culture

Last month saw the release of a number of significant titles from Japanese designers and developers, most notably Child of Eden and Shadows of the Damned. For a long time gamer like myself they represented hugely significant titles marking (in Eden) a spiritual successor to a classic (Rez), and (in Shadows) a collaboration of some of Japan’s greatest talents. Yet while my excitement was nearly over flowing at their release, the gaming playing community at large responded with a near inaudible, ‘meh’.

For all of my protestations and despite having bought it before huge price reductions, I am not enjoying Child of Eden.

The 360 timed exclusive Child of Eden, the first ‘core’ game for Kinect, shifted 90,000 worldwide, while Shadows of the Damned mustered even fewer at 60,000 despite being aimed more at a Western market and releasing for PS3 and 360. This is all set against the sales of the critically panned Duke Nukem Forever, which has (at the time of writing) had sales totaling of 750,000. I say these figures represent worldwide sales but in fact these games have only released in Europe and America, despite their Japanese roots. Interestingly in the same time frame the PS3 exclusive, Yakuza: The End, released in Japan and has managed sales of 400,000 units, proving Japanese games can sell to the right/home audience.

But should this be a surprise to anyone? Having followed gaming in both the East and the West it is becoming increasingly clear that games do not transcend culture as some once believed. There was a time when the limited number of games (and a focus on the pure mechanics of play) allowed sales of ‘good’ games to cross cultural boundaries. Yet with the market and range of games growing, a title’s ‘dressing’ has becoming increasingly important.

Shadows of the Damned lack of success in the West is a mystery to my, let's put it down to poor advertising.

In much the same way that all entertainment media struggles outside of its cultural home, games are now finding that the environment they are created proves an increasingly limiting factor. A fact that can be clearly demonstrated with Call of Duty: Black Ops, which sold a total 10,300,000 units, only 300,000 of which came from Japan.

The natural conclusion to this for companies will be that they should only release massive games, or those deemed able to cross cultural boundaries, outside their of home territory. In other entertainment media this would leave it to small, specialised companies to bring a title to foreign audiences, but in gaming the cost of translation and distribution are considerably higher, increasing the risks involved. Even endeavors such as fan translations are faced with the struggle of media that is hard to alter, and so doggedly protected by its owners that even purchasing a legitimate foreign copy is often frowned upon and expensive.

Attempts to bring Call of Duty to Japan have always been half hearted in the knowledge sales will be limited.

It is hard to admit, but the reality is that the market for translated foreign titles is not present, making doing so an unattractive proposition for companies. It is a sad truth for long time gamers (like myself) to accept that despite the affection we have for Japanese titles it isn’t enough to convince a company, whose main focus is profit, to localise them for us. We are lucky to have companies like Atlus importing niche titles, and even more fortunate to have had EA sponsor a title like Shadows of the Damned, but if sales continue the way they are such projects will become increasingly rare. When that happens we can only hope that holders of their copyrights will be willing to loosen their grip and allow fans to find some (at least vaguely) legitimate way to experience their games.

(All figures courtesy of VGChartz.com)

It is possible I am getting too old for this, but lets just pretend I went in with the wrong expectations. Introduced to me by new friend Matt, Famitsu Vol.1 was a chiptunes event held in my adopted hometown of Osaka. It was an interesting night but one filled with uncomfortable social encounters.

Walking in to the event I was caught off guard. Held at Club Drop in Namba, I was surprised to be greeted by a small well lit bar rather than the darkened hall I expected. Casting an eye down the bar first thing I noticed (with some dismay) was the plastic glasses that I would be drinking from for the rest of the night, the second thing I noticed was the clientele. Most of the patrons sat along the small bar clutching DSs self-consciously close to their face, warding off any would be personal interactions by remain locked to their personal electronic world.

It struck me as odd for an event that thrust like-minded individuals together to see so many of them completely oblivious to each other’s existence. As a life long gamer I understand the stigma associate with the hobby, the idea that all of us are socially inept loners who struggle with normal interactions, but I had never witnessed this phenomenon so acutely demonstrated. Arguably of course these portable gamers were being social, playing over Wi-Fi as they were this was not a solitary activity, but the general lack of communication left the experience seeming joyless to me as an onlooker (though I may just have been jealous I didn’t bring my DS).

Even if the portable players at the bar had wanted to talk it soon became apparent that they would struggle to over the blare of noise coming from the adjacent room. Glancing through the doors I was greeted by something more akin to my initial expectations for the event, a large darkened room where speech was made near impossible by the 8-bit electronica pumping out of speakers at volumes it was never intended to be played at.

Moving around this new room it became increasingly apparent that the event was intended as a meeting place for gamers rather than as a music venue, or at the very least it had been misappropriated as such. Around thirty people occupied the deafening room, most of who had their attention directed squarely at the five small televisions that sat in a circle in the centre of the room. Every generation of console was represented in this huddle with games littered across each of the squat tables the televisions rested on. Players massed around each system, orderly waiting their turn.

This was where I played Mario Kart 64... Admittedly a flash would have helped.

This was more social. While it may not have been quite the experience I had anticipated, it began to feel more familiar, like a really noisy arcade. People were yelling over the music and, while the wide gap left for people to dance in remained empty, within the huddle of gamers there was mingling and socializing.

Plonking myself down in front of Street Fighter 4 I picked up a pad. My rival sat confidently with his own Hori arcade stick. Having seen off numerous other opponents he had every reason for the self-assured grin that rested on his face as the drunken foreigner sat down next to him. His confidence was not misplaced, but I at least retained some small amount of dignity holding him to a three round to two victory. As I stood to leave my opponent offered me a warm smile and handshake that made me feel instantly more connect with the event. Fellow visitors insular nature that had seemed insurmountable and cold on arrival began to thaw, as this gaming camaraderie began to emerge.

Joining a group of three playing Mario Kart 64 I anticipated more of a challenge. With the small group evidently already friends I feared being ostracised, but they welcomed me openly, even pausing the game to remind me of the controls in broken English. We played a few games together, and as I slowly improved some member of our foursome dropped out to be replaced by other lingerers from around the room until I sat as the lone survivor of the earlier four. Realising how long I had been sat cross-legged in front of the old television, I stood and allowed another player to eagerly take my place.

It was a strange community, but one that was considerable more hospitable than impressions suggested, at least once the uncomfortable first hurdle had been crossed. Approaching people directly almost without exception lead to a self-conscious silence, but with the mediator of a controller and a TV something changed and relationships were easily established.

Beneath all of my dialogues (successful or not) there lay the pounding chiptune undercurrent. Now I like chiptunes but my exposure is limited, possibly due to 8-bit consoles low penetration in the UK. The result is an appreciation of the chiptune genre that comes from a love of gaming history rather than nostalgia. Problematically the historian in me seemed to struggle in a club setting where there was no escaping the (to be brutally honest) often-grating music.

Trying to listen to the distorted sounds coming from the speakers I began to wonder if my lack of interest was simply because I was lacking a point of reference. Frequently when listening to music I need an entry point, something I recognise to access and fully enjoy what I am hearing. Everything on offer at Club Drop, bar a few brief refrains, was alien to me. Tracks blended one into another seemingly without end, producing a sound similar to a harpsichord with angry bees inside. I tried to dance, alone, in the empty space to this cacophony of bleeps and white noise but found myself unable to match any of the oscillating beats.

Hidden behind their cloth I can't decide if the DJs were being cool or hiding from their audiences indifference.

Eventually I surrendered in my attempts to dance, moving back to the bar to look at the smattering of coz-players who had joined the party. Each looked a varying degree of embraced by their situation as few who had made effort. My previous encounters with coz-players had seen them congregated in large groups; here, isolated from the safety of numbers, they looked uncomfortable. Approaching a few of these costumed individuals I tried to tell them how good they looked. Each person I spoke to shrank from me with alarming speed, a speed I suspect was as much connected to their own discomfort as it was my size and whiteness. Settling for the quick ‘arigato’ each offered I retreated to the bar to save all involved further discomfort.

Back to the bar I assessed my situation. Slowly the club was filling. A few members of the ensemble stood on the dance floor trying (and failing) to pick out some form of beat from the DJs who were separated from their mostly indifferent audience by a white sheet with pixel art projected upon it. My options were simple, to stay and play games all night, paying too much for alcohol in plastic cups, or return home and play the same games with cheap alcohol from a glass. Despite the social nature some had shown I decided a dignified retreat was preferable to further stilted conversations and trying to teach people how to play Left 4 Dead.

I don’t know what I had expected going in to Club Drop, but what I found was a microcosm of an quiet community who, while shy, were welcoming to new comers. While the music may have not delivered what I had hoped, it provided an excuse to bring these individuals with a shared interest together. With any luck the next event in October will grow in size and the focus will shift towards a social meeting place for fans of gaming, with the music relegated to a more ambient level to set the mood, at least until every one is drunk.

Video games have always influenced each other. Growing from a few seeds the industry has evolved. Occasionally a single shoot is split, forming a new branch in the evolution. Some of these are dead ends, while others flourish. Even more rarely branches come together and make something new.

Not all previously divergent paths join with the same success. As I play more of these titles that attempt to blend separate evolutions together it is becoming clear that Japanese trees in this laboured metaphor are struggling to assimilate Western genetics.

I guess Japanese design ideas are dominant alleles.

Japanese developers soberness runs through all of their business structures. A rigid adherence to rules and bureaucracy that makes them slow to adapt. As a nation they have produced ingenious devices and innovations but as solutions to problems, rather than pure innovation.

Some realise this problem, with Capcom’s Jun Takeuchi acknowledging the issue of Japanese developer’s stagnation and the need for change if they are to survive. But even Capcom, one of the most internationally minded Japanese developers struggles working with Western teams and concepts, choosing poor properties or failing to understand the reasons behind gameplay mechanics, focusing on bullet points.

At a time when games need to reach an ever-widening audience to justify their development costs, it is an issue set to get worse. Though I hold a small fear that such shared ideals could lead to the homogenisation of games, I take heart in the fact the most unique elements of nature come from cross pollination and mutation.

Top title game releases are becoming a year round event. Gone are the days when a gamer could binge at Christmas and fast through the winter, surviving on the fat of Santa’s spoils. But while the release calendar has changed my buying habits have not, and that maybe about to become a problem.

It was no secret that the traditional lull really wasn’t coming in January this year. Initially my supposition was that the large number of delayed games had simply shifted the off-season to around March. With this in mind I kept buying games. I bought Heavy Rain, Mass Effect 2 and MAG to name but a few. I ground my way through all of these, leaving aside titles from Christmas that I planned to return to later when the slump finally arrived. But my belief that the flood of releases would slow was wrong, because as March came and went, and the games kept coming.

I don't want to sound like I am complaining, this is not a bad problem to have.

Now I find myself sat with a pile of fantastic games that I am still itching to finish. They sit on my metaphorical coffee table, begging for attention. Yet even with this heap of games I have discovered that I continue to check new releases, unwilling to miss out on the next significant title.

Late in March it became apparent that it was getting beyond a joke. With games to review, articles to write and a life to lead, it had to stop. I had more than enough unfinished and unplayed titles to keep me going until sometime in October. Even big releases like God Of War 3 I knew I would not have time for; I could easily save myself effort and expense of buying it. I realized that once the buzz died and the price dropped I could come back to it, if I was still interested, but right now I don’t need it in my life. So I made a simple vow; no more new games until I finish the games I already own.

Kratos is just going to have to wait his turn.

Even as I made this promise I add clauses. I reasoned that games applicable to my ‘Scared Gamer’ page on Game People, would have to be bought for coverage. Plus any title that may be hard to find at a later date would have to be snapped up. Sensible provisos I could argue, but the more astute reader can no doubt see them as pre-made excuses for my purchases of Metro 2033 and Deadly Premonition. Yet even with these loopholes I have already broken my promise.

In many respects my actions were almost innate, see wanted game, I buy it. As an adult there is always enough money in my wallet for any game I want (which is different statement from actually having enough money). By simply having the economic means, the chance of me weakening to an impulse purchase rise exponentially. I was coping though; since I made the oath no new games had entered my house. Technically in fact I still have not gone back on my vow, but in my heart I know the preorder for Super Street Fighter 4 sat in my wallet is not sanctioned.

To make matters worse its the collectors edition.

My problem was that Street Fighter is something very special to me. In my youth this was a series that saw me saving for months to enable me to buy it day of release. A franchise that saw me hauling my tubby thirteen-year-old ass through Birmingham (at speeds it had rarely seen) go to Game, just to grab the latest instalment.

I could make a good many justifications to myself (some may even be convincing) to explain breaking my oath for the latest Street Fighter. Deep down I know however that, like so many others, this games will sit unwrapped for some time. My life has changed, I can no longer sit and play for hours on a Saturday with friends, and online play simply does not scratch the same itch. My time for this kind of gaming has passed, so while I can hope to one day relive it, the fact is I will be lucky to ever recapture this part of my youth even for a day.

On the plus side the bonus rounds are back.

Super Street Fighter 4 was simply the game that highlighted this problem that I, and I am sure many other committed gamers have, habitually buying games. Now as an adult I struggle to break the habit of buying games when I can, a pattern established during a time in my life when I could finish every game I could afford. As much as I try to rationalise it and excuse my purchases (‘its for review’ or ‘I have to keep up with the discussion’), I have to accept that I am now an adult with limited time. I am sure that I am not alone in having to take a long hard look at my hobby, its costs and my consumption of it, before conceding that many of my purchases are at best frivolous, and at worst wasteful, especially as the industry now appears set to feed my addiction all year round.