I have an empathy problem.
Being naturally introverted, I possess an ability to "read" people, to detect what their wants or needs might be, sometimes in ways I don't consciously suspect. I try to use this ability to identify with people in one-on-one situations, relating to their concerns and doing my best to size up their wants and needs in an attempt to make them feel better about themselves and, by extension, me.
Often times, this comes in handy with first impressions, and in the right mindset, I've been able to positively connect and stay in touch with folks I've met in fleeting, happenstance situations. Other times, I let myself get caught up in the other person's problems, setting myself on their emotional wavelength during times when they're down or in trouble. Not the healthiest habit to pick up. Beats smoking, I guess.
Like I said, I have an empathy problem, which is a polite way of saying that I can be way too sensitive about emotional junk.
This has been a manageable problem for most of my life. In the past, I've been friends with people who trended towards feeling overly put-upon, and on occasion I've had to wean myself away from them for my own personal sanity. My tendency is to put myself on their level, instead of bring them up to mine, and I realized that for my own sake, it was better if I not spend time with them. Hard choices, and all.
That was before I started using Twitter as extensively as I do now. Twitter is full of wonderful people, with great communities of writers I respect and friends to swap word games with, and I wouldn't swap it for all of the coffee in Columbia. I'm more of a tea guy, myself. Twitter itself isn't the problem.
My problem comes from whom I choose to follow. In an effort to establish myself as part of a greater games-writing community, I've tried to pick out as many influential, big-name movers and shakers as I can, along with lots of other cool folk that I've met hither and yon. Most of the time, my feed is a great fit for me, throwing out sideways references to Disney features or '90s teen pop or what-have-you, and creating a community that I want to be a part of. The other times, well…
Before I continue, I want to emphasize that this isn't a smack-talk piece against anyone in particular, or even a group of someones. It's a matter of recognizing that I interpret words and thoughts differently than someone else might, and what's good for many may not be good for me. There's nothing wrong with tuning in to different wavelengths, and I respect that everyone has the right to tweet whatever they would like* without having to ask my say.
That said, just like with friends who I let myself by brought down by, I need to do what's good for me and move on.
I'm trying to clean up the way I think, the way I interact with other human beings. I'm trying to improve the way I talk with myself, the kinds of thoughts that go through my head. I want, I keep telling myself, to be happier and to love myself more. It's a worthy goal, I think, and if I'm serious about meeting it, I need to monitor the kinds of messages I take in, as well as the ones I put out. Trim away the bad stuff, and fill myself with positive thoughts. Only then can I make the negative voices in my head go away, or at least build up the good ones enough that I can ward 'em off.
This will mean, if you haven't guessed, being more selective of whom I choose to interact with Twitter. It will also mean potentially unfollowing smart, talented writers and content creators, and might limit my scope of what's going on in the games-writing "scene." I've decided that's okay. It's not personal—well, actually, it is; I'm doing it for me, based on the emotional reactions I get from how I choose to interpret the messages of others. Literally, personal.
I've started to realize that, despite how fun it can be to act snarky or watch Twitter fights, it's rarely worth it. Schadenfreude can only take me so far before it starts to negatively affect me. Think of it like a bad pizza: it feels nourishing while you're in the moment, but it only takes a short amount of time before it starts to sit heavily in your gut, and if you're anything like me, you'll carry it around for the rest of the day.
(forgive me. It's late, and I'm hungry)
Fortunately, trimming my follows won't adversely affect anyone I know personally or directly interact with on a regular basis. I'm just focusing the conversation a bit more. Focusing on messages that aren't so full of anger or dark irony or disrespect. It's their prerogative how they choose to express themselves that way; it's mine to decide what to do with it. They'd probably say the same thing. I just know that with so much negative junk going on this week, I can't deal with anymore bad feels than I have to. Besides, if you think regularly reciprocating somber feelings with an acquaintance is tough, imagine doing it one-way, multiple times a day, for at least a year.
Not only that, I want to propagate the same positive messages that I crave myself. "Become the change," and all that. Perhaps with less negative voices, I won't feel such internal pressure to snark off about something in order to fit in with my made-up idea of what The Internet wants to see from me. The trick will be to figure out how to best implement my positive feelings, and how I can harness them when they aren't immediately apparent.
Which isn't to say that I don't love wry sarcasm or won't stand for someone complaining about a rough day at work. Hell, Twitter was made for spleen-venting like that. I just need to choose people with a better positive-to-negative ration than I have before.
I hope I can join the conversation again when I feel good enough about myself to weather emotions that aren't directly similar to mine. That will take some growing up on my part. But then again, if I am a growing boy, then I need to feed myself good things in order to reach my full potential. As it is, I'm emotionally malnourished, and it's time I recognized that and did something about it to help myself.
*within the confines of Wheaton's Law, anyway
Thursday, April 18, 2013
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
Open your heart to the unexpected gamer
My friends don't play video games. Not many of them, anyway. My best friend Regi rocks his PlayStation Vita on the daily, and one of my cousins in Missoula has a Foxhound tattoo, but that's about it for gaming vis-à-vis my immediate social circle. Despite its status as a college town, Bozeman lacks a prominent gaming scene compared to, say, Seattle or Dallas. Unless you're going to GameStop, assuming status as Bozeman's only gamer is much too easy to do, especially if you see as few people as I do on a daily basis.
Which makes finding a rogue, unexpected gamer that much more wonderful. Granted, it's not that huge My People! moment that it used to be in grade school or at summer camp. Gaming is much, much more prominent compared to when I was in high school. Still, I made no less than two unexpected gamer connections on Sunday morning, and each was a small pocket of joy.
---
I try to attend Sunday mass as often as I can. Sometimes, I'm out of bed at 7:30, ready to jumpstart my day and smash my weekend assignments into little bitty pieces. Others, I'm finishing up my shower at 10:32 and hoping wildly that I can sneak in before Father finishes the homily. Last Sunday was the latter, but I figure that building a habit for attending services is more important than not attending at all.
Whatever you tell yourself, right?
After mass concludes, the church organ plays Father and the procession out like an ornate keyboard cat. Sometimes the organist gets cheeky—during one mass on Halloween weekend, he played the Tocatta in Fugue, which I've always associated with creepy, villainous imagery (think Captain Nemo in Disney's adaptation of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea). That day, he played a sort of tuneless noodling, using the upper octaves to create a sound reminiscent of, I dunno, Regency-era Britain.
As I waited for Father to walk out, I noticed a young couple in front of me leaning in to whisper to each other. The gentleman looked around my age, sporting glasses and the ghost of a trimmed, twentysomething beard; the lady was short with curly hair, also in her mid- to late-twenties. I don't know what caused me to decide to listen in, and I'm not sure what I expected to hear, but I definitely didn't expect:
Guy – "This reminds me of Zelda."
Girl – "Yeah, I can kinda hear that."
Guy – "I'm not sure where it would be. Maybe the overworld?"
Thing is, it did remind me of music from a Zelda game. At this stage, I couldn't help but to chime in.
Andrew – "Or, like, the shooting gallery. You know, with the slingshot." *mimes a slingshot motion*
They laughed and nodded in agreement. I smiled. Who'd have known that kindred gaming spirits were as close as church?
---
After mass, I went out to brunch. My review for Sly Cooper: Thieves in Time was due that night, and I needed to suss out my thoughts over a plate of eggs and hash browns. I ordered a chili cheese omelet and jotted down notes. Outlining has been an unexpected help during my previous few writing assignments—who'd have thought that, after shirking them off all throughout high school and college, I would voluntarily start doing pre-essay blueprints on a regular basis?
Free-form note taking helps me crystallize my thoughts. After polishing off my orange juice and biscuit, I finally cracked my writer's block and put in place a general outline. I got excited. I slapped the table, "That's it," I shouted. Behind the counter, a server cocked her eyebrow at me. I hastily explained that I was reviewing a video game, and writing until I could figure out what I had to say.
I'm not sure why I tagged my writing as a review. Certainly there are enough dudes with laptops ambling around Bozeman that I didn't need to justify exactly what I was writing. Perhaps I wanted recognition for having the audacity to write about video games? Hell, I have a column in the local paper; maybe I was in the mood to stunt.
She reacted not with the familiar oh-that's-nice look that I was expecting, but she looked interested. "What game?" she asked. I was taken aback, but felt like if she cared enough to ask, she earned a full answer, and I launched into a quick overview of Sly Cooper. After I'd finished, she made a quick, put-out comment about wanting to play more games, mentioning that the last game she finished was Final Fantasy VII. That did it. We chatted for five or so minutes about what we were playing, and I found out more about her gaming habits and recommended games for each other. Quite a morning.
---
Both times, I was caught off-guard by regular, average Bozemanites casually chatting up their gamer side. Not just chatting it up, making quick, blink-and-you-miss-it references to games like Borderlands and The Legend of Zelda. Does that sort of thing happen in this town? Apparently it does.
The couple from church and the friendly server reminded me about my own preconceived notions of who plays games, and how much I need to tear them down. With more people gaming than ever before, surely I can drop my whole Woe Is Me, No One Plays Video Games mentality. It'll be healthier for me, allowing me to be more accessible to people who play games, and hopefully cut down on any accidental condescension on my part; after all, I Write About Video Games and they don't.
Keeping my assumptions in check will help my gaming world seem even more magical. I don't have to be the outsider anymore, and I can share the gaming love wherever I go. Today's gamer doesn't always wear a Halflife t-shirt on constantly quote from Disgaea. They'll playing Words with Friends while they wait in line at the DMV. They're going to see Wreck-It Ralph and help it along to Disney's second-highest grossing animated film in ten years. They're watching Late Night with Jimmy Fallon and laughing as Jimmy plays Battlefield 3, musing how he'd probably made a game called "Hide." Playing games isn't a binary sense of identity anymore. I need to start acting like it.
Sure, it's much more likely that I'll run into someone who's playing Fire Emblem: Awakening at PAX than at Plonk, but I need to keep my heart open to everyone's internal gamer. Time to stop looking for the Kotaku shirt, and look at the Kotaku reader from within. Meeting another gamer doesn't have to be a pleasant surprise. Just "pleasant" should be enough.
Which makes finding a rogue, unexpected gamer that much more wonderful. Granted, it's not that huge My People! moment that it used to be in grade school or at summer camp. Gaming is much, much more prominent compared to when I was in high school. Still, I made no less than two unexpected gamer connections on Sunday morning, and each was a small pocket of joy.
---
I try to attend Sunday mass as often as I can. Sometimes, I'm out of bed at 7:30, ready to jumpstart my day and smash my weekend assignments into little bitty pieces. Others, I'm finishing up my shower at 10:32 and hoping wildly that I can sneak in before Father finishes the homily. Last Sunday was the latter, but I figure that building a habit for attending services is more important than not attending at all.
Whatever you tell yourself, right?
After mass concludes, the church organ plays Father and the procession out like an ornate keyboard cat. Sometimes the organist gets cheeky—during one mass on Halloween weekend, he played the Tocatta in Fugue, which I've always associated with creepy, villainous imagery (think Captain Nemo in Disney's adaptation of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea). That day, he played a sort of tuneless noodling, using the upper octaves to create a sound reminiscent of, I dunno, Regency-era Britain.
As I waited for Father to walk out, I noticed a young couple in front of me leaning in to whisper to each other. The gentleman looked around my age, sporting glasses and the ghost of a trimmed, twentysomething beard; the lady was short with curly hair, also in her mid- to late-twenties. I don't know what caused me to decide to listen in, and I'm not sure what I expected to hear, but I definitely didn't expect:
Guy – "This reminds me of Zelda."
Girl – "Yeah, I can kinda hear that."
Guy – "I'm not sure where it would be. Maybe the overworld?"
Thing is, it did remind me of music from a Zelda game. At this stage, I couldn't help but to chime in.
Andrew – "Or, like, the shooting gallery. You know, with the slingshot." *mimes a slingshot motion*
They laughed and nodded in agreement. I smiled. Who'd have known that kindred gaming spirits were as close as church?
---
After mass, I went out to brunch. My review for Sly Cooper: Thieves in Time was due that night, and I needed to suss out my thoughts over a plate of eggs and hash browns. I ordered a chili cheese omelet and jotted down notes. Outlining has been an unexpected help during my previous few writing assignments—who'd have thought that, after shirking them off all throughout high school and college, I would voluntarily start doing pre-essay blueprints on a regular basis?
Free-form note taking helps me crystallize my thoughts. After polishing off my orange juice and biscuit, I finally cracked my writer's block and put in place a general outline. I got excited. I slapped the table, "That's it," I shouted. Behind the counter, a server cocked her eyebrow at me. I hastily explained that I was reviewing a video game, and writing until I could figure out what I had to say.
I'm not sure why I tagged my writing as a review. Certainly there are enough dudes with laptops ambling around Bozeman that I didn't need to justify exactly what I was writing. Perhaps I wanted recognition for having the audacity to write about video games? Hell, I have a column in the local paper; maybe I was in the mood to stunt.
She reacted not with the familiar oh-that's-nice look that I was expecting, but she looked interested. "What game?" she asked. I was taken aback, but felt like if she cared enough to ask, she earned a full answer, and I launched into a quick overview of Sly Cooper. After I'd finished, she made a quick, put-out comment about wanting to play more games, mentioning that the last game she finished was Final Fantasy VII. That did it. We chatted for five or so minutes about what we were playing, and I found out more about her gaming habits and recommended games for each other. Quite a morning.
---
Both times, I was caught off-guard by regular, average Bozemanites casually chatting up their gamer side. Not just chatting it up, making quick, blink-and-you-miss-it references to games like Borderlands and The Legend of Zelda. Does that sort of thing happen in this town? Apparently it does.
The couple from church and the friendly server reminded me about my own preconceived notions of who plays games, and how much I need to tear them down. With more people gaming than ever before, surely I can drop my whole Woe Is Me, No One Plays Video Games mentality. It'll be healthier for me, allowing me to be more accessible to people who play games, and hopefully cut down on any accidental condescension on my part; after all, I Write About Video Games and they don't.
Keeping my assumptions in check will help my gaming world seem even more magical. I don't have to be the outsider anymore, and I can share the gaming love wherever I go. Today's gamer doesn't always wear a Halflife t-shirt on constantly quote from Disgaea. They'll playing Words with Friends while they wait in line at the DMV. They're going to see Wreck-It Ralph and help it along to Disney's second-highest grossing animated film in ten years. They're watching Late Night with Jimmy Fallon and laughing as Jimmy plays Battlefield 3, musing how he'd probably made a game called "Hide." Playing games isn't a binary sense of identity anymore. I need to start acting like it.
Sure, it's much more likely that I'll run into someone who's playing Fire Emblem: Awakening at PAX than at Plonk, but I need to keep my heart open to everyone's internal gamer. Time to stop looking for the Kotaku shirt, and look at the Kotaku reader from within. Meeting another gamer doesn't have to be a pleasant surprise. Just "pleasant" should be enough.
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
The Cabin in the Woods policy
I'm not what I'd consider a principled man. I'm still young, and I try to take life in a detached, learning sort of way. Occasionally, though, a situation pops up that almost directly violates one of my precious few guidelines, and like the protagonist in a Michael Mann film, I must rely on my code to get my through. Or at least, announce it loudly in a blog-y sort of way.
This morning, Edge Magazine reported on a new rumor about Microsoft's follow-up to the Xbox. Among the details given was a peculiar bit: the new Xbox will require an internet connection to function, similar to Diablo III or the newest Sim City game. This always-online gambit is designed to deter used games, with new games shipping with a code for activating games using Xbox Live.
I'm not even going to bury the lede: if this is true, it's really dumb. It's dumb because it precludes a not-as-insignificant-as-you-might-think portion of its target audience without reliable internet. It's dumb because it's adding another layer of complexity and unfriendliness to video games just as they're starting to break even further into the mainstream. It's dumb because takes Microsoft's already-inflated sense of hubris with its online services and amps it up to Kanye West-levels of egotism. Actually, that last part's not "dumb" so much as "kinda gross," but I was having fun with parallel structure.
Which leads me back to that personal code I mentioned earlier. When it comes to new technology, I have a strict Cabin in the Woods policy (no relation to the film). In order for me to fully embrace a new gadget or device, I need to be able to use it in an environment completely isolated from an online connection—for example, a cabin in the woods. If I can't enjoy your product in an environment completely removed from 3G and broadband internet, I am not interested.
I am fortunate in that my family has access to just such a cabin. My grandmother owns a cabin on one of Montana's many fabulous lakes, and it is one of my very favorite places in the world. The cabin ("Hungry Hollow," reads a sign perched above the door) is on the lake's shoreline, a good fifteen minute drive into the woods and twenty five minutes from reliable cell phone service. Satellite TV and internet are available, but my grandmother is old and hasn't two shits to rub together about internet access, and most visits are spent isolated from society. It's wonderful.
I'm a bit of a cozy gent anyway, and I love the idea of using my favorite gadgets and devices in an isolated setting like a Cabin in the Woods. I need to be able to use your product when I'm in that setting, and assuming I have reliable internet connection all of the time is a fool's game. Even excluding the halls of Hungry Hollow, I have friends who are too cheap to purchase internet—all of the streaming content and cloud storage in the world doesn't amount to a hill of beans at their house unless we pirate someone's Wi-Fi signal.
Putting aside the romanticism for a different set of romanticism, I also feel like I have more confidence in products that don't need constant online supervision. Take games, for instance. I always buy games based on the strength of their single-player campaigns, because the single-player experience is always constant. Super Mario Bros. is just as playable today as it was 28 years ago. Multiplayer, on the other hand, is much more variable. Community participation varies, bustling one day and a ghost town the next, and companies eventually close their multiplayer servers down. Games like Modern Warfare hang their hat on top-notch multiplayer experiences, but it's the single-player game that ultimately determines my purchase.
Other symptoms of my Cabin in the Woods policy include:
As the US improves its high-speed infrastructure—which is an entirely different conversation—my Cabin in the Woods policy will grow more and more outdated. That is my cross to bear. For now, I maintain my right to vent my frustration at any product or service that violates it. Vive le forêt!
This morning, Edge Magazine reported on a new rumor about Microsoft's follow-up to the Xbox. Among the details given was a peculiar bit: the new Xbox will require an internet connection to function, similar to Diablo III or the newest Sim City game. This always-online gambit is designed to deter used games, with new games shipping with a code for activating games using Xbox Live.
I'm not even going to bury the lede: if this is true, it's really dumb. It's dumb because it precludes a not-as-insignificant-as-you-might-think portion of its target audience without reliable internet. It's dumb because it's adding another layer of complexity and unfriendliness to video games just as they're starting to break even further into the mainstream. It's dumb because takes Microsoft's already-inflated sense of hubris with its online services and amps it up to Kanye West-levels of egotism. Actually, that last part's not "dumb" so much as "kinda gross," but I was having fun with parallel structure.
Which leads me back to that personal code I mentioned earlier. When it comes to new technology, I have a strict Cabin in the Woods policy (no relation to the film). In order for me to fully embrace a new gadget or device, I need to be able to use it in an environment completely isolated from an online connection—for example, a cabin in the woods. If I can't enjoy your product in an environment completely removed from 3G and broadband internet, I am not interested.
I am fortunate in that my family has access to just such a cabin. My grandmother owns a cabin on one of Montana's many fabulous lakes, and it is one of my very favorite places in the world. The cabin ("Hungry Hollow," reads a sign perched above the door) is on the lake's shoreline, a good fifteen minute drive into the woods and twenty five minutes from reliable cell phone service. Satellite TV and internet are available, but my grandmother is old and hasn't two shits to rub together about internet access, and most visits are spent isolated from society. It's wonderful.
I'm a bit of a cozy gent anyway, and I love the idea of using my favorite gadgets and devices in an isolated setting like a Cabin in the Woods. I need to be able to use your product when I'm in that setting, and assuming I have reliable internet connection all of the time is a fool's game. Even excluding the halls of Hungry Hollow, I have friends who are too cheap to purchase internet—all of the streaming content and cloud storage in the world doesn't amount to a hill of beans at their house unless we pirate someone's Wi-Fi signal.
Putting aside the romanticism for a different set of romanticism, I also feel like I have more confidence in products that don't need constant online supervision. Take games, for instance. I always buy games based on the strength of their single-player campaigns, because the single-player experience is always constant. Super Mario Bros. is just as playable today as it was 28 years ago. Multiplayer, on the other hand, is much more variable. Community participation varies, bustling one day and a ghost town the next, and companies eventually close their multiplayer servers down. Games like Modern Warfare hang their hat on top-notch multiplayer experiences, but it's the single-player game that ultimately determines my purchase.
Other symptoms of my Cabin in the Woods policy include:
- Netflix DVDs over Instant Queue
- Buying albums on CD instead of iTunes
- Making every worthwhile Spotify playlist "Available Offline"
As the US improves its high-speed infrastructure—which is an entirely different conversation—my Cabin in the Woods policy will grow more and more outdated. That is my cross to bear. For now, I maintain my right to vent my frustration at any product or service that violates it. Vive le forêt!
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
Downloadable Diaries: Volume 2 – Super Meat Boy
If one genre of games has benefited the most from the explosion of downloadable and independent titles that began in earnest in 2008 and only increases year after year, it's the 2D platformer. Super Meat Boy comes out of this boom, starting life as a Flash game before making its way onto Xbox Live Arcade in 2010. Like Mark of the Ninja, Super Meat Boy has you scrolling sides until there's no tomorrow, but if Mark of the Ninja's deliberation and pacing is like Metal Gear Solid, Super Meat Boy's twitchy platforming and cartoonish vibe is more like Quake: play, die, respawn, have fun.
Super Meat Boy targets a very specific player base with its slew of split-second jumps, tricky obstacles, and punishing level of difficulty. Specifically, gamers who grew up playing Super Mario World and Donkey Kong Country, smashing through in little or no time and thirsting after a new level of challenge.
Well, guess what, guys: Super Meat Boy brings the challenge, and then some.
Meat Boy's move set is easy to master: he can run, jump, and bounce off of walls. That's it. The challenge comes from using Meat Boy's limited abilities to overcome each level's insidious design. Early stages start out small, throwing only gaps and sawblades in the way. Later worlds add more obstacles to the stack, like lava, crumbling blocks, and stacks of hypodermic needles, and though new elements aren't piled on in every single level (at least not immediately), they're introduced frequently enough to keep you on your toes. Smashing through all 300 levels requires the patience of a saint and the reflexes of a meth addict.
Super Meat Boy's challenge level never seems unbalanced on unfair, though. Just like Dark Souls, another extremely difficult game that was nonetheless compelling because of said difficulty, every death comes about because of a traceable player error. Super Meat Boy's controls are quick and responsive, and every missed jump or overcorrected drop is a learning opportunity. Granted, the physics are floaty and movement speed is quick enough to lead to accidental deaths, but these about features rather than bugs; gameplay "quirks" that come with the territory in playing Super Meat Boy, similar to Dark Souls' stamina system and slow combat speed.
The brilliant thing about Super Meat Boy is how it makes even the most daunting levels feel within reach, even after trying and failing ten, twenty, fifty times in rapid succession. In fact, that's what makes Super Meat Boy so accessible: "in rapid succession." Respawning in Super Meat Boy is instantaneous, removing the friction from attempted progress and leaving little time to feel discouraged before trying again.
Just as integral to balancing Super Meat Boy's difficulty is its lack of a life system. Sure, the stage plays like an unholy cross between Mario Bros.: The Lost Levels and fan-created ROM hacks, but you can try it as much as you want! That's fair, right? With these two systems, just about any level of sidescrolling masochism plays like a fair challenge; Super Meat Boy almost dares players to quit, and a proper competitive spirit can keep the "one more round" calls rolling until three hours after they were supposed to stop.
Super Meat Boy is great fun, but short on substance for my taste. Many stages can be beaten in less than thirty seconds, and Meat Boy's lack of any moves not related to jumping leaves Super Meat Boy feeling flat. Deliberate gameplay choices, perhaps, but I kept craving more during extended sessions. Playing Super Meat Boy, I'm reminded of eating a pack of Gushers; each bite is short, super tasty, and primes you for even more sweet, syrupy goodness. I can only each so many Gushers at a time, though, before I start craving a burger or a chicken wrap—anything to switch up the experience. Super Meat Boy, like Gushers, is best enjoyed in short bursts, so you can savor the flavor in small doses before it starts to taste too same-y.
For the 200 Microsoft points I spent on it (something like $2.50), though, Super Meat Boy is a hell of a deal. Its frantic pace is unlike anything I've experienced in the 2D space, and it's great for a quick fix of platforming goodness.
Super Meat Boy targets a very specific player base with its slew of split-second jumps, tricky obstacles, and punishing level of difficulty. Specifically, gamers who grew up playing Super Mario World and Donkey Kong Country, smashing through in little or no time and thirsting after a new level of challenge.
Well, guess what, guys: Super Meat Boy brings the challenge, and then some.
Meat Boy's move set is easy to master: he can run, jump, and bounce off of walls. That's it. The challenge comes from using Meat Boy's limited abilities to overcome each level's insidious design. Early stages start out small, throwing only gaps and sawblades in the way. Later worlds add more obstacles to the stack, like lava, crumbling blocks, and stacks of hypodermic needles, and though new elements aren't piled on in every single level (at least not immediately), they're introduced frequently enough to keep you on your toes. Smashing through all 300 levels requires the patience of a saint and the reflexes of a meth addict.
Super Meat Boy's challenge level never seems unbalanced on unfair, though. Just like Dark Souls, another extremely difficult game that was nonetheless compelling because of said difficulty, every death comes about because of a traceable player error. Super Meat Boy's controls are quick and responsive, and every missed jump or overcorrected drop is a learning opportunity. Granted, the physics are floaty and movement speed is quick enough to lead to accidental deaths, but these about features rather than bugs; gameplay "quirks" that come with the territory in playing Super Meat Boy, similar to Dark Souls' stamina system and slow combat speed.
The brilliant thing about Super Meat Boy is how it makes even the most daunting levels feel within reach, even after trying and failing ten, twenty, fifty times in rapid succession. In fact, that's what makes Super Meat Boy so accessible: "in rapid succession." Respawning in Super Meat Boy is instantaneous, removing the friction from attempted progress and leaving little time to feel discouraged before trying again.
Just as integral to balancing Super Meat Boy's difficulty is its lack of a life system. Sure, the stage plays like an unholy cross between Mario Bros.: The Lost Levels and fan-created ROM hacks, but you can try it as much as you want! That's fair, right? With these two systems, just about any level of sidescrolling masochism plays like a fair challenge; Super Meat Boy almost dares players to quit, and a proper competitive spirit can keep the "one more round" calls rolling until three hours after they were supposed to stop.
Super Meat Boy is great fun, but short on substance for my taste. Many stages can be beaten in less than thirty seconds, and Meat Boy's lack of any moves not related to jumping leaves Super Meat Boy feeling flat. Deliberate gameplay choices, perhaps, but I kept craving more during extended sessions. Playing Super Meat Boy, I'm reminded of eating a pack of Gushers; each bite is short, super tasty, and primes you for even more sweet, syrupy goodness. I can only each so many Gushers at a time, though, before I start craving a burger or a chicken wrap—anything to switch up the experience. Super Meat Boy, like Gushers, is best enjoyed in short bursts, so you can savor the flavor in small doses before it starts to taste too same-y.
For the 200 Microsoft points I spent on it (something like $2.50), though, Super Meat Boy is a hell of a deal. Its frantic pace is unlike anything I've experienced in the 2D space, and it's great for a quick fix of platforming goodness.
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