The Game Boy: Of Tomb Raider and “Torture Porn”: "
Watching one of gaming's most well-known faces plummet multiple stories and impale herself on a jagged iron pipe is an uncomfortable experience, to say the least. But wait, she's not done. Nearly sobbing, she proceeds to wrench her unfortunate new appendage from her side while emitting a skin-crawling
scream. And that's just the beginning.
The first time I saw the latest Tomb Raider game in action, my heart nearly exploded out of my chest – probably in an effort to escape from the carnage. The rest of my body, meanwhile, wanted nothing more than to follow it. Lara Croft was in pain. Real pain. Blinding pain. Not “Rawr, me videogame character, me shrug off bullet to face like it tiny blind kitten baby” pain. It was ugly, dirty, and downright horrific. And it wouldn't stop happening. Lara constantly fell, slipped, and survived by clawing rocks until her fingernails were bloody scraps. The demo reveled in pain, said many pundits. It was “torture porn,” sharing a straightjacket with movies like SAW and the part of our brains that loves to stare at car wrecks.
I, however, disagree completely. Not only that, I think this is something the gaming industry could use a whole lot more of. Find out why after the break.
Modern games have all but turned the Grim Reaper into a teddy bear wearing a hood that just so happens to be made from your childhood safety blanket. Death's no longer scary – not in the slightest. After all, you'll just respawn at the last checkpoint or – if you're playing with save-anywhere features – two seconds before you died because you're probably afflicted with crippling Constant-Save OCD. Worse, we've successfully de-fanged the threat of death as well. Have you eaten one too many face-seeking missiles while charging headlong into battle? Just chill out behind a rock for a couple seconds and wait for the strawberry jam to disappear from your screen. Then it's just a matter of bellowing “3, 2, 1, 0! Look out, robo-Hitler and his army of giant shark-spiders, here I come!,” and skipping merrily into the fray.
Game characters lack vulnerability. And that's a damn shame, because it can be an incredibly powerful tension-building tool when used correctly. That's why Tomb Raider was so striking. That's why people didn't know how to classify it – why they lumped it in with Weird Mask McScaryDude and SAW's circus of cheap thrills. Tomb Raider's debut demo re-established the idea that a videogame character surrounded by blood-thirsty beasts and constant peril could be, you know, in mortal danger. It's like in many movies or TV series: You know the main character is going to survive, but you keep watching because it seems like they could bite the bullet at any given moment. Is it all an illusion? Sure. The best stories, though, can put the smoke-and-mirrors front-and-center, but it doesn't bug you for a second. You're already under their spell.
I've only fainted once in my entire life, and – shockingly – it wasn't because someone punched me in the face. An otherwise serviceable film called “The Island” is what suddenly had me down for the count, and it was one scene's masterful use of vulnerability that sealed the deal. Words can't really do it justice, obviously, but here's the short version: Michael Clarke Duncan's character was on the operating table – more specifically, having his chest sawed open. That part, however, wasn't particularly gruesome.
He woke up half-way through, though, and things went downhill fast. He began running around this sterile environment shouting in a mix of fear, agony, and confusion, beating heart hidden behind the thinnest flap of remaining flesh. I'm not sure exactly which part actually did it, but I suddenly felt an odd sensation in my stomach and then – night-night – I was out cold. (A slight aside: That little episode took place during a freshman year English class. So, uh, don't let anyone tell you English is boring, I guess.)
Point is, vulnerability is powerful. Sadly, with the exception of Tomb Raider, recent games have been trending away from it. For instance, at one point pain and vulnerability were the survival-horror genre's calling card. I mean, that's sort of what the “survival” bit's all about. And in those games – the classic Resident Evils and Silent Hills – it wasn't an illusion. You were weak. Overwhelmed. Resources were always one feeble drip away from running dry, and death loomed heavy.
Meanwhile, survival-horror's modern crop has gone all Rambos Vs Zombies on us, essentially turning the genre into undead whack-a-mole. Sure, Resident Evil 5 and Dead Space have their creepy moments, but you're packing an arsenal that'd make Michael Bay jealous and either a futuristic super suit or Chris Redfield, who's 95 percent steroid. Modern games – survival-horror or not – seek to empower and fulfill fantasies. But where's the tension or raw feeling in shedding gallons upon gallons of blood while barely breaking a sweat? There's a place for that type of experience, sure, but it shouldn't be the only type of experience.
On some level, games are inherently empowering. You're given control of a world, a character, a life. That, however, is precisely why taking power away can be so impactful in games – perhaps moreso than in any other medium. Gamers are used to mastering entire universes. What happens, though, when they can't even master their own frail, frightened avatar? That's when things become interesting. Or thrilling. Or terrifying. One thing's for sure, though: They're certainly not forgettable.
And so, while others geek out about their 360-degree-spin sniper headshots, I can't help but hearken back to the end of Metal Gear Solid 4. Snake had been a badass war hero at one point in time, sure, but now he was old, diseased, and horribly wounded to boot. Barely holding himself together. To reach his final goal, he had to crawl – somewhat preposterously – through a hallway loaded with microwave radiation. But the silliness isn't what stuck with me. Instead, I remember desperately mashing one button to make Snake inch forward, because I wanted nothing more than to yank him away from death's door. My wrist felt like it was on fire, but I kept mashing. He inched. I mashed. He inched. It was agonizing – emotionally and physically, believe it or not. But I was so wrapped up in the moment that nothing else mattered.
The world around me melted away. Sights, smells, sounds – everything. My senses were entirely consumed by a freaking videogame. How cool is that?
"
Watching one of gaming's most well-known faces plummet multiple stories and impale herself on a jagged iron pipe is an uncomfortable experience, to say the least. But wait, she's not done. Nearly sobbing, she proceeds to wrench her unfortunate new appendage from her side while emitting a skin-crawling
scream. And that's just the beginning.
The first time I saw the latest Tomb Raider game in action, my heart nearly exploded out of my chest – probably in an effort to escape from the carnage. The rest of my body, meanwhile, wanted nothing more than to follow it. Lara Croft was in pain. Real pain. Blinding pain. Not “Rawr, me videogame character, me shrug off bullet to face like it tiny blind kitten baby” pain. It was ugly, dirty, and downright horrific. And it wouldn't stop happening. Lara constantly fell, slipped, and survived by clawing rocks until her fingernails were bloody scraps. The demo reveled in pain, said many pundits. It was “torture porn,” sharing a straightjacket with movies like SAW and the part of our brains that loves to stare at car wrecks.
I, however, disagree completely. Not only that, I think this is something the gaming industry could use a whole lot more of. Find out why after the break.
Modern games have all but turned the Grim Reaper into a teddy bear wearing a hood that just so happens to be made from your childhood safety blanket. Death's no longer scary – not in the slightest. After all, you'll just respawn at the last checkpoint or – if you're playing with save-anywhere features – two seconds before you died because you're probably afflicted with crippling Constant-Save OCD. Worse, we've successfully de-fanged the threat of death as well. Have you eaten one too many face-seeking missiles while charging headlong into battle? Just chill out behind a rock for a couple seconds and wait for the strawberry jam to disappear from your screen. Then it's just a matter of bellowing “3, 2, 1, 0! Look out, robo-Hitler and his army of giant shark-spiders, here I come!,” and skipping merrily into the fray.
Game characters lack vulnerability. And that's a damn shame, because it can be an incredibly powerful tension-building tool when used correctly. That's why Tomb Raider was so striking. That's why people didn't know how to classify it – why they lumped it in with Weird Mask McScaryDude and SAW's circus of cheap thrills. Tomb Raider's debut demo re-established the idea that a videogame character surrounded by blood-thirsty beasts and constant peril could be, you know, in mortal danger. It's like in many movies or TV series: You know the main character is going to survive, but you keep watching because it seems like they could bite the bullet at any given moment. Is it all an illusion? Sure. The best stories, though, can put the smoke-and-mirrors front-and-center, but it doesn't bug you for a second. You're already under their spell.
I've only fainted once in my entire life, and – shockingly – it wasn't because someone punched me in the face. An otherwise serviceable film called “The Island” is what suddenly had me down for the count, and it was one scene's masterful use of vulnerability that sealed the deal. Words can't really do it justice, obviously, but here's the short version: Michael Clarke Duncan's character was on the operating table – more specifically, having his chest sawed open. That part, however, wasn't particularly gruesome.
He woke up half-way through, though, and things went downhill fast. He began running around this sterile environment shouting in a mix of fear, agony, and confusion, beating heart hidden behind the thinnest flap of remaining flesh. I'm not sure exactly which part actually did it, but I suddenly felt an odd sensation in my stomach and then – night-night – I was out cold. (A slight aside: That little episode took place during a freshman year English class. So, uh, don't let anyone tell you English is boring, I guess.)
Point is, vulnerability is powerful. Sadly, with the exception of Tomb Raider, recent games have been trending away from it. For instance, at one point pain and vulnerability were the survival-horror genre's calling card. I mean, that's sort of what the “survival” bit's all about. And in those games – the classic Resident Evils and Silent Hills – it wasn't an illusion. You were weak. Overwhelmed. Resources were always one feeble drip away from running dry, and death loomed heavy.
Meanwhile, survival-horror's modern crop has gone all Rambos Vs Zombies on us, essentially turning the genre into undead whack-a-mole. Sure, Resident Evil 5 and Dead Space have their creepy moments, but you're packing an arsenal that'd make Michael Bay jealous and either a futuristic super suit or Chris Redfield, who's 95 percent steroid. Modern games – survival-horror or not – seek to empower and fulfill fantasies. But where's the tension or raw feeling in shedding gallons upon gallons of blood while barely breaking a sweat? There's a place for that type of experience, sure, but it shouldn't be the only type of experience.
On some level, games are inherently empowering. You're given control of a world, a character, a life. That, however, is precisely why taking power away can be so impactful in games – perhaps moreso than in any other medium. Gamers are used to mastering entire universes. What happens, though, when they can't even master their own frail, frightened avatar? That's when things become interesting. Or thrilling. Or terrifying. One thing's for sure, though: They're certainly not forgettable.
And so, while others geek out about their 360-degree-spin sniper headshots, I can't help but hearken back to the end of Metal Gear Solid 4. Snake had been a badass war hero at one point in time, sure, but now he was old, diseased, and horribly wounded to boot. Barely holding himself together. To reach his final goal, he had to crawl – somewhat preposterously – through a hallway loaded with microwave radiation. But the silliness isn't what stuck with me. Instead, I remember desperately mashing one button to make Snake inch forward, because I wanted nothing more than to yank him away from death's door. My wrist felt like it was on fire, but I kept mashing. He inched. I mashed. He inched. It was agonizing – emotionally and physically, believe it or not. But I was so wrapped up in the moment that nothing else mattered.
The world around me melted away. Sights, smells, sounds – everything. My senses were entirely consumed by a freaking videogame. How cool is that?
"
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