I was going to wait until I beat the game to write this post, but I'm so infuriated, I knew I had to capture this feeling for posterity.
The last level of the game has you flying into a Trade Federation droid control ship, you know, as one does. The level is so confined that my first few times I tried it, I wound up getting shot at by enemies from all sides before crashing into the walls and dying. So I looked up a video that showed how to navigate through the various stages of the level.
And then I tried it again. And again. And again. And finally I did it. I beat the boss character in his ludicrously powerful ship with the fast regenerating shields and the missiles that both homed in on me and exploded in a near-unavoidable AoE damage field when I managed to shoot them down early. I navigated through the crumbling ship and blew up the shield generator. And then I ran into a piece of debris and died, literally one second before the very end of the game.
Sigh. This is bringing back memories. When I was 19, my console of choice was the Gamecube. And one of my most played games was Rogue Squadron II: Rogue Leader. It's been a long time since I played it, but I remember two main things about it - being awed by its gorgeous sci-fi environments and being angry nearly every second I played it.
And anger was just my baseline state of being. There were moments when I was furious. When I yelled and swore at the game, and the ground my teeth and hit reload. And, while Star Wars Starfighter is not as interesting, diverse, or polished an experience as Rogue Leader, it nonetheless handles similarly, and is bringing up old feelings long since forgotten.
Maybe it's maturity, but I wonder why I ever subjected myself to that, all those years ago. I know why I'm doing it now - because I'm stubbornly clinging to an ill-considered goal that only allows for the slightest nuance and flexibility. But back then, why did I spend so much of my leisure time on activities that enraged me.
I suppose there might be such a thing as constructive rage. Anger that drives you to improve and excel, overcome obstacles and finish jobs that aren't always pleasant. But we're talking about games here. So what's my angle? Why do I care about missing the end by 1 second?
I think I get invested in the narrative. Not the game's actual plot (which in this case is a serviceable, but forgettable number about 3 ace pilots from very different backgrounds getting caught up in the Trade Federation invasion of Naboo), but the logic of its world. The progression of cause and effect. I didn't just fail to experience 1 extra second with no significant challenges or insights. I died. I got so close to beating the mission, and I failed. I snatched defeat from the jaws of victory, and now I have to start the level all over again. Even though this is 2017 and I could easily just look up the final cinematic, were I especially curious about what happens to the three people whose names I've already forgotten.
It's ridiculous to be frustrated by something like this, but maybe that's central to the appeal of video games as a whole. It's not just a fantasy world where things like space ships and robots exist, it's also a simulation of significance. Within the context of the game, my actions, my choices, and even my failures matter. I mean, obviously these things matter in real life too, but in real life I have too much to lose and not enough to gain. I'll never save a planet from invasion, I'll never get in a dogfight with the mercenary who killed my mentor, I'll never help pirates escape an army of robots. But if I do too badly checking people into hotel rooms, if I accidentally let a drug dealer be my roommate, if I fail to notice a suspicious mole, I may well end up homeless, in jail, or dead. And that's not a lot of fun to contemplate.
Which I guess means that in order to have the sort of simulated triumph that's earned with a harmless sort of simulated risk, I have to open myself up to simulated anger. Unfortunately, it doesn't always feel simulated at the time.
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