Wednesday, March 21, 2012
How to make the most epic Zelda climax even more epic
So I was listening to the "Inception" soundtrack one day and started picturing "The Legend of Zelda: the Wind Waker" to appropriate parts. And now I am on YouTube. I realized this video was well within my abilities and just had to do it. I've been thinking a lot about the series, frequenting Zelda Dungeon and Kotaku, and altogether trying to collect my thoughts about everything gaming so that I can start a blog to share them publicly. Hopefully I can make good progress in that area, as this is sure to garner some attention (I hope). Afterwards maybe I can make more videos.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Did Ocarina of Time outdo Skyward Sword?
Since the release of Skyward Sword, the Legend of Zelda fan base has been obsessed with critiquing this latest installment and deciding whether or not it "breaks free" from the "shadow of Ocarina of Time" that has so dominated everyone's outlook on the series. People are quick to defend or criticize nearly every aspect of the game, be it the same as previous titles or at all different from them. The problem is, too much of this is being done with the perfection of OoT in mind, a stifling qualifier that has stood over every game's success for the last few console generations.
So, while everyone (including myself) has something to say about Skyward Sword's achievements and failures, I have decided to subvert the question for now and instead look at the oh-so-defining Zelda. Is it really worthy of its own fame?
Item 1: Gameplay
Ocarina of Time has pretty solid gameplay; it's simple, if a bit unrefined. But what can you expect from the first attempt? This is the game that brought Zelda into the third dimension, so naturally it's a bit rough around the edges. Actions can be a tad chunky at times, the enemies don't sport a lot of variety, and Link's moveset is at its most basic. In a nutshell, it sports a less developed, less polished engine than what we have today (motion controls aside).
"But wait," you say, "that's not fair!" It can't be criticized just because games have become more sophisticated with time! Well, you're absolutely right. And one must respect it for having established the system as well, correct? Ah, here's the sticky part! Yes, it defined the mechanics of 3D Zelda that have been employed to this day, and it deserves great credit for that. However, that does not necessarily make the gameplay as good as its own derivatives: dismissal of later games' mechanics because of the prestige held by their earliest employment goes beyond respect and assents to bias. The harsher levels of this bias entail an indifference to extra features, such as rolling through bushes and small pots; and hatred of any deviation, such as Skyward Sword's infamous stamina meter. Do you know what a drag climbing ledges is without parkour Link?
Let's face it: Ocarina of Time has the most primitive gameplay of the 3D Zelda era. Is less really more? Not when it provides fewer avenues for entertainment. Many of the game's actions become quite dull, in and of themselves; if the adventuring were as linear as in Skyward Sword, you'd probably lose interest.
Item 2: Structure
Whatever you may argue about SS being linear, there's no doubt OoT avoids this issue. The problem is, it's somewhat shoddily done. The benefits of freedom are tainted by the intended progression: if you want to do things in your order, be prepared to put up with ignorant and impassive NPCs, incessantly misdirected information, and juggled event triggers.
Once you've pulled the Master Sword, you receive instructions to head to the Forest Temple. There you find the bow, an item necessary for hitting the eye switches found in most (if not all) dungeons. Once you have this, you can do anything you want, as long as it doesn't require returning to childhood. Shiek blocks the Master Sword's pedestal in the Temple of Time until you have actually beaten the Forest Temple, and she will not acknowledge any other actions on your part. You could consider her ignorant except she will show up to teach you the Bolero of Fire and Serenade of Water should you sequence-break, then continues to devote her intercourse exclusively to whether or not you've awakened Saria as the first sage.
Moreover, though the dungeons after the Forest Temple require little order, there is still a "recommended" one, to which end Navi offers her apparently happenstance thoughts. Whichever is next up by this nature is what you will forever be reminded of, no matter if you're making progress elsewhere.
Aside from the above, the game's openness is welcome. OoT's best asset may be its dungeons, which require you to wander about in an unguided and thoroughly nonlinear fashion to locate keys and new pathways. They provide a reasonable explorational challenge, though at times are exasperating due to overlong segments that you must redo upon screwing up or discovering you don't have enough keys. Majora's Mask probably surpasses OoT in level design here, although it's lairs could stand to be a bit larger, being so few.
Still, with such a large, open world, Ocarina of Time ultimately trumps Skyward Sword, right? Well, until you realize how much is wasted. The latter gets criticized for how little you need or are able to utilize collected bugs and treasures, how little play certain abilities get, and how pointless some rewards are. Okay, so the upgrade system is arguably underused, swimming is isolated, and that Tycoon Wallet isn't really needed. In this case, linearity might be a blessing in disguise; you don't have to go far out of your way to achieve 100%, and the gameplay keeps it fun the whole time. In OoT, on the other hand, there are plenty of unobtrusive side quests and things to collect, but with the exception of larger ammunition packs (something SS nailed very uniquely) and heart pieces, you don't put much use to any of the extras besides the bottles (only one of which takes effort to get). Ice arrows? There's really no point. Rupees? The most you ever spend is usually on magic beans, which cap at 100 (and you can sacrifice buying one for Lake Hylia thanks to the Scarecrow's Song). Only if you're unlucky enough to lose a tunic will you require bigger wallets, which otherwise merely let you store a greater quantity at once of the infinite cash that will never leave your pocket.
The wallets come from collecting Gold Skulltulas, which is a travesty of its own. Granted, you get a piece of heart and one of the best features in the game (the Stone of Agony, which makes the rumble pack detect secrets) from this, but for a small price. You need 20 for the rumble rock and 50 for the heart quarter, out of a total of 100 scattered throughout the land and dungeons. You'll bump into 20 easily, and 50 aren't hard to find just by keeping your eyes open. So, what do you get for tracking down every last one in the most gargantuan collection mission in Zelda history (not counting figurines)? 200 rupees! Yes, you basically get to see what the father of the cursed family looks like, plus bragging rights. I understand Nintendo likes to make sure the less talented can still get their hands on the main goodies, but really, we elite spider hunters deserved something like sword beams for this! Such a failure to evenly reward the player ruins the harder half of an otherwise ideal safari.
Item 3: Story
Ocarina of Time, the quintessential Zelda story... What could possibly be faulty here? We all know this epic tale, so I'll cut to the answers.
First, Ganondorf. The man is ambitious enough to summon Meteor or maybe make a peanut butter sandwich. Sure, he's vile, he decimates the land in the course of seven years, and he wields the Triforce of Power. But he doesn't seem to understand his own words. Here we have an inconsistent villain who tosses you aside as a nobody outside the gates of Hyrule Castle, then turns around and claims he knew all along that you would open the Sacred Realm. A ploy, acting like he didn't know anything of you? He did see you through the window with Zelda when you spied on him earlier; it's possible he wanted to maintain the appearance of chasing the princess in order to let you get into the Temple of Time.
More likely though, he's just a braggart. Once you awaken the sages, Zelda reveals herself and Ganondorf captures her. After claiming that it went according to plan, save for your accomplishing a bit more than he expected, he steals her away and declares that he will soon possess two Triforce pieces. With them, he laughs, he will "become the true ruler of the world", presumably able to smite you easily with a two-to-one Triforce ratio. In reality, he idles away the time playing the organ until you arrive, then tries to smite you without such an advantage. Why?
At first, it seems obvious. He notes that the Triforce pieces resonate at close proximity, wanting to become one. As this is how he assembles the golden power in The Wind Waker, it seems that contrary to his earlier boast he cannot obtain the lost pieces individually through force. Yet we know this is not true: the very first game proved otherwise! Link, having collected the Triforce of Wisdom, slew Ganon and obtained his piece, the Triforce of Power. One could argue that only a hero of unbreakable spirit could do this, one who could claim the whole Triforce without it splitting from an imbalance in that individual's virtues. But such a contingency only makes sense if an imbalanced person could never, ever have the whole Triforce. Why? Because if it splits in the first place, and you can't wrest the parts from their bearers (by killing or otherwise), then the only way to obtain the two not in your possession would be to make them reassemble as in WW. And the whole being unclaimed at that point, it would most likely split all over again when you touched it, because you are imbalanced!
There are three possible explanations for Ganondorf's behavior in The Wind Waker. One, it did not occur to him that it would split again; two, he was counting on it not splitting as he was a more balanced person (evil though he was). And three, he merely wanted to make a wish, and the full Triforce will grant your heart's desire, at least partially, despite splitting from imbalance. What Ocarina of Time (and its predecessor, A Link to the Past) has to offer on this last theory is a discussion for another time. For now we can conclude that OoT Ganondorf was the Great King of Procrastination, or he would have taken Zelda's Triforce before practicing for his recital. I wouldn't be surprised if he only trashed Hyrule six years in, given how strongly he seems to have inherited Demise's ability to "spare a few moments."
Unfortunately, this lack of action plagues the entire game's progression. Unlike Skyward Sword, Link is the only one actually running around doing anything most of the time. This is in part thanks to his seven-year absence, during which Ganondorf appears to have done most of his pillaging. It's not a bad concept, leaving you to witness the aftermath and try to put things as they were before. However, some of the rectifications you set out for never take place; and coupled with the aforementioned structural issues, the world remains quite static in each of its respective time states. Case in point: "the Zoras are still all dead."
And why should Link put up with any of this? As we know, drawing the Master Sword unseals the Sacred Realm and allows Ganondorf access to the Triforce. At the same time, replacing the blade puts Link back where he was before being sealed for seven years to reach adulthood. Couldn't he just leave it there and never let the evil future happen? Does time pass in the child timeline while Link is active in the adult timeline? It makes sense that, if Link's aging only counts for the sake of wielding the Blade of Evil's Bane, then putting it back would reverse that aging entirely, placing him at the age he was when he first drew it, at which point he had not drawn it; at which point, therefore, the Sacred Realm was still sealed! In effect, which timeline branch ensues depends not only on Link's success, but also on his choice: if he's defeated, Ganondorf obtains the whole Triforce and the Sealing War occurs; if he draws the Master Sword and defeats Ganon, the adult timeline proceeds; and if he realizes how much tragedy he can avert, then he returns the Sword, stays a kid, protects the Sacred Realm, and brings about the child timeline (even preventing Twilight Princess, depending on how Ganondorf came to possess the Triforce then).
How do you like that? You can win the game by not finishing it. On one hand, this cleans up the timeline a bit by proving each branch exclusive to the others; on the other, Zelda's act of returning Link to his childhood makes less sense than ever. Supposedly it's the reason why what I've just stated is false: by completing the quest and being sent back at the end, the events prior to obtaining the Master Sword are also undone, and Link has the necessary knowledge of the future to prevent things happening in the same way. Yet what knowledge would this be? He'd have no more opportunity to convince the king of Ganondorf's evil intentions, and the most he could tell Zelda (who is already spying on the Gerudo King in the ending) is that drawing the Master Sword isn't a viable option, as he would be sealed for seven years. Zelda could change her plans, but to what is inconceivable; for her father already dismissed her warnings, and the only fallback, protecting the Sacred Realm, would still boil down to whether Link left it alone. So what does she think she can achieve by granting Link his lost teen teen-hood? There won't be any peace while Ganondorf's still around, the adult timeline is potentially eradicated, and Link has a thoroughly redundant chance to choose between it and the child timeline. Thanks for hitting the reset button.
To top it all off, OoT's writing isn't the best. Perhaps this is the fault of the translation (and possibly some censoring), but the dialogue can be absolutely bemusing at times, leaving you scratching your brain as to what a character was trying to say or why they were saying such a thing in the first place (Ganondorf is only one such offender). When you add this to all the other issues, the whole game's proceedings become rather unclear, from people and places to the histories and legends that intertwine with them. Too often one looks back and asks, "What exactly happened?" It's ironic that the most fundamental plot in the whole Zelda universe is more riddled with fridge logic than any other. It may be a great story, but its integrity hardly withstands the execution.
Item 4: Navi
Ah, Navi, come hither. Link's fairy companion has amassed a lot of hatred over the years, as we well know. The question is, is she a worse familiar than Fi?
The latter finds herself criticized on two major counts: problems with her loquaciousness, and her degree of character development. Let's compare.
Navi certainly talks less; however, when she's not being the mother of Captain Obvious, she's blurting out statements that sound either completely random or like she's winking in your face. "I wonder what Saria would say," indeed. Are you a self-dialed tip hotline with bad tact, or do you have your head in the clouds? This personified hint system is less explicit than in subsequent titles (though certainly devoid of subtlety), and it seems to be intended largely to aid those who have been wandering about because they haven't been able to find their next goal by themselves; but whatever it was meant to be, it failed, because Navi interrupts you far too frequently with the same old comment, if not the information you just heard ten seconds ago.
She has two saving graces: you can ignore her and not push the button to hear what she has to say, and if you do (either because you want to end the annoyance or enter first-person view) you can skip through her text quickly (an unfortunate deficiency of Fi's, though she has enough personality to be more interesting than Navi; more on that below). As if anticipating our relief, the designers made one recurring exception. Whenever you enter a room with a wallmaster, she stops you without consent to warn you, and her text proceeds at the painfully slow pace (far worse than in SS) that is alternative to skipping straight to the end, which is not an option in this case. When you don't expect it, it's more disruptive; when you know it's coming, the waste of time is extra irritating; and either way, you have to wait for her to finish a line you've read countless times about an enemy that you can see and hear coming a mile away. At least when she hollers because you've walked up to a locked door without a key, simply walking away shuts her up.
As for character, Navi has this irksome smidgen of existence that jars with her overall unimportance. She has little personality and a simple role: follow you and provide one-liner hints. She is shallow, static, and uninvolved, but her dialogue at certain points suggests otherwise. The first you hear of the Master Sword is her reaction to seeing it: "It's that legendary blade... The Master Sword!!" This leaves you wondering what she knows and how, which she never discloses. Toward the end of the game she acts somewhat personally toward you, first apologizing for not being able to assist in fighting Ganondorf and then enthusiastically sticking with you for the last battle. At least Fi, who specifically reflects upon her relationship with Link, actually comes off as a person of sorts. Her feelings at the end of SS may seem strange given her serenely robotic, duty-oriented attitude during the adventure; but the impression exists of an unspoken friendship that grew through their trials together, now realized at parting. Navi, on the other hand, exhibits no such depth, but still tries to matter. Then she flies away. Talk about a lack of character development.
But hey, at least she's not long-winded. That distinction goes to Kaepora Gaebora, the owl I would swear comes from Winnie the Pooh except he doesn't drone exclusively about himself. The lesson is we can't win.
Conclusion
Ocarina of Time is, truth be told, one of the more overrated Zelda games out there. With so many flaws it fails to top its successor, Skyward Sword, though the latter isn't perfect itself. Indeed, both games fall short in various areas. But OoT is like so many "classic" movies from 50 years ago in that its decency is treated as mastery despite being a nitpicker's extravaganza. It's a good game, just not the greatest; so if the question surrounding the most recent title must be whether it bests this classic, here is the most impartial answer possible:
Other installments, such as The Wind Waker, already did.
So, while everyone (including myself) has something to say about Skyward Sword's achievements and failures, I have decided to subvert the question for now and instead look at the oh-so-defining Zelda. Is it really worthy of its own fame?
Item 1: Gameplay
Ocarina of Time has pretty solid gameplay; it's simple, if a bit unrefined. But what can you expect from the first attempt? This is the game that brought Zelda into the third dimension, so naturally it's a bit rough around the edges. Actions can be a tad chunky at times, the enemies don't sport a lot of variety, and Link's moveset is at its most basic. In a nutshell, it sports a less developed, less polished engine than what we have today (motion controls aside).
"But wait," you say, "that's not fair!" It can't be criticized just because games have become more sophisticated with time! Well, you're absolutely right. And one must respect it for having established the system as well, correct? Ah, here's the sticky part! Yes, it defined the mechanics of 3D Zelda that have been employed to this day, and it deserves great credit for that. However, that does not necessarily make the gameplay as good as its own derivatives: dismissal of later games' mechanics because of the prestige held by their earliest employment goes beyond respect and assents to bias. The harsher levels of this bias entail an indifference to extra features, such as rolling through bushes and small pots; and hatred of any deviation, such as Skyward Sword's infamous stamina meter. Do you know what a drag climbing ledges is without parkour Link?
Let's face it: Ocarina of Time has the most primitive gameplay of the 3D Zelda era. Is less really more? Not when it provides fewer avenues for entertainment. Many of the game's actions become quite dull, in and of themselves; if the adventuring were as linear as in Skyward Sword, you'd probably lose interest.
Item 2: Structure
Whatever you may argue about SS being linear, there's no doubt OoT avoids this issue. The problem is, it's somewhat shoddily done. The benefits of freedom are tainted by the intended progression: if you want to do things in your order, be prepared to put up with ignorant and impassive NPCs, incessantly misdirected information, and juggled event triggers.
Once you've pulled the Master Sword, you receive instructions to head to the Forest Temple. There you find the bow, an item necessary for hitting the eye switches found in most (if not all) dungeons. Once you have this, you can do anything you want, as long as it doesn't require returning to childhood. Shiek blocks the Master Sword's pedestal in the Temple of Time until you have actually beaten the Forest Temple, and she will not acknowledge any other actions on your part. You could consider her ignorant except she will show up to teach you the Bolero of Fire and Serenade of Water should you sequence-break, then continues to devote her intercourse exclusively to whether or not you've awakened Saria as the first sage.
Moreover, though the dungeons after the Forest Temple require little order, there is still a "recommended" one, to which end Navi offers her apparently happenstance thoughts. Whichever is next up by this nature is what you will forever be reminded of, no matter if you're making progress elsewhere.
Aside from the above, the game's openness is welcome. OoT's best asset may be its dungeons, which require you to wander about in an unguided and thoroughly nonlinear fashion to locate keys and new pathways. They provide a reasonable explorational challenge, though at times are exasperating due to overlong segments that you must redo upon screwing up or discovering you don't have enough keys. Majora's Mask probably surpasses OoT in level design here, although it's lairs could stand to be a bit larger, being so few.
Still, with such a large, open world, Ocarina of Time ultimately trumps Skyward Sword, right? Well, until you realize how much is wasted. The latter gets criticized for how little you need or are able to utilize collected bugs and treasures, how little play certain abilities get, and how pointless some rewards are. Okay, so the upgrade system is arguably underused, swimming is isolated, and that Tycoon Wallet isn't really needed. In this case, linearity might be a blessing in disguise; you don't have to go far out of your way to achieve 100%, and the gameplay keeps it fun the whole time. In OoT, on the other hand, there are plenty of unobtrusive side quests and things to collect, but with the exception of larger ammunition packs (something SS nailed very uniquely) and heart pieces, you don't put much use to any of the extras besides the bottles (only one of which takes effort to get). Ice arrows? There's really no point. Rupees? The most you ever spend is usually on magic beans, which cap at 100 (and you can sacrifice buying one for Lake Hylia thanks to the Scarecrow's Song). Only if you're unlucky enough to lose a tunic will you require bigger wallets, which otherwise merely let you store a greater quantity at once of the infinite cash that will never leave your pocket.
The wallets come from collecting Gold Skulltulas, which is a travesty of its own. Granted, you get a piece of heart and one of the best features in the game (the Stone of Agony, which makes the rumble pack detect secrets) from this, but for a small price. You need 20 for the rumble rock and 50 for the heart quarter, out of a total of 100 scattered throughout the land and dungeons. You'll bump into 20 easily, and 50 aren't hard to find just by keeping your eyes open. So, what do you get for tracking down every last one in the most gargantuan collection mission in Zelda history (not counting figurines)? 200 rupees! Yes, you basically get to see what the father of the cursed family looks like, plus bragging rights. I understand Nintendo likes to make sure the less talented can still get their hands on the main goodies, but really, we elite spider hunters deserved something like sword beams for this! Such a failure to evenly reward the player ruins the harder half of an otherwise ideal safari.
Item 3: Story
Ocarina of Time, the quintessential Zelda story... What could possibly be faulty here? We all know this epic tale, so I'll cut to the answers.
First, Ganondorf. The man is ambitious enough to summon Meteor or maybe make a peanut butter sandwich. Sure, he's vile, he decimates the land in the course of seven years, and he wields the Triforce of Power. But he doesn't seem to understand his own words. Here we have an inconsistent villain who tosses you aside as a nobody outside the gates of Hyrule Castle, then turns around and claims he knew all along that you would open the Sacred Realm. A ploy, acting like he didn't know anything of you? He did see you through the window with Zelda when you spied on him earlier; it's possible he wanted to maintain the appearance of chasing the princess in order to let you get into the Temple of Time.
More likely though, he's just a braggart. Once you awaken the sages, Zelda reveals herself and Ganondorf captures her. After claiming that it went according to plan, save for your accomplishing a bit more than he expected, he steals her away and declares that he will soon possess two Triforce pieces. With them, he laughs, he will "become the true ruler of the world", presumably able to smite you easily with a two-to-one Triforce ratio. In reality, he idles away the time playing the organ until you arrive, then tries to smite you without such an advantage. Why?
At first, it seems obvious. He notes that the Triforce pieces resonate at close proximity, wanting to become one. As this is how he assembles the golden power in The Wind Waker, it seems that contrary to his earlier boast he cannot obtain the lost pieces individually through force. Yet we know this is not true: the very first game proved otherwise! Link, having collected the Triforce of Wisdom, slew Ganon and obtained his piece, the Triforce of Power. One could argue that only a hero of unbreakable spirit could do this, one who could claim the whole Triforce without it splitting from an imbalance in that individual's virtues. But such a contingency only makes sense if an imbalanced person could never, ever have the whole Triforce. Why? Because if it splits in the first place, and you can't wrest the parts from their bearers (by killing or otherwise), then the only way to obtain the two not in your possession would be to make them reassemble as in WW. And the whole being unclaimed at that point, it would most likely split all over again when you touched it, because you are imbalanced!
There are three possible explanations for Ganondorf's behavior in The Wind Waker. One, it did not occur to him that it would split again; two, he was counting on it not splitting as he was a more balanced person (evil though he was). And three, he merely wanted to make a wish, and the full Triforce will grant your heart's desire, at least partially, despite splitting from imbalance. What Ocarina of Time (and its predecessor, A Link to the Past) has to offer on this last theory is a discussion for another time. For now we can conclude that OoT Ganondorf was the Great King of Procrastination, or he would have taken Zelda's Triforce before practicing for his recital. I wouldn't be surprised if he only trashed Hyrule six years in, given how strongly he seems to have inherited Demise's ability to "spare a few moments."
Unfortunately, this lack of action plagues the entire game's progression. Unlike Skyward Sword, Link is the only one actually running around doing anything most of the time. This is in part thanks to his seven-year absence, during which Ganondorf appears to have done most of his pillaging. It's not a bad concept, leaving you to witness the aftermath and try to put things as they were before. However, some of the rectifications you set out for never take place; and coupled with the aforementioned structural issues, the world remains quite static in each of its respective time states. Case in point: "the Zoras are still all dead."
And why should Link put up with any of this? As we know, drawing the Master Sword unseals the Sacred Realm and allows Ganondorf access to the Triforce. At the same time, replacing the blade puts Link back where he was before being sealed for seven years to reach adulthood. Couldn't he just leave it there and never let the evil future happen? Does time pass in the child timeline while Link is active in the adult timeline? It makes sense that, if Link's aging only counts for the sake of wielding the Blade of Evil's Bane, then putting it back would reverse that aging entirely, placing him at the age he was when he first drew it, at which point he had not drawn it; at which point, therefore, the Sacred Realm was still sealed! In effect, which timeline branch ensues depends not only on Link's success, but also on his choice: if he's defeated, Ganondorf obtains the whole Triforce and the Sealing War occurs; if he draws the Master Sword and defeats Ganon, the adult timeline proceeds; and if he realizes how much tragedy he can avert, then he returns the Sword, stays a kid, protects the Sacred Realm, and brings about the child timeline (even preventing Twilight Princess, depending on how Ganondorf came to possess the Triforce then).
How do you like that? You can win the game by not finishing it. On one hand, this cleans up the timeline a bit by proving each branch exclusive to the others; on the other, Zelda's act of returning Link to his childhood makes less sense than ever. Supposedly it's the reason why what I've just stated is false: by completing the quest and being sent back at the end, the events prior to obtaining the Master Sword are also undone, and Link has the necessary knowledge of the future to prevent things happening in the same way. Yet what knowledge would this be? He'd have no more opportunity to convince the king of Ganondorf's evil intentions, and the most he could tell Zelda (who is already spying on the Gerudo King in the ending) is that drawing the Master Sword isn't a viable option, as he would be sealed for seven years. Zelda could change her plans, but to what is inconceivable; for her father already dismissed her warnings, and the only fallback, protecting the Sacred Realm, would still boil down to whether Link left it alone. So what does she think she can achieve by granting Link his lost teen teen-hood? There won't be any peace while Ganondorf's still around, the adult timeline is potentially eradicated, and Link has a thoroughly redundant chance to choose between it and the child timeline. Thanks for hitting the reset button.
To top it all off, OoT's writing isn't the best. Perhaps this is the fault of the translation (and possibly some censoring), but the dialogue can be absolutely bemusing at times, leaving you scratching your brain as to what a character was trying to say or why they were saying such a thing in the first place (Ganondorf is only one such offender). When you add this to all the other issues, the whole game's proceedings become rather unclear, from people and places to the histories and legends that intertwine with them. Too often one looks back and asks, "What exactly happened?" It's ironic that the most fundamental plot in the whole Zelda universe is more riddled with fridge logic than any other. It may be a great story, but its integrity hardly withstands the execution.
Item 4: Navi
Ah, Navi, come hither. Link's fairy companion has amassed a lot of hatred over the years, as we well know. The question is, is she a worse familiar than Fi?
The latter finds herself criticized on two major counts: problems with her loquaciousness, and her degree of character development. Let's compare.
Navi certainly talks less; however, when she's not being the mother of Captain Obvious, she's blurting out statements that sound either completely random or like she's winking in your face. "I wonder what Saria would say," indeed. Are you a self-dialed tip hotline with bad tact, or do you have your head in the clouds? This personified hint system is less explicit than in subsequent titles (though certainly devoid of subtlety), and it seems to be intended largely to aid those who have been wandering about because they haven't been able to find their next goal by themselves; but whatever it was meant to be, it failed, because Navi interrupts you far too frequently with the same old comment, if not the information you just heard ten seconds ago.
She has two saving graces: you can ignore her and not push the button to hear what she has to say, and if you do (either because you want to end the annoyance or enter first-person view) you can skip through her text quickly (an unfortunate deficiency of Fi's, though she has enough personality to be more interesting than Navi; more on that below). As if anticipating our relief, the designers made one recurring exception. Whenever you enter a room with a wallmaster, she stops you without consent to warn you, and her text proceeds at the painfully slow pace (far worse than in SS) that is alternative to skipping straight to the end, which is not an option in this case. When you don't expect it, it's more disruptive; when you know it's coming, the waste of time is extra irritating; and either way, you have to wait for her to finish a line you've read countless times about an enemy that you can see and hear coming a mile away. At least when she hollers because you've walked up to a locked door without a key, simply walking away shuts her up.
As for character, Navi has this irksome smidgen of existence that jars with her overall unimportance. She has little personality and a simple role: follow you and provide one-liner hints. She is shallow, static, and uninvolved, but her dialogue at certain points suggests otherwise. The first you hear of the Master Sword is her reaction to seeing it: "It's that legendary blade... The Master Sword!!" This leaves you wondering what she knows and how, which she never discloses. Toward the end of the game she acts somewhat personally toward you, first apologizing for not being able to assist in fighting Ganondorf and then enthusiastically sticking with you for the last battle. At least Fi, who specifically reflects upon her relationship with Link, actually comes off as a person of sorts. Her feelings at the end of SS may seem strange given her serenely robotic, duty-oriented attitude during the adventure; but the impression exists of an unspoken friendship that grew through their trials together, now realized at parting. Navi, on the other hand, exhibits no such depth, but still tries to matter. Then she flies away. Talk about a lack of character development.
But hey, at least she's not long-winded. That distinction goes to Kaepora Gaebora, the owl I would swear comes from Winnie the Pooh except he doesn't drone exclusively about himself. The lesson is we can't win.
Conclusion
Ocarina of Time is, truth be told, one of the more overrated Zelda games out there. With so many flaws it fails to top its successor, Skyward Sword, though the latter isn't perfect itself. Indeed, both games fall short in various areas. But OoT is like so many "classic" movies from 50 years ago in that its decency is treated as mastery despite being a nitpicker's extravaganza. It's a good game, just not the greatest; so if the question surrounding the most recent title must be whether it bests this classic, here is the most impartial answer possible:
Other installments, such as The Wind Waker, already did.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Halloween Revision
After sitting outside for half an hour in case there were still some kids going around the neighborhood, I came up with a great modification for Halloween. Make it a two-day deal: on the 30th, the adults go around giving candy to the kids at their houses. The next night, the kids go around with thank-you cards. Sound weird?
Actually, it would be very convenient. Adults would be saved sitting in the cold/answering the door for two hours in exchange for some excercise (since they're the ones who need it), the major payoff being a shorter commitment with a known ending. The kids could learn door-answering etiquette followed by the importance of active gestures of gratitude. Plus, the mass-mailboy event would let them burn all that sugar rather than dive into it in post-Halloween exhaustion only to supercharge themselves after it would have been useful.
The only thing I haven't figured out is how the costumes and spooks would come into play. And I guess adults wouldn't be saved from the doorbell unless the kids put their letters in the mailbox, which would defeat one big learning experience. And then there's the safety issue of having adults leave to give out candy while other adults visit their kids.
You know what? Forget it.
Actually, it would be very convenient. Adults would be saved sitting in the cold/answering the door for two hours in exchange for some excercise (since they're the ones who need it), the major payoff being a shorter commitment with a known ending. The kids could learn door-answering etiquette followed by the importance of active gestures of gratitude. Plus, the mass-mailboy event would let them burn all that sugar rather than dive into it in post-Halloween exhaustion only to supercharge themselves after it would have been useful.
The only thing I haven't figured out is how the costumes and spooks would come into play. And I guess adults wouldn't be saved from the doorbell unless the kids put their letters in the mailbox, which would defeat one big learning experience. And then there's the safety issue of having adults leave to give out candy while other adults visit their kids.
You know what? Forget it.
Monday, October 24, 2011
Spirit of the Forest
In one exam room of my local hospital facility hangs a piece of art drawn by a freshman of the nearby public school. Such works tend to adorn the walls of various public buildings, and it can be interesting to observe them as you wait or pass by; but usually they do not hold my attention for long, if they even succeed in catching my eye as worthwhile curiosities. This picture in particular was no different as a decoration in the background, but when my attention focused on it, I was strangely captivated by a single element. The central feature of a wildly colored and populated image had been hiding from me in plain sight, its calm masked by the energy of the surrounding environment.
It was the face of a girl, plain and simple, blending into all the ruckus of summer nature. Fish and butterflies surrounded her in a disorderly halo of romanticism, and her hair was of thick, green foliage. Beneath this, forking off across either side of her slender neck, was apparently a yellow shirt with a diamond pattern, curving downward and narrowing into a fish wish its broad tail at her throat. From her ears (one exposed, the other unseen behind the leafy hair) hung brown, fuzzy objects of irregular shape: upon close inspection they appear to be monkeys clinging with half their limbs. All this composed a queer picture which I would have acknowledged and dismissed, had it not been for her face.
Her features were rather ordinary but extremely steady; the nose and mouth lacked expertise, but they were not clunky or obscenely misrepresented. Her eyes sat stark and uniform above the sheer vertical lines of the nose-bridge, and they were topped with eyebrows of perfect length and a sleek, even arch. She might have been mundane if not for nestling within the exotic livelihood that clothed her and buzzed with color. She herself was pale, accented with pink-red lips and a precise flush through her high cheeks; her eyes were a light, grayish blue and the eyebrows had the dark-gray tinge of thin carbon. Altogether she was sharply symmetrical, save for the modest erraticism of nose and mouth---and a slight, rightward shift of the eyes.
What became so mystical to me was not how the environment changed her, but how she transformed her surroundings. She absorbed the leaves and they became a soft blanket; the animals were drawn into her simplicity almost until they ceased to exist. And there, clad in shades of green bright and dark, brushed with reserves of red upon the lightness of cold skin, this silent dryad came to life.
Now I saw a youth, mysteriously composed, hiding such secrets that one would dared not have spoken to her. Her eyes were calm and softly keen, holding the most pure innocence and wonder at once with an unknown wisdom veiled in gray-blue mist. The nose and lips made her organic while she maintained an elven sharpness beyond the flesh. The many shades of green gave an indescribable fullness to her hair, which was as human as it was plantlike. Some leaves were veined among the smooth and solidly colored majority, giving extra character to the nymphish drapery as it flowed down to where her shoulders would have been. A carbon imprint, perhaps a shadow, of a leaf wrapped across one cheekbone in spry but calculated audacity, and the edges of more disrupted her light skin at the side and bottom of her head. The odd string hung curled from her hair, one resting upon her forehead, another flanking her chin.
She might have been a tree-spirit of Greek lore, but such a thought somehow contrasts with how familiar she seemed. As strange as she was, she was normal; and yet she was fascinating. She was plain but beautiful, and she was real though preternatural. The girl was a child gazing with internal wistfulness and understanding, waiting and watching behind a face of the most simple and relaxed sort of energy. With the lights off, her face seemed to glow beneath the dark, amorphous cover of her own foliage, under which she had withdrawn; her features played as mere ghosts except for the eyes, whose gaze was indiscernable but somehow more fierce, all the while full of innocence and quiet excitement.
I eventually disregarded all the wildlife around her, totally enraptured by this spirit of the forest. She was quite original, and therefore hard to place. Yet I think I know where I could find her. I know what fantastical place would fittingly be her home.
Kokiri Forest.
It was the face of a girl, plain and simple, blending into all the ruckus of summer nature. Fish and butterflies surrounded her in a disorderly halo of romanticism, and her hair was of thick, green foliage. Beneath this, forking off across either side of her slender neck, was apparently a yellow shirt with a diamond pattern, curving downward and narrowing into a fish wish its broad tail at her throat. From her ears (one exposed, the other unseen behind the leafy hair) hung brown, fuzzy objects of irregular shape: upon close inspection they appear to be monkeys clinging with half their limbs. All this composed a queer picture which I would have acknowledged and dismissed, had it not been for her face.
Her features were rather ordinary but extremely steady; the nose and mouth lacked expertise, but they were not clunky or obscenely misrepresented. Her eyes sat stark and uniform above the sheer vertical lines of the nose-bridge, and they were topped with eyebrows of perfect length and a sleek, even arch. She might have been mundane if not for nestling within the exotic livelihood that clothed her and buzzed with color. She herself was pale, accented with pink-red lips and a precise flush through her high cheeks; her eyes were a light, grayish blue and the eyebrows had the dark-gray tinge of thin carbon. Altogether she was sharply symmetrical, save for the modest erraticism of nose and mouth---and a slight, rightward shift of the eyes.
What became so mystical to me was not how the environment changed her, but how she transformed her surroundings. She absorbed the leaves and they became a soft blanket; the animals were drawn into her simplicity almost until they ceased to exist. And there, clad in shades of green bright and dark, brushed with reserves of red upon the lightness of cold skin, this silent dryad came to life.
Now I saw a youth, mysteriously composed, hiding such secrets that one would dared not have spoken to her. Her eyes were calm and softly keen, holding the most pure innocence and wonder at once with an unknown wisdom veiled in gray-blue mist. The nose and lips made her organic while she maintained an elven sharpness beyond the flesh. The many shades of green gave an indescribable fullness to her hair, which was as human as it was plantlike. Some leaves were veined among the smooth and solidly colored majority, giving extra character to the nymphish drapery as it flowed down to where her shoulders would have been. A carbon imprint, perhaps a shadow, of a leaf wrapped across one cheekbone in spry but calculated audacity, and the edges of more disrupted her light skin at the side and bottom of her head. The odd string hung curled from her hair, one resting upon her forehead, another flanking her chin.
She might have been a tree-spirit of Greek lore, but such a thought somehow contrasts with how familiar she seemed. As strange as she was, she was normal; and yet she was fascinating. She was plain but beautiful, and she was real though preternatural. The girl was a child gazing with internal wistfulness and understanding, waiting and watching behind a face of the most simple and relaxed sort of energy. With the lights off, her face seemed to glow beneath the dark, amorphous cover of her own foliage, under which she had withdrawn; her features played as mere ghosts except for the eyes, whose gaze was indiscernable but somehow more fierce, all the while full of innocence and quiet excitement.
I eventually disregarded all the wildlife around her, totally enraptured by this spirit of the forest. She was quite original, and therefore hard to place. Yet I think I know where I could find her. I know what fantastical place would fittingly be her home.
Kokiri Forest.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
How often does this happen to you?
Now you know why a cruddy computer was able to put my ambitions from 2008 in the back of the freezer. It's that cruddy.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Stereo Flatland
There is a Paper Mario game in the works for the 3DS. I cannot help laughing at this.
Paper Mario is a 3D (or "2.5D") game with 2D characters and objects. It tosses Flatland into the next dimension for a visually fun game. Mario and co. run around as little paper cutouts, flipping around to reveal no depth as they wander about 360 degrees.
No doubt the 3D effect of the new handheld is meant to enhance the show of two-dimensional parts shifting mathematical planes. What I find ironic is that a fuller presentation of 3D will lead to a truer grasp of 2D. It sounds silly but it makes sense. The more you define the spacial axes, the better objects of different dimensions can be distinguished.
And yes, I know Paper Mario doesn't really have 2D parts, only 3D ones with a minimal length on one axis. But I won't be that picky. If you want to, I'd try building Doom for the 3DS. I don't know what those sprites that always face you would do to my eyes. Actually, that part sounds neat. I'd be more concerned about the perspective-bending that occurs when you look up and down right next to a wall and such. Great, now I'm curious. Thank you, anticipated nitpicker.
Paper Mario is a 3D (or "2.5D") game with 2D characters and objects. It tosses Flatland into the next dimension for a visually fun game. Mario and co. run around as little paper cutouts, flipping around to reveal no depth as they wander about 360 degrees.
No doubt the 3D effect of the new handheld is meant to enhance the show of two-dimensional parts shifting mathematical planes. What I find ironic is that a fuller presentation of 3D will lead to a truer grasp of 2D. It sounds silly but it makes sense. The more you define the spacial axes, the better objects of different dimensions can be distinguished.And yes, I know Paper Mario doesn't really have 2D parts, only 3D ones with a minimal length on one axis. But I won't be that picky. If you want to, I'd try building Doom for the 3DS. I don't know what those sprites that always face you would do to my eyes. Actually, that part sounds neat. I'd be more concerned about the perspective-bending that occurs when you look up and down right next to a wall and such. Great, now I'm curious. Thank you, anticipated nitpicker.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
The Dragon's Roar
Of things best in the abstract, one of my favorites is the roar of a dragon.
Through the years many interpretations of dragons have come and gone, and as our technology becomes better we produce increasingly "realistic" versions of the beast. Its various attributes which we abstract from the animal world in our imaginations gain material representation in art, and we can then apprehend the whole construction as though it were a reality.
With the visual comes the aural. We know what similar life forms sound like in real life, so when we design a dragon bodily we can have a good idea how it might sound based on size and animal makeup.
But as a creature born of the imagination, there is no "correct" portrayal of either aspect. Though the physical essence has definite parameters, the audible potential is much broader. Mankind has never heard a dragon, so the sound of one is generally based on individual mental association. And while biological sciences can provide much insight into how something sounds and why, such accidents of a mythological entity are ultimately unknown. To define its vocal abilities by its physical structure is a rather limiting course of action.
When the scenario doesn't demand a completely organic level of realism, I find that the best dragon sounds are those with a touch of paranormal extravagance. A sound that wouldn't quite be heard in reality gives life to the mythos of the dragon, preserving the fantastical quality of the unfamiliar without seeming altogether alien. This tends to be lost by the most "realistic" dragons' overblown komodo bellows; we feel so familiar with them that they are no longer as impressive by their very being.
The following are what I consider the top three dragon roars from video games. Let's begin on the realistic side sound-wise. Cut to about 0:45 and 3:30 for the best examples.
Openness to esthetic variety also gives way to originality regarding a dragon's place in its world; for example, how a dragon could translate as a character. Wind Waker's Lord Valoo is, to say the least, a very abstract dragon all around. His long neck and puffed jowls may look ridiculous at first, but the deep, hornlike howl he emits give his physique credibility and vice versa (except for the dinky wings, but that's another matter). The strength of his voice denotes his guardian status, and the beholder can't help but feel respectful of his magnificence.
A very different character is Ridley, the cold-blooded Space Pirate from Metroid.
This is not the kind of guy you want to meet in the dark (which is exactly how you do in the game). His otherworldly screech suits both his appearance and his vicious personality. Unfortunately, none of his incarnations after Super Metroid are up to snuff: in the Prime games he is more on the "realistic" side (the biggest problem being his generic keeping with the bulk of the game's creature sounds), and in the GBA titles he is pitifully cheesy.
My other favorite doesn't quite belong to a dragon. It is the cry of the skeleton coaster in New Super Mario Bros. Wii.
I like this one because of the wildness it contains, even apart from the scenario it belongs to. I can't quite picture what would be making this call in the wild, but I have a strong feel for the kind of place or situation in which it might be heard. Here the mythos is interpreted only enough to provide a baseline for further subjectivity, and even this is powerful.
I'm glad dragons don't exist. For starters I'm glad I never have to worry about running into one. But I also appreciate a fact obvious enough to be overlooked: that the dragon's imaginary essence is an opportunity for innumerable fantasies, and its unfixed qualities lead to creativity and an awe of the unreal. Among these flexible attributes, the sound of its roar is definitely one of the greatest.
Through the years many interpretations of dragons have come and gone, and as our technology becomes better we produce increasingly "realistic" versions of the beast. Its various attributes which we abstract from the animal world in our imaginations gain material representation in art, and we can then apprehend the whole construction as though it were a reality.
With the visual comes the aural. We know what similar life forms sound like in real life, so when we design a dragon bodily we can have a good idea how it might sound based on size and animal makeup.
But as a creature born of the imagination, there is no "correct" portrayal of either aspect. Though the physical essence has definite parameters, the audible potential is much broader. Mankind has never heard a dragon, so the sound of one is generally based on individual mental association. And while biological sciences can provide much insight into how something sounds and why, such accidents of a mythological entity are ultimately unknown. To define its vocal abilities by its physical structure is a rather limiting course of action.
When the scenario doesn't demand a completely organic level of realism, I find that the best dragon sounds are those with a touch of paranormal extravagance. A sound that wouldn't quite be heard in reality gives life to the mythos of the dragon, preserving the fantastical quality of the unfamiliar without seeming altogether alien. This tends to be lost by the most "realistic" dragons' overblown komodo bellows; we feel so familiar with them that they are no longer as impressive by their very being.
The following are what I consider the top three dragon roars from video games. Let's begin on the realistic side sound-wise. Cut to about 0:45 and 3:30 for the best examples.
Openness to esthetic variety also gives way to originality regarding a dragon's place in its world; for example, how a dragon could translate as a character. Wind Waker's Lord Valoo is, to say the least, a very abstract dragon all around. His long neck and puffed jowls may look ridiculous at first, but the deep, hornlike howl he emits give his physique credibility and vice versa (except for the dinky wings, but that's another matter). The strength of his voice denotes his guardian status, and the beholder can't help but feel respectful of his magnificence.
A very different character is Ridley, the cold-blooded Space Pirate from Metroid.
This is not the kind of guy you want to meet in the dark (which is exactly how you do in the game). His otherworldly screech suits both his appearance and his vicious personality. Unfortunately, none of his incarnations after Super Metroid are up to snuff: in the Prime games he is more on the "realistic" side (the biggest problem being his generic keeping with the bulk of the game's creature sounds), and in the GBA titles he is pitifully cheesy.
My other favorite doesn't quite belong to a dragon. It is the cry of the skeleton coaster in New Super Mario Bros. Wii.
I like this one because of the wildness it contains, even apart from the scenario it belongs to. I can't quite picture what would be making this call in the wild, but I have a strong feel for the kind of place or situation in which it might be heard. Here the mythos is interpreted only enough to provide a baseline for further subjectivity, and even this is powerful.
I'm glad dragons don't exist. For starters I'm glad I never have to worry about running into one. But I also appreciate a fact obvious enough to be overlooked: that the dragon's imaginary essence is an opportunity for innumerable fantasies, and its unfixed qualities lead to creativity and an awe of the unreal. Among these flexible attributes, the sound of its roar is definitely one of the greatest.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Post Revision & Anime
Post fix 1: I have finished editing (probably not for the last time) my recent piece about sophistication according to base complexity and definition. I apologize for what was originally a confusing log of the evolution of my thought process and encourage you to read the revision.
Post fix 2: I was scrolling through the list of my posts, feeling nostalgic for the time I would casually blog whatever I was thinking about from a recent experience, when I found this. I immediately realized it needs some followup, for I have seen two animes. Here's the update.
S.C. was one day watching something on YouTube which he told me was the first episode of a space-western anime. After hearing how a friend had told him about it and another one in a conversation most simply put as "stuff like Firefly," and having had a glimpse of the exposition, I decided to use my spare time to check it out.
My curiosity could not have prepared me for the experience. Trigun was fascinating enough to make me set aside my repulsion from the general style and put up with the outrageous moments of anime as I knew it; and as I watched each episode, these feelings dissolved into an appreciation for the art and an acceptance of the silliness as a quality of the characters I grew to love. This may not have happened if the show wasn't tame compared to my previous exposures to anime (the stereotypical ridiculousness was never in the form of bad drama/action), and it was certainly aided by the simple philosophical intrigue offered by the wandering protagonist.
You are introduced to a cornball but highly skilled marksman with an unknown past, hunted and feared by all for something that apparently warrants a sixty billion dollar (double dollar, technically) reward for his capture. The first episode sets the stage for a season of exploits that tease and slowly reveal who this man is, as well as where and when the show is set. Vash the Stampede is known to show up at a random town and obliterate the entire place; but in this trail of destruction people forget the absurd fact that nobody ever dies. Following him around, you quickly see that he is not the monster everyone thinks he is. He foils the wicked, escapes the impossible, and helps everybody to a childlike extreme without his name passing as more than a rumor.
But what starts off simple and lighthearted becomes deep and mysterious as Vash's past hunts him down better than any bounty hunter. Through most of the season, revelations are given in the form of things to question, and everything is woven together by the end with extremely well-written flashbacks of things you had and hadn't seen before. The philosophical (and even theological!) spikes in an enormous sci-fi tale told from the crux backwards as Vash moves forwards. I was amazed.
And I eagerly turned to Cowboy Bebop, the counterpart among fans, which is more like Firefly than Trigun. I no longer had to take anime quirks in stride because this show steered clear of them. The art outdid itself, and the content was all over the place and awesome all the way.
Spike Spiegel and company are bounty hunters ("cowboys") trying to snag a living in outer space, shooting to bring in the wanted but usually ending up involved in much more than they intended. Typically they set things straight and honest where they would not have considered it their business and come up shorthanded where they insist it matters; they're like a small gang of Han Solos.
The show at large follows the various misadventures of this bunch; but while there is little of a unifying plot, the world is pleasantly knitted together. The writers achieve a delicate presentation that gives pieces of a whole without overtly assembling them. One scenario will provide information that another references for different reasons, and both treat it like common knowledge. The characters know the whole so you can take it for granted, and this works wonderfully.
Such coherence makes way for the complex crossing of paths between the characters as each makes a personal journey reconciling their past with their future. The true beauty of Cowboy Bebop is this collective dynamic, this band of friends traveling different roads through an evolving fellowship with each other. It masterfully portrays the joint individuality and universality of human life while exploring countless topics and situations.
(The show's one failing is how explicit the content can be at times. On top of the language and rather bloody shootouts, it very bluntly portrays a decadent culture that could be implied without showing some guy's collection of erotica plastered on the wall, bursting in on a pair of gays when trying to track down their crime boss, etc. This kind of thing varies from the odd camera angle to what is essentially a brief topless shot for plot purposes. View with discretion; if you can see Firefly, you can watch this.)
So, as always, the stereotypical conceals unique excellence. I am not specifically an anime fan, but two of the best TV shows I have seen are anime. Somebody told me these came from the golden age of anime and most programs these days are garbage; considering the decline I have witnessed in American kids' shows and cartoons, I believe it.
Post fix 2: I was scrolling through the list of my posts, feeling nostalgic for the time I would casually blog whatever I was thinking about from a recent experience, when I found this. I immediately realized it needs some followup, for I have seen two animes. Here's the update.
S.C. was one day watching something on YouTube which he told me was the first episode of a space-western anime. After hearing how a friend had told him about it and another one in a conversation most simply put as "stuff like Firefly," and having had a glimpse of the exposition, I decided to use my spare time to check it out.
My curiosity could not have prepared me for the experience. Trigun was fascinating enough to make me set aside my repulsion from the general style and put up with the outrageous moments of anime as I knew it; and as I watched each episode, these feelings dissolved into an appreciation for the art and an acceptance of the silliness as a quality of the characters I grew to love. This may not have happened if the show wasn't tame compared to my previous exposures to anime (the stereotypical ridiculousness was never in the form of bad drama/action), and it was certainly aided by the simple philosophical intrigue offered by the wandering protagonist.
You are introduced to a cornball but highly skilled marksman with an unknown past, hunted and feared by all for something that apparently warrants a sixty billion dollar (double dollar, technically) reward for his capture. The first episode sets the stage for a season of exploits that tease and slowly reveal who this man is, as well as where and when the show is set. Vash the Stampede is known to show up at a random town and obliterate the entire place; but in this trail of destruction people forget the absurd fact that nobody ever dies. Following him around, you quickly see that he is not the monster everyone thinks he is. He foils the wicked, escapes the impossible, and helps everybody to a childlike extreme without his name passing as more than a rumor.
But what starts off simple and lighthearted becomes deep and mysterious as Vash's past hunts him down better than any bounty hunter. Through most of the season, revelations are given in the form of things to question, and everything is woven together by the end with extremely well-written flashbacks of things you had and hadn't seen before. The philosophical (and even theological!) spikes in an enormous sci-fi tale told from the crux backwards as Vash moves forwards. I was amazed.
And I eagerly turned to Cowboy Bebop, the counterpart among fans, which is more like Firefly than Trigun. I no longer had to take anime quirks in stride because this show steered clear of them. The art outdid itself, and the content was all over the place and awesome all the way.
Spike Spiegel and company are bounty hunters ("cowboys") trying to snag a living in outer space, shooting to bring in the wanted but usually ending up involved in much more than they intended. Typically they set things straight and honest where they would not have considered it their business and come up shorthanded where they insist it matters; they're like a small gang of Han Solos.
The show at large follows the various misadventures of this bunch; but while there is little of a unifying plot, the world is pleasantly knitted together. The writers achieve a delicate presentation that gives pieces of a whole without overtly assembling them. One scenario will provide information that another references for different reasons, and both treat it like common knowledge. The characters know the whole so you can take it for granted, and this works wonderfully.
Such coherence makes way for the complex crossing of paths between the characters as each makes a personal journey reconciling their past with their future. The true beauty of Cowboy Bebop is this collective dynamic, this band of friends traveling different roads through an evolving fellowship with each other. It masterfully portrays the joint individuality and universality of human life while exploring countless topics and situations.
(The show's one failing is how explicit the content can be at times. On top of the language and rather bloody shootouts, it very bluntly portrays a decadent culture that could be implied without showing some guy's collection of erotica plastered on the wall, bursting in on a pair of gays when trying to track down their crime boss, etc. This kind of thing varies from the odd camera angle to what is essentially a brief topless shot for plot purposes. View with discretion; if you can see Firefly, you can watch this.)
So, as always, the stereotypical conceals unique excellence. I am not specifically an anime fan, but two of the best TV shows I have seen are anime. Somebody told me these came from the golden age of anime and most programs these days are garbage; considering the decline I have witnessed in American kids' shows and cartoons, I believe it.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
My God's Right Here
Happy Easter! I'd like to celebrate with a Christian inversion of the challenge, "Where is your God now?"
We really need more of this stuff.
We really need more of this stuff.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Good Friday, Earth!
Today is both Earth Day and Good Friday. You'd think restraunts would take advantage of this and advertize, "Go green and meat-free with salads for 50¢!"
Tell me if they are. I'll be surprised.
Have a holy Good Friday, everyone.
Tell me if they are. I'll be surprised.
Have a holy Good Friday, everyone.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Don't Explain, Just Repeat (Hoot!)
I often find writing to be most limited in that I cannot be certain a reader will understand my present discourse before I go further. When conversing, I can tell firsthand if someone follows my point, and I can approach it in another fashion as necessary. With writing I can only try my best and follow guidelines, but at certain points I simply need feedback. If I never wanted to rewrite anything, the best I could do would be to vainly pepper my ideas with the phrase, "With me so far?"
It would be superfluous to write the same thing multiple times with different phrasing. If I knew what was understandable, I would only need to write that. Asking the reader if they were with me could provoke little other than rereading the part they didn't get. Last night I was revising a particularly loaded post (I'll let you know when it's done) when this fact gave me an idea.
I want to make some sort of HTML tool that you could stick in your posts just to tease this. The owl from Zelda, Kaepora Gaebora, would sit rotating his head and asking you if he should repeat himself. If you click "Yes" the page would scroll to the last spot where you placed some kind of starter point; you could have multiple owls in one post. Thus would the character famous for identical reiterations of info get his share of loving humor in reference instead of merely annoyed memories.
Unless you scrolled through a post too fast and accidentally passed him, which would automatically hit "Yes." No, I'm kidding.
It would be superfluous to write the same thing multiple times with different phrasing. If I knew what was understandable, I would only need to write that. Asking the reader if they were with me could provoke little other than rereading the part they didn't get. Last night I was revising a particularly loaded post (I'll let you know when it's done) when this fact gave me an idea.
I want to make some sort of HTML tool that you could stick in your posts just to tease this. The owl from Zelda, Kaepora Gaebora, would sit rotating his head and asking you if he should repeat himself. If you click "Yes" the page would scroll to the last spot where you placed some kind of starter point; you could have multiple owls in one post. Thus would the character famous for identical reiterations of info get his share of loving humor in reference instead of merely annoyed memories.
Unless you scrolled through a post too fast and accidentally passed him, which would automatically hit "Yes." No, I'm kidding.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Redemption Creamer
Easter is a pretty universal Christian celebration, but what Christ did for us is not universally agreed upon. As a Catholic, I believe He made us new by washing away our sins with his blood. Protestants (at least some) disagree. I do not know how many different ideas may exist in the various Protestant communities; but the comparison I've heard goes something like, "Protestants think we are dung heaps, and Christ's sacrifice did not change us to glittering snow, but rather covered the dung with it so you can't see what's underneath."
Dung heaps, eh? It's a pretty evocative image. It also works well when you say explicitly what Catholics believe. But why not bring the analogy up to modern times? For I thought of one that gains humor and firsthand experience while still getting the point across perfectly:
"Protestants think that we are coffee, and Christ gives us sugar and cream; but no matter how much sugar and cream you put into coffee, it never stops tasting like coffee. Eventually you're just willing to ignore the coffee taste because of the sugar and cream taste."
Granted, most people won't back this comparison because they actually like coffee. And the monks probably wouldn't have appreciated their craft being used as such a symbol. I doubt they ever applied theology to roasting beans.
Darn monks.
Dung heaps, eh? It's a pretty evocative image. It also works well when you say explicitly what Catholics believe. But why not bring the analogy up to modern times? For I thought of one that gains humor and firsthand experience while still getting the point across perfectly:
"Protestants think that we are coffee, and Christ gives us sugar and cream; but no matter how much sugar and cream you put into coffee, it never stops tasting like coffee. Eventually you're just willing to ignore the coffee taste because of the sugar and cream taste."
Granted, most people won't back this comparison because they actually like coffee. And the monks probably wouldn't have appreciated their craft being used as such a symbol. I doubt they ever applied theology to roasting beans.
Darn monks.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
The Fruits of Simplicity and the Importance of the Undefined
There is a famous computer simulation called "Conway's Game of Life," in which dots in a grid appear and disappear according to a certain set of criteria. The dots create more, go away, or maintain their existence based on how many others surround them. Such a simple system is capable of creating incredibly complex visuals. The interesting thing is these visuals tend to become less entertaining the more complex the base system, especially the grid, is. The patterns in a hex-based system, as opposed to the standard square one, are of a more or less predictable nature next to the latter. Many cool designs can appear, but the variation on the general result has enough limit to make a user defining the rules and initial positions lose interest. The basic four-sided system is much more fun to tinker with, as I can personally attest having spent unknown hours playing with a colorful version from an old "After Dark" screen saver program.
This simulation is the best example I can find to demonstrate a fact of nature: simplicity produces complexity.
If the atom were not such a simple structure, it could not as effectively form the many myriads of physical matter we observe day-to-day. If mathematics did not begin with the smallest unit, it could not calculate everything it needs to. The reason for this phenomenon should be obvious. A function is naturally limited by the size, as it were, of its parts: given a finite space in which to build a structure, Legos will allow more variation than Duplos. Also, the more complicated the parts, the more specifically they must work together and hence the easier it is for them not to (consider exclusive Lego pieces tailored to their specific sets; they are hard to use in an original work). In effect, there is an inverse relationship between the complexity of interacting parts and that of their results.
Unfortunately, a creator often destroys true simplicity when he tries to design it. If a unit is too individual it will broaden the entire construction to maintain its individuality. If it is too specialized it will need more specific parts with which to interact. In both cases the unit adds to the total complexity of the parts in an effort to be simple in itself. This makes the results of the parts' interplay with each other more limited. A unit that is only simple in itself has a false simplicity.
Being a nerd, I shall illustrate with a comparison of Super Mario 64 (the original, mind you) and Super Mario Galaxy. For gameplay purposes, consider Mario as a single unit. Powerups are external units that become part of his unit to alter him; and in-stage devices are separate units that direct his actions, respond to them, or perform some degree of action in conjunction with him.
In SM64 Mario has a wide range of moves with which he can conquer the entire game, save for some circumstances that require him to attain one of three powerups. These give him additional attributes, such as flying or sinking in water, without changing his native ability. By contrast, SMG's Mario has only a few moves which are quite limited in themselves; what really perform most actions are in-stage devices that he must trigger, and likewise his mobility is largely directed by other units. There are lots of powerups, almost all of which change his very essence by making him geared toward one thing.
In himself, Mario is apparently a simpler unit in SMG (but what good is it to abstract him from his world?). If both Marios could accomplish all the same things in a game like SM64, the Mario with more moves would seem superfluous. Yet that is part of SM64's beauty: Mario can meet a goal with a variety of methods, and this places power into the hands of the player---a defining quality of good video games. But what's important is that SM64-Mario's more numerous moves do not complicate the structure of the game. As long as the many moves do not exist for their own unique ends, they are not complicating the unit's mode of interaction, just adding to the versatility within that mode.
In SMG, however, Mario's "many moves" are each designed for one-dimensional circumstances and are furthermore removed from Mario himself as they take the forms of powerups and devices. Mario has many things to do only in the form of many individual roads he can take, which ultimately do their own things as he goes through them. Here we see the complex sum of parts producing limited results: everything in SMG, not just Mario, boasts a false simplicity leading to stifled gameplay. SM64 instead provides lots to do by laying all the simple nuances before you, constructing entire worlds from their combinations and leaving you to interact with them as you please. Ultimately, fewer units with wider interplay are better than more units with specific interaction.
All this brings me to my second topic, which is responsible for the falseness of self-simplicity among other things. Not too distant from the "Principle of Simplicity" is the balance of definition, or the degree of fixity in a construction.
As a rule, something should have a sufficient level of establishment to achieve its goal and no more, lest it become restrictive. In the examples above, Mario's powerups, the world design, and the tasks required of the player---that is, the actions he must perform to achieve certain results---are firmly set in SMG. To say they are predetermined would be a misnomer, for everything in a video game, to the extent that it presents and allows a finite amount of material, is so. The real problem is the forced nature of the situation. Mario can accomplish X by Y and Y only. It is merely left to the player to actually perform the action (and overcome any challenge in doing so). This is precisely how Nintendo's aim for increased interaction backfires: they provide so many keys and keyholes that the player has no freedom.
Aiming for the other end of the spectrum is the motion control craze. Consider the hands-free Xbox peripheral, the Kinect sensor. Direct, full-bodied interaction with games is a noble endeavor, but the goal of transcending the barrier between games and reality is flawed. Short of using Inception's dream construction, games will never achieve the limitlessness of real life, just as computers will never be capable of independent thought. The ultimate struggle Kinect will face is a faulty attempt to make interaction unfixed, to remove definition. The premise that you are freed from the constraints of buttons is overridden by the reality that you can still only do a set amount of things a game will understand, though the medium would suggest otherwise. No motion control will completely eliminate defined functions, which is why standard controllers aren't going anywhere. And the sooner developers and consumers recognize this, the less danger there will be of jolting the player out of an experience that was supposed to be immersive.
Between these two extremes is the balance, where definition is welcomed as essential but not allowed to become totalitarian. And the importance of this balance is esthetic as well as practical.
To go beyond the realm of video games, the merits of incomplete definition are perhaps best exemplified in visual art. I don't know if Monet or anyone else said as much, but the best realism is not devoid of impressionism. Reality is heterogeneous: the "natural" look of any object, particularly those occurring in nature themselves and especially in forms of life, comes from a sort of imperfection. The grain in wood is not uniform, and the dancing of fire is unpredictable. One slice of bread is not the same as the next. So it follows that a good painter can replicate a scene with a brush to the point of photo-realism for someone standing at the right distance. The brush's chaos meets the chaos of reality.
This chaos becomes infinitely more significant when compared with graphic art. It is hard to simulate fire and water for a reason. If you'll excuse my quick return to video games, observe this painting.
No remake of Donkey Kong Country would ever look so spectacular, for the brush lends an organic feel that computers, somewhere along the line, are practically incapable of reproducing.
Within graphic art there comes a peculiar application of this "Principle of Undefinition." The resolution of an image is not unlike the example I gave early on of Legos and Duplos. The more pixels, the smaller (and simpler) the units, the more complex the result can be. When representing, say, a rocky terrain with graphics, greater resolution (if utilized correctly) will result in a more realistic image. As a rule; but if you compare the earth of planet Zebes in Super Metroid and in Metroid: Zero Mission, the former will appear more organic despite possessing half the resolution. In comes the Principle of Undefinition to override the Principle of Simplicity. In Super Metroid less of the terrain is clearly established due to the limitations of its pixelation; but those stray pixels and colors that suggest a heterogeneous soil are more effective when the mind interprets the visual and fills in the gaps. A sense of vagueness is pleasing because the imagination sees vagueness in its own clarity.
All these observations suggest to me that our present determination to continuously expand and refine our crafts and technologies is in the end rather self-defeating. We should push forward, indeed; but to do so for its own sake falls to the fallacy that more is better. Nature has it that there is a balance in everything, and at some point we must be willing to retreat in order to achieve the proper equilibrium. Until then, I watch as the world mistakes mass for depth, and wonder how far it will go.
[Image by Orioto from DeviantArt.com]
This simulation is the best example I can find to demonstrate a fact of nature: simplicity produces complexity.
If the atom were not such a simple structure, it could not as effectively form the many myriads of physical matter we observe day-to-day. If mathematics did not begin with the smallest unit, it could not calculate everything it needs to. The reason for this phenomenon should be obvious. A function is naturally limited by the size, as it were, of its parts: given a finite space in which to build a structure, Legos will allow more variation than Duplos. Also, the more complicated the parts, the more specifically they must work together and hence the easier it is for them not to (consider exclusive Lego pieces tailored to their specific sets; they are hard to use in an original work). In effect, there is an inverse relationship between the complexity of interacting parts and that of their results.
Unfortunately, a creator often destroys true simplicity when he tries to design it. If a unit is too individual it will broaden the entire construction to maintain its individuality. If it is too specialized it will need more specific parts with which to interact. In both cases the unit adds to the total complexity of the parts in an effort to be simple in itself. This makes the results of the parts' interplay with each other more limited. A unit that is only simple in itself has a false simplicity.
Being a nerd, I shall illustrate with a comparison of Super Mario 64 (the original, mind you) and Super Mario Galaxy. For gameplay purposes, consider Mario as a single unit. Powerups are external units that become part of his unit to alter him; and in-stage devices are separate units that direct his actions, respond to them, or perform some degree of action in conjunction with him.
In SM64 Mario has a wide range of moves with which he can conquer the entire game, save for some circumstances that require him to attain one of three powerups. These give him additional attributes, such as flying or sinking in water, without changing his native ability. By contrast, SMG's Mario has only a few moves which are quite limited in themselves; what really perform most actions are in-stage devices that he must trigger, and likewise his mobility is largely directed by other units. There are lots of powerups, almost all of which change his very essence by making him geared toward one thing.
In himself, Mario is apparently a simpler unit in SMG (but what good is it to abstract him from his world?). If both Marios could accomplish all the same things in a game like SM64, the Mario with more moves would seem superfluous. Yet that is part of SM64's beauty: Mario can meet a goal with a variety of methods, and this places power into the hands of the player---a defining quality of good video games. But what's important is that SM64-Mario's more numerous moves do not complicate the structure of the game. As long as the many moves do not exist for their own unique ends, they are not complicating the unit's mode of interaction, just adding to the versatility within that mode.
In SMG, however, Mario's "many moves" are each designed for one-dimensional circumstances and are furthermore removed from Mario himself as they take the forms of powerups and devices. Mario has many things to do only in the form of many individual roads he can take, which ultimately do their own things as he goes through them. Here we see the complex sum of parts producing limited results: everything in SMG, not just Mario, boasts a false simplicity leading to stifled gameplay. SM64 instead provides lots to do by laying all the simple nuances before you, constructing entire worlds from their combinations and leaving you to interact with them as you please. Ultimately, fewer units with wider interplay are better than more units with specific interaction.
All this brings me to my second topic, which is responsible for the falseness of self-simplicity among other things. Not too distant from the "Principle of Simplicity" is the balance of definition, or the degree of fixity in a construction.
As a rule, something should have a sufficient level of establishment to achieve its goal and no more, lest it become restrictive. In the examples above, Mario's powerups, the world design, and the tasks required of the player---that is, the actions he must perform to achieve certain results---are firmly set in SMG. To say they are predetermined would be a misnomer, for everything in a video game, to the extent that it presents and allows a finite amount of material, is so. The real problem is the forced nature of the situation. Mario can accomplish X by Y and Y only. It is merely left to the player to actually perform the action (and overcome any challenge in doing so). This is precisely how Nintendo's aim for increased interaction backfires: they provide so many keys and keyholes that the player has no freedom.
Aiming for the other end of the spectrum is the motion control craze. Consider the hands-free Xbox peripheral, the Kinect sensor. Direct, full-bodied interaction with games is a noble endeavor, but the goal of transcending the barrier between games and reality is flawed. Short of using Inception's dream construction, games will never achieve the limitlessness of real life, just as computers will never be capable of independent thought. The ultimate struggle Kinect will face is a faulty attempt to make interaction unfixed, to remove definition. The premise that you are freed from the constraints of buttons is overridden by the reality that you can still only do a set amount of things a game will understand, though the medium would suggest otherwise. No motion control will completely eliminate defined functions, which is why standard controllers aren't going anywhere. And the sooner developers and consumers recognize this, the less danger there will be of jolting the player out of an experience that was supposed to be immersive.
Between these two extremes is the balance, where definition is welcomed as essential but not allowed to become totalitarian. And the importance of this balance is esthetic as well as practical.
To go beyond the realm of video games, the merits of incomplete definition are perhaps best exemplified in visual art. I don't know if Monet or anyone else said as much, but the best realism is not devoid of impressionism. Reality is heterogeneous: the "natural" look of any object, particularly those occurring in nature themselves and especially in forms of life, comes from a sort of imperfection. The grain in wood is not uniform, and the dancing of fire is unpredictable. One slice of bread is not the same as the next. So it follows that a good painter can replicate a scene with a brush to the point of photo-realism for someone standing at the right distance. The brush's chaos meets the chaos of reality.
This chaos becomes infinitely more significant when compared with graphic art. It is hard to simulate fire and water for a reason. If you'll excuse my quick return to video games, observe this painting.
No remake of Donkey Kong Country would ever look so spectacular, for the brush lends an organic feel that computers, somewhere along the line, are practically incapable of reproducing.Within graphic art there comes a peculiar application of this "Principle of Undefinition." The resolution of an image is not unlike the example I gave early on of Legos and Duplos. The more pixels, the smaller (and simpler) the units, the more complex the result can be. When representing, say, a rocky terrain with graphics, greater resolution (if utilized correctly) will result in a more realistic image. As a rule; but if you compare the earth of planet Zebes in Super Metroid and in Metroid: Zero Mission, the former will appear more organic despite possessing half the resolution. In comes the Principle of Undefinition to override the Principle of Simplicity. In Super Metroid less of the terrain is clearly established due to the limitations of its pixelation; but those stray pixels and colors that suggest a heterogeneous soil are more effective when the mind interprets the visual and fills in the gaps. A sense of vagueness is pleasing because the imagination sees vagueness in its own clarity.
All these observations suggest to me that our present determination to continuously expand and refine our crafts and technologies is in the end rather self-defeating. We should push forward, indeed; but to do so for its own sake falls to the fallacy that more is better. Nature has it that there is a balance in everything, and at some point we must be willing to retreat in order to achieve the proper equilibrium. Until then, I watch as the world mistakes mass for depth, and wonder how far it will go.
[Image by Orioto from DeviantArt.com]
Monday, December 20, 2010
Symbols of Purity
My mom used baking soda for some cooking yesterday, and the bag was left on the kitchen island. Looking at the logo, I chuckled again at the statement made by the "Arm & Hammer" slogan: "[This is] the standard of purity."
My first reaction to this is always a smirk at the "manliness" factor, and wonder if a brute stereotype for masculinity is being labeled as "pure." I was joking about the traditional symbol of purity, the lily, pitted against a dude with a mallet, when something struck me (not for the first time, come to think of it).
Joseph was a carpenter.
Unwittingly, the baking soda folks have got it right. Perhaps the idea is that the mechanical use of a hammer is more pure than the assistance of machines, maybe they want you to think of such rawness with regard to the soda because of such a branding; but however true these notions are, the message becomes exponential when applied to the saintly craftsman of the Holy Family. Here was a man pure in every sense of the word, in his labor, in his faith, in his chastity.
So for guys who consider a lily too feminine, an arm and hammer (or carpentering tools of some sort) can indeed serve as the masculine variety. This is not to say the lily is weak, nor that the hammer or saw must be toilsome. As symbols, the analogy is what matters. And here are two symbols for the perfectly pure parents of Christ: the flower of Mary and the tools of Joseph.
It would be awesome if the latter became officially recognized as such.
My first reaction to this is always a smirk at the "manliness" factor, and wonder if a brute stereotype for masculinity is being labeled as "pure." I was joking about the traditional symbol of purity, the lily, pitted against a dude with a mallet, when something struck me (not for the first time, come to think of it).
Joseph was a carpenter.
Unwittingly, the baking soda folks have got it right. Perhaps the idea is that the mechanical use of a hammer is more pure than the assistance of machines, maybe they want you to think of such rawness with regard to the soda because of such a branding; but however true these notions are, the message becomes exponential when applied to the saintly craftsman of the Holy Family. Here was a man pure in every sense of the word, in his labor, in his faith, in his chastity.
So for guys who consider a lily too feminine, an arm and hammer (or carpentering tools of some sort) can indeed serve as the masculine variety. This is not to say the lily is weak, nor that the hammer or saw must be toilsome. As symbols, the analogy is what matters. And here are two symbols for the perfectly pure parents of Christ: the flower of Mary and the tools of Joseph.
It would be awesome if the latter became officially recognized as such.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Wanderings of the Open Mind (or I Don't Have Any Good Tags For This)
Weak understanding is a poisonous thing.
Whenever I try to discuss a subject with somebody of a different mindset, I come away feeling defeated. Not because I lost or was proven wrong, but because I know I inadequately argued my views, which led to an anticlimactic end to the topic as a mutual act of leaving the tug-of-war rope draped haphazardly over the mud pit.
I often find myself musing over the matter for ages afterward, trying to understand both the argument and the truth of the subject in question. On one hand, there's the constant obstacle of articulation, a shortcoming of my mind to give form to a complex issue outside of my head, no matter how thoroughly understood it may be (or have been thought out in the past) on the inside. But there's more than that. The other hand holds my stripping the issue down, trying to probe it from an assumptionless angle to find why what I always held as true is really the truth and how it might be recognized from the opposing side. Eventually I question the truth of my own beliefs, because I look so long and hard through the other person's lens.
I've always come back to my knowledge of the truth, usually through the help of discussion with peers such as S.Cobbler. When my own grappling with a question leads to uncertainty, a sure course of action is to pose it bluntly to another and get a lecture. I then return to the understanding I had beforehand, reassured and affirmed in my knowledge, which may be deeper or stronger than before.
This path has struck me as somewhat dangerous, perhaps humiliating or revelatory of my own intellectual instability. Any way I cut it, it has a bothersome element to it. But when I look at my comebacks, my ability to perceive the truth in the end when it is re-presented to me, I know the problem isn't my smarts. In fact, I credit no deficiency for my forays into confusion and uncertainty; rather, I blame what is most properly a virtue on my part. In a natural effort to avoid dismissal of the other side, I try to understand why they don't see my point. Empathetically, you could say, I put myself in their shoes because I want them to fit mine.
Virtues can be excessive, and I don't doubt that is to fault when I lose my way in these situations. I become like my opponents, to a point, rejecting what they would reject, following their prerogatives for finding the truth. Yet I know something inside that screams I---they---are missing a key point, but it often takes a friend to uncover it for me at that stage. I never truly stop believing what I held true, but I can't figure it out from the perspective of the other person. That, of course, is why they hold a different opinion, why they fail to grasp my argument, why I cannot make my belief acceptable to them.
I have felt, in a childlike foolishness, that the truth should be visible---to the point of being obvious---to everyone. The fact that one man can see it means others should be just as capable. If the truth is there, logical and understandable, one should recognize it as the truth, right? And yet some people can have the truth staring them in the face and they completely disregard it. Maddening as this is, I must realize it is not my fault. Yes, I could do a better job of explaining things at times, but ultimately the choice is theirs, whether or not to believe anything. It would be machinelike to always follow the path of the most truth. It would mean no free will.
Granted, it stings to find good arguments after the discussion is over. That fuller, renewed grasp of the subject makes me wish I could challenge my opponent anew, to start the debate from the beginning. Whatever tools I was missing before would at the very least let my points be complete and well-defended, so I would not feel that defeat of inadequacy when they remained unconvinced. At most, I could say what I should have said before had my approach or articulation not failed me, squashing the rebuttals that are obviously flawed, putting them down as easily as I should have. Alas, my best arguments are not won in the presence of others, for better or worse.
I'm not dumb. I just tend to lose my grip on my sword because I face my opponents without gloves. Sure, it's a lack of armor; but with gloves I couldn't feel the warmth of their hands when I shake them. The cons: I am more vulnerable and less effective in my duels. The pros: I can be certain that I'm not the "closed-minded" party; I can honestly say "yes" to those who ask if I've ever really stepped back and thought about my beliefs. I have more than they could realize.
Whenever I try to discuss a subject with somebody of a different mindset, I come away feeling defeated. Not because I lost or was proven wrong, but because I know I inadequately argued my views, which led to an anticlimactic end to the topic as a mutual act of leaving the tug-of-war rope draped haphazardly over the mud pit.
I often find myself musing over the matter for ages afterward, trying to understand both the argument and the truth of the subject in question. On one hand, there's the constant obstacle of articulation, a shortcoming of my mind to give form to a complex issue outside of my head, no matter how thoroughly understood it may be (or have been thought out in the past) on the inside. But there's more than that. The other hand holds my stripping the issue down, trying to probe it from an assumptionless angle to find why what I always held as true is really the truth and how it might be recognized from the opposing side. Eventually I question the truth of my own beliefs, because I look so long and hard through the other person's lens.
I've always come back to my knowledge of the truth, usually through the help of discussion with peers such as S.Cobbler. When my own grappling with a question leads to uncertainty, a sure course of action is to pose it bluntly to another and get a lecture. I then return to the understanding I had beforehand, reassured and affirmed in my knowledge, which may be deeper or stronger than before.
This path has struck me as somewhat dangerous, perhaps humiliating or revelatory of my own intellectual instability. Any way I cut it, it has a bothersome element to it. But when I look at my comebacks, my ability to perceive the truth in the end when it is re-presented to me, I know the problem isn't my smarts. In fact, I credit no deficiency for my forays into confusion and uncertainty; rather, I blame what is most properly a virtue on my part. In a natural effort to avoid dismissal of the other side, I try to understand why they don't see my point. Empathetically, you could say, I put myself in their shoes because I want them to fit mine.
Virtues can be excessive, and I don't doubt that is to fault when I lose my way in these situations. I become like my opponents, to a point, rejecting what they would reject, following their prerogatives for finding the truth. Yet I know something inside that screams I---they---are missing a key point, but it often takes a friend to uncover it for me at that stage. I never truly stop believing what I held true, but I can't figure it out from the perspective of the other person. That, of course, is why they hold a different opinion, why they fail to grasp my argument, why I cannot make my belief acceptable to them.
I have felt, in a childlike foolishness, that the truth should be visible---to the point of being obvious---to everyone. The fact that one man can see it means others should be just as capable. If the truth is there, logical and understandable, one should recognize it as the truth, right? And yet some people can have the truth staring them in the face and they completely disregard it. Maddening as this is, I must realize it is not my fault. Yes, I could do a better job of explaining things at times, but ultimately the choice is theirs, whether or not to believe anything. It would be machinelike to always follow the path of the most truth. It would mean no free will.
Granted, it stings to find good arguments after the discussion is over. That fuller, renewed grasp of the subject makes me wish I could challenge my opponent anew, to start the debate from the beginning. Whatever tools I was missing before would at the very least let my points be complete and well-defended, so I would not feel that defeat of inadequacy when they remained unconvinced. At most, I could say what I should have said before had my approach or articulation not failed me, squashing the rebuttals that are obviously flawed, putting them down as easily as I should have. Alas, my best arguments are not won in the presence of others, for better or worse.
I'm not dumb. I just tend to lose my grip on my sword because I face my opponents without gloves. Sure, it's a lack of armor; but with gloves I couldn't feel the warmth of their hands when I shake them. The cons: I am more vulnerable and less effective in my duels. The pros: I can be certain that I'm not the "closed-minded" party; I can honestly say "yes" to those who ask if I've ever really stepped back and thought about my beliefs. I have more than they could realize.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
"It was in a book I read."
I'm not exactly the passionate writer. However, I decided last night that I want to write a book; a useful, information-packed book. It will give the reader the power of unverifiable credibility, and Dogbert isn't even involved.
For who said the information must be real?
The book in question will have two main features:
1) It will contain thousands of made-up statements.
2) It will be titled, "a book I read," in that casing.
The purpose is, obviously, for people to buy this book, read its contents, and proclaim those statements with the 100% true citation of "a book I read."
A feature I have not yet decided on would be a blank page for the owner to write in their own statements, magically giving them credibility.
I'm somewhat surprised Dogbert has not thought of this himself. Ironically, this morning's comics contained an acknowledgement of the flawed reality that makes my idea naught but a joke:
But as a joke, you must admit the Wikipedia article for it will be twice the fun.
For who said the information must be real?
The book in question will have two main features:
1) It will contain thousands of made-up statements.
2) It will be titled, "a book I read," in that casing.
The purpose is, obviously, for people to buy this book, read its contents, and proclaim those statements with the 100% true citation of "a book I read."
A feature I have not yet decided on would be a blank page for the owner to write in their own statements, magically giving them credibility.
I'm somewhat surprised Dogbert has not thought of this himself. Ironically, this morning's comics contained an acknowledgement of the flawed reality that makes my idea naught but a joke:
But as a joke, you must admit the Wikipedia article for it will be twice the fun.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
SMB2 Inception
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Calvin on Facebook
Not really much to say here. I joined a website, not Facebook, and whatever that sounds like, I'm not a hypocrite; but that's information for another time, another post (someday when I actually make a commitment to this fraction of a pensieve I call a blog). Suffice it to say, I once asked for a virtual showing of hands for not doing Facebook, and after a decent turnout and some joking, I whipped up the following strip edit. It's not cut-and-pasted lettering from other strips like the "All Your Base..." Spaceman Spiff panel at the bottom of the post bar (did I ever mention you can share that with people? Go do that. Getting a pic all over the web would be more realistic than pointing people here at this point), but that's an awful lot of text to stitch together and I don't find it necessary for the joke.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Why I'm going to get a PS3
I decided a while back that I wanted my own game console to play if I go live with my brother in Indiana to go to college or anything. I compared the Xbox 360 and the PS3 along with their game libraries and decided the PS3 had more that I'd want, including:
- Current-gen games
- Free internet
- Previous-gen games
The last one, of course, recently changed. I checked out everything I would want on a backwards compatibility list and they were all covered--then realized the list was moot with the new PS3 Slim. That's okay, actually, because buying a PS2 Slim for $100 would guarantee previous-gen playability and ultimately cost less than keeping an Xbox Live subscription anyway.
Now, I've always been a Nintendo fanboy; and like most Nintendo fanboys, I hated when others favored Sony because they had "real games" that weren't just "for kids." The trouble is, those age-old accusations are gaining more and more truth as time wears on. I'm not saying Nintendo needs to make more M-rated games or anything like that, but they're trying a little too hard to assume that there are new gamers whose only way to get into their franchises is through increasingly dumbed-down everything. Call me old-fashioned, but I don't buy into the philosophy that novelty, real or faked, makes games automatically worthwhile by way of graphics (no-brainer), storyline (Spirit Tracks comes to mind) or gameplay (gimmickry comes to mind).
To spare you from my potential to write a thorough analysis of this issue as a ten-page essay (a "proof," as I would say in logic or philosophy), let me use the following videos to point out a simple fact: Sony is on Nintendo's turf, and darn it, they're doing a better job.
Those are two of the games I intend to get. I may get LittleBig Planet while I wait for LBP2. Then there's Joe Danger, the enhanced Exitebike that Nintendo never made, and a nifty action-puzzle game called echochrome. Final Fantasy XIII is obvious, and after SC played and liked the unique RPG Star Ocean (thanks to emulation and translation patching) I figured I'd go for the whole series. I also became attracted to stealth series Metal Gear Solid when I learned about its storyline and had conversations with SC about its drawing on American culture in the reconnaissance war zone. I recently got my hands on the Metal Gear Solid: Essential Collection (containing the series through the PS2) just as the prices for it began the "rare and out of print" ascent, snagging it for $40 instead of the base $30--still a good deal. For the sake of the old Metal Gears 1 & 2 I purchased the special edition of MGS3 from the nerd-run small business at nintendosforsale.com, which was the best bargain I could find at the time. I also possess copies of Chrono Cross and Mega Man Legends, the latter of which I got years ago since my eldest brother left his PS1 and I happened to see the game at GameStop for nine bucks back when they carried PS1 games at all. As per my standards of reliability vs. practicality, the only items above that I own used copies of are MML and the expanded MGS3.
Needless to say, I'm getting a head start on securing the games I want. They don't stick around as long as the systems; although I ought to get my PS2 as soon as I can. So goodbye, Nintendo; you no longer provide what I look for in games with enough consistency for me to stick with you after I move and leave behind the family Nintendo merchandise.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Strength of (and through) the Will
Before I begin, let me point out that I am not a theologian, nor am I well versed in the psychosomatic phenomena of human nature. I don't really know the ins and outs of what follows, but I have gathered some facts that lead to an interesting question about the nature of man.
When Adam and Eve sinned they lost all the super- and preternatural powers God gave them, and their natural abilities were greatly weakened. Not only did mankind become mortal, susceptible to pain, and prone to countless diseases and defects, but its physical and mental powers were greatly handicapped in themselves. The strength of the body is comparably poor to the pre-fall human, as is the integrity of the soul--the intellect and will.
Now I ask, how much of our bodily weakness stems from the weakness of the soul? Man is a union of matter and spirit, the body and soul. The soul is the ultimate principle of life and therefore the "first act" of all powers, the root of all human abilities. The weakening of the soul, then, would cause a weakening of physical powers; however, the body itself can be (and was, through sin) independently weakened as well. The question is, how much weakness is in which?
I cannot jump out of a two-story window and keep running. I would categorize that as weakness of the body, for I could will myself to do it and would still be injured. But what if a person were invincibly determined, and their will was set undivided to performing such an action?
The curious fact is that this has actually happened. A comedian named Mike Birbiglia tells a story of doing it in his sleep due to a neurological disorder. He explains that he has a condition that is essentially a lack of a chemical produced by the brain that paralyzes the body during sleep. What I find most interesting is his mentioning that people with this disorder are known to do things that would ordinarily be impossible. For example, Mike dreamt that a missile was headed at him while he stayed in a hotel, so he promptly leaped out of his window--which was closed and on the second floor. He crashed through the pane and fell onto the front lawn, stumbled, and then kept running! He took himself to the hospital after waking up, and the doctor was surprised he was alive.
This scenario suggests the reality of the dangerous idea that "it's all in the mind." Certainly the body has limitations; so how can this be explained? Perhaps in the same way many desperate feats of superhuman strength have: the miracle of an adrenaline rush. Adrenaline enhances muscular ability (among other things) so that a person can confront extreme situations; it's the same response that lets many animals stay alive in the wild. But does it allow the muscles to be exercised beyond their limit, or merely reach their full potential? How would this function if the body were not in a weakened state from original sin? And where would the mind come into play, in that case? All the current evidence says that the mind is barely involved; it is a reflex that comes without bidding. However, it can be controlled in the way of limiting or preventing it; adrenaline tends to come hand in hand with fear or excitement, and certain military personnel are trained to suppress these so that their concentration isn't impaired.
All of this seems to say that the body is capable through hormonal enhancement, and the will has little to do with it. By the same token, though, it is probably only meant for the occasional circumstances in which it has been known to be naturally put to use. In the long run our muscles are not built for great strain, as evidenced by the destruction of prolonged steroid use; athletes who take steroids often do what their bodies are simply not made for, and though the steroids make it possible, it is seriously damaging.
There is proof, then, that the body has limitations, and exceeding them is not altogether healthy. Just how limited the body is is still a mystery. A friend of mine was recently talking about an Indian (I think) who learned to psychologically transcend nature. He could go weeks without food and survive in harsh climates because he simply didn't allow it to affect him. This obviously screams, "Legend!" but there is some degree of truth to it. Often we can withstand more than we think, either because we make ourselves or we have to.
I realize I haven't made any conclusions here, but it's definitely some food for thought. Is the key to ability more in the mind or in the body? Someday I'd like to know.
When Adam and Eve sinned they lost all the super- and preternatural powers God gave them, and their natural abilities were greatly weakened. Not only did mankind become mortal, susceptible to pain, and prone to countless diseases and defects, but its physical and mental powers were greatly handicapped in themselves. The strength of the body is comparably poor to the pre-fall human, as is the integrity of the soul--the intellect and will.
Now I ask, how much of our bodily weakness stems from the weakness of the soul? Man is a union of matter and spirit, the body and soul. The soul is the ultimate principle of life and therefore the "first act" of all powers, the root of all human abilities. The weakening of the soul, then, would cause a weakening of physical powers; however, the body itself can be (and was, through sin) independently weakened as well. The question is, how much weakness is in which?
I cannot jump out of a two-story window and keep running. I would categorize that as weakness of the body, for I could will myself to do it and would still be injured. But what if a person were invincibly determined, and their will was set undivided to performing such an action?
The curious fact is that this has actually happened. A comedian named Mike Birbiglia tells a story of doing it in his sleep due to a neurological disorder. He explains that he has a condition that is essentially a lack of a chemical produced by the brain that paralyzes the body during sleep. What I find most interesting is his mentioning that people with this disorder are known to do things that would ordinarily be impossible. For example, Mike dreamt that a missile was headed at him while he stayed in a hotel, so he promptly leaped out of his window--which was closed and on the second floor. He crashed through the pane and fell onto the front lawn, stumbled, and then kept running! He took himself to the hospital after waking up, and the doctor was surprised he was alive.
This scenario suggests the reality of the dangerous idea that "it's all in the mind." Certainly the body has limitations; so how can this be explained? Perhaps in the same way many desperate feats of superhuman strength have: the miracle of an adrenaline rush. Adrenaline enhances muscular ability (among other things) so that a person can confront extreme situations; it's the same response that lets many animals stay alive in the wild. But does it allow the muscles to be exercised beyond their limit, or merely reach their full potential? How would this function if the body were not in a weakened state from original sin? And where would the mind come into play, in that case? All the current evidence says that the mind is barely involved; it is a reflex that comes without bidding. However, it can be controlled in the way of limiting or preventing it; adrenaline tends to come hand in hand with fear or excitement, and certain military personnel are trained to suppress these so that their concentration isn't impaired.
All of this seems to say that the body is capable through hormonal enhancement, and the will has little to do with it. By the same token, though, it is probably only meant for the occasional circumstances in which it has been known to be naturally put to use. In the long run our muscles are not built for great strain, as evidenced by the destruction of prolonged steroid use; athletes who take steroids often do what their bodies are simply not made for, and though the steroids make it possible, it is seriously damaging.
There is proof, then, that the body has limitations, and exceeding them is not altogether healthy. Just how limited the body is is still a mystery. A friend of mine was recently talking about an Indian (I think) who learned to psychologically transcend nature. He could go weeks without food and survive in harsh climates because he simply didn't allow it to affect him. This obviously screams, "Legend!" but there is some degree of truth to it. Often we can withstand more than we think, either because we make ourselves or we have to.
I realize I haven't made any conclusions here, but it's definitely some food for thought. Is the key to ability more in the mind or in the body? Someday I'd like to know.
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