Borderlands had a shiny slipcase; that is why I bought it. I never intended on doing so but the insignificant yet alluring cardboard had me. It also perfectly encapsulates my now far removed opinion of the game. It is fluff, attractive fluff yes, but it will always remain an insubstantial experience, one fuelled by blind and compulsive greed masquerading behind pithy humour and shiny things. An almost perfect metaphor for the video games industry in general? Most likely, but it also proved to be one of my favourite games of 2009, shortly behind Flower, which is obviously the greatest gaming experience of all time.

I don’t consider calling it shallow to be at all a criticism. In terms of shooting mechanics it strikes the almost perfect balance of being challenging and constantly enjoyable. Shooting things in Borderlands is a joy and it stands beside Doom and Quake 2 in my upper echelon purely joy-filled shooting games. That, however, sets a precedent; the core game play of Borderlands is highly reminiscent of that of a by-gone era. Doom was released sixteen years prior, yet the two fundamentally play almost identically. Priority is given to dispatching enemies with little aid from modern cover use, reflexes are rewarded and skilful aiming is a necessity. Shallow, then, is maybe the wrong word to use; pure may be more apt.

While the shooting in Borderlands had me from the outset it was the, admittedly limited, role-playing aspects which made me persevere. The well-documented lust for a slightly better weapon or shield had me playing daily in an attempt to gather a more substantial arsenal. The random nature of the loot was a source of both compulsion and frustration. One evening I would fully upgrade my equipment only to spend the next week using it ad nauseam, constantly striving for that elusive upgrade. Levelling promised progression that would make everything more productive, though each character bonus was never strong enough to make me unstoppable. Individual level progression began to stretch out across multiple evenings; the more hours I sank into the game the less productive my time was. The second almost perfect metaphor from the game, this time about the curse of addiction? Undoubtedly.

I was truly hooked by Borderlands. I played it solo and exhausted every quest before the finale, fully aware that I would inevitably begin a new game plus upon its completion. That inclination proved misguided; I barely played it again. My will was shattered and I no longer lusted after incremental weapon upgrades. I played the zombie-themed content, though was dismayed by its awkward level design and ended our unhealthy relationship there. Freed from the game’s cruel greed I retired it, along with its attractive facade, to the shelf, thankful that I had escaped its insidious grasp.

After being ‘on the wagon’ ever since I was intrigued by the prospect of a sequel. The Borderlands period of my life contained enough time to allow long games to take their hold. Fallout 3 entertained me for over a hundred hours, though New Vegas stalled at a third of that. Having less time meant I was unable to commit to such protracted games; I don’t like spending my handful of hours a week on a game if it will take me months to fully enjoy. I was a student in 2009 and so had significantly more time to devote to games. Three years later I now have a meaningful job, a long-term partner and a gym membership. All of these things inevitably eat up large swathes of my time, though I still enjoy playing games.

Borderlands 2, then, is everything I can’t appreciate in a game anymore, yet still wish I could. It seems to be very long. I have only played around ten hours so far, though it took up a Saturday and Sunday afternoon; all the game time that I am going to get on a good week. Being long cannot be considered a bad thing of course. It is fantastic for the avid player in that they get a lot of game for their money, especially in a game like this where little is padding. It is entirely centred around shooting lots of things a lot of times and the player knows that upon entry; repetition is the understood game play device after all. I recently finished Darksiders and that surely contains ample amounts of padding. The last third is spent jumping from arena battle to puzzle to repeated boss encounter, something that grinds the game to a halt for about five hours; to its detriment. Borderlands 2 definitely does not force any of that upon the player in such a rigid structure.

Sadly however, things take too long to progress for my predicament. I accomplished ten levels in roughly the same number of hours, the last couple taking over an hour each to garner. The first game held my compulsion bone because I had the time to invest in its progression; I fear I cannot commit to the sequel. While the characters are wittier and the plot that surrounds them more substantial I still do not envisage myself having the time to invest in them. Borderlands was doubtless a great experience throughout the sixty hours I spent with it. It pales in comparison to the memories I have of Flower, however. Journey furthered that experience within an even shorter timeframe; it is just a shame that I can’t work within Borderlands 2’s to enjoy it as much as I did its predecessor.

I’ve played games for my whole life. I was playing 2600 games when I was very young and then had a SNES. After that came the three Playstations, then a Wii and finally a 360. I’ve lived and breathed gaming and its technological advances. Counter Strike in its heyday. My Uncle wiping my Gex 3 save on my Birthday. The excessive trouble needed to hook up a PS2 to the internet. The comparative ease of playing pirated games on that very same console. Playing GTA III for the first time at my cousin’s house. Playing Motorstorm and experiencing a PS3 for the first time at my friend’s house. Actually buying my own PS3, the first console I’d spent my own money on. Playing GTA IV for twenty-four hours straight on release day. Stabbing my Wii with a knife to cash in on the insurance to buy my 360. All are terribly cherished memories for one reason or another.

The last of these is playing through the Telltale Monkey Island with a friend almost two years ago. We played the entire season in a couple of sittings, both solving puzzles and looking at the game in different ways, ultimately bettering the challenges relatively quickly. Since then, however, life has taken its toll on my spare time for games. Work, which was always present, still eats up a large portion of my week. That I can justify, though all the other ancillary activities quickly pile up. The gym, every weekday after work eats up a couple of hours though is thoroughly necessary. Seeing friends takes up whole evenings thereafter. Being in a steady relationship also occupies time that could otherwise be given to games, though there is always a compromise to be made when considering two people and their time together. I like to write about video games as well. With all these other activities taken care of I maybe get to actually play games for about ten ours a week; not much by all accounts.

Through this constraint I’ve begun to admire and enjoy the shorter downloadable game much more. I like the ability to fully experience a game within my own diminished schedule. In the past I played Flower as just another game to play; one in a long line of others that I could experience at my leisure because I had LOTS of time to spend playing games. I loved that game regardless of this blasé approach and still consider it one of my all-time favourites. When it came to Journey, however, its importance was elevated because of my lack of free time. It was to be the only game that I would play that week, and so my time with it was infinitely more sacred. It proved to be delightful, rapturous even, and showed me that I can still enjoy games even if I can’t play as many as I would like to.

I pose this question to you, then. How much time do you actually have to play games and what proves to be the biggest obstacle between you and them?

I was having a leisurely pint of ale with my girlfriend when my mind began to wander away from our conversation. Whatever we were talking about evidently paled in comparison to my thoughts on The Walking Dead, episode three of which I had played through a couple of nights before. When she ultimately realised that I was not giving her my full attention I tried to explain why the game touched me so deeply. I found it almost impossible to justify my feelings without speaking about it in 'gaming terms' and comparing it to other games, two things I know she doesn't understand and finds difficult to relate to.

I took a moment to compose myself and started again, this time with the non-linear narrative and the implications it has for character development. I starting from the beginning, telling her about the player character, Lee, and how we are shown that he is going to jail at the opening of the game. Besides this we know nothing about the character and are still expected to speak for him, shaping our version of Lee from the very start with little prior knowledge of him. I find this a fascinating way of opening a decision-based narrative. Does the player embrace the ambiguous criminality that has been set at their feet, using it to justify immoral actions that their Lee may perform? Alternatively, do they attempt to right these unknown wrongs with their own intervention, repenting for what could be a minor indiscretion by way of noble altruism? There is also the option to let it, mostly, not affect decisions in any way, though his crime is ultimately elaborated on later in the story, putting more importance on it for a time.

Being a Psychology MA I imagined that the good woman sitting next to me would find this divergence of choice to be fascinating. She had bemoaned my short sightedness when ‘researching’ SimCity Social and directed me to a more scientific opinion of the game. I therefore assumed she would surely find something to dig her teeth into with this, even possibly consider playing it herself. Although her interest was peaked we were still ultimately talking about games, and so I’d have to work harder to convince her of The Walking Dead’s narrative merits. It hadn’t helped that I’d recently been talking about Borderlands and its gleeful embrace of cartoon violence over emotional substance, though it just made the endeavour that more meaningful; all games are not striving for the same audience reaction, after all.

Next on the agenda was Clementine, a young girl Lee is charged with accompanying. His task is twofold; protect the youngster from the cruelties of a humanity unhinged and attempt to find her missing parents. Early in the game you happen upon her deserted home and discover, through answer phone messages, that they are holidaying when the infection breaks out. Their likelihood of survival is slim, though it is up to the player to decide how realistic Lee wishes to be about this with Clementine. I began by being quietly optimistic with her as not to break her heart so early on in the relationship. After a couple of hours though I found it increasingly difficult to be anything but supportive of her insistence to find them. I cared for her too much.

I had, as I always do, followed the noble path. Mass Effect, Fable, the Fallout 3; all games in which I inevitably played as if I were me. Proof that role-playing is still very much alive in gaming, yes, but also a testament to my inability to separate myself from a gaming avatar. However, The Walking Dead has, in Clementine, an even deeper moral hook in me. Throughout all of the choices Lee is given I am not simply following my blind morality, vicariously justifying my passive personality, no, I am also making my decisions based upon what Clementine would want. Should I let my sense of anger or vengeance win out as it has in past gaming experiences? No, I have to remove myself and think of Lee and more importantly Clementine’s relationship with him. She will witness such a lack of self-control and remember him for it; that I cannot be held accountable for.

My strong loyalty to video game characters has been noted in the past. When Mass Effect 3 was released one of the first things I mentioned to my girlfriend was my monogamous relationship with Liara T’Soni. As a character featured throughout the trilogy the player can embark upon a relationship with her from the first game. I chose to pursue this for the duration, celebrating her personal growths and becoming genuinely attached to her. This was initially hard for her to understand, though as I continued to talk about the numerous romantic conquests I could have pursued at the same time, my girlfriend found comfort, and a little humour, in my inability to be unfaithful even within a game.

This brought us to the question; would she care to take part in this fascinating exploration of human morality? Yes was the initial answer, though we are still yet to sit down together and begin our journey across a decimated Georgia. Like all game related discussions we have, the actual act of playing proves to be the barrier to entry, not the content behind it. Discussing the implications of player choice with her proves fascinating; her Psychological viewpoint far surpasses my own, though the connotations of her sitting and playing a game still prove to be an obstacle.

She still can’t separate the mechanics, and her fear of not being able to competently interact with them, from the game that sits on top. While the controls are very simple their unfamiliarity still intimidates her. The Walking Dead harbours one of the greatest and most emotionally resonant narratives I have ever experienced within a game. It is a shame that by virtue of it being just that, that so many will miss a fantastic examination of the human condition when it is pushed to the limits.The Walking Dead harbours one of the greatest and most emotionally resonant narratives I have ever experienced within a game. It is a shame that by virtue of it being just that, that so many will miss a fantastic examination of the human condition when it is pushed to the limits.

The notion of having a ‘backlog’ of games or, to use a phrase I dislike, a ‘pile of shame’ holds a number of connotations. Games that get left be the wayside often stay un-played, against our best intentions, and ultimately forgotten. These phrases instantly bring to the fore the sense that games are, on a whole, a temporal art form; that they can only be fully enjoyed within a very short period of time after their release. That once a game is no longer considered new that it is acceptable to distance oneself from it and discard it into the annals of history. It also infers that a game’s importance, albeit with a few exceptions, wanes significantly over time.

Games are very different to sculpture, painting, film or music in this sense. Because the advancing technology behind them is much more apparent, graphical fidelity aside, they can quickly appear outdated. Simple mechanics such as running and jumping can be easily rendered archaic through minor advances in design. For example; the early Tomb Raider games were lauded in their time on both game play and graphical levels. “Tomb Raider is the exploratory game you always wished you were playing” said Gamespot in 1996, while Gamespy described the original series as “a masterful balance of exploration, adventure and action, all set in an immensely colorful, exotic 3D world.” Both of these opinions have been coloured by time but this does not render them obsolete.

The original Tomb Raider was remade in 2007 with more modern mechanics. Basic movement was vastly improved through technology and highlighted the lack of precision and control inherent with the original game. I feel both, however, should be considered valid options to play. Each represents a certain period in gaming and reflects the limitations technology imposed at the time. Much like the 1998 remake of Psycho, Tomb Raider: Anniversary is as much an exercise in clinical re-creation as it is a fully formed game. Its reverence to the past is astonishing, its adherence to the original admirable. While Psycho, however, is a statement that any film can be remade and result in an almost identical product, Anniversary shows that remaking a game inherently brings with it massive changes.

While remaking a film shot-for-shot brings with it the inevitable change of cast, and in this case the introduction of colour, the overall aesthetic of both image and performance can be retained. Remaking a game, however, changes almost every aspect of it, as is the clearly intended result in this case. Anniversary, then, was less an act of creative curation and more one of re-imagination. It took a name and a template and re-packaged it for a modern era, essentially making the old new again. Anniversary is by no means the original, though, it is a completely different entity.

This I don’t feel is necessarily negative, though it does highlight the problem of games maintaining their relevance. It took almost forty years for Psycho to be remade, yet only ten for Tomb Raider. Technology will inevitably continue to improve, leading games to appear ‘old’ much more quickly than other art forms. Should this mean that ageing games are left to be forgotten or simply rehashed, overwriting the past? I think neither is a sustainable option.

Games are inevitably built, more so than any other popular medium, on iteration. Progress is inevitable throughout a technology-dependent medium, though it need not constrain the past. The mentality that older games, especially ones constrained by a definitive ‘generation’, become outdated through virtue of their graphics and mechanics needs to be addressed. The original Assassin’s Creed, for example, was blighted by its repetitive nature and generally bland storytelling, though paved the way for a vastly superior sequel. Should it be disregarded because of its shortcomings or forgotten because of its legacy? Neither.

Games are fascinating because of their fractured and intricate lineages. To forget the past of gaming is to disregard everything that has brought us to this moment in time. By leaving games un-played we lose all sense of the present, yet to leave the same games for too long we lose all sense of the past, something that has much further-reaching implications.

I was in a weakened state of being after a period of self-indulgence when a stranger offered his assistance. I initially rebuffed his kindness, feeling somewhat foolish about the sorry state he had found me in. It quickly became apparent to both of us, however, that I couldn’t function alone for the moment. I reached out to his extended hand of altruism and let him envelop me in his warmth.

We walked a short distance to his humble yet inviting abode and sat down in front of a halogen fire for warmth. I was still shaking a little from my weekend alone, though was now at least in the mood for company. The stranger cast an interesting figure; he was middle-aged, wearing jeans and a loose shirt and had a ruddy face, although not in the Grandfatherly way. His eyes and cheekbones were sharp and both told me he was a stern man, yet his attire made him appear much younger in every sense. He had pulled me from the gutter though, and for that I thanked and trusted him.

“We should play a game to pass the time”, he suggested as he placed a huge board between us. “All you have to do is build a city. You can do it any way you like, imagine that? You play and I’ll be here to teach you the rules, you’ll learn them as we go.” The idea was fantastic, the man a near genius for having the perfect distraction to my current situation. I love building cities, I thought, though what will it be like with someone around to reign in my imagination?

The board already had a mayor’s office and a couple of factories and businesses “to get me started”, the man told me, though everything else “was in my hands.” I built a few houses to make sure that there weren’t any jobs going spare, that would be wasteful after all, and then set about thinking toward the future. I’d build a whole new shopping district flanked with trees with open piazzas, a safe residential area where families could live and move my industry out to the fringes. People would love the ideals of my city and flock from miles around to move in.

“Why don’t you call a couple of friends and ask them to come over?” my host asked, “there’ll be pizza and fizzy pop.” I declined his offer saying I’d rather be mayor away from the scrutiny of my peers for the time being, until things really took off. I instead kept building businesses and homes; I wanted my communities to flourish without outside influence and be great off of their own merit. “Hold on there, son”, he interjected, “you’re taking the game too seriously, you’ll have to slow down, it’s only a bit of fun.” I didn’t want to, of course, matters were beginning to get too pressing. The suburbs were stagnating thanks to a lack of amenities while businesses were struggling to keep up with demands. What was I to do?

“Why don’t you sit a while, by the fire, and come up with a sound strategy?” The only clear route was investment but the old man was stopping me from developing my paradise. “Read a book for a minute or two”, he suggested antagonistically, “or give me twenty American dollars and we can continue.” He knew full well that I didn’t have any foreign currency on my person, we were in south London after all, yet he still offered the trade. “That amounts to only twelve pounds sterling; and a cheap deal at that.” His goading worked and I palmed him some coins to get back into the game.

My money had bought me more than extra time with the game; it had bought me status. I built fire and police stations, sports venues and parks for my citizens. Their lives were being enriched by my generosity. I built them employment, safety and piece of mind; I built them their lives. “Look!” shouted my ever-encroaching host, “your friends are moving into your city!” I knew they weren’t, as I still hadn’t called them to come over, yet there tiny facsimiles of them appeared, as if by magic. “Expand for them!” “Keep them safe!” “Make their lives better!” My host was evidently revelling in his administrative role.

He had positioned himself as an enforcer of rules and a spectator of habits, yet now he was playing a greater part in my decision-making. When it came to staffing my second fire station he demanded I call my friends again. I told him that they apparently lived in the neighbouring apartments and worked at the ice cream factory and so couldn’t be fire fighters as well. “Fine!” he rasped, “then pay me ten American dollars and you can have your new fire station!” What was I to do? I didn’t want to risk their idyllic lives with my own frugalness. Investment was the key to success, or so my mantra had become.

The breaking point of our short-lived yet tumultuous relationship came when the gentleman advised me to open a bank. I invested heavily into the structure and furnishings with the promise of my citizens becoming economically solvent. Edward, as I later learned was his name, had lied to me. The bank could only open its doors if I dedicated one more, financially-imperative item to the kitty. The building required a farmyard plough. “Harvest some crops from your farms and grab a plough!” he instructed, seemingly unaware of the disconnect between socio-business amenity and pastoral device.

I questioned his judgement as to why the two were so intrinsically linked and he simply replied with “why don’t you call a couple of friends and ask them to come over? There’ll be pizza and fizzy pop.” At that moment his jeans and a loose shirt fell away to reveal a perfectly pressed suit and dark brown dress shoes. I suddenly saw Edward for what he was. He had used my insecurities against me; made me feel like a champion of the people only to exploit me for my money. I snapped out of my self-pity and ran home, safe in the knowledge that sometimes playing games alone benefited everyone.

There are occasions where I find myself in need of cleansing. Complex thought processes are sometimes unnecessary after all. Simple things are good; a beer, for instance. A beer and a video game combined can prove to be a simple yet highly rewarding pleasure. The more they are consumed together though, the more complex things become. That is why the choice of game is as, if not more, important than the choice of beverage.

It recently fell on Just Cause 2 to be the shining light in my campaign of substance-assisted enjoyment. Here was a game entirely built upon the giddy joy of self-indulgence. Everything about it is excessive; the size of its world, Panau, the focus on causing ‘chaos’ through destruction and the central mechanic of using a grappling hook and parachute to traverse the former in search of the latter.

I am no stranger to any of these things. I played the game upon release, completely sober, and enjoyed it to a point though never got close to finishing it. While it offers up levity in spades it is also a video game and as such I always felt it was let down by this. It adheres too closely to the hallowed teachings of Grand Theft Auto III and seemingly fails to understand that they cannot simply be extrapolated whole-hog and grafted onto such a fundamentally different game. Everything is bigger, the world, the buildings, the intensity, but to what end if the game relies so heavily on a structure and mechanics that do not suit its inflated stature? It also lacks much of its inspiration’s narrative charm and appeal, rendering its shortcomings even more egregious.

Missions are often placed kilometres apart and necessitate either lengthy travel or a jarring load. Enemies are plentiful and accurate yet health supplies are sporadic and easily missed in the open environments. Destruction is the core conceit of the entire game yet I can only carry a limited number of explosives before I have to detour and scavenge for a resupply or order them from another load screen. Even when fully equipped, collectibles get in the way of the destruction, barring the completion of areas of the map. I wanted to feel like a latter day Rambo, I even felt like the game wanted me to, but my empowerment was constantly blocked by its strict adherence to unsuitable mechanics. Although I did enjoy jumping out of a plane and almost hitting the ground only to grapple the last six feet and forgo injury; that was a good mechanic. It was with that I left Just Cause 2, seemingly never to return.

Having a few beers can often change one’s perception of situations, however, and so I found myself longing for the verdant Panau once again. A couple of years older, and at this point in the night obviously wiser, I took it upon myself to right the wrongs of the past. I would no longer allow the game to let itself down by simply trying to fit in with the crowd. No. Just Cause 2 would soar like the majestic bird of prey it was. I had simply found it in the wilderness with a broken wing; all it needed was a splint and some love and it would surely grow into its potential. Though let us not dress things up, I cheated.

I didn’t like the game as it came, time could not change that, but altering it almost beyond recognition might, thought my easily influenced (at this point) mind. I installed a whole host of additions that were seemingly made to alleviate the issues I had taken exception to. No death, super long grapple to cover distances quickly, infinite ammunition to blow things up, a lovely set of new clouds. People had made these things so surely I was not the only one who had sighed at the game’s untapped potential. Not that it justifies cheating in any way; I was just drunk and idealistic, like a student as it were.

I found the game much more palatable played in the way I had always intended. Challenge was never something I though should be the main focus, so bowling through army bases and villages without fear of death never felt like I was undermining the game. I was a ridiculous action hero finally being able to act like a ridiculous action hero. Enemies fell at my feats; a shotgun blast here, a chopper to the back of the head there; I was experimenting with the game’s wealth of possibilities. Of course it was easy, I wanted it to be that way; I was drinking cava.

It was more than that, though, it was instant. Most of my foibles with the game stemmed from its terrible pacing. A game like this is not like a film or a song. They harbour dynamics; in that the best examples of each enthral through both their loud and quiet moments. Just Cause 2, conversely, lives through its loud moments and the rest is merely time spent getting from one to the next. Nothing outside of the structured tasks is engaging, though the game insists upon us deviating from its compelling parts. The ‘chaos’ which meters both story and side missions is only attainable through destruction; fail to accrue enough doing the meaningful things and you are forced to arbitrarily eke out more by yourself. I simply wanted to alleviate the strain of the padding and play the parts of the game which were given the most care and attention. Unfortunately time and the contents of my bloodstream conspired against me and forced me to retire, so further discover was postponed.

Refreshed by my undisturbed slumber, beer naturally hand, it became apparent that what Just Cause 2 most lacked was the soul of a compelling story. However much I attempted to bolster the game play I was always without a definitive reason for doing any of it. Missions had briefings like ‘find the bad general’ and ‘rescue the operative’ but they never dared be any more involving. The general premise of ‘you are an action hero here to depose a tyrant’ never seemed to develop any more depth. I was drinking so this of course bothered me not, though memories of my sober disappointment echoed loudly.

My time with the game continued, though I couldn’t shake my disappointments. Blowing things up began to grate as the targets of my fury became the same few objects throughout the island. Radio antennae look strangely beautiful as they collapse into chunks of scrap metal but seeing it happen every ten minutes brought into sharp focus the shallow nature of the game. Cheating had sidestepped some issues only to give me others to take exception to. The experience became as hollow as a weekend spent drinking alone; all of the mess but no tangible rewards.

I could barely remember what I was doing by late afternoon thanks to the drink, though I couldn’t attribute my amnesia to substance abuse alone. The game was simply too single-minded for me to handle regardless of my levels of inebriation. A sober me found the pacing and lack of direction infuriating while the drunkard tired of its repetitive nature when modifications removed the padding. ‘I don’t really like Just Cause 2’ I thought to myself, evidently drinking isn’t always the answer.

Much has already been said of the affecting nature of Spec Ops: The Line's plot and its attempt to subvert the conventions of the ever-popular shooter. I however, feel the modern console ecosystem undermines the weight of the game's message and highlights the difficulty of attempting to tell a branching, consequence-led story within a non-linear medium. The following words will therefore obviously contain information pertaining to the entire game.

The road to the conclusion of The Line is a torturous one in every sense. Not only are the things you see and are forced to take part in exhausting but also the actual taking part, the playing of the game, could be considered as intrinsic in creating this sense of emotional fatigue. Whether a conscious design decision to convey the horror of sustained military operations or a simple miss-calculation of when game play overstays its welcome; the combat scenarios are all protracted. The first half of the game throws too many waves into its enclosed arenas while the latter builds the environments out into cavernous temples built to honour the Gods of brutality. I was long done with shooting things by the point I reached its final assault course. Edging slowly past machine gun fire along an obviously prescribed, yet nevertheless frustrating route, it struck me; maybe this was the entire point. Having exposed me to such grueling and lengthy fire fights throughout its duration, The Line had successfully merged my mind with that of its protagonist, Captain Martin Walker. The relentless violence we had endured and inflicted had clouded our judgements, preventing us from seeing the humanity being extinguished by our hand. The enemy was no longer a man, a soldier; he was now simply an obstacle to be overcome.

This bond between player and character had ensured my total investment within the hellish Dubai the game took as its home. I had initially pinned my interest on the MacGuffin of antagonist Colonel Konrad’s fate, but what if that was simply the bait to lure me into the city? A device to ensure I pressed forward until Walker and I were too assimilated with one another to distinguish any difference. Without even acknowledging it I had become as much a character in the game as Walker himself; too much had been lost, too many sacrifices made for me to do anything but press forward and discover the truth.

That truth, of course, was harrowing. Konrad was long dead and I was a pitiful shell. What began as a rescue mission had devolved, thanks to circumstance, into an exercise of self-justification. My objectification of the enemy had even darker connotations that I had though. The men falling at my feet were doing so not simply because they posed a threat, but because they helped me justify my previous victims. This cycle of remorse and attempted redemption had tarnished my actions throughout most of the journey.

With this in mind my decision should have been simple. Confronted by the Konrad in my mind, the only one I had ever been listening to, I was given the option to give up; the Colonel would absolve me of all my sins, just as he had himself, with a single bullet. This was my only path to salvation. Or was it? All would be forgiven but nothing would be rectified with my passing; Dubai would still be burning. Taking tangible control of my destiny for what could conceivable have been the first time, I shot the spectral Konrad, freeing myself from the clutches of my own mind. No longer attempting to shelter my psyche from the tragedies I had taken part in I finally accepted my terrible decisions.

BLIP. Achievement unlocked. ‘Aah, I’m playing a video game after all’, I remembered. ‘Forget it, there seems to be a prologue starting’. I easily slipped back into inhabiting Walker and continued along my path of guilt acceptance, finally attempting to do the right thing. As a group of American soldiers approach me through the carnage I myself had created the night before, I am reminded of the destruction wrought by fear. One is responsive to my blank stare and purposeless shuffle, another is quite rightly wary; what if I pose a threat to my quasi-comrades? Their arguing, deliberately reminiscent of my own disagreements earlier in the game, poses my final test; will I let fear for my own safety turn me, yet again, against my fellow countrymen or will I relent and surrender my weapon, thus ensuring everyone’s safety. I chose the latter, opting to try and mend my broken spirit. BLIP. Achievement unlocked.

Herein lies my issue with branching narratives in contemporary video games; their choices are seldom concrete and with achievements being tied to them, often fatally devalued. I know the notifications can be silenced but the shiny badges cannot be dismissed entirely. Having what amounts to a prize attached to the outcome of a decision, here one as weighty as whether or not to commit suicide, ultimately cheapens and undermines the choice entirely. Regardless of whether I was informed of their unlocking or not, the two achievements I earned finishing The Line the way I saw fit will always be there.

The fact I did see them unlock piqued my interest. My story was at its end, Walker and I had pulled through our madness and had reunited with a portion of our humanity. But what would happen if I was weak, if I submitted to the guilt as Konrad had? ‘It wouldn’t change anything to see’ I told myself, ‘my journey is over’. I opened the box. What I saw inside laid the artifice lying at the heart of all games bare for me to see. Regardless of who pulls the trigger, the Colonel or I, events play out in exactly the same manner; Walker dies, slumped atop a tower overlooking the destruction he has created. A recording from Konrad plays highlighting the frailty of man and the vanity we all pursue in the name of heroism. This ending is perfectly acceptable, especially as a counterbalance to my optimistic approach to redemption. It is perfectly understandable that Walker, and so by definition the player, could see that they had gone too far to achieve any forgiveness and instead opt for death.

I don’t even take exception with both choices having a single conclusion, simply the ability to see these things so easily. Games are not yet advanced enough to realistically provide players with more than a handful of distinct choices. It is therefore imperative that these choices are presented in a discrete way so that they appear to be as organic and naturally divergent as possible and are integrated fittingly into narrative situations. For instance, when I was offered the choice to either shoot a traitor or allow him to burn to death I was frozen with indecision. On one hand he had deceived me into perpetrating a terrible crime, on the other he was a human being and I felt too much kinship between the two of us to let him die in agony. The emotions which drove me to this act of compassion are a testament to the writing and overall characterization of the major characters within the game. That I am relating to them on very base and primal levels displays the depth with which they have been imbued a tangible humanity. To then have the achievement Friendly Fire unlock with a self congratulating BLIP is somewhat galling and destroys any pathos.

I replayed this choice and a number of others after completing the game and found myself disappointed at the lack of actual differentiation between their outcomes. Apart from the ending, the rest of my decisions resulted in short-lived and cosmetic changes which all filtered back into the overarching story. This highlights the compromise of giving the player choices; we are often allowed to make decisions but their outcomes are rarely vital to the plot’s progression. The combination of achievements and easily accessible level selectors lay these truths out for all to see. They show the player that even the most compelling and seemingly tailored narrative experience is still a product of code and polygons and computers.

In integrating social elements into games where they need not be, modern gaming ecosystems risk undermining some of the medium’s most rewarding stories. Laying bare the cold artifice behind these tales for the sake of trinkets is terribly short sighted and detrimental to the medium as a whole. We always have the means to go back in time and change events in a game; that is one of the fascinating and unique properties of gaming. We don’t always, however, need reminding of this as it often shows how transient our decisions can be; once we can alter our choices on the fly we stop taking them seriously and this leaves a game like The Line with very little left to show us.

I used to love my PS3. She was the apple of my eye when I took her and a copy of what proved to be the weakest Call of Duty game, namely three, home the week of release. I had told myself she was unattainable, a charming and sophisticated being whom I lusted after yet knew deep down I was not ready to handle. I was steadfast in my resolve, though everything changed, as they do, after a chance meeting. We were introduced by a mutual friend. I was shy and awkward, she was full of brazen confidence, the perfect extrovert. I was captivated completely; she somehow showed me the world in a different light, more beautiful than I had ever seen before. The mundane was transformed; cars, clouds, trees, rolling hills, stranger’s faces, even sport, the drudgery and boredom that ‘the sport’ had once instilled in me was gone, replaced by the raptures of joyful innocence, everything was beautiful. Of course the world hadn’t changed, the same rules and laws applied, she just made everything prettier and I was fine with that. After all I liked the way the world worked, cars drove, hills rolled, guns shot things at people and the sport would inevitably be played, as it always would, that was good, I liked it that way. We were the perfect couple; she allowed me to continue on with my life in much the same way as I always had, and I was a little bit happier because everything looked nicer and ran a bit smoother. It was perfect.

We shared a lovely few years together and saw some momentous occasions. Assassins Creed getting good, my sixth proper Grand Theft Auto game, buying my first truly good DLC, buying my first truly good downloadable game, trophies, one redundancy, one sacking, two long-term girlfriends, three years of a degree and four houses. And one Wii. Lots of things happened yet we stuck together.

In time temptations began to get the better of me though, the grass began to look increasingly more dazzling on Microsoft’s side of the stream. What were these treasures? Mass Effect, Shadow Complex, Fable, Too Human, all shining examples of why my darling Playstation could not sate my appetite and moreover why platform exclusives are a devious yet completely reliable way to tempt betrothed souls down the path of infidelity. Before I had time to think I found myself spending long, deceitful nights away from my love, enraptured by my new desire; the other woman. My neglect was sustained and hurtful. All the Playstations fell ill for a time and I carelessly used this as an excuse to further distance myself, to break our once strong bonds to the point of insignificance. We were never the same after that, she was back at home but we were altogether different. I feel the shame now but at the time I simply couldn’t see how heartless I was being with the months and months of cavorting with the Xbox right in front of her. It nearly destroyed us.

Luckily for my PS3 this generation has continued as long as it has or it might be boxed up completely by now. You see I quickly became entrenched in the ‘Xbox ecosystem’, to coin a populist turn of phrase, and soon forgot about the once loved black monolith on my desk. It sat alone for over a year until Journey was released, Flower being one of my all-time favourite games I couldn’t not play it, and then fell quiet again. I was coaxed back this week by the new addition of free games on demand to Playstation Plus. The deal seemed perfect for me; access to decent quality PS3 games I’ve missed out on during my absence for what is ostensibly a modest one-off payment, those platform exclusives tempting me back in from the cold. What struck me when it came to redeeming these complimentary games, however, is just how archaic the XMB and the entire infrastructure of the PS3 now feel. I say this independently of my extensive use of the Xbox, which has its own foibles, and instead want to address some of the issues associated with an ageing user interface.

After the requisite updates, something the PS3 has always seemed to have a glut of, I took it upon myself to clear up my now tiny 60GB hard drive and make some room for the newcomers. I was disappointed to see that the PS3 still has no centralised list of items stored on the hard drive, instead making me trawl through downloaded PS3 games, installed PS3 games, PS minis, PS classics and miscellaneous games all separately. This was massively time consuming as I scrambled through folders trying to delete old data for games long since shelved. I see the logic behind the system originally when times were simpler and there was only ever a need to install and possibly download a handful of titles from the store but the digital marketplace has grown vastly since 2007. What is more baffling is that Sony was pushing from the very beginning for the Playstation Store to be a significant and heavily integrated part of the experience. Surely sticking rigidly with a UI which treats installs of different formats as completely separate entities undermines this concept of a united physical/digital platform? This lack of clear information of where data was being stored and for what purpose continued into the night, swallowing me in a whirlpool of questions and bafflement. Why did I install all these video apps? What is their purpose? Playstation Home? FOUR gigabytes? Aah, that makes sense.

The cull was deep and painful, titles like Go!Puzzle, Gripshift and Mortal Kombat which had been sat there peacefully for half a decade were cruelly ripped from their comfortable existence and cast out, regardless of their small size. The fever dream of wanton deletion had been brought on by utter confusion and the casualties were piling up, I was indiscriminate, unable to easily find the large games throttling my instant pleasure dome I turned on all of the inhabitants. Except Stacking. And Journey. And Flower. I couldn’t do that to Flower.

Rage subsiding the next logical thing, I thought, was to tidy up the list of my beloved survivors. Flower then Journey then Stacking. Lovely. No? Listing games in alphabetical order with a PS3 is apparently pointless and completely unnecessary. Chronological order, you bet, but not an order which is either useful or makes sense for cataloguing. When I was younger I ordered my CDs chronologically until I had more than ten, then it became a cumbersome way of keeping them and I went with alphabetical. Yet another example of how outdated the PS3 experience outside of games is. Sony provides a storefront and aim to maximise earnings through digital sales yet doesn’t support this with a viable way to catalogue purchases. Before the cull my 60GB machine looked terrible, with five times the clutter I can’t imagine wading through all those colourful thumbnails to find my content.

I could continue but most of my problems with the PS3 ecosystem boil down to a lack of foresight and poor organization. Trophies were slow to sync at their inception, how would time and increased load affect them? The store is cluttered with too much need for backtracking, adding more of everything will streamline it, no? Most aspects of the UI are clearly designed for quieter times; when our consoles were used for disc-based content and lightly supplemented by the digital kind. As this balance has shifted the XMB ought to have been fundamentally updated to deal with this increased load. At its heart lays a beautiful and streamlined way to present a giant amount of information and the basic structure of it is still a solid design. All it needs are some minor organisational tweaks, increased catagorisation options and the ability to condense vital information such as installed game content into a single location.

I doubt any of this will happen now though thanks to the same reason I still use the PS3 at all; her age. In sticking around this long she’s gained a new lease of life with me, even though it looks as if she’ll be left to age disgracefully, stumbling from party to party losing her keys and forgetting her purse. I loved her when she was young and sprightly and she hasn’t changed much since, for better or worse. How could I give up on her now?

The day Half Life 2 was released my hard drive died. I never discovered what happened to cause the passing of my precious repository and at the time I never even questioned the why, simply the how. How could my drive cease to function on this most special of days? What terrible events could be inflicted upon Gordon Freeman without me watching over him? How, in short, could this happen to me? I played Half Life 2 shortly after these events. Sometime after the terrible circumstances surrounding the game I must have grown up somewhat as I stopped asking myself the whiney how’s and simply got on with playing games. Somewhere during this time Half Life 2 suffered the same fate as my juvenile sense of entitlement and slipped to the back of my mind; the excitement for the original game was simply not present when it came to the subsequent episodes. I bought them a few years later when steam launched for mac out a sense of guilt but didn’t give them much though. A few more years have rolled by and things, I, have changed yet again; the apathy which leached away the youthful excitement has in turn been replaced by scholarly curiosity. It seems Half Life 2 has been there throughout all of my formative years, waiting patiently for me to yet again be ready.

Both of the episodes prove to be fascinating time capsules in some respects and in others examples of superior design decisions which to this day remain curiously underused. The storytelling technique of maintaining a strict first person perspective which is employed in all of Valve’s single player releases has been heavily praised since 1998 yet is still largely ignored in favour of the more ‘cinematic’ use of cutscenes. Though Valve’s games are probably the best suited to this device through their casting of the player as a silent protagonist, thereby allowing them to completely inhabit the game world and indirectly interact with characters, other developers have attempted implementation with varying degrees of success. The Call of Duty series has used the technique throughout, though it is the Modern Warfare trilogy where this can be seen most prevalently. Unlike Half Life, however, these games dilute the powerful connection between player and supporting characters by jumping between protagonists in rapid succession, showing the hollow shell of the player-character to be just that. Gordon Freeman works as a host because we consistently use his eyes to see. The consecutive nature of all of the Half Life 2 games fosters an acute connection between the player and the world by way of Gordon, thus making him a tangible character unto himself, regardless of his personality being exclusively a projection of the player’s own. In breaking up continuity and changing protagonists the Modern Warfare games, barring a couple of effective moments in the first, impede our ability to suspend disbelief and accept our host as a complete character. This often reverses the relevance of one of the most important rules of narrative, that of ‘show don’t tell’. In wanting to show the player everything the Call of Duty games destroy any sense of identity the player characters could possess. It is for gameplay reasons, then, that the player is transported back in time to Pripyat and into the body of yet another character and only tertiarily connected to any narrative or character progression. The events of this flashback could be summed up in a short paragraph yet the game dedicates far more time to it. While the Half Life games similarly show rather than tell the player about many of the important plot points the fact we inhabit a single character following a defined and temporally linear chain of events is crucial. This elevates the narrative concessions made for gameplay from mere contrivances to understandable compromises.

One such gameplay compromise is that of player mortality. I had practically forgotten the time before recharging health existed in shooters before I endeavoured to see Episodes One and Two out. Neither Half Life’s health pack mechanic nor the modern shooter’s penchant for regenerating health prove to be narratively sound solutions when it comes to governing a player’s ability to sustain damage. I am not, however, going to attempt to suggest a more fitting replacement to either, I’ll save that for another day.

In my absentmindedness I hadn’t only forgotten health packs but also the way they define how we play these games on the whole. Jumping back into Episode One it had been some time since I had felt the levels of tension I was experiencing from finite health. Ordinarily one would just duck out of the action for a few seconds and then get back to the job of killing things, here I was forced to endure a number of reloads before my mind once again became used to the concept of being careful.

My ability to stay alive was more directly connected to my understanding and implementation of the games systems as a whole rather than relying upon them one at a time. For instance; close to the end of Episode 1 I was tasked with escorting a number of groups of soldiers and medics across a train yard, leading to a back and forth where enemies and obstacles would change every time I returned across the yard. During these trips I was using all of my movement options (run, duck, jump, strafe, cower, sprint, strut) along with the different interactions I could perform with the world (shoot, throw, gravity gun things, re-supply limited stocks of resources, cower). All of these actions were being performed in a beautiful sequence, fluidly linking into one another with grace and at my own free will. Much like the best sequences in Halo, i.e. anything outside, the stage was set and it was up to me to devise a way through. The cowering, then, was not a simple couple of seconds which broke my combat flow in favour of health regeneration, no, it was an intrinsic part of the dance which allowed me to avoid danger itself, not simply the percentage of health it would deprive me of for a short period of time. In forcing me to think carefully about how I took damage, in making the health system a participative one rather than the more passive ‘recharging duck’, the combat scenarios within the Half Life games proved to be much more organically flowing and divergent. Enemies were scripted to enter stage left, yes, but when they got there they had the entirety of the stage with which to make a scene, not simply one corner. With finite health the player is encouraged to lead and be led in this merry dance rather than the singular task of skulking around and occasionally peaking out from behind something to watch the show.

While this difference in gameplay is rarely as dramatic as I am describing, I feel it highlights the changes shooters have undergone in a very short period of time, a change which would not have occurred so dramatically without the popularisation of recharging health. If a player has a finite amount of health within a certain section of the game the developer can control their experience with much lighter brushstrokes than if a player can theoretically heal most of the time. The ballet of the train yard and its varied, defined progression would be transformed into an assault course of infinite waves of enemies, a challenge to be traversed quickly rather than thoughtfully engaged with had Gordon Freeman recharging health. The APC he faces would not pose anywhere near the same challenge if he could duck in and out of buildings to replenish health. How would this problem be addressed? More APCs. More soldiers. More bullets. More rockets. More everything. This, however, rarely increases the difficulty, instead simply prolonging encounters to the point where challenge is now borne out of longevity, the gameplay of attrition if you will, rather than any increased test of tangible skills.

Half Life 2, I feel, presents a game where the lineage of shooters butts heads with the modernising of a genre. The game is the zenith of the corridor crawler, giving the player a clearly defined trajectory with just enough lea-way to mask the straight line we follow. This creates a world where combat situations are diverse, player-driven and divergent, pacing is (mostly) tight and character interactions timely. Modern Warfare seemingly promised to do all of this and take us out of the corridor, setting us free with pistol whipping, silencers and abseiling and all we had to do was turn the corner and follow the light at the other end. It’s just a shame that after only a couple of years our eyes adjusted to this light of modern excitement and we found ourselves trapped in the shooting gallery, firing an ever increasing array of munitions at the same paper targets.

I enjoy the rare feeling of constantly ‘falling down the rabbit hole’ in games. When I began playing Fez I started with a sense of trepidation and caution; I had to collect everything within a level before I continued on with my journey. This completionist mindset prevailed for some time as I slowly made my way, literally a lot of the time, around the games early stages. Though it often made for torturous going I reassured myself that I was playing the game as we play almost all games; complete a number of small challenges and be rewarded with progression, complete a number of other small challenges and be rewarded with some more progression. Fez itself presents the player with this very idiom early on, giving us a series of doors which will be periodically opened when a requisite number of items are collected. Shortly after this everything changes.

Suddenly, and quite shockingly, collectibles begin to appear in seemingly unreachable places regardless of the perspective-altering mechanics at the centre of the game. Things begin the not make sense; the map shows I still have three different things to uncover on levels I swear have been mined of collectibles. My once methodical pace is accelerated almost exponentially. The palpable sense of terror brought on by not being able to succeed within the games rules, to attain its obvious and pre-defined goals scares me. I begin to climb, following the path of least resistance, no longer attempting to collect anything at all, exploring rather than participating within the challenges. If it isn’t on my direct trajectory I don’t even bother. Up, up, up. Up.

A strangely familiar pipe? Down I go. A few screens of monochrome isolation and then a hidden door. Back here? Okay, on I go. Giant owl, doesn’t do anything, fine. What does this map mean? I don’t care if it doesn’t make sense at this exact moment. Lightening. Sunshine. The Black Lodge. Explosives. Smaller owls. None of it makes sense whatsoever. After a while, however, the blur of indistinguishable things slowed down. Patterns emerged and comprehension ensued. Fez was delightful, but once I began to understand it the sheer thrill of bowling through the unknown at a breakneck pace was diluted and transformed the remainder of the game. It ironically became the methodical exercise in collection I had wanted to play it as from the beginning, though after the hours of delirious exploration that had preceded everything became a bit, well, sedate. A lot has already been written about Fez since its release and it really isn’t what I want to discuss, though the way I played most of it makes it perfect for a somewhat protracted introduction.

As I said, I find there is something enthralling about relentlessly progressing through a game at breakneck pace and it seems Binary Domain was almost entirely designed to fulfil this very aspiration. A Japanese-made cover-shooter didn’t initially appear to be a very interesting prospect as it is no particular secret that Eastern developers have found it difficult to capitalise upon the genre since Gears of War set the modern template. The games opening didn’t do a large amount to dispel these misgivings; what with the fairly basic combat and an oddly placed stealth section which imparted skills it transpired would never be implemented again. In fact almost all of the first hour attempts to drag Binary Domain into the doldrums with a slew of overly gimmicky and mostly undernourished mechanics similar to the aforementioned stealth. While my excitable companion Roy "Big Bo" Boateng shouted many an encouraging compliment, his AI when partaking in these more gimmicky tasks was simply not good enough. “Saweeeeeet” he’d shout repeatedly as he neglected to defend me as I fiddled to assemble a makeshift bridge. A short while later I was tasked with stunning a large robot fiend and then quickly opening a door with Roy "Big Bo" Boateng, something which I could do perfectly quickly but took him longer to comprehend. Shortly after this everything changes.

In an attempt to speedily evade said large robot it becomes apparent the best course of action to take is a quick slalom down a large wall, for the obvious reasons of course. While this section is, in itself, not particularly engrossing it is the symbolism of this increase in speed within the game which I find most pertinent. It is during this insignificant three minute gameplay distraction when Binary Domain finally gets into its stride. The breathless acceleration encapsulates the majority of the game for me; everything is in constant flux with ever changing destinations. This is not to say that the game isn’t linear as it most certainly is, it just feels like Binary Domain’s corridor is twice as long as other shooters of its ilk yet the game wanted me to cover this ground in the same amount of time.

The combat which initially feels basic continues to do so throughout due to a lack of particularly interesting weaponry. The upgrade system, however, completely alleviates any boredom with its fantastically Spartan take on weapon customisation. Instead of spreading upgrade currency throughout multiple weapon types the game only provides the option of bolstering the default gun. This ensures the weapon is constantly being upgraded throughout the course of the campaign, sometimes with as few as a handful of minutes between meaningful upgrades. Instead of creating the sense of irrelevance one would expect from such a constrained set of choices, this singular focus constantly empowers the player through small amounts of regular progression, rewarding with a noticeable improvement with each one.

A couple of upgrades are all the assault rifle needs to lift the combat from pedestrian to furiously kinetic. The more power the gun amasses from the incessant upgrading, the more the sparks fly within combat situations and in turn the more satisfying these encounters become. Early on I was cowering behind cover at the sight of a couple of the games most basic enemies, by under half way I had the confidence and firepower to plough through entire waves of enemies, occasionally ducking away for a second of respite. After a couple of hours I felt fully able to take on any enemy with relative ease.

This could theoretically make the boss encounters overly trivial, stripping them of their importance. However, these enemies are expertly designed to take the general flow of regular combat and extrapolate its rules, grafting them onto increasingly sizeable robotic monstrosities. While their attack patterns are never particularly groundbreaking, it is their imposing size and the grand spectacle of sheering off chunks of their bodies which prevents them slipping into irrelevance. Most, unsurprisingly, have multiple forms, however the simple fact that this transformation is brought around by my destroying part of them feels, ironically, much more organic than most boss progression.

Finally, the health system goes a long way to maintain the pace of the game. I never died in combat for its entire duration, not once. Just as Roy "Big Bo" Boateng is present throughout its opening chapters, the game gives you a cast of surprisingly endearing accomplices to provide backup throughout. Aside from firepower they prove useful as med kit mules, coming to my aid if I ever took enough damage to go down with any force. The number of kits at my disposal meant I could happily push my recharging health to the limit safe in the knowledge I could get straight back up.

What results from these design decisions, then, is a satisfying one way trip through the typical Tokyo of the future; slums to gleaming over-city to terrible corporation HQ. The lack of interesting locales bothered me not; I was too busy running headfirst into the distance in a hail of bullets and a shower of scrap metal. The relentlessness is peppered with a couple of instances of humorous and pithy character development, an initially awkward yet increasingly convincing romance and the latest late title card I have ever experienced, presenting itself at around the ninety minute mark. However these moments never held me back or fragmented the pace, they simply were.

I am by no means attempting to directly compare Fez and Binary Domain as whole games, merely my reaction to the sustained use of their mechanics. I find it fascinating how my interest in Fez deteriorated so rapidly once the mysteries were unraveled and the game for the first time had a tangible rhythm, while Binary Domain somehow became more compelling the longer I was exposed to its singular beat. I would like to think this stems from the fact that puzzles are most captivating while one is solving them, creating great peaks and troughs of involvement. Shooting things repeatedly is a much more sustained activity, providing similar levels of feedback throughout a games duration. Though I came out of Binary Domain on an enormous emotional high was it simply created through hours of ever intensifying repetition? The reason I sped through Fez for hours was the wealth of seemingly never ending exploration it offered; the need to search everywhere, while I did the same thing within Binary Domain because it was the only, albeit well crafted, option open to me. Fez would most certainly have been a lesser game had it been linear, that is clear, but a non-linear Binary Domain where the sense of constant forward motion was created by not necessarily moving forward at all? That would be a rabbit hole I’d dive head first into.