Valiant Hearts: The war game that needed to exist

               Warfare may be one of the most common themes in video games today. Yet, it is also one of the least well explored themes in use. War is used as a stage to highlight the player character's skill and perseverance, whether it be as a front-line combatant or a non-entity general.  Courage, valor and sacrifice are narrative elements used to exact an emotional toll from the players and anti-war messages are increasingly becoming a staple of every triple A title. Despite it all, the gameplay itself often subverts and contradicts the message the narrative tried conveying. Courage and valor on the NPC's part feel empty when it is solely the player character's actions that decide the outcome of every battle. The gratuitous amount of NPC deaths fail to impact players as much as they should since overuse of the trope has turned it into a cliché.  Even the obligatory anti-war messages lose their meaning when the player is rewarded for causing as much death and destruction as possible.

               In short, while war games often glorify warfare - intentionally or not - very few of them of them portray the true cost of warfare. Very few games even attempt to show warfare as something other than a stage for winning personal honor and glory. And even fewer games choose to not portray the "other side" as irredeemable zealots dedicated to wiping out all that the player might care about. Valiant Hearts: The Great War (or Soldats Inconnus : Mémoires de la Grande Guerre) is one of those games.

               In Valiant Hearts, the player doesn't play as a soldier or, more accurately, the hyper-competent, bullet guzzling, nigh invulnerable superhuman that passes as a 'soldier' in most video games. Instead, the player takes on the role of several everyday people who were obligated to join the war through forces beyond their control. An aging French farmer drafted into serving his country, his German son-in-law fighting on the opposite side, a Belgian veterinarian turned field nurse searching for her father, an American Legionnaire  haunted by what the war took from him, and a loyal German rescue dog form the core cast of characters that the player controls at various points. The diversity of player characters ensure, that not only do you see, firsthand, a wide variety of different battles that defined the Great War but also that you see them from several different sides. Even though there is a comically exaggerated German general opposing most of the player (as is appropriate considering the art style), it is the war itself and not any particular side that is portrayed as the main antagonist. Great care is taken to show atrocities and acts of valor committed by all factions involved and, ultimately it is humanity and humility that is celebrated in place of romanticized honor

.

               Although player characters do talk in their native languages, they are usually soft-spoken enough that they may as well be speaking gibberish. Most of the instructions in the game are conveyed, instead, through pictures and miming. This is actually a stroke of genius on the part of the designers. The Great War so combatants from countries as far apart as America and India fight together on the same field and, obviously, verbal communication was bit problematic. The slightly exaggerated body language not only helps in understanding game objectives, but also conveys a sense of the truly global nature of the Great War using the breach of communication as a narrative tool.

               But the story-telling isn't the true gem of this game. Surprisingly,  for a game as apparently story focused as Valiant Hearts, the true star ends up being the gameplay itself! This is largely because of how the gameplay reflects the game's narrative : Outside of a few ambiguous instances, the player characters never kill. You read that right. Valiant Hearts is a war game where the player hardly, if ever, kills.  In fact, the gameplay actually rewards saving lives regardless of the rescued party's faction. The true brilliance of this piece of game design doesn't become apparent until the player has had a few hours of gameplay under his/her belt. You stop seeing the NPCs as 'us' and 'them'. Instead, you start seeing them all for what they really are - people who are just as terrified and disgusted at the acts war has forced them into doing.

               Another interesting way in which gameplay is used to deliver narrative is through the collectible memorabilia scattered throughout the battlefields of Europe. You don't need any of them progress through the game but every one of them unlocks a little tidbit of history that sheds more light on the conflict in large. The game isn't perfectly historically accurate, but these little tidbits are. The designers knew that completionist gamers would be driven to gather every collectible and decided to make the experience more rewarding by inserting actual history into them. This results in a surprisingly educational bit of gameplay.

               No discussion of Valiant Hearts can be complete without mentioning the canine companion, Walt, who, instead of being just a set-piece to establish emotional attachment, is a part of the core gameplay. From dragging soldiers out from rubble to distracting enemies - Walt does it all. In fact, a large chunk of puzzles require Walt's assistance to overcome. Obviously, there is an option to pet Walt. It doesn't affect gameplay in anyway but come on! Who wouldn't want to? (Appropriately, there is an achievement for doing so, as if the players needed more encouragement!)

               In conclusion, Valiant Hearts is definitely the war game gamers needed: a game that vilifies war instead of glorifying it; a game that shows how real families were broken up to answer their call of duty; a game that demonstrates how no amount of medals of honor can replace the loss of a loved one. Valiant Hearts is a game that strays from mainstream depictions of war in order to deliver a message, and succeeds brilliantly thanks to its combination of storytelling, art style and thoughtful gameplay mechanics.

               

Assassin Creed III and the importance of unity

              On paper, Assassin’s Creed III looked like the best in the franchise by far. It had a complex narrative, sympathetic villains, vibrant visuals and unfamiliar take on a familiar and extremely popular time period. It introduced a whole new dimension to the franchise through naval combat and fleshed-out the less urban parts of the game world.

                Yet, despite it all, Assassin’s Creed III is considered one of the weaker titles in the franchise by fans and for good reason too.  Assassin’s Creed 3 suffers from a figurative “death by a thousand cuts”: the game’s lack of polish, basic design flaws, and rather bland protagonist slowly add up and make the game progressively more tedious until playing it almost becomes a chore.

Now before moving on I’d like to state that AC: III had, hands down, the best writing in the series. Though advertised as a chest-thumping, stereotypically patriotic take on the American Revolutionary War ala The Patriot, the game itself didn’t shy away from showing the atrocities committed by both sides.  Even the Templars, the “big bad guys” of the series, are portrayed as flawed visionaries who adopt deplorable means to achieve noble goals – a far cry from their self-indulgent, decadent Renaissance counterparts. The game even lets one play as a Templar for the first few segments of the game, in one of the best thought out twists in the franchise, letting the players experience firsthand just how similar the Templars and Assassins are to one another.

For any other, non-video game media this would have been enough. The sheer moral ambiguity and complexity of the story would have been sufficient in drawing in, and maintaining, the audience’s attention. Yet video games operate on a slightly separate principle. As Jeremy Bernstein, famous screenwriter and game designer, mentioned in one of his key note speeches during GDC 2014, gamers remember characters more than the plot itself. And no character gets more screen-time in a video game than the player character itself (barring some very specific exceptions). To get the most out of a player character the game must establish three fundamental unities between the target audience and their in-game avatar: unity of trait, purpose and action.

Unfortunately this is where the cracks start showing. As a player character, Connor isn’t very interesting.  Now this isn’t very uncommon, and a lot of games actually utilize this lack of intriguing characterization to create a “blank slate character” – one where the user can imprint his/her own traits onto a playable avatar to increase immersion.

However, Connor is most definitely not a blank-slate character and attempting to impose the player’s own motivations and traits onto him backfire for two major reasons. Firstly, Connor is significantly less savvy than most gamers.  And, more importantly, Connor is significantly less savvy than the game requires him to be.

Understand, now, that a character with a strict black and white outlook on morality isn’t necessarily a bad thing. In fact, in a game where much of the story is pushed forward by moral ambiguity an unflinchingly lawful character is particularly welcome. The basic problem with Connor being in the story is that his morality shatters whatever sense of freedom and non-linearity Assassin’s Creed III tried conveying with its masterful world building.

You have this incredible story where the player is forced to consider the justifications for some truly, truly heinous activities. You have this narrative that makes clear that it’s not about the “bad guys” vs. the “good guys”. It’s about flawed people trying and failing spectacularly at coming to a consensus for the betterment of all parties involved.  Yet, even though the player is moved by the sincere good intentions of many of his enemies, Connor remains unfazed. His course of action remains unrelentingly straightforward and, expectedly, causes more harm than good. Unity of action between the player and Connor is thus destroyed.

Obligatory "Where is Charles Lee" meme

It is as if the player is teased with an amazing slice of narrative pie, yet is able to devour only a small piece of it before it falls apart. Assassin’s Creed III is a rare instance where either more characterization or less characterization of the main player character would have both been better than the intermediary players experienced.

This is not, however, a criticism to the linear nature of the game. Indeed every single game in the franchise had mostly linear outcomes, with optional “full sync” objectives there to enforce extra linearity.  The criticism lies in the game’s failure to establish unity of purpose between Connor and the player as well as its unsuccessful attempts at maintaining the illusion of free choice.

Both these issues, however, can be tracked down to the tragic nature of the game itself. Whereas Altair and Ezio, from AC I and II respectively, had mostly happy endings (give or take), Connor’s narrative ends in tragedy. Of course Connor survives mission after mission to fight another day, but if there’s one thing that AC III teaches you, it’s that survival does not equal to victory. Almost every plot arch ends with a sense of disappointment at best or outright defeat at worst, and even the few victories Connor gets ultimately contribute to the destruction of everything he cherished. And, for most of these cases, the fault lies more with Connor and his rash, naïve, and compulsive actions than it does with those who oppose him. In fact, Connor’s entire life mission was based upon a single misunderstanding he had when he was a child. And his actions against those who he thought wronged him end up aiding the people who were actually responsible. 

Now video game tragedies are hard to pull off but not impossible. They are tricky to do because on the surface they are contradictory to the basic concept of a video game.  At its core, a game must make gives it player a sense of accomplishment for playing it. It must provide them with a sense of advancement, or, at least, an illusion of advancement to keep them engaged; victory and success are often key components in achieving this. Tragedies operate by highlighting suffering and evoking catharsis amidst its audience; defeat and loss are frequently used tropes in this medium. To combine the two is to merge victory and defeat while maintaining enough intrigue to keep the players, well, playing.

Some of the best video game tragedies make the player character’s ultimate victory and defeat mutually inclusive.  A good example is any game whose underlying plot revolves around a quest for answers. The hero succeeds in gaining his answers, thus achieving victory; however these answers contribute to his downfall or to the shattering of his entire world (mostly metaphorically though literal examples do exist).

Assassin’s Creed III also had an underlying quest for answers for most of the game. However, this gets downplayed as the game goes on until it becomes clear that the answers don’t matter to Connor. He does what he does fully knowing it won’t get him what he wants. Connor’s insistence on serving “justice” ultimately undermines whatever practicality his initial vendetta had in the first place.  In fact, Connor undergoes negative character development towards the end of the game.

Negative character development, however, is also not a bad thing. Showing how a person, despite all his efforts, fails at changing both himself and the world around him can be heartbreaking. Connor’s story should have been heartbreaking. Here’s a person who had to grow up with the emotional damage of watching his mother burn to death in front of him while he was powerless to save her. As an adult his quest for vengeance against his mother’s murderers ultimately ends up assisting his mother’s murderers while misunderstanding after misunderstanding leads to the death of his own father. Yet the players just can’t relate with his tragedy because of the complete lack of emotions on Connor’s part.

I understand that one of Connor’s defining traits is that he is stoic. However, this game would have worked out better had Connor been just a tad more emotional. His lack of emotion, in fact, fails to establish unity of trait between him and the players.

With none of the three unities established between the player and Connor it becomes clear why he was so badly received by the fandom.  But even then there are more factors that affect a game’s relative success than the player character. After all, there have been more than a few games that have gotten away with having subpar PCs.

Let us once again take a look at some of the game’s stronger bits: naval combat, relatable NPCs and, this may come as a surprise to some, the homestead missions. We have already discussed how Connor’s lack of proper emotional responses wastes the potential of these brilliantly designed NPCs, but what about the game mechanic that was so well-received it completely dictated the direction AC III’s sequel would take?

Sailing the high seas amidst a massive storm while canon and mortar shots rain all around you is not an experience too many video games provide. And Assassin’s Creed III managed to reach that equilibrium between realistic sailing and fun naval combat. However in the game’s main storyline, naval combat is massively underutilized! There are less than a handful main quests that involve naval combat with the lion’s share of maritime merriment reduced to side quests. Treating one of the most innovative mechanics in the franchise as a mere curio and side-quest fodder is a grave design flaw, especially when the rest of the game already suffers from general blandness.

And then there are the homestead missions –an upgrade to Assassin Creed II’s Monteriggioni Villa that lets players interact with all the people whose livelihoods are improved as a direct result of the players’ actions. There were some scenarios that genuinely gave me a sense of accomplishment. Yet again, like the naval missions, these too feel underutilized for the sheer fact that they add almost nothing to the main story or quests. The payoff to doing these homestead missions comes more from catharsis and than any overly useful in-game rewards. Sure, there are recipes you can unlock, craft, and trade for some extra dough but it’s just so unnecessarily convoluted that it just isn’t worth it in the long run.

Finally there’s the issue of polish. No game is perfect, that much is clear. And there will always be bugs.  But quite a few of AC III’s issues come from basic design flaws. It’s almost as if some of the minor design decisions were thrown in without consideration. An example of this can be found in the Viewpoints, a series staple since its conception. Previously they were limited to triangular wooden ledges which jut out of the taller structures in any city. This, of course, had the effect of having wooden triangles sticking out of places they really had no business being in. AC:III solution to maintaining the architectural integrity of these structures, however, was much worse.

Instead of a ledge or wooden triangle, the view points were located at the apex of the structures. Connor would have to climb to the very top of every tower or church steeple he encountered and awkwardly balance, pseudo-symbolically, to reveal the surrounding area on the mini-map.  Some of these balancing acts at least look somewhat possible: others, not so much.

Seeing Connor levitate above a weathervane once or twice can be excused. But the sheer number of times this happens makes it a fundamental design flaw. It’s one of those minor things that really start adding up to break the immersion.  It becomes a nuisance. And the fact that this was a conscious design decision instead of just a bug makes it worse.

Not pictured: Physics

Another big example of the lack of polish comes from a majority of the non-naval and non-homestead side quests.  Most of them feel like simple fetch quests when they had the potential to be so much more. The frontiersmen quests where the player has to track down and debunk some urban legends could have been perfectly done as a sort of fact finding/treasure hunting mini game with a few horror elements thrown in. Instead they involve the players simply moving from point A to point B for the most part. It seems as though they were thrown in just to flesh out the otherwise drab “open-world” frontier segments.

Speaking of horror elements, one place where players didn’t want or expect claustrophobia and creepy moaning to show up was in AC: III’s fast travel mechanic. Now, the entire concept of “fast travel” exists to reduce frustration on the part of players by giving them the option to avoid unnecessarily long commutes between objectives, should they want to use it.  The fast-travel system in AC:III, however, includes quite a bit of unnecessary commute before being able to use this convenience.  The tunnel network was obviously included to add depth and immersion, and the first few times you use its actually pretty cool. But the novelty quickly wears off as navigating the dark labyrinth becomes more of an inconvenience than simply walking to the next main quest marker.

Follow the rats.

In conclusion, a lot of Assassin Creed III’s problems come from trying too hard. Understandably, Ezio Auditore was a really tough act to follow up on. And it may have led developers to over compensate on some of the aspects mentioned above. The game had many innovative ideas that would have revitalized the franchise. But unfortunately, the game had too many of them. There was a distinct lack of focus overall and this lack of focus also contributed to the overall lack of polish. Fortunately, many of the more successful mechanics were carried over to the sequel where they fit in better. And, as Assassin Creed IV’s Edward Kenway proved, the complexity of a character’s background and motives is not what solely decides how well they are received. There must be unity between the player and his/her avatar. Let us hope that Assassin’s Creed Unity lives up to its name by establishing that essential unity.

Works Cited

Bernstein, Jeremy. "Characterization, Purpose and Action: Creating Strong Video Game Characters." GDC 2014. San Francisco. Speech.

Zanarkand's Last Dream

It's rare to see romance done well in a triple A video game title. It's even rarer to see it become part of the game's core experience.

Yet, Final Fantasy X was, if anything, an atypical game of it's time - even when compared with other unconventional titles.

The switch from the Playstation to the exponentially more powerful PS-2 meant that the developers had a lot more processing power to work with. And they sure as heck were going to use every bit of it.

Final Fantasy was one of the most graphically beautiful games of its generation. Even today, the classic, non-HD version looks pretty darn impressive.

If they wanted to, Square Soft could easily have spent all their resources to make the game even more visually spectacular. But instead they chose to spend equally as much time perfecting one of the series' more distinguishing features - the narrative.

Final Fantasy X was the first game in the series to utilize voice acting and, though the English dub at times left something to be desired, it cannot be denied that voice acting definitely enhanced the overall experience.

But I digress; I am not here to talk about the technical aspects of Final Fantasy X. I am here to tell you why the effect of a brilliantly written romance on a narrative should never be underestimated, even in a video game; I am here to tell you why FFX may just be the best written and most cohesive Final Fantasy game of all time.

(Spoiler alert!)

As I may have mentioned in a previous post, the purpose of the first few minutes of any given game is to draw in the players - to use something iconic or unique as a hook to reel the players into the game world.

FFX manages to do it brilliantly with its rather unorthodox style.

Instead of beginning at the narrative start point like most stories or showing us the end and then looking back, FFX begins somewhere in the middle - right before the game's climax (or so the player is led to believe).

The masterfully drawn scene of the main party huddled somberly around a campfire in a ruined city, accompanied by Nobuo Uematsu's hauntingly nostalgic To Zanarkand, makes for an excellent first impression. The omnipresent ambient sound of waves in this sequence, crashing gently on an unseen shore, help magnify the sense of foreboding incredibly!

Now the quality of Maestro Uematsu's work is never in question. In fact, having mesmerizingly magnificent music is more of a Final Fantasy staple than Chocobos! However, what sets the track apart from other FF musical scores is both its tone and its usage.

Usually a song with this much wistfulness is reserved for a either a turning point in the narrative or the aftermath of an exceptionally tragic event in a game e.g. the death of a party member. However, here it is used as the very first score in the game. This, combined with the scene it is used in, makes the entire first sequence feel more like a pre-funeral than anything. After finishing the game, I realize that this may have actually been the point all along!

"Listen to my story. This...maybe our last chance"

Even now, the words give me Goosebumps. A lot has been said about the quality of voice acting, but in this scene James Arnold Taylor nails it!

The scene soon cuts to a neo-cyber-punkish city - a stark contrast to the ruins we saw in the beginning. With its dazzling neon lights, fast-paced rave music and celebrity, this city, named Zanarkand, is eerily similar to the world we live in today.

Fleshing out the game-world even more, FFX introduces us to Blitzball - a fantasy sport which can best be described as underwater football played in a gigantic sphere of water - and to our protagonist, named Tidus (Tee-dus) by default, a star Blitzball player of the Zanarkand Abes.

Tidus' dreams of leading his team to victory in a climactic match, are shattered, however, when Zanarkand is attacked by a Kaiju out of some old Godzilla movie. Known only as Sin, the leviathan quickly levels the city. Only the timely appearance of Auron, a mysterious acquaintance of Tidus' missing father, saves him from being annihilated with the rest of his home.

When Tidus regains consciousness he is in a different world - a world that lives in perpetual fear of the monster, Sin - a world where machinery and technology have been outlawed under penalty of death - a world where his home city of Zanarkand has been dead for over 1000 years.

Realizing that seeing what's left of his home with his own eyes is the only way to make sense of things, Tidus joins the party of Yuna, a young summoner on a pilgrimage to Zanarkand to obtain a power that would allow her to defeat Sin.

Thereafter, Tidus becomes more of a view-point character, as Yuna and her quest to save the world of Spira take center stage. But here is where the narrative truly starts shining.

Not only are Yuna and her party members given complex, fleshed out characters but the exposition required to do so is brilliantly tied to the main narrative. Revealing the backstory of a particular party member never feels like chore or a side-quest. In a feat of brilliant narrative design, character development and additional information comes naturally as the narrative progresses.

Even if the players were to attempt solely focusing on the main story, they would still obtain in-depth knowledge of the plethora of characters they are dealing with. In short FFX does what many Role-playing games fail to do - it makes us care for our party without actively seeking out a reason or quest to care for them.

And then there's obviously the relationship between Tidus and Yuna - the naive, hyperactive newcomer and the polite, patient young woman who is never too busy to help out the people she cares about. It becomes apparent to the players that Yuna's journey is not nearly as hopeful as Tidus thinks it is. But that doesn't stop them from keeping up their appearance - it doesn't hinder them from cheering and laughing whenever they get a chance to but as Tidus puts it.

"I realize now that I was the only one really laughing." 

Yuna's quest itself is a brilliant example of gameplay and story integration. Summons and monsters have always been a staple of FF and, indeed, many JRPGs. But FFX is one of the few games that not only justify their existence but also make it integral to the plot. In the world of Spira sentient beings that aren't given a proper burial ritual or sending continue to inhabit the mortal plane in contempt - eventually transforming into twisted monstrosities, called fiends, that are the majority of enemies the player fights. However, in order to defeat Sin some humans willingly gave up their lives, turning their mortal bodies to stone so that their unsent spirits may become pseudo-fiends, called Aeons, which a summoner may call upon to fight Sin.

The pilgrimage itself consists of a summoner visiting the final resting place of these martyrs, now called Fayths, and enlisting the aid of their spirits in the fight against Sin.

In a way, Tidus is the perfect player surrogate - unaware of the world he's in while enjoying the journey as best as he can. Ironically, it is his naivety, his innocence, that melts Yuna's heart. It is his enthusiasm and sincere hope for a better tomorrow that breaks through Yuna's mask and, for the first time in a long time, brings tears to her eyes.

Yet these tears Yuna shed aren't for herself. They are for Tidus and his tragic dream. She knows that no matter how much she tries or how much she wants to she'll never be able to see the home Tidus always talks about - she'll never be able to walk, hand in hand with him, when he finally returns to his Zanarkand.

Indeed when Tidus' bubble is burst and he realizes that, for all his enthusiasm, he was cheering Yuna on to die; his breakdown is heart-wrenching. He vows to save Yuna no matter the cost and that, itself, adds to ever growing list of tragic dreams in the plot.

But Yuna doesn't give up, she'll do whatever she has to, not for herself but so that her friends can live their dreams. She's willing to give up everything, her dreams and her life, so that she may live through the dreams and lives of her friends

Yuna's journey sees her faith shaken, but it is only when she reaches Zanarkand and finds out that, for all her efforts, she has to let a friend die to defeat Sin only temporarily that Yuna snaps. It is when she finds out that for all her sacrifice, Sin will always come back using the spirit of the friend she sacrifices, that Yuna puts her foot down.

She rejects the Final Summoning which had been her goal all along and desperately searches for a way to permanently defeat Sin. It is at this climactic moment that we get yet another brilliant usage of a narrative trope - a subversion of the protagonist-decoy protagonist structure.

Tidus, it turns out, was nothing but a dream of the deceased Fayth of Zanarkand - an echo of an individual who had been dead for over a thousand years. Tidus was little more than the monsters he'd been fighting, brought into the world by the very same undead summoners that was responsible for Sin's existence

To defeat Sin forever, the party must kill, not just Sin but Yu Yevon, the summoner of Sin, as well - an act which would finally put the Fayth of the world to sleep and, thereby, cause the "death" of Tidus.

Knowing this, does Tidus falter? Does he take a moment to consider his options. No! Tidus revels in the opportunity to save his friends. Tidus may die in the attempt, but he'll do so on his own terms - saving someone he loves!

In the end, the romance works so well, not just because it was well written, but because it utilized a narrative mechanic only utilizable in a video game - the ability to literally walk in the footsteps of a character. Both Yuna and Tidus received tremendous amount of character development and backstory because both of them were, at a point, the protagonists of the story.

Indeed, for all the times Tidus exclaims that it is his story, it becomes apparent that it's everyone's story! But it is Tidus' own selflessly selfish act of self-sacrifice that brings a conclusion to this epic tale.

Final Fantasy X was probably one of the best games of it's generation. It had an amazing, unconventional narrative, a graphically impressive game world and a love-story that would echo through the hearts of players for as long as they remember.

And all that can be said without even getting into the music. I haven't played another game where the music fit in so well with the general theme. From the paragon of nostaliga, Zanarkand,to the melancholic Fleeting memories and right down to every single, haunting rendition of the Hymn of the Fayth. The Hymn is a brilliant example of a plot-relevant leitmotif, a song that is sung in-universe by a plethora of characters. Indeed singing the hymn is the only thing that the dead, stone bodies of the Fayth are capable of doing - the only thing that helps them keep their sanity.

Finally, there's the game's vocal signature song Suteki da ne or Isn’t it wonderful? A song that is so ironic, so tragic it brings tears to my eyes even half a decade after I finished the game.

"Isn't it wonderful"

"Being together, all alone walking hand in hand."

"And I want to go to your city"

"To your home..."

"...into your arms"

I would like to end this post by drawing attention to one final detail. Final Fantasy X is probably the only other game in the series apart from the first one, whose title makes the most sense story wise.

In the end, after defeating Sin, Tidus was the last construct of the Fayth. In the end, he was Zanarkand's Last Dream. In the end, Tidus was Zanarkand's Final Fantasy.

"The people and friends we've lost..or the dreams that have faded...never forget them"

Of Nostalgia Filters and Hidden Blades.

Nostalgia has a habit of making everything from the past look good.

 It may be an old game you used to play, an old toy you used to bounce around or, heck, even an old friend you used to have - they all start looking good. It's almost like our brain refuses to acknowledge the fact that the "game" was nothing but a few colored pixels, the toy was just an overpriced beach ball and the "friend"  was just a kid who shared a crayon with you in kindergarten.

Old is gold, my friend. NO EXCEPTIONS.

This is a sad truth of life and growing older only makes it worth. It is also the reason why your grandparents won't stop talking about the "good old days" before such "modern luxuries" as internal plumbing. 

The anonymity offered by the internet, coupled with the growing trend of fanboyism, has made the Nostalgia Filter worse than ever.

Generation one Pokemon will ALWAYS be the best. The older Elder Scrolls games will ALWAYS be superior to the "dumbed down, mainstream abomination" that is Skyrim. And Final Fantasy 7 will ALWAYS be the greatest thing since sliced bread.

Case in point.

People refuse to understand that changes in their favorite franchises mostly happen because of necessity, clinging instead to the age old notion that innovative designers are all Greater Daemons of Tzeentch. 

Attempting to replay these classics may soon turn depressing as players retroactively realize just how much they themselves and aged. Indeed the Nostalgia Filter may be the only thing that keeps players replaying older games going.

This was the mindset I had when I decided to replay Assassin's Creed II (courtesy of Steam Sales off course). Having enjoyed Assassin's Creed IV greatly, I was kind of taken aback by the fanbase deriding the game and proclaiming Assassin's Creed II as the greatest in the franchise.

I was skeptical. As good as AC-II was, surely it's dated graphics and game-play mechanics would make a playthrough tedious at best. Putting on my Cynicism Goggles and turning off my nostalgia filter, I decided to dive, once again, into Renaissance Italy.

Right off the bat, Assassin's Creed II strived to show us that it was a different game from it's predecessor. But more than that, it tried showing the gamers that yes, it had learned from Assassin's Creed I's mistakes.

As Desmond once again enters the Matr Animus, we are thrust into the birthing room of Maria Auditore just in time to witness her second son come into the world. A short QTE later, we first hear the voice of our protagonist, Ezio - Ezio Auditore da Fierenze! Here is a protagonist the players get to know from the first moments of his life! 

Fast forward a decade and a half and we're introduced to a teenaged Ezio doing typical teenager things like cracking jokes, getting into brawls and parkouring all over the roof-tops of Renaissance Florence.   

Introducing and making the audience empathize with the main character is the first goal of every narrative, and how quickly and concisely they manage to do it may well determine the quality of the rest of it. Assassin's Creed II does this remarkably well in its first 10 minutes! Not a bad start, Ubisoft, not bad at all.

The next hour or so of gameplay basically revolves around Ezio exploring the beautifully crafted visual master-piece that is Florence while happily interacting with his family.

"It is a good life we lead, brother."

"The Best! May it never change."

"And may it never change us." 

A chill went up my spine as the game's title popped up on screen, accompanied by Jesper Kyd's brilliantly haunting Ezio's Family. Even without knowledge of what happens next, even without acknowledging the tragic irony that is to follow, one cannot help but feel a sense of foreboding.

And sure enough, like every good story structured around the Monomyth, Ezio's beautiful life takes a morbid turn for the worse as his father and brothers are wrongfully executed.

Now, this is a part where AC-II truly outclasses its predecessor. Whereas the inciting action in Assassin's Creed was brought about as a result of Altair's own arrogance and failures, in the sequel Ezio ends up being a victim of circumstances more than anything. A conspiracy he did not know even existed, ends up destroying his life and forcing him into adopting a role he never wanted to adopt.

The fact that Ezio was, for the most part, a normal everyman thrust into such a larger-than-life role is what ultimately made him so relatable to the typical modern gamer. 

Following the traditional three act structure, the rest of Ezio's life goes by in a hurricane of blood, betrayal and vengeance as he struggles to root out the conspiracy that claimed his family - as he desperately tries to understand why his family was so savagely taken from him. In the process Ezio pulls a Forrest Gump by interacting with, and influencing, many, many key historic Renaissance figures and, indirectly, shaping the period into what it ultimately becomes.

The wide number of widely different locales, from the riverine beauty of Venice to the tower-city of San Gimignano and even to the swamps of Forli, that Ezio visit over the course of his life not only serves to keep the player entertained with the widely different vistas, but also reflects the slow change in narrative tone as the game progresses. 

Every different locale had its own distinct color palette and, while the game wasn't nearly as open ended as its most recent sequel,the design decisions served its purpose of making the game world seem so much bigger than it was.

One can say that the distinct cities reflect Ezio's own mood of sorts, as he undergoes massive character development.  The gold and yellow of Florence portrays Ezio's own glorious youth; the grey and blue of Fiorli represents both the slow birth and death of cynicism as Ezio scampers through the early morning Italian mist in search of purpose. The subtle silver and violet of Venice marks a transitionary point in our hero’s life while the bronze and green of San Gimignano brilliantly conveys a feeling of ascension - of a young Ezio realizing his potential as he climbs up a towering behemoth of a monastery.

The narrative covers over two decades of Ezio's adult and, in that time, vengeance slowly drops down our protagonist's priority list until, finally, the self-destructive nature of revenge itself is deconstructed. Ezio matures in more than just looks, going from an angry young Italian man to a suave, charming inidivudal, lovingly called Mentore  by the rest of his order . 

Sometimes it’s hard to realize that it is Roger Craig Smith himself that's been voicing our protagonist since his early teenage days. The massive amount of work that must have gone into completely altering one's tone and pitch to portray single character over such a long period of his life requires a lot of dedication indeed.

In the end I realized that what made Assassin's Creed II wasn't it's individual merits, but rather the sum of those merits. Assassin's Creed 4 had better gameplay, Assassin's Creed 3 definitely had a better story (though, not necessarily, a better narrative), and Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood probably had the greatest city ever designed in the franchise.

But Assassin's Creed II was the game in the series that took the very basic components of its design and merged them seamlessly into a master piece. The core experience that the designers tried portraying was definitely one of living in the shoes of a 15th century James Bond-esque figure: an Assassin whose wit was just as sharp as his hidden blade. And they succeeded.

Everything about the game said "Renaissance."  From the soaring architecture, perfect for an Assassin's Creed Game, to Kyd's brilliantly composed pieces, and right down to the ambient dialogue of the masses - every element of design meshed in perfectly. And it is this, more than anything, that makes Assassin's Creed II the best game in the franchise - not the nostalgia, not the individual elements but rather the coherence of them all put together.