Ten years ago I turned 18 and was halfway through completing my final year of high school. I looked like a slightly deflated version of my present self with a small army of zits occupying my face and chest, but I’ve done so much growing since then. I feel better about myself and others, and have become simultaneously more loving of the important people in my life and cynical about the political systems I cannot control.
The fleeting quality of memory means for every strikingly clear image I have in my head of growing up, there’s at least a thousand moments lost in the cloud. But if there is one thing I latch onto throughout the years like roadside objects in the rear-view mirror, it’s video games. Games give me a foothold on my backwards climb, offering a brief respite as a I grasp for distant emotions, allowing me to re-inhabit a person who I hope would be infinitely proud of me.
Ten years ago today I was probably piloting predator missiles onto the multiplayer battlefields of Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2, unlocking a myriad of gun attachments and camouflages to corny electric guitar riffs rising above the action. I was probably using the limiting quality of reflex sights and radar blips to avoid thinking of the stress of graduation and the next big step. I was probably playing alongside a close personal friend who I don’t talk to anymore.
But the double-sided joy and anxiety of games is that they keep coming. There’s more memories to experience alone or with people I care about, even if that means it’s impossible to play every single one. So in the second installment of a series I want to make a year-end tradition, let’s reflect on some, but not all, of the games I played in 2019.
My oldest memory, true or not, is the rattling ceiling of an ambulance. I was pretty young at the time, still clutching my sister’s hand-me-down teddy bear, and I was running an extremely high fever. I don’t know what the doctors did, or what they used, but I got better. So, whatever happened, it’s probably safe to say technology has always played a significant role in my life.
This story is based in the universe of the strategy game Into the Breach and was originally published for the online journal Capsule Crit. Please check them out!
A temporal rift in the clouds expelled a Time Pod that displaced flurries of snow. The Leader positioned her Prime Combat Mech between the crash site and a charging Vek Beetle. She died on impact.
Kratos is a Spartan warrior turned god who’s fled the Greek Isles after enacting a destructive revenge quest. Seeking refuge in the Nordic tundra, he falls for Faye, a woman with a hidden origin, and fathers a boy named Atreus in a secluded cabin. Kratos barks orders at him, but not much else, and the pair are forced into reckoning their distant relationship when Faye dies. The story opens with Kratos assembling a funeral pyre, from which he bags and attaches Faye’s ashes to his belt. Father and son set out to complete Faye’s final request, to be scattered from the highest peak in all the realms. Not long into the journey, however, Kratos finds he’s merely traded one adversarial pantheon for another, and their ritualistic journey is caught in the crossfire between wrathful figures of Norse mythology.
December has always been a reflective month for me. In the opening third, I turned another year older. Twenty-seven. Then the new year approaches. Twenty-nine-teen.
Twenty-eight-teen was a strange one. I became really sad, but then got a little better. I learned a lot about myself. I changed careers. I wrote some things, read some things, and played some things too.
With bellies full of french toast and coffee, Stephanie and I opted to lounge away the hours until Thanksgiving dinner with a mobile game called Florence. It’s a series of bright, colorful vignettes about finding, exploring, and re-defining love. Playing Florence is like eating a bag of Skittles, with each panel a sudden burst of an ambiguously colorful flavor. Green apple meet cute. Strawberry move-in day. Citrus growth in opposite directions. Lemon move-out day.
It’s a lovely and genuine experience about the work that goes into relationships. We discussed out loud the minutia of unpacking. Will he ever use that cricket bat? Well, the stuffed elephant has to have the top shelf. He needs space for his record collection. This made the reverse that much more bittersweet, stuffing away the objects we so lovingly placed.
Florence will only take an hour of your time, if that, and costs less than a latte. It’s available on iOS and Android. Check it out!
Content warning: violence, suicide
Amorphous grayscale blobs populate the grid. The blobs are cut, whittled, and colored. Shapes become forms and inherit meaning. A prism learns to become a building and is then cloned into a city. Laws and limitations are applied. Simulated gravity comes alive and light appears.
The Grand Machinist installs deadly flechette cannons to a row of bipedal Centurion-class mechs the size of sequoias. Armor plating descends from cranes onto broad shoulders, shielding the tender circuitry. The polygons on her brow bend to make an expression to make an emotion to make a character. Heavy with worry and unyielding in duty. She takes pride in her craft, and deludes herself into believing her hands are clean.
Civil unrest is personified in the Plague Wards. The city is rotting under corrupt leadership and outdated tradition. The Hallowed still dominate a public consciousness seeking answers to their suffering. Cells of a rogue faction enlist disillusioned veterans to take up arms with what little life they have left. War wages far beyond the stars, and the Emperor wouldn’t expect an attack from within.
Sororicide is a short Twine game set in the Mass Effect universe. After playing through the bombastic events of the series, I wanted to explore a more intimate story where the stakes are much smaller. I originally wrote this for a job application for BioWare’s Austin office several years ago.
Taking place in a shadowy corner of the Citadel, my story focuses around two Asari sisters. One of them is an Ardat-Yakshi or “Demon of the night winds”, someone diagnosed with a vilified genetic mutation.
Content warning: violence
Follow this link to play!
During my hiatus from this blog I did something extraordinary: playing games successivley without stopping to write about them. The little critic took a holiday from his home in my head, and I was able to enjoy my favorite hobby with a newfound enthusiasm. I slid across the reflective sci-fi skylines of Mirror’s Edge, explored the nordic tundra and rolling grass plains in Skyrim, and survived the horrific violence of a doomed Japanese island in Tomb Raider. I did all this with a sensation beyond the typical virtual-world escapism. I took a break from writing, and it felt good. In fact, I pushed it out of my mind entirely.
For nine months of job-hunting I had been rejected or ignored by a growing collection of marketing firms, publishing companies, software corporations, and even video game studios. It was a cyclical mire of research, application, and optimistic anticipation. My heart sunk upon the opening of professional emails containing the word “Unfortunately” or the phrase, “Thank you for your interest”; afterwards I would log my updated status into my increasingly forlorn Excel spreadsheet before moving on and pretending I didn’t have my hopes up. It was a humbling and arduous exercise, one that I’m not ashamed to admit took its toll on my self-confidence. It was easy to find myself in a hole of doubt laced with a tunneling idleness; at times I felt useless, static, unproductive. I felt like a parasitic force on my own bank account and on the generosity of my supportive parents. I looked back upon my internships and coursework with a sort of pessimistic and undeserved disdain, believing after all of my efforts I had earned the opportunity to prove my worth.
Much to my delight, during my extended radio silence on this blog I was able to land a part-time job at my neighborhood bakery and coffee shop. I would love to share more on that in a later post (I’ve begun stockpiling a few anecdotes I’ve experienced as cashier), but for now I’ve decided to focus on the new monster in my life who replaced unemployment; graduate school.
I remain steadfast in the direction I want to take with my education, I aspire to enter an MFA graduate program to improve my writing and broaden my worldview, and use this goal to keep my head on straight. Yet even this commitment brings the baggage of personal expectations. Is my writing good enough? Do I have the guts to teach at the college level? How will I handle a more concentrated rejection, one targeting what I’ve always believed to be one my greatest talents? I try to alleviate my anxiety with plentiful exercise, studying, spending time with old friends, reading, watching movies, discovering new music, and shooting rampaging aliens in the face.
You are now reading my thoughts on The Stanley Parable. You are scanning the eggshell computer screen for dark glyphs corresponding to sounds and meanings. Whose voice are you hearing? Yours? Or mine? Do you even know what I sound like? Is your narration of these words a surrogate for my own? Do these thoughts belong to you, or am I prompting and implanting them? Does this feel uncomfortable, flustering, perhaps even a little creepy? You should stop reading now.