Never fear, pleasant dreamers! This time doesn’t provide too much in the way of advancement, but at least I got past the mental blockade I was experiencing before. I still maintain that the designers should’ve polished their controls a bit more and made certain puzzle actions a wee bit less obtuse, but in the end, like any good games, failures speak more to a player’s weaknesses than that of the design. You’d think I’d have figured out the rule of the ax by now…

Rooftops of Athens, Part Two

Backtracking’s a funny thing– people always complain when they’re told out-right they have to return to some near-or-distant portion of the game to make progress, but don’t seem to have the same reaction when they have to realize the necessity themselves. Is it because the dead-end itself provides so much frustration that it eclipses the minor problems of going back to previous territory? Is it because of the embarassment of not putting 2 and 2 together earlier? Perhaps it’s because gamers sometimes enjoy the sensation of finding out what to do, intsead of merely being told. Handholding is a tricky thing in games, because it’s got to be all about proper pacing and direction to get it right. Now that I look at it, the bridge sequence contains something in its presentation I hadn’t expected from GoW yet, which turns out to be something it has a fair amount of, actually: subtlety.

After meeting the dead-end, forward path on the rooftops leads back to the entrance from the ground. Down there, one fights through a wave of undead soldiers, as if to confirm the veracity of this new direction. Returning to a previous section, I reappraised the big-ass crossbow, remembering the Chekovian rule I previously stated– if a shotgun’s found in act one, it has to go off by act three. I’d tried pushing the crossbow around before, but got tired when it couldn’t actually hit anything. Then, realizing a switch in a further room didn’t just raise a ladder but also turned around a conspicuously revolving floor piece, I managed to use it to spin the crossbow, fire an arrow into a locked door and make my way to finding Zeus’ lightning, just the far-range weapon I needed to activate the bridge in the first place.

How the fuck did I miss that the first time?

The designers have done a better job than I initially game them credit for when it comes to puzzles. Sure, the jumping one was a pain in the ass, and jumping controls in general still pretty much bite, but this deal with the cross-bow was nicely done, suggesting far more cause-and-effect than outright stating it. It’s implicit instead of explicit design– something I’m fond of. However, I think it asked a tad bit too much when it came to the final revolving bit, as it was something that threw me off for good while at first. See, the spinning tile only spins the crossbow half way at first, and the player winds up having to remove the weapon, spin the tile, place it back on and spin again in order to make it point at the locked door. Sorry if this sounds a bit whiney, but the whole shabang of transporting the crossbow and figuring out how to aim it was quite a challenge enough. This extra, punctuating challenge of doing it a second time makes for more of a hassle, more busywork than brainwork. There’s a judgemental feeling here, like one from teachers in elementary school who’d only allow students to excuse themselves to use the toilet if they asked “May I” instead of “Can I”– it speaks of mild condescention, just like the “Easy Mode” offer.

Remember when I said that games are spaces where it’s okay for us to fail? “If at first you don’t succeed: Try, try again”? Moments like this aren’t built with that kind of spirit. Whenever a player becomes impatient with the game, frustrated with anxiety, shame and guilt over not being able to play it correctly, it feels as though it comes at points where the game designer is likely to become impatient with players themselves. When it comes to our own projects, let’s try and show a little more patience with our players and not always require them to dot their I’s and cross their T’s in order to make constant progress. Make those kinds of demands in areas where the game’s focus is– points A and B– and not on the dotted lines connecting them.

Echoes of the Oracle

My impressions of the rest of this session are, by default, a bit more vague, since so much of it feels familiar. Fight off a few dozen undeads/harpies/gorgons– check. Perform a few more pushing puzzles (which are really unsatisfying in a game whose pacing in battles slows to a crawl whenever these things happen)– check. Save the Oracle (not her handmaiden) from a time-based obstacle course– check. Endure another poorly rendered/written/directed cutscene that makes me long for the finese of Kojima– oh goodness, check. What else is there to say?

Altogether, the Oracle section is a remake of Ico. Kratos’ appraoch towards her castle, tip-toeing across ceiling beams, pushing and pulling shit to make a path through a winding castle garden in order to save a defenseless female figure– all of it feels like a reference to Ueda, and I think it’s interesting, though I’m not sure if it’s entrely intentional.

Also, this section does do a good job of showing off the aesthetic qualities of the game, especially in-engine sessions. The gravedigger bit is an interesting, if obvious bit of foreshadowing. I’ll kindly overlook the fact that Kratos would probably be burned in a pyre when he died, but no matter. For the moment, this is all my poor little brain can put up with. I’ll just have to save that trek across the sword-bridge for another day…