Posts Tagged ‘war never changes’

Hey, Bethesda! How about “Customizable Survival Mode?”

I admit it—I’ve been slipping away from my writing to get a little Fallout 4 time in, especially now since Survival Mode has arrived. I couldn’t wait to get some of that New Vegas-style goodness back into the game, add an extra dimension of a challenge.

Now, see, I’m not a hardcore gamer that spends countless hours of my life parked in a dark room on the couch next to a bowl of Doritos and a case of Mountain Dew escaping from the reality of things like a job and taking out the trash. I love video games, but I don’t plan my life around them. That’s why I’ve broken from my normal blog to rant. Yes, it is a bit of a rant, but there’s also, unlike a true rant, a suggestion to solve the problems I am pointing out.

And that’s where Fallout 4’s survival mode falls short. But, I am getting ahead of myself. Let me start with each of the new aspects that have been blanket-foisted upon us.

No Blips on the Compass: Awesome. I really like this challenge, as who knows where the bad guys are… It makes traveling with Dogmeat more meaningful as well. My only suggested change is make it a perk that you have hyper-awareness, as the blips become a substitute for more refined senses. (A friend argued that the blips take the place of other senses we lose in the meta-gaming fashion, for example, we have a much greater field of vision in real life than can otherwise be afforded on even the largest screens. Nor can we smell in-game, thank God!) AND… it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have your mechanical friends show up, you know, since they might have technology that could pinpoint their location imbedded in their chassis and/or power armor.

Tougher Mechanics: Yes and no. Frankly, I was tired of striking a sack-headed raider in the skull eight or nine times with a .45 before they dropped. There was no REALISM in that. However, the ghouls are still somehow able to penetrate my power armor and do serious damage to my body. Don’t tell me they miraculously, with every hit, manage to strike a rubberized joint area. That wouldn’t just wound me, it would cripple me. And see my footnote below about Alphas/Skulls showing up all over the place. I mean, they’ve already become overpowered… That’s just overkill (pun intended). So, just follow my Ultimate Suggestion offered later in the programming.

Crippled Limbs, Sickness and Disease: Yes. Another good thing for the game dynamic. I pretty much ignored the doctors in-game, and took care of everything with a stimpak. Now that part of the world makes sense, and makes you think twice and weigh options on drinking that possibly-contaminated water. I’ve also been finding myself at the Chemistry station with a purpose, too.

Food, Water, Sleep: Just what the doctor ordered. Sort of. Another challenge I enjoy, as it makes the settlements more important to get up and running. I would tweak the frequency. I don’t get that hungry or thirsty or tired, and when I’m peckish in real life, I DO get cranky (-1 CHR). And finding a safe place to sleep because I get grew exhausted from all of the ghoul-dicing, sure. Love it. Even more reason to keep my main squeeze as a companion, too. However…

Sleep on Save: This is where it gets irritating. Earlier in my rant, I mentioned that I am not a hardcore gamer. This means that I have only so much time to play. Playing should be moving the narrative along, experiencing the game, not “Crap, I have to hunt for a bed because I need to save so I can sleep in real life to get up for work” or even constantly seeking them just to save before I head into the seriously dangerous territories. Traveling from bed to bed isn’t experiencing the story. It’s purely annoying. Plus… You mean to say I can MAKE a bed out of five cigarettes and the business end of a shovel (there’s REALISM for you…), but somehow I am unable to craft a bedroll or even improvise one where I could catch some shuteye? How about making some of those cars that still have their upholstery in it a place where I can sleep? I’m sure many people have done that before, curled up in the back seat to get a few winks. There’s REALISM for you… if you are tired enough, you can sleep just about anywhere. The sleep-on-save isn’t a challenge; it is a narrative-killing annoyance. So, suggestion: portable bedrolls and more logical-if-not-comfortable places to “sleep” in order to save. Or just follow my Ultimate Suggestion offered later in the programming.

No Fast Travel: This I like and hate at the same time. The reason I like it? REALISM. Experiencing the world of FO4 is entirely different when you are forced to experience it. However… I dislike that I cannot FT when I want for two reasons. The first being that, yet again I iterate, I don’t have the time to spend just traveling somewhere, especially when, instead of engaging in the narrative when I reach my destination, I am more concerned about looking for a flippin’ bed to get sleep AND save the game because *poof* there went all of my game time just moving from Point A to Point B. Worse, I get all the way there and end up dead in one shot from either a ridiculously overpowered Feral Ghoul, or one of the Alphas that seem to be everywhere in my game[1] so I end up having to start from the one mattress I DID find, waaaaaaaaaay back home. Second, there’s a weird meta-gaming thing I love to do; because I don’t have all of my life to devote to playing the game twenty times through for all of the variations, when I hit a cool dialogue spot I like to revert to the closest previous save, then drag each of my companions back to that spot to get to hear what they say when the spot is triggered[2]. Without Fast Travel, that is all gone. To quote my favorite dialogue in the game, “Pfft!”[3]. It shouldn’t be a travel game, it should be a story, like reading a book. Chapters and scene break with jumps in time. We don’t hear about every minute of every day or we’d put the book down. Same with the unfolding story in Fallout.

Another drawback? Settlement rescues. How about when those settlements are being attacked? Will we actually reach them in time? And who has time to divert from travel to head all the way back? The settlement rescues will be ignored because who has time (other than Steam-blooded gamers) to run and rescue them? It just takes too long.

Companions Returning: Another very, very bad addition. How far is “abandoned?” Heck, some of my companions run off on their own after the enemy, and if I happen to go a step too far, not only is my backup support gone, but possibly a lot of my essential gear. With Fast Travel turned off, this makes it another annoyance factor instead of an actual challenge. For REALISM… you think your companion, in bad shape, would maybe cry out? Or if they were in that bad of a condition, like with a crippled limb, they would STAY WHERE THEY ARE. Suggestion: One of the few I suggest seriously altering this dynamic so that they remain in place, cry out, show up as a blip, or just getting rid of it altogether and having them behave the way they used to.

Weighted Ammo and Carry Weight: It’s another winner, not being able to carry so much. In fact, I think what you are allowed to carry in-game is MORE than generous. On a good day, even our most fit troops can only ruck about 110 pounds. 60 pounds is about the average, for a soldier. That means while Nate could probably get away with rucking 60-110, but Nora would be hard-pressed to get to that level even with enough time spent honing her strength in the wasteland.

Short Digression: Let’s not kid ourselves. Any argument of REALISM you throw at us to justify why this or that is in the game the way it is is countered with other REALISM that wasn’t considered or inserted. Example: it is a fact that people can go without food for a long time, several weeks. They can go without water for several days. Now, we have Nate and Nora, who lived in an idyllic past, may take a while to get used to not eating as often, but as they experience the wasteland, they will grow more accustomed to doing without so much food—their bodies will grow harder, leaner[4] and far more efficient. This is a corollary with the foot/water/rest, as in the REALISM you would have us believe is that we get famished quickly and need two or three cans of beans. Two or three cans?! We didn’t really need that before all the destruction. Is it some psychological need to consume all we can because all we see around is need and want? If it is REALISM you want to convey, have us need less and less the higher level attained. Basically, if all things are considered, there would be too much REALISM to program, so the argument boils down to a null value. Make it fum with some “realism”. I ask that you please just follow my Ultimate Suggestion offered later in the programming.

Console Disabling: I know this only effects PC users, but, let’s face it: the game is buggy. With the Saves and Fast Travel turned off, and the console disabled, there’s no way to “un-stick” myself by traveling elsewhere or reloading the game. Disabling the console was the trifecta of a evil horse race. Not all of us used it to cheat or to circumvent the game REALISM (god mode). Some of us just wanted to NOT be frustrated with the bugginess of the game, knowing we have a quick fix that won’t cause us to completely waste our time re-doing a portion of it because we fell into a crevice in somewhere in the Glowing Sea…

Now we come to the Ultimate Suggestion Offered Later in the Programming: Those of us who only play an hour or so a day are gamers too, even if we don’t devote 5/6 of our lives hooked up to the Steam-dialysis machine. We already suffer through the Cable TV crap of wanting a channel or two but having to deal with a whole package just to get the few things we want. Here it is: Customizable Survival Mode. Isn’t that what makes Fallout 4 the AMAZING game that it is? Making decisions and performing actions that make the world the way WE want it to be? We get to choose which faction ends up the victor, and which ones get wiped from the face of the wasteland. Some love to explore, others like to build and renovate, while others love the thrill of capping ghouls at 200 yards. Instead of lumping the current Survival Mode all together and ramming it down our throats as a package, let us select which challenges we want and forget the rest, make the whole game and the world in it our own? Why should we have to sacrifice the experience of the cooler challenges in Survival Mode because we would have to accept the tedious or annoying aspects that make it “not a game” for the sake of REALISM?

So, just like with the Fancy Lads Snack Cakes, there’s more than one in the package, so I don’t see any reason why we shouldn’t be able to have our cake and eat it too. How about it, Bethesda? Make FO4 awesome for everyone.

 

[1] I’m not sure if this is a glitch or not. I mean, if my enemies are already tougher, why is damn-near every random encounter I’m having with an Alpha/Skull-level enemy?

[2] That’s how I found the gem of dialogue, when Piper goes on about “The Treasure is You!”

[3] That’s from the same bit of dialogue from Piper. Seriously, take her to find the Treasure.

[4] Nora already looks to be in pretty good shape, considering that, when the story commenced, she had an infant still young enough to put up with swaddling. Nate, it could be argued, already spent time doing without a decent meal while he was serving in the Army. Unless he was a pencil pusher instead of someone actually involved in combat, in which case he had no business giving a speech that begins “War… war never changes.”

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I had originally published this excerpt on 11 FEB 2010, just a little over four years ago. While the final version is nearly out (I expect everything to be revised, copyedited, formatted and published by the end of April), I find that while some things have taken drastic changes, others have remained quite the same as the original.

Just a reminder that the following, while maybe not used as-is in the upcoming novel, remains my intellectual property with all the rights and privileges to use reserved.

Breath clawed ragged furrows in his throat. Shredding pains in his sides choked off any deep inhalation. Running, trotting, he kept ahead, just ahead, by the barest of a sliver. Slipping and falling on the reeking carpet of foliage, he recovered and kept moving. Tripping over his own traitorous feet. But he didn’t dare stop, didn’t dare look back. Never glance over your shoulder. His pursuer hounded him —he felt the stare scorching the back of his head.

Slow now, just for a second, can’t breathe… He reined in his pace.

The stifling air amplified a brutal crack. Weapon’s fire. The same crack stung his ears before. This morning, that same crack. An explosion of blood. An end to his friend. A cry escaped him, but the pain within his lungs provided no volume.

No stopping. No slowing down for even a moment.

Must get these away. Take them someplace safe. He clutched at the relic, hanging from his strap around his neck, banging against the metal ephod. Must find a way to save the journals. He clutched those too, precious journals, priceless relic.

Brother Sun, protect me! Keep moving. Just keep moving.

* * *

The sun remained asleep beyond the horizon, but Click arose and gathered up his kit. The bride train escorts and the brides-to-be untangled themselves from one another, yawned and stretched the funk of sleep away. Four single, macho men (not counting Click) guarding seven twittering, nubile women as they traveled the Circuit made for a sad equation, and Click witnessed the product of that outcome for the last three nights. He pitied the men anticipating their tickermail dreams, thinking a virgin angel traveled to greet them and surrender themselves to their future and only husband. Gratitude swelled inside of him, nearing the time to be quit of them all. He looked forward to getting back to his own team, his own territory. He prided himself on his discipline, but a week and half of involvement in the odd dynamic threatened to end his moral standing, if not his goal.
At least one teammate remained with him to remind him of his business on the Circuit. Ibsen displayed more self-control than either the men or the women here. Click expressed his gratitude for the presence of at least one disciplined companion, even if he walked on four legs instead of two and drooled all over him. He reached down and scratched the gray and black furred head, and Ibsen glanced up at him with wintry blue eyes and panted in appreciation.
Not to mention I can get this done with and shave this damnable beard. Click scratched idly at the bristly, hair again, and felt the pustule of an ingrown hair break under his fingernail. When I get back I’m taking a day of liberty and using all twenty-four hours to bathe. Ten minutes with these guys also revealed one of their toughest weapons —personal hygiene. Between the body odor and the breath, the four men of the bride train possessed enough chemical weaponry to keep the wolgs and the highwaymen at a fair distance. The women didn’t fare much better, although they tried to hide it by rubbing themselves with crushed green they could pluck from the autumn-wounded trees and weeds.
The Circuit tried, with the bride trains, to mix up the gene pool, and Click silently applauded them on that effort. His people worried about the lack of genetic diversity in the smaller communities. He already saw the result of a small society mixing out of hand, and dealing with that counted among the gut-squirming and bloodiest situations Click and his men ever encountered. He didn’t even like to think about that mess, even though time placed it well over a decade behind him. These people didn’t seem to invest a lot of thought into the best way of mixing up DNA. If they knew what that was, he mused. Still, they tried.
Working with these escorts also disgusted him with the superficial machismo they strutted out to impress the betrothed. A hooligan at least ten years Click’s junior called himself their ‘captain’ and tried to pass himself off as a veteran warrior and conquerer of women. He ended up painting his own portrait as a sad, desperate man who took advantage of the naive girls and their willingness to indulge. Unfortunately, when Click signed on under this man, he assessed and dismissed his so-called prowess: he bedded more women —intended for other men— than anyone else on the Circuit. Period. Highwaymen, beware!
On one of the rare nights Click didn’t volunteer for the first watch, he sat down with their captain —”Just call me Honcho, my care” — he learned all he needed to know concerning the escorts. They considered themselves tightly knit, and knew not only the other escorts on the Circuit, but also the regular travelers; textwalkers, mapmakers, merchants, C-guard. Within a few questions, and some plain observation, Click realized his man wouldn’t stay among types like these for very long. He would stand out, much like Click himself, as possessing considerably more self-control. Unfortunately, none of the captain’s descriptions, physical or characteristically, resembled his man.
But the escort captain and his men did fill him in on some of the more colorful personalities, like the anxious textwalker who memorized everything they told him instead of writing it down, and they played games with him to see if they could trip him up. According to one escort, they all failed to get him to trip up on even the details. Not even when they watched that man flop onto his rear against a tree and stared at the ground with his head bobbing up and down. The storytelling escort performed a demonstration and Click watched the others as they cackled, pointed. “That’s him, man. That’s him!” Regarding another one, the captain related, “You know this one mapmaker… She… Yeah I said ‘she’… She been walking the Circuit like for five years, my care. Least I knows of. She a quiet thing, keeping to herself. But I change that. Real quick. I change that and she be begging me.” He thrust his hips in vulgar humping gesture, and loosed a few mock groans in a pitch high enough to make the women sound masculine. The others, escorts and brides all, erupted in chuckles and wolg-whistles. Whatever turns them on, I suppose. Click shrugged and dismissed the crude humor.
A dusky-skinned man with a crooked nose, smacked his thigh and laughed harder, louder and longer at his captain who tossed a scowl in his direction. “Beggin’ you to stop.? Rich, cap’n Honch. Rich indeed. Way I recall it, you tell that woman you gonna light an in-fer-no in that ice crack of hers, and she just rock that rifle she got in your ugly face. You looking all ‘I jus’ piss my pants’ and she just straight-face. I jus’ saying.” He raised his hands in a gesture of submission, holding his serious mien for a moment before losing it in a fit of laughter.
“Ya, he ain’t never saw no woman toting a gun before.” The guffaws began anew.
All escorts around the fire rejoined the levity; all of them except for their leader. Lips crushed together, his face graduated from bronze to red with the laughter feeding it. He hopped to his feet, snatched up his shotgun. “I’ll go do up a watch.”
The captain gathered his own weapon. “Bitch need a man to do her over a couple times, from behind,” He illustrated his statement with more vulgar gestures and then hightailed it out of sight. That only affirmed, signed, and nailed to the front door Click’s final assessment of the man’s (severe lack of) character. Click found himself silently giving the unknown woman a long-distance knuckle bump for turning the man down, and urging her to simply shoot him next time they cross paths.
A few more hours of walking, Click reminded himself as the others rose and began to gather their gear. Just a few more, hiking north along the cracked and weed-sprouting road, and they would arrive in Shebor. Then it’s a hearty rendition of “Goodbye, bride train. Goodbye.”
For all of his talk, the captain did seem to make it a point to keep up the information on other groups who traveled the Circuit. Only one of the Shebor-based group caused the Captain to come up short on knowledege. The Guv — the man who ran the Circuit, or at least thought he did — started sending out guard patrols, men as well armed as the escorts, to police the southern roads. The Circuit always faced clashes with the trash wolgs; those highwaymen trying to harass farmers in between towns, ambush traveling merchants or snatch the women from the bride trains (though after seeing what went on during the train, Click wasn’t convinced the trashdogs could treat them any worse).
Now, however, someone felt threatened enough by extra activity along the southern swing, with reports of bodies of entire communities found strung up by their necks. Raped, mutilated, executed, or simply executed in the middle of the road and left for the vultures, the escort captain described it all. Not that they saw any of that during their trip. Either the C-guard patrols proved effective (something Click doubted very much, if these men were the best protection the Circuit could turn out) or whoever caused the problems displayed more selectivity in their victims than the captain gave them credit.
Anticipation of the journey’s end pumped more adrenaline into his veins, and Click’s steps seemed lighter. Had these men displayed any physical discipline (and had the women been in better shape) he might have urged them to quicken the pace to a steady march just to get this over with. He forced himself to calm down, to keep pace, and examine his surroundings. Once back at his home, the intelligence alone might make the trip profitable, if he found his man or not.