to rationalize the new, “edgier” personality. Unfortunately, the game confuses emotional scarring with being an asshole. There are a few moments that perfectly illustrate this point.

                Some time after the beginning sprint through the alien-infested hall, Isaac boards an elevator and the lights cut out. At this point, he knows the Sprawl is infected, and he knows what the necromorphs are. This loss of power should not be and entirely unexpected event. Distressing, no doubt, but well within the realm of the possible. A good, character appropriate reaction would be something like,” Ah crap,” or a brief, hushed, “Shit.” Both responses, with proper delivery, give a sense of distress while maintaining a premise of reality - the latter even has a swear thrown in there. But instead Isaac says, in a raspy, overly masculine voice, “What the fuck.”

                People don’t really swear that much. And when they do, the actual word itself is almost never emphasized, especially when there is no other person unto whom emphasis would be needed. So Isaac’s dialogue is overly vulgar, an unrealistic response that both diminishes his character and trivializes the situation. When he swears at everything, particularly with such exaggeration, it becomes routine, and the purpose of the swear – to make the situation seem dire – no longer has any weight. This diminishment arose earlier, when Isaac responds to the line “I’m not the one shooting at you,” with “Fuck.” Why did he say that? It certainly wasn’t a logical conclusion to this dialogue. Was this the first time he realized he was in danger? Did the deadly aliens not tip him off to that? Or was he just trying to look cool? Sadly, it seems the answer is actually the later; his lines are a ploy to appeal to the hardcore crowd, thinking that vulgarity equates to serious discourse.            

                Again, let’s compare this to Dead Space. The character did swear there, but they did so with purpose. When Isaac first visits Hammond in the control deck, he says something to the effect of,” Whoa, you startled me. Fucking asteroids are putting me on edge.” Now that emphasis looks weird in text and that’s probably not the exact line. But note that the vulgarity is reduced to a secondary level, with the important information (the asteroids are putting Hammond on edge) placed in the forefront. “Fuck” only served to show just how jumpy Hammond was. This is how people speak.

                Jumping back to Dead Space 2, the issues with Isaac’s lines extend further than his overuse of bad language. His character is one of a vulnerable, exposed man who is placed in a situation far beyond anything he could have imagined. That’s not to suggest he should be a dear in the headlights all the time, but he definitely shouldn’t be blowing off events with one-liners and wisecracks. After the tram Isaac is riding on crashes, sending him fly off and battling monsters while suspended upside down, the support character asks “What are you doing over there?” She’s referring to his location in the Sprawl, since the tram couldn’t make to the original destination. Rather than saying, “The tram crashed, necromorphs swarmed the wreckage but I’m holding out,” (a response to both gives the support character information and reinforces the situation to the player) he says, “Unexpected stop.” Well that’s all very nice and 80’s action movie of Isaac, but it runs completely contrary to his established character.

                All of this poor dialogue and characterization proves indicative of Dead Space 2’s overarching failure: most of the game’s plot and setting is designed to be a vehicle for offensive material, not a method to tell an intriguing story. We don’t even need to rely on the game itself for proof of this. The marketing campaign shows no footage of the game and makes no attempt to describe the experience. Rather, it focuses on outraged middle-aged women who function as stand-ins for the mother’s of the teenage demographic. Huzzah, games are violent and moms don’t like it. That’s great, and there’s nothing wrong with enjoying the gratuitous gore present in the franchise, but it never should have take precedent over content. Let’s take a step back to reaffirm that Dead Space 2 is not a bad game; on the contrary, it’s excellent, standing far beyond most competing titles. But it could have been better.

                Outside of this major story failing, Dead Space 2 continues the franchise tradition of outstanding visual and gameplay design.  Most obviously, the games feature no HUD or any display of information not rooted in the game world. This is an astonishing feature, and its one almost entirely unique to the series, arising as a function of their setting and integrated design.

                So Dead Space takes place in the future, and the future is always cool. Visceral has gone a step beyond making a technological wonderland for the player to explore; they’re enabled the player to essentially occupy that world.

                Every game needs some way in which to communicate key information to the player. How much health the character has, how much ammo, where they are aiming – all of these things (and several others) must be explained. This poses an interesting challenge for designers: how do you demonstrate this information without breaking immersion? Generally, games don’t. The vast majority of titles have a HUD display superimposed on the camera, standing distinct from the events taking place within the fictional world. Consequently, every time the player looks at the HUD they re-affirm their disconnect with the medium, even if it only happens latently. That’s not to suggest this system is critically flawed – it’s been standardized to such an extent as to be no longer a real issue. Additionally, there’s not really an alternative for most titles without compromising the flow of the experience.

                Fortunately, the magical space future setting provides an out for Dead Space. Everything is projected on the game world as a hologram. There are two primary effects that come from this presentation. First, everything that should be boring but necessary becomes really cool, especially if the player likes the color blue. Second, and more importantly, the aforementioned disconnect between player and game no longer exists. Everything a user must know is now justified within the canon.

                Despite all the critiquing done of Dead Space 2 in regards to its predecessor, the use of this unique setup emerges as one area of supremacy for the sequel. The original never entirely explained if the characters could see or use the tools provided to the player. Did Isaac’s friends see his magical blue line leading them exactly where they need to go? How did this technology work? Furthermore, can they see their magic health bars on their backs? And those healing packs lying around everywhere – can only Isaac see those? This is part of a concept here referred to as “world integration;”or, how well a game acknowledges and integrates the necessary mechanics for it to be playable into its story. To better explain, look at Bioshock, and how its gameplay became central to the story.

                Vita-chambers populated Rapture, essentially making your character invincible. Which, until about the halfway mark, seemed odd, especially since no other character seemed that interested in using immortality technology. Then in one amazing move the story validated their existence and rendered them central to the game’s plot. This is positive world integration. Conversely, the hacking minigame illustrates the negative form. Unless time literally froze while Jack pulled apart the machine and moved small tubes of water around, the story cannot account for this needed mechanic. Similarly, the HUD takes the standard form, being an overlay on the camera not present to the actors within the game. It’s just not integrated into the world.

                With this concept firmly in mind, look at how integrated Dead Space 2 is. From the very beginning, the characters directly reference the ability to heal with medkits found laying about. They also speak about the health bar, saying “Your rig is red.” Even the waypoint gets referenced, in a few clever ways. All of the methods to guide the player exist for the character they control as well. Just as the absence of this generally effects perception covertly, its presence doesn’t necessarily overtly establish the word either. It does, however, undeniably help in making the player accept the world they see.

                Naturally, this acceptance recalls the disconnect created by the shoddy writing, highlighting just how disappointing the story is. Considering the effort spent establishing every aspect of the game as valid, it’s so frustrating that a core feature essentially ruins the work. But it was promised that we were done with this particular topic, so let’s return to analysis of the incredible visual design.

                Isaac’s visual design expertly invokes feelings of power and control for the player. Obviously, his suit looks impressive, as do its various permutations. But also consider his size in relation to the other characters. He’s huge, occupying more of the world than any human should. This generates feelings of power, lending credibility to Isaac’s actions. Sure he can take all those hits and kill all those horrific aliens – look at the size of the guy. He stands ready for anything. Even his stance is indicative of his strength. Isaac, during portions of player control, permanently hunches his shoulders and learns forward, constantly holding his weapon at the ready. The shape and contours of his body invokes animalistic qualities: barely constrained strength and constant vigilance.

                Much of the emphasis of this critique focuses on the continuity Dead Space presents and the way in which in-game actions become justified; the unique use of camera plays directly into these notions. Most titles see the camera as a way to show the action on screen subject to the will of the scene; during story cut scenes, it’s almost always made into a film camera, using the same framing and editing techniques as a motion picture. The purpose here is not to highlight the flaws with the system, but rather to show how another approach (that of Dead Space) plays to the strengths of the medium.

                Film and gaming hold many differences, most obviously the interactivity of the later. But the former has established itself as the dominate method for telling visual stories. It’s only natural that game direction follows this trend. But consider why film exists as it does: because it involves real, physical actors in a real world, certain constraints apply. More specifically, the entire experience cannot occur as one, uncut shot that innately flows from one moment to the next.

                That statement is overly general; it’s entirely possible, no doubt, for specific films to be done in this style. But most stories that involve any sort of travel or action, beyond that which could be concretely conveyed in a play, must have tricks of editing for the sake of filming. Games by their very nature are entirely independent of this restriction. They exist only as computer code, with no real physical component. In a realm limited by imagination and not possibility, why should the camera behave as it does in the real world?

                It shouldn’t. Again, lets qualify these broad claims by remembering that the standard use of the camera is not inherently flawed. Filming techniques do convey stories very well, so it’s entirely appropriate for game designers to use these methods. Dead Space’s presentation is a boon for itself but does not render others obsolete.

                Now that we have context, let’s examine the actual game. Almost entirely from start to finish, both Dead Space titles are one long, uncut shot. This flow is rarely broken, only at the end of the game in the first title and for technical reasons (loading) in the second. This generates an unprecedented feeling of continuity. Consider when a time lapse occurs in some other story. Often, this results in disorientation, the sort of, “wait, how did I get here?” stemming from weak story contextualization. The one-shot makes this an impossibility, as the player can directly see how their character moves from one location to the next. That doesn’t imply they must accept it, only that a visual explanation exists. Whether it’s fundamentally plausible or not, and plausibility is often a problem for stories of space zombies, is an entirely separate question.

                We have yet to even begin considering the actual gameplay elements of Dead Space, and for good reason. In a modern context, gameplay no longer needs extensive consideration. Other mediums direct their efforts on presenting fresh stories and unique takes on established ideas, not on reinventing the wheel. And Dead Space is quite happy with the wheel it has. All of the actual action is entirely competent and satisfying in a way recalling every game that came before. This is in no way a criticism. The enemies look nifty and become nice and squishy after death. The guns have big bangs and make fun explosions. But even the central marketing feature, “strategic dismemberment,” is at base the tired precision aiming found in every game applied to limbs.

                Now this is a detour from the game analysis, but it’s important to think about gaming culture when considering a game’s merits. Recently, discussion of games focuses almost entirely on notions of “innovation.” And for what purpose? Well ideally it’s because a game that does not innovate is not fun, it’s just more of the same (ignore, for now, that chess has remained constant for centuries but still gets labeled “fun”). While logically correct, this concept just doesn’t hold true to reality. Was True Grit a bad movie because it had the same six-shooters as any other western? Did The Godfather suffer from not being filmed upside down, just like every other film? Of course not, and games cannot be discarded because they resemble previous products. Game design has reached a level in which all the basics have been established and standardized. Bar any major hardware shifts, the doorway for major innovation no longer exists. Genres are established, mechanics are established, and players know what to expect.

                So now what does merit consideration? Well obviously the visual design, setting, and story, but also the way in which standard elements are used and how well the experience is executed. Major design bugs or flaws detract from the game experience. Ideal gameplay is as unnoticeable as possible; games should aspire to naturalize their actions so players no longer consciously think about how they physically control the game. Each bug obviously detracts from this, as does every flaw. A poorly placed health bar, overly tough or easy enemies, confusing puzzles, stiff controls, a lack of variation in tasks or environments – all flaws that break immersion. No sane human will ever totally forget the real world, but they may forget the controller. Dead Space gives such strong feelings of immersion because it has tried to rid itself of all these flaws, and nearly succeeds. Certain sections drag on too long, and parts of the game could be plotted better, buts its overall drive sucks the player into its world. Wonderful execution replaces notions of “innovation” in establishing a game’s worth.

                Making a competent shooter is no longer a challenge; the format has been essentially cemented. Each subsequent title makes little effort to change or radicalize the nature of gaming, and there is absolutely nothing wrongwith this. If gaming is to advance as a medium, the notion that each game must have some sort of grand “innovation” applied industry wide must be discarded. Dead Space 2 is a wonderfully executed shooter supported by an entirely unique appearance, showing a method of progress in which fundamentals remain but the presentation improves.