The Blame Game: It's Not Me, It's You

So you're playing Raiden III, and you're just beasting it. You haven't lost a life, your bombs are out the wazoo, and that upcoming boss doesn't stand a chance against your maxed-out Crest toothpaste shooter. You're on top of the world, and then BAM-- You lost a life from some side-swiping peashooter, whose mere existence was dwarfed by your perfect run and blinding onslaught of explosions, medals, and hidden fairies. Was that really the way you thought it would all go down? You know you can't possibly continue this run knowing that you just let that happen to you. Your whole mindzone was destroyed by that one blind shot that snuck up from the rear, just when you thought the world was your bonus point.

I've come across very few shmups out there that result in both me seeing the pitiful end of a beautiful run and also have me blaming myself for the problem. I suppose there are people out there who, in all scenarios, will take a deep breath and say to themselves, "I will do better next time." For the rest of us, I think we've heard the phrase "Oh come on! That's just bullsh--" etc. time and time again.

Let's look at Raiden III. There's enemy ships designed specifically to shoot only horizontal bullets at you. In a game that's a vertical scroller, those familiar can attest that such a move is sneaky and grounds for punishment (to the game, controller, television, etc). It's hard for the eyes to judge whether collisions are going to happen horizontally (maybe one of the reasons the vertical line test in mathematics triumphs largely over any such horizontal equivalents). That's also why horizontal shmups have a pace that is slowed down, for more intricate observations that are much-needed in order to survive. This is also probably why Defender is so difficult. For anyone. And then there are those slow vertical shmups that suffer the opposite: unchallenging patterns in bullets and enemies that make you wish you had a reason to input your initials prematurely. I'm looking at you, Truxton II (but still, ♥).

So let's get to the games where I oftentimes keep blaming myself for a death. We have Ikaruga and R-Type. Both games are largely based upon memorization. Both of them definitely have unfair enemies that shoot horizontally. It's not like I'm warned any better about them coming. It's more about how predictable those enemies are. In Raiden (the series), I have a good grasp over how an enemy will shoot. The variable here is when that shot will be fired. That's really the key. Let's get Ikaruga out of the way and mention that everything is set to a rhythm that never disappoints, allowing you to know exactly when and why a bullet is coming your way. And even if you accidentally use your homing lasers, switch polarities, absorb all of the wrong color, die, and input your initials, whose fault was that? Well, you (okay, me. And it's always during Chapter 2-3). I've died hundreds (probably thousands) of times in that game, and not once have I blamed the game for a death.

R-Type follows loosely along the same lines. Scenarios are predictable enough such that you'll have a steady handle on what's going on around you. I suppose Gradius does some of the same, though sometimes the screen can become hectic enough for me to feel overwhelmed (dev's note: That was the point). I know these are supposed to vaguely simulate futuristic intergalactic space-travel against evil legions of badly-armored spacecraft, where randomness is the norm and dirty tricks are in. But seriously, twitch-based gameplay can really only go so far. If you've 1CC'd any of these unfair shmups, give yourself a pat on the back and go back to acing Death Smiles. I'll continue getting more than enough twitches with a game I have memorized from start to finish, but which I have yet to beat.

Perhaps it's personal preference, or maybe that I'm not fast enough for what those games demand. Whatever the case, I can only take so many doses of it until I've OD'd on failure. But then again, Michael Jordan missed over 9000 shots in his life. Which is why I get back on those horses, once enough time has passed to the point where I forget whose fault it was, of course.

[cross-posted on Gamasutra] [continue]...

Dual Play: When Playing With Yourself is a Gameplay Mode

Shmups have, at times, been credited as one of the most challenging genres of games as a whole, if not the most challenging altogether. The simplicity of controls and visuals allows for a heightened level of challenge on the player's part, requiring all of those awesome coordination skills of mind, body, and willpower. So it comes as a kind of surprise that a certain gameplay mode has been implemented into the community, both implicitly and explicitly, that at least doubles the difficulty of the genre's challenge, that mode being what is known as "dual play."

This is not to be confused with "double play," in which two chaps sit next to each other and discuss why their strategy for only being responsible for half the screen isn't working. "Dual play" is a style of playing wherein a lone player (being either exceedingly brave or blissfully ignorant) will take the reins of both of the ships / warriors / boats / schoolgirls / pig women that would have otherwise been piloted by two mortal humans. The mere sight of this spectacle is always a treat for everyone, including the player himself, the spectators who admire such bravery, and the corporate owners of things that accept quarters / tokens / yen.

It would appear hard enough to handle 8-directional movement, a fire button, a bombing button, and a couple thousand bullets careening towards you, but here we have 16 directions of movement, two fire buttons, and two bombing buttons. And a couple thousand bullets careening towards you. This requires many more fingers than one is used to, as the pinkies become the most reliable assets in arcade setups. I can't even imagine what added stresses the brain goes through. It's already doing its thing at maximum capacity for single play, as the right half controls movement and the left half controls firing (and wiping the sweat of victory from the brow). It's not like selecting "dual play" grants your brain an increase in activity (or even possibly 2 more halves for computations). You're stuck with the same two hemispheres of thought you had before, only this time they both control everything. At least to me, this sounds like quite a conflict of nerves upstairs.

It's not too bad for games on Playstation hardware, as the controller allows for the advantage of symmetry to guide control. The thumbsticks control the ships, the front shoulder buttons control firing, while the back shoulders control bombs. I suppose the same is possible with the Wii's classic controller (more notably the improved one that doesn't let your thumbs bump into each other), and the Xbox360 controller can certainly accommodate similar stylings, though breaking away from symmetry with the sticks. The real crowd-pleaser is in the arcades, where both sets of controls are in the same configuration, but your hands are not. With stick on the left and buttons on the right, this means an entirely different story depending on which hand we're talking about. The left hand's pinky and ring finger take control of the ship, while the index and thumb take responsibility of firing and bombing. The reverse happens for the right hand, which I assume has an easier time as the stick requires much more dexterity than pushing buttons.

None of this dual play hand placement interested me until I saw a particular set of videos on YouTube showcasing a phenomenal player (VTF-INO) tackling dual play in Ikaruga. The intriguing part was the inclusion of video of his hands synced to gameplay (and quite appropriately filling in those black gaps on the sides of the vertical display of the game). Oh, and even better - there's that extra button in the game that lets you switch polarity on the fly, furthering the separation of tasks within the ranks of the fingers.

What I'm most curious about is why this gameplay method hasn't been addressed directly. Sure, it's in the two latest installments of Raiden, but it doesn't feel like the game's been designed for this gameplay (which I'm pretty sure it hasn't). It's more of a tacked-on mode that's been added to appease the dual players from arcades who want a similar experience at home. Co-op features are just about as bland as dual play, but at least there was some effort made. In gunRoar, your two boats can connect a tether and fire bullets from the midpoint, requiring much coordination of formations. I believe that's also a feature in Battle Garrega, so the idea's been around for quite a while. And shooting behind each other in many games will create hybrid firepower, making for some fun combinations. However, I still don't feel it's been developed and built upon. At all. How sweet would it be if there were a co-op mode that actually required both players to work along with and depend upon each other? I'm thinking along the lines of the experiences found in Gears of War, Little Big Planet, and Four Swords Adventures. You work together to help each other out; not for the sake of just dishing out twice as much firepower (of which is oftentimes halved in strength, but don't worry about that), but for the sake of helping a player out who will soon be helping you out, only to have the two of you working together to fight a greater evil, the two of you with designated tasks that are required for a successful mission.

As much as I'd like that to happen in double play, I'm not as much asking for the same thing with dual play. It may provide you with guidance for where to place each ship at any given time, but that's just one more thing to worry about (or two, if you're still keeping track of all the elements at hand), let alone being in control of so much maneuvering, dodging, firing, bombing, dying, cursing, etc.

And now, an amazing man with amazing hands.

If you understand everything that's going on in the video, both visually and under the hood, then you must be the player himself. Otherwise, it's probably best to go my route and just smile, nod, and appreciate a spectacular performance.

[cross-posted on Gamasutra] [continue]...

Raiden III: That poor, hapless driver

Having much more to do with the morals and decisions of warfare than those of shmup mechanics and the did-you-ever-notice spiels I usually blurt out (although this entire post is about something I'm wondering if you've ever noticed), I'm interested in just what was going through the heads of the developers at Moss when they decided to allow you to kill an innocent bystander (actually a driver, but keep reading) in Raiden III for a rather uneven compensation.

The whole scenario unfolds within only a minute of starting your first mission. You begin soaring over what looks like a desolate and war-torn city, already in the midst of destruction and chaos. The only movement on the ground comes from tanks that are quite aggressively firing at you. All of a sudden, atop one of the highways, a red compact car blindly roars by from left field, entering the crossfire. Naturally, you'd just want to blow up everything in front of you, but on this specific occasion, you're blowing up much more than an enemy; this driver was trying to save his own life.

You may be wondering why I even care about that car. For all I know, it could have been driven by one of the generals of the opposing force, or even be a pilot running late to the hanger bays that morning. However, since it fires no bullets at you and simply wants to use the highway as it was originally designed, I can't help but feel guilty whenever I destroy it. The payoff is certainly not worth it, a measly 1000 points in exchange for his death. I eventually played through with the intent not to blow him up, and guess what? The car swerves out of the way of an oncoming tank before exiting the screen. He clearly was in a rushed, panicked confusion during this battle. And you just went and blew him up.

This begins to make me wonder why I don't care about blowing up other by-standing things. In DoDonPachi, entire warehouses of who-knows-what are destroyed, simply for the pleasures of watching explosions and collecting stars (and possibly uncovering a fragile skeletal bee). In Guwange, the player sometimes blows up entire wooden watchtowers in 14th Century Japanese villages (while at a casual strolling pace, mind you). However, in none of these situations do the presumably destroyed individuals bare a soul, a will to live, or even a rather dashing vehicle.

I couldn't help but compare this fascination with the destruction of life to the 1996 movie Independence Day. Though destruction of innocent life goes on throughout the whole film, I feel quite differently when those immature alien-inviting New Yorkers are decimated as compared to how compassionate I am for the survival of Jasmine's dog Boomer when escaping a flame-engulfed tunnel (yes, I know - I'm just as shocked as you are that someone actually uploaded a screenshot of the very moment to which I'm referring). The point here is, we as an audience were swayed into having little-to-no emotion for the New Yorkers (though still just as innocent as those who weren't inviting the aliens) and had much love for a dog trying to escape fire alongside co-star Vivica A. Fox. Why did we feel this way? Because the dog wasn't a bad guy at all. He wasn't twisted or evil or filled with even the slightest hint of bad intentions. And neither was that red car.

For the sake of tying things back to shmups, here's actual footage of someone blowing up the unfortunate vehicle (@ 0:53). Note how an entire condo is blown up immediately afterwards and how little I care about it.


Know what's even worse? In Dual and Double modes, there are two cars careening to their doom atop that highway. A moment of silence for the blue car, too.

[cross-posted to Gamasutra] [continue]...