Pace can mean the difference between an enthralling introduction and a brief stop along your episode for the week. The differences in openings (OPs) between shows from the east and the west are many. However, length is a defining factor. Some play on the element of time, claiming that the faster you get into the meat of the actual program, the better. Others support the emotional impact that a longer title screen can hold. A number of iconic anime have obtained their fame in no small part due to an iconic theme song. Hunter X Hunter’s “Departure!” is a perfect example. The sight of a high-energy opening can have viewers raring to go by the time an actual fight scene starts. Or, like in Kaguya-sama: Love is War, it can even tell a micro-narrative of its own. But although there are many more examples in support of the longer OP, today is the age of the streaming service, and they have clearly elected the shorter style as champion. Stranger Things, The Mandalorian, Ozark and many more have all relied upon a unique take of what is essentially a single title card. These are artistic expressions, beautiful in their own right, but far from the 3- to 4-minute odysseys of animation that other shows provide. So which reigns supreme? Like many of these debates, it depends on the subject matter. The Mandalorian’s cut-throat aesthetic is not paired well with the pomp and circumstance of an all-out animated opening. The solitary title card completes the mood. At the same time the charm of Naruto’s openings are a needed part of eliciting hype from the fans. We all have our preferences because, well, we prefer different shows too.
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Imitation is said to be the highest form of flattery. Maybe that’s why “clones” (or copies) are so common in the video game landscape. There is a fine line to draw between inspiration and down-right plagiarism. A line that has been rapidly obscured in recent years due to the sheer amount of clones on the market. If a game is popular enough, there is no doubt that it will have several clones by the next year alone. Take Overwatch for example. The Blizzard title launched in 2015 and has been played religiously ever since. Its e-sports scene is highly regarded, and it has spawned many clones. Yet, Overwatch in itself could be regarded as a clone of the PC game Team Fortress 2, and often is. The same could be said for Overwatch and Paladins. Or Overwatch and Valorant. Or any other of the supposed “clones” of the game. They’re all team-based shooters. That doesn't make them identical, but part of the same genre, sharing settings and themes that build off of eachother. Yes, Star Wars drew lots of inspiration from Frank Herbert’s Dune, but there is a big jump from that to “they’re the same”. Rather, most agree that they’re both science fiction. This isn’t to say that clones aren’t an issue. Plagiarism is a major problem for every artform. Many consider Paladin’s similarities with its predecessor too many for comfort. But jumping the gun isn’t the solution. We all need to give some time for these games to grow and change. To come into their own. If we do, they might just become some of our favorite experiences, far more beloved then the original.( I’m looking at you, Xbox.) The sheer variety of a story can be a major part of its likeability. This is the reason that an idea can be so important even with a less than stellar execution. Witnessing the scope of a story firsthand can help the audience empathize with the characters or be awestruck by the sheer grandeur of events. Part of the appeal of Pulp Fiction is the human flaws of the characters. The entire story takes place in one setting that may be a little goofy at times, but is instantly recognizable. There is no magic, no choson one, just LA hitmen and their jobs. Compare that to something like The Lord of the Rings. An entire landscape caught in the collision between a force of pure evil and those that resist it. Think bigger. The conflict spans a galaxy now in Star Wars. Bigger. It spans the edges of the universe in Dragonball Z. Bigger! The multiverse in Marvel Comics. BIGGER! A universe within a universe that’s within a multiverse in Rick and Morty. (I think you can see the point.) The scale of a story’s world completely shapes the audience’s experience, but one size does not fit all. Though something like Dragonball Z may be much grander than Pulp Fiction, the latter does a much better job of telling its story. Likewise, the style of Star Wars may not even be able to exist within the confines of a realistic-fictional universe. The right lens can be just what your audience needs to see your masterpiece as you see it. The Mario game series is a special one to many people. The mustached plumber popularized the platforming genre and is still a household name 35 years after his initial appearance, though it’s hard to believe that he’s only 35 years old. Though no longer in his prime, the jump-man has managed to star on some of the funnest platformers, sports, racing, party, and even exploration games. He’s the face of possibly the most versatile and beloved companies in the gaming industry, and exemplifies their spirit. At the core level, Mario is a muse for versatility. Sure he has his fundamentals, but no other game character comes close to his range and quality. Which I suppose relates back to Nintendo. Their method of gameplay fits the fat handyman perfectly. There is no required plot. There is no intense improvement in graphics. There’s just a fun game, with a simple premise, and a loveable charm. Let's hope the red-capped hero sticks around for many more years to come. (It also led to the creation of Waluigi which would make the series worth it regardless.) What makes a sports game so entertaining? Why do some people cry when their favorite character dies? If you’ve read the title you should already know that the answer is investment. There was a time when the online Dungeons and Dragons podcast Critical Role had the most successful Kickstarter campaign of all time. The weirdest part? It is fully deserved. It has taken a long time to discern just what makes this group of “nerdy-ass voice actors” so appealing. Why can you listen to them talking at a dinner table with rapt attention for over half an hour? Because the cast has done such an excellent job of getting you to invest in their characters. A huge part of the show is the group of adventurers themselves, as well as the people who play them. Each character has hopes and dreams, but also weaknesses, failures and tragedies. The aforementioned dinner scene was so immersive because the audience knew what it meant for a member of the party. We had spent over 400 hours building up to a payoff such as this one. Payoff is another reason that anyone can realistically invest in the show. With the amount of time spent on one episode alone, the average viewer needs to feel a sense of catharsis for all those hours to be worth it. And low and behold, Mathew Mercer is a terrific practitioner of Chekhov's Gun. “Chekhov’s Gun” refers to everything within a piece of media having purpose within the narrative; basically Mathew manages to make even filler episodes testaments to character development. In fact, Mathew arguably works harder on the little things than the big ones, as the larger plot is revealed to the audience at the same pace as the characters. Between the attention to detail, the excellent character writing, and the unique medium, it is no small wonder that Critical Role has such an avid fanbase. Though not functioning as the perfect Dungeons and Dragons campaign, that is a sacrifice the cast is willing to make for inclusivity. It inspired many players to begin playing the game, and that’s something worth being grateful for. The show isn’t perfect, but it’s a pioneer, and a terrific example of investment. The feeling of tricking a room full of people is a specific yet satisfying one. Among Us is not the first game to do this, but it is the most tense hidden-role game(1) out there. Something as simple as walking between mini-games becomes a scary endeavor. Anyone can be a threat, and this is made all the more horrifying by your forced silence. Only speaking during mandatory meetings is a lot scarier when you can see a murderer encroaching. Functioning as the killer also becomes more freaky when it is possible to literally see you during your misdeeds, unlike in a text-based hidden-role game. An eye-witness report is hard to discount when everyone’s lives are at stake, so the imposter must work extra hard to blend in. All and all, tension manifests in different forms that allow both of the roles to be fun and replayable. Among Us may not have a huge amount of variety, but it makes up for that in smart design decisions and in relying on the players to make their own fun. The true reason that a simple hidden-role game has gotten so popular is accessibility. Being easy to learn allows a number of those who have never experienced these feelings before to interact with each other and be able to enjoy this new experience. A game doesn’t need to be complex or perfect to make many people happy. (1): “A game that uses a "hidden roles" mechanic requires you to hide your goals and abilities from the rest of your friends.” Definition from: https://www.crhallberg.com/blog/hiddenroles.html#:~:text=A%20game%20that%20uses%20a,the%20rest%20of%20your%20friends.&text=Hidden%20role%20games%20are%20a,definitive%20classic%20of%20the%20genre. A king doesn't always need to wear a crown, or necessarily hold a title for that matter. Rather, a king is a manifestation of authority. Much like authority, "kings" have many facets and can go by many names to create many reactions. The literal King John of Robin Hood, for example, is an image of corruption. This creates sympathy for our hero and gives a valuable lesson to children about not always trusting those in charge. Mufasa, on the other hand, is the perfect combination of strength, wisdom, and power. He serves to make the audience empathize with Simba in his tragedy and to elicit hate for Scar. These two kings serve opposite roles but also give lessons in the use of power. Lord Sauron was king of Mordor just as much as Arthur was king of Camelot. But enough with the literal kings... Leaders don't need the title to fulfill the role and its lessons in strength. Oftentimes champions are kings of their craft. Principals can serve as an oppressive ruler of a school. Even a peasant can be a king among his people, and is regarded, as such, without the formalities. Authority is an inherent part of life and as such is a big part of many stories; use of an authority figure must mesh with a story's themes. There is no Star Wars without "the ultimate power in the universe". A king doesn't always need to wear a crown, or necessarily be a king for that matter. Rather, a king is a device, which a writer utilizes to create a powerful impact, more powerful than any king. Rage-quitting is typically a young man's game; anger, however, never truly fades. When designing a game difficulty is, well... difficult to balance. One way to foreshadow difficulty is through a game's advertising. Dark Souls is infamous for its extreme difficulty, largely due to its tag line "prepare to die," so it is harder to justify becoming angry. In much the same way, Celeste is a game about climbing a mountain to its summit. By all real-world accounts, this is an extreme feat. But because it's in a game, there may not be an expectation of great challenge. To fix this, Celeste focuses on another solution: fairness. Rarely, if ever, does the game make you feel as though you are out of control in your failures. Without spoiling anything, it would corrupt its themes to do so. Instead, the game goes out of its way to make sure that the player knows the mistakes they made and can quickly correct them if they so choose. This is not only thematically smart, it makes the gameplay much less frustrating than other platformers of a similar caliber. Despite the two aforementioned strategies being good ways to curb visceral rage, well-executed storytelling can use anger positively. The common phrase "love to hate" is commonly attributed to antagonists, and ones who are good at what they do. A major reason for this is because these villains are written for the audience to dislike them. If a villain can make a viewer actively hate the actions they take, then that is anger making a story more enjoyable. Of course, characters who make wrong decisions in a specific moment can also elicit anger from the audience. This can serve to create a better emotional response to the moment, to flesh out the character more. Anger is a core emotion of humanity, and is plenty important in the stories we tell. But, as in real life, its use should be calculated and restricted. Entertainment should typically be a good experience, and without proper precautions, anger can ruin everything you have built. We must be wary of the dark side. Octopath Traveler is beautiful. It is entertaining. It also does not take many risks. And like many other "Japanese Role-Playing Games" (JRPG's), it is subject to one of the most stale game mechanics of all time: grinding. Where a player repeatedly accomplishes the same tasks to get stronger. Now this gaming mechanic has been around for an incredibly long time, and it does serve purpose. When you overcome random encounters while moving between places, it can make you feel like a real adventurer traveling through uncharted and dangerous territory. (The Pokemon games tend to be pretty good at this approach.) However, grinding becomes tedious and even outright boring when it goes on forever, which is sad when you're playing your favorite RPG. And even games such as Persona 5, with its fluctuating story and two styles of interaction, can suffer from too much repetition. So what's the solution? Well leveling, or gaining levels, cannot be removed from RPGs without losing some challenge. So rather than removing it entirely, invest in moderation, or even some other game tasks, such as puzzles or races to vary the experience. (The Legend of Zelda games tend to be terrific at this.) This will ensure that players feel challenged without insulting their intelligence. A grindstone is important, but you don't want to run out of blade from over-sharpening. Sometimes being a critic is exhausting. You pick out idea after idea, study technique after technique, all for one thing: an improvement of your understanding. Suddenly, you know the potential of a medium and how it's used. You can appreciate art more in this light. But though good ideas are important, and quality executions necessary, there is something critics tend to forget. Entertainment is the goal. If something can be entertaining, then it has the capacity to change people's lives. Whether this change is temporary or lasting is left up to the perception; if you manage to entertain, then you have not failed. The new "Star Wars" trilogy is considered one of the worst sequels in recent years. It took something that fans adored and ran it into the ground with shallow characters, barely functioning plots, and money-oriented policies. But this trilogy is not a failure. It has sparked its own community and entertained many people. In some small way, it made these peoples' lives happier as a whole, even if some of them just love to trash it. So, if you're ever in that argument, the one with your stubborn friend who seems to criticize everything, just say that you were entertained. You don't need a justification because they aren't at liberty to fault you. After all, art is subjective and entertainment can always be entertaining. |
AuthorMcRae Walker, an 20-year-old writer and lover of many dorky topics. Archives
September 2022
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