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Friday 31 August 2012

Fallout New Vegas: Hardcore Mode

Something that could be described as an actual article and not a surreal, pithy sardonic rant about some obscure pop culture?
You betcha.
So last week I decided to see if I could complete Fallout: New Vegas on hardcore mode. A feat described as somewhere between 'irritatingly challenging' and 'nigh on eye gougingly frustrating'.

The thing is, I've never completed the game on any mode. I got bored of it. It frustrated me. It lacked the whimsy and grandiosity of Fallout 3, had far too many laborious backtracking quests, and was at times as broken as a 1918 Russian Economic Policy.
Niche history joke? THAT'S A FIRST.


I'm genuinely not quite sure what prompted this in all honesty. Was it because I wanted to get my £14 worth? Was it because I would appreciate it on such a difficulty and gain a begrudging new found respect for the fame? Was it because it was worth a MOUTH SALIVATING 100 gamerscore, and I am nothing if not some ill controlled gamer-score junkie riddled with lust for overall pointless numbers that somehow represent a monolithic stature of success for lonely miserable chumps?
It was probably because I'm unemployed and no matter what, it'd be far superior than that abysmal drop in quality that was mothership ZETA.
Well done Bethesda, for ruining Aliens, Samurais and the V.A.T.S system. You may as well have given me 4 hours of chipping away at a crusty turd in the shape of a dollar sign.

I estimated it would take me about 60 hours to do this. That's you know...2 seasons of the Mentalist I could catch up on. Yet here I was trying to complete a 6/10 game that I'd gotten bored of on a mode where I didn't have any 'realism' enabled.
 Why was I doing this?
To see if I could.
That’s it. That was s my driving force, not fuelled by enjoyment or any form of interest, just the dolorous, miserable fossil fuel of ‘being able to’. Something akin to a piece of coal shaped like a crying tramp.
“To see if I could” , that’s not a phrase that incites a gamer to play something for 50+ hours. That’s what serial killers reply with when asked why they made a lamp out of skin and fingernails. It’s a phrase that’s more fitting to a sociopath defending his right to furnish his house with items from an IKEA catalogue edited by Clive Barker.

That couch  is soooooo you!



Anyway, long story short, I played it for a week, it was somewhat enjoyable at times, although unfortunately for the game it doesn't so much as 'highlight' the broken gameplay elements as it does douse them in gasoline, strike a match and dance around them.
Here's an example.
()I had to find two items for a scientist fellow. I could only choose ONE at a time to get, because obviously multitasking is for CHUMPS.
()It was a 2 minute journey out of the basement where he resided, and 2 minutes in real time goes arduously slow and boring when you're just moving forward through a sewer.
()I got the item, went back to the basement and did the 2 minute journey back.
()Only THEN did he tell me where the other item was...cue another journey out and me rolling my eyes like a furby plunged into a power socket.

This is irritating in the game on any mode, but on hardcore, add a terrible accuracy mode, getting crippled by the smallest speck of dust flaking off your skin, and having to constantly reload after frustrating death sequences. There's a difference between an 'enjoyable challenge' and burdening a tedious game with more reasons not to play.
So why did I play for a few days? I have no idea. I really don't. It was fun at times, but overall it wasn't enjoyable.
To paraphrase 10cc, it was just a silly phase I was going through. (I also don't like cricket. But that's irrelevant)
I promptly stopped playing it, downloaded the HD remake of Resi 4 and shall never speak of it again.
Good riddance you post apocalyptic red-headed stepchild.


Sunday 26 August 2012

Wednesday 15 August 2012

Guest article: Tara Coffin.

I'm outsourcing my blog for this article. The following is written by my friend Tara, and I highly recommend reading it (...Just with every other post..a huck huck) It's a serious piece, I've written about it before but in a less fluent and elegant way. I normally just throw words on the page like a Pollock piece made of pop culture references and nouns.



“I know I have a good life. That's what's so depressing. I can't help it.” – Stephen Fry


Nowadays, you hear a lot of people talking about depression. It's got a lot more mainstream as a diagnosis, and it's actually possible to admit you have it without people misunderstanding.But that's still a very rare occurrence.I
have clinical depression. No, I'm not feeling a bit glum today. No, I am not a whiny emo teenager, nor do I need to get outside and smile. 
I have clinical fucking depression. It's not like getting a bit sad, or being upset because someone dumped you, or any of that. If you have depression, genuine depression, then you are spending your life walking around with a great big sack of rocks on your head. You can be happy or laugh or enjoy yourself, and like any illness there are always good days and bad days, but that does not change the fact you have an entire boulder balanced precariously up there. When I first started getting counselling, my mother refused to believe there was anything wrong with me because “people with depression can't get angry”. Considering that having a short temper is one of the ten main symptoms, I'm not entirely sure which part of her first class psychology degree she pulled that out of, but prejudices are always there. One of my friends has been diagnosed for years longer than I have; even when she applied for a job no less than a year ago they asked her why she couldn't snap out of it and be happy. These aren't isolated incidents; ask a person with clinical depression how often they get misunderstood and you'll be there all week.

I think one of the biggest problems is that there is no way of definitively separating medically diagnosed depression with the kind that people are talking about when they say they're feeling depressed that day. If we had two separate words in our language for them, I don't think there would be quite so many issues. Half the time, you tell someone you've got depression and they'll go, “Oh, I was depressed over summer, but I got out in the sun and it was fine” because they don't understand that the two are discrete. There are countless self-help websites that people will spout, suggesting things like going for a walk or dancing in your room, and these are great techniques. If you're sad. Not if you have clinical depression. Like I said, it might make me smile and on a good day it sure as hell cheers me up. But it's not a cure in any way or form.
People without depression often fail to understand that it's actually a reason for not being able to do things sometimes. I always try my hardest not to let my depression own me or control me, because I am not my depression. But there are days I have to stay in bed because the simple act of getting up and facing the world is so daunting that it leaves me in tears. Keeping easy to eat food in my bedroom, like apples and bread, becomes essential on bad days. Anything more exhausting than rolling over to spread peanut butter on some dry crackers can floor me. Fortunately, with cognitive behavioural therapy, medication and learning to recognise the signs of a down-spiral, I can mostly avoid these now.
Sometimes, though, I can't. And on those days, forcing a smile, eating a banana or listening to cheery music won't help. In fairness, neither does lying on the bathroom floor in my pyjamas, but I'm going to do that because it's about all I can manage. Just try to bear with me and be supportive, alright? Talk to me if I need it. Don't try to give advice unless you know what you're talking about. And above all, remember I am still a person.



And now for my contribution, a stupid, stupid, stupid picture.

Thursday 9 August 2012

Goosebumps titles


I remember being a child, a whimsical child, and reading Goosebumps by spooky Jewish writer R.L Stine (His stories were spooky, not his Jewishness.)
Most people I knew bought them solely based on whichever cover looked the most interesting, because children are scum.

Here are what the stories would be titled if the cover was a 100% accurate reflection of the content because I have an asinine sense of humour....

Sigh.