Month: October 2022

Shadow Tower: Abyss

At the onset of the month, I found some gameplay footage of the eponymous video game. Intrigued I did a little digging and eventually decided to play. About 10 in-game hours later I was done, and I have thoughts.

There’s great effort put into setting up the mystery of what’s going on and it is alluring but there’s never a satisfying answer, only supposition. A great tower appears in the jungle and you, a “modern” military man, find it with a guide’s help. The tower holds a spear believed to grant wishes and immeasurable power. Venturing inside the stone shrine otherworldly creatures and sights lay before you. With your torch sputtering, little ammo, and the way out sealed behind, you must go forward. Using conversations with other characters, the game builds this meta-narrative that by choosing to play the game you are just like the soldier who has chosen to find the spear. Despite whatever difficulties you face your willingness to struggle and beat the game is the same as the soldier’s search for the spear. In essence to stop playing before finishing would be dooming your player character to the fate of the many other human adventurers you pass.

Building from the idea that the player’s intentions mirror their characters, the idea that guns are present takes even greater effect. Sure, shooting spectral monsters, knights in armor, and giant bugs with guns is fun but narratively you are the invading force. All the places you visit are living biomes with their own lifecycles and inhabitants and by playing you are choosing to murder your way through them. It’s mentioned that you don’t have to struggle so much to achieve your desire, the spear, but for the player with the freely available guns and ammunition the difficulty is not so severe. Intentional or not this makes me feel like there’s even more meta-narrative implying that advanced enough technology can trivialize certain obstacles so much we don’t recognize the damage caused. There’s even magic in this game but guns are so effective there’s no need to even use it. However, that’s the extent of the narrative from what I can tell. There wasn’t enough information to make any other interesting connections. Edit: Upon reflection, when you “finish” the game you don’t get the spear and you just start over from the beginning, I can only interpret this to mean you never had any real agency and the spear/game is the one in control all the while.

As a game it echoes that time when games held so much mystery by including hidden passageways and secrets and there not being much information available even online. It rewards exploration and risk-taking while also punishing it when not done carefully. In one of the later areas, I had to draw a physical map to keep track of everything and I enjoyed it more so.

Honestly you could even forgo using guns and rely on magic, clubs, katanas, bows, and more. There’s much to do and much to do it with. Combat is slow but deliberate. Swinging a melee weapon requires energy which will be depending on the weapon’s weight. For example, a knife might be swung 3-4 times before you must wait, while a big club only gets one. Missing a swing exposes you and turning to face your foes takes time. This isn’t a game where you can whip the camera around freely, in fact having a gun out renders you slower overall. Understanding your space, time to swing, time to recover, etc is how you “git gud”. Or just use the AR-15.

Visually, I have no problem saying this is one of the best looking PS2 games. The art direction goes a long way into selling you the world of the game. Enemies have cohesive visual schemes in their visually distinct worlds, with each world encompassing a, usually, familiar theme. Armor, weapons, and other character gear have unique in-world renders that dynamically affect your character’s “paper doll”. Also there is the technical point that the game allows for 16:9 rendering which is great on modern displays.

Instead of music the soundscape is almost entirely diegetic. You’ll hear wind blowing through canyons, plants gurgling, enemies shrieking, splashes of water, earth crushing under-foot. All kinds of noises but no music aside from music cues when segueing between areas.

As a fan of the Souls games, playing through this was like walking through the connective tissue from King’s Field to Demon Souls and eventually Dark Souls. The sound effects, weapon variety, damage types, statistics, character-based sub-plots and more all strongly resonate within the later titles. It really feels like playing a first-person prototype for Dark Souls 1 on the PS2 that they added guns to. I hope that’s not taking too much away from the game’s own identity which is distinct enough with its alien geometry and coloring.

Piss & Vinegar

Before the age of 30 I had backpacked in the mountains of Alaska, cliff-dived in Hawaii, road-tripped in France, driven from the American Mid-West to the West Coast twice, made my own video games (haven’t sold any though), worked for Marvel Comics, traveled to nearly every state in the US and probably some other memorable stuff I’m forgetting. Out of all this Alaska would be the first thing I’d sign up for again and have. That is likely why its first on the list, being already quite close to my mind’s surface. I appreciate these experiences and the people I shared them with, but none can even begin to approach the joy I feel from martial arts (granted you consider wrestling a martial art). Starting from when I joined a wrestling team as a little kid so one day, I can be bigger than my brother to my most recent joining of a local BJJ gym it has been the single most satisfying experience in my life. Even though my wrestling “career” ended in high school after a very disappointing loss my senior year, all that time, sweat, blood, and tears were mostly all worth it. I could do without tears.

In high school we recorded our matches so we could watch tape and at the end I got a DVD copy of my last year’s matches. Rewatching them fills me with the same kind of nostalgia I get from remembering playing games with my family on a tiny CRT. The same kind of nostalgia I get when I think about waking up on Christmas morning as a child. Something so purely joyful it hurts bittersweet. I remember how alive and awake I felt when I wrestled my best. Strategy and reaction are instantaneous. The body moves at the speed of thought. Instinct, tactics, and force all combine into a rush of actions and reactions. A tiny break after a whistle then the struggle resumes. It’s all so memorable my time wrestling could be a physical place in my mind. I can walk into the practice room feeling the hot musty air pressing down on me. And though it smells largely of male body odor, its familiarity is comforting. I couldn’t tell you what the writing on the wall says anymore but I know the letters are there. The rolled-up mats for competition sitting in the silos on the side of the room and the beige double doors to the coach’s office lay open in the back of the room.

Unlikeable smells, exercising ’til you puke, and your legs don’t work, waking up at 4AM on Saturday to drive an hour, then finding your overweight by .2 of a pound so you run in three layers of clothes so you can stand half-naked in front of a bunch of people hoping you’re not too heavy sounds terrible. For me it was all worth it for time on the mat, and I’d do it all over again. Honestly that kind of difficulty is likely necessary to help forge the proper mindset for competition.

In college some buddies and I setup informal boxing matches (we had gloves and headgear). That split second of anxiety while we both wait for the first punch then a flurry of feet as you both fight for positions. Jabs are exchanged testing distances, speeds, and reactions. Then finally someone wants a hit and goes for it. Whiff. But there’s a noticeable uptick in intensity. Jabs are faster and sharper, combos more frequent, hooks and uppercuts more powerful. At this point if you were me your eyes would be wide open, your pupils dilated, the adrenaline not allowing you stay still. And you’d be smiling. Not intentionally, no, this is a reaction to having the most fun you’ve had since you were probably ten, maybe ever. Battles where victory is as likely as loss and every step is a struggle. Mentally, physically pushed to the edge. Analyzing for weaknesses, waiting for openings, pressuring for space. It was never about winning but the testing of mettles. How far could you push yourself and your opponent. Losing is certainly undesireable but exploring the edges of your capabilities and finding what you need there is more potent than any drug, more exhilarating than any achievement, more satisfying than any meal.

I’d imagine there’s many people like me who are not so interested in traveling, eating, seeing the sites, or whatever people like to do. The popularity of UFC, Bellator and other MMA or MMA-adjacent circuits is proof enough, I think. However, to say “I like fighting” or “I like to fight” or some variation of that would likely get you strange looks. We don’t live in Ancient Rome where a bloodthirsty crowd could demand sacrifice from gladiators, modern regulated combat sports can still be bloody but are very much civil displays of violence.

Island Hopping

Close to a decade ago I joined my father and family friends on a canoeing trip in the Boundary Waters off Minnesota. We drove up from Indiana which took a while but allowed for whatever gear we thought we would need. I’m pretty sure we rented our canoes or at least one of them, we had two for four people. My dad and I in one canoe and my dad’s best friend and his son in another. Our plan was to go island hopping on a circular route that would end where it started. We could leave a vehicle locked at our put-off point and come back any time. One of us was cautious and insisted on a satellite phone, which was fortunately unneeded. Better to have and not want than to want and not have. The trip itself was planned for over a week though I couldn’t tell you the total mileage, if I had to guess we probably covered 20+ miles a day.

The biggest hindrance on our journey were the portage sites. To continue we’d have to beach and carry the canoes and gear overland to another beach. This was the only pinch on our weight capacity as canoes can haul gear well, but we’d have to carry it along with canoes. Most portages were short, like 15 minutes though at least one was over a mile. Not hard hiking but no fun with all that extra weight. As camping you tend to get lighter as foods and other resources deplete so you can start out a little heavier on the first day. Like bringing steak and enough ice to keep them ’til dinner. After that you’re down to eating dehydrated foods like the kind you can get at stores like Gander Mountain and REI. Anything that keeps well, is low weight, and needs little preparation is fair game. This includes cereals, pasta, jerky, and more.

As one could imagine it’s spectacular imagery being on the water all day. Then when you beach for the night, you basically have a small island all to yourselves. Sometimes you’d find a tall island with no real beach but once you scramble to the top it’s covered in trees, lichen, and blueberries. The berries are slightly out-of-season but fresh, nonetheless. Sometimes you’d wake up to a large raptor (don’t remember if it was a hawk, eagle, etc.) staring at you through your tent mesh in a tree 20 feet above you. Sometimes you see a bear on another island just roaming the coast. Or when you’re just paddling along, you’ll see a slight ripple and realize it’s a snake’s head breaching the surface as it island hops. We even had a small natural bay protecting a perfect sandy beach, which was great enough to warrant several nights there.

The experience was all very memorable and I’d be back the moment it made sense but what stood out most the day we arrived at that perfect natural bay. A storm had been lingering in the skies and we were rushing to make camp before rain broke so we paddled for the closest known beach. This whole trip we had the luxury to troll fishing line when feasible and this day was no different. My dad being more experienced hoped the incoming storm and our position in the water would bode fortuitous for fish. So, we stopped to try our lines before following our other canoe. Not even 30 minutes had passed before we considered packing it in as a light drizzle fell. Then my line snagged. Immediately I jerked the line upwards hoping to hook the hard part of a fish’s lip. It felt soft enough to be fish but firm enough to not be nothing. Then a jerk in another direction. It was a fish. And it was hooked. The line was out probably close to thirty feet and the storm was picking up. My dad had rudder position in the canoe, so he worked to keep us still in the water while I let the fish run then pulled it back while it rested. The rain is picking up and we fear lightning may start (I’m holding a metal rod in the middle of lake while it rains, I might as well demand God smite me). So, I start to stress my lines strength, working against the fish more hoping to tire it while also hoping the line doesn’t snap.

30 minutes of struggle as the fish fights for freedom and I fight for dinner. The fish’s pale shimmer is obvious through surface but now it sees the light from the surface it knows to dive with everything it has remaining. Resisting only enough to keep the line taught against the fish’s descent. Eventually it tires and you bring it up and again it dives but gives out after a few seconds. Bringing it to the surface my dad has a net ready. Shortly after and we’re on the beach ready to start dinner. I don’t usually eat fish but when I do it’s usually because it’s been caught that day. Thanks to that lucky break we were more vigilant with our fishing and caught dinner for several days after that. Little beats fresh food, fish that fresh can only be attained one way.

While not my first-time fishing, fighting a fish for half-an-hour during a storm while in a canoe in the hopes you get fresh dinner is a hell of a way to sell the experience. Some people like to catch fish, some people like to eat fish, for me that day I learned I liked the struggle of catching the fish.

Tempus Fugit

Time seems to have lurched into hyperspeed overnight when I wasn’t paying attention. Every day blazes by. I wake between 5-8 AM and usually when I take my first deep breath for the day it’s 3 PM. My wife and I simultaneously wonder where indeed the time has flown to. This isn’t meant to be a complaint but rather a noting of how quickly a life shifts. This is all relevant because in what seems to be a blink my daughter is now three months old. It’s been a wonder watching her grow but I’m so close I don’t realize how much (physically) until the wife and I share pictures and see older ones. Recently I’ve been encouraging her to use her and hands and seeing her discover how to use them is not something that can be transcribed effectively. That’s how everything is with them (babies). It seems like magic or a miracle that they can develop so quickly. Yet how some things seem so beyond them despite it’s simplicity i.e. sleeping. I try to carry conversation with her while avoiding “baby talk” or pitching my voice higher to help her learn language and hearing her respond with her own onomatopoeic vocabulary shows how much she tries. Once while talking to her I looked at her face expecting fully formed english to come forth until I remembered “she can’t talk, she’s a baby”. You could say “wow this guy seems (out-of-it, dumb, etc… pick one)”, but you don’t witness their magical development first-hand. One day she struggles to lift her head, the next she’s pushing her whole body away from my chest so she can look around the room. And I swear when I say “hi” to her she already responds with a high pitched “ai” sound.

All this to say that despite feeling like time had been compressed it’s been a wondrous three months of fatherhood. As I write she’s screaming, cooing, and shrieking in her bouncer while listening to music, stopping to stare at me while I sing the parts I know. If you just got some incomprehensible warm feeling reading any of this know that parenthood is that feeling nearly all the time but also sleep-deprived, busy, and likely covered in spit-up formula all the time too.

I had recently suffered some muscle problems, likely from carrying the baby one-handed, rendering me ineffective at almost anything but lying prone groaning in pain. My wife picked up my slack but after a week put her foot down claiming things were untenable in their current state. Fortunately after several chiropractor visits and acupuncture I was able to start using my arm again. Then shortly after that my parents and younger sister came to visit us. We had about a week with them which also included my 30th birthday. It was a great time to work on spouse-parent relationships which can be difficult but are important especially when there’s grand-kids to consider. Roughly a week removed from their departure and the home is settling into a routine.

There’s so much that could be said. I could elaborate on my family’s visit, my favorite things about Zelda (my daughter), or how I confront the ever impending end of my life made ever-real by my changing of decades but there’s so much to say and too little time to ponder it.