Anime Reflections: Attack on Titan

I started watching Attack on Titan (or “Shingeki no Kyojin,” as some will insist) a while ago, at which point I blogged about my first impressions. It’s worth noting that those first impressions covered the first eight episodes. This is very important because the events at the end of the eight episodes that I vaguely alluded to were a huge turning point in the show—one that ultimately affected my opinions on the show.

I feel that, overall, the show was mediocre. Not flat-out bad, but it had a lot of problems dragging it down. Of course, as it’s near impossible to explain why without going into specifics, the rest of this post will be filled with spoilers from the first eight episodes.

The first eight episodes of Attack on Titan were very strong. You get to see firsthand the devastation the Titans have wrought. You see how quickly they turn the protagonists’ lives upside down. Then, at the end of episode five, Eren Jaeger (who, up to this point, we have been led to believe is our protagonist) is killed while attempting to save his friend Armin. The show then focuses on his adopted sister Mikasa, Armin, and the rest of the recruits in their first battle. During this time the show begins delving into a theme: the idea that the world is cruel and only the strongest are able to survive. I mentioned this theme in my first impressions post as what seemed to be the overarching theme of the show.

After focusing on Mikasa and Armin for a few episodes, a mysterious Titan begins attacking other Titans. This Titan is revealed in the eighth episode to be a transformed Eren.

This is the moment where the show begins to take a downward spiral. Some things that go wrong:

1. The next six episodes are horribly paced. The two things of note that happen are that Eren moves a rock to block a hole in the wall and is eventually brought into the Scouting Legion. The rest consists of people going “OH NO GUYS EREN’S A TITAN WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO” over and over. It’s not even approached from different angles. It’s just a Mexican Standoff that lacks tension because it’s made fairly obvious that the protagonists will come out on top. While the show does pick up a bit afterwards, it failed to really catch my attention again until the very last episode.

2. Eren can shift back and forth between his human and Titan form. This singlehandedly destroys the theme that existed for the first eight episodes. Suddenly, the humans have a feasible way to fight back. They have a somewhat controllable weapon capable of defeating dozens of Titans. Instead of fighting against the impossible, they’re merely fighting against the unlikely. It cheapens the brutality of the first episodes.

3. Eren also reassumes his role as protagonist. Eren was a spectacular protagonist for the first part of the show. We were really able to feel his helplessness at his personal loss and his determination to fight these odds, no matter how personal. That’s exactly why his death was so powerful: because his rage and determination carried him through, even though he wasn’t the most capable recruit. However, that impact is lost after he becomes a Titan. This would not be as bad if he did not remain a static character. Instead, he ceases to develop. His entire character becomes “I want to destroy all the Titans” with a dash of “I don’t fully understand how this power works” thrown in. He ceases to become relatable, but remains a straightforward and simple character.

4. The other characters are also a problem. The show introduces them in groups and spends very little time actually focusing on them. There are a few who are relatively notable, but everyone else just seems to be there to pad out a roster. When you combine the fact that the characters are so underdeveloped with the nature of the show, you quickly realize that these people are most likely cannon fodder. It’s like George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire/Game of Thrones series: there are plenty of characters, but you can’t bring yourself to fully care about many of them because they could die at any moment. However, unlike ASoIaF, which takes a great amount of time (perhaps too much time) developing all the characters before Martin kills them off, Attack on Titan is content to just sort of let them exist.

Those are the main issues I have with Attack on Titan at the moment. I have other things I could complain about, but the show needs to be complete before I make a judgment. The two big things right now is that there are a lot of hazy character motivations that make no sense (which I won’t go into in detail because they contain a few things I’ve pieced together from manga spoilers) and that questions are being raised faster than they can be answered. While Attack on Titan is very good at stringing its viewers along with red herrings (which is one of its strong points), it also tends to completely forget about plot points. Early on, Eren has a vision (though from when is uncertain) of his father injecting him with something and giving him a key to his basement, which seems to contain something very important. The first season never touches on this occurrence again. According to friends who read the manga, they’re still waiting on answers regarding the key as well.

Attack on Titan definitely gave me and interesting world full of fun mysteries. What it didn’t give me, however, were good characters, well-paced structure, consistent themes, or, ultimately, a reason to care.

Writing: Don’t Shoot The Messenger’s revised edition!

So, uh…hi. Call me The Messenger. I’m a normal guy working an IT job. Pretty straightforward work, if you discount the fact that I’m working for a cult worshiping some sharp-dressed dimension-warper. So yeah, when I say my coworkers are insane, I mean it literally.

They tell me to lie low and pretend I’m a good little sheep, buying into what they say. Then they bring me the names of dead people to enter into a database, with no context of who they are or why they died. They can’t keep me in the dark forever, though. I’ll figure out what’s going on here eventually. Keep a record of what I find, just in case something happens to me. Maybe I can put together the pieces and get the word out, even if it’s just one person. Maybe that person will be you.

But if you don’t like what you find? Don’t get mad at me. I’m just calling things like I see them.

Don’t Shoot The Messenger.

If you know me and haven’t just stumbled across this blog, here are some things you might know about me, ordered from most likely to least likely:

I am a fan of the Slender Man Mythos. I have written several works set within the mythos. One of these works was called Don’t Shoot The Messenger. And now, I’m completely overhauling DSTM and putting it in a more accessible and publishable format.

This rewrite isn’t finished yet, but I have a fair amount of content and a definite plan. Of course, I’d normally hold of on posting something like this unless it was still in the conceptual phase or until things were more set in stone, but there’s something that’s happened that’s made me decide to blog about it briefly: the story is currently a serial publication in my university’s web paper. You can read the first part here if you want. The rest (when it’s published) will probably be under the “Arts & Entertainment” category.

This is a pretty big thing for me, as it gives me the chance to grow my audience a little bit. So naturally, I’ve been shamelessly promoting it anywhere I can. Or “networking,” Yeah, I think “networking” is the professional term for that.

I’m planning on releasing the story as an e-book once I’ve finished it. Until now, though, I’ll hope you’ll join me on my journey as I once again enter the world of business suits, weaboos, and 21st century psycho cults.

Gaming Reflections: Bastion

Sometimes, after you finish a story, it makes you sit down and think. Ironically, it's not the stories with the explicit messages that do this to me. Elfen Lied just made me feel dirty (though the show's poor quality might have had something to do with that), and while I found Spec Ops: the Line emotional and powerful, it didn't prompt any further reflection from me beyond what the game itself said.

Bastion, on the other hand, was brought to what I think was a good, solid conclusion. It was just a conclusion that left me craving more rather than feeling satisfied.

Bastion is the story of a kid (known only as "the Kid") who finds himself as one of the only survivors of an apocalyptic event called the Calamity. His journey is narrated by an old man named Rucks, the only other survivor of his race. Rucks charges the Kid to help build the Bastion, a safe haven that has the power to undo the Calamity. The Kid also meets two other survivors of the Calamity, Zulf and Zia, who are members of the Ura race (as opposed to the Kid and Rucks, who are Caelondian). As the plot progresses, Zulf abandons the Bastion and leads the remaining Ura against it, after which the dark history of the Calamity and Rucks' involvement in it is revealed. The Bastion offers the possibility of hope, but also the possibility of more despair, and it is up to the player to make the decision of whether or not to actually activate the Bastion.

What makes Bastion such a powerful game is its narrative design. First of all, you play as the Kid, but the story is actually narrated by Rucks. Rucks has a rich, gravelly, soothing voice that I can only describe as "sexy cowboy." This choice does a lot for the game. It helps introduce the stylistic, frontier-style tone of the game from the very beginning. In addition, much of Rucks' narration is reactionary, with what he says based on what the Kid does rather than the other way around. Rucks is also able to use his narrative to seamlessly provide exposition on the world and what exactly is happening in an unobtrusive way. This choice allows for a structured plot while still giving the player agency. It puts control of the story in the player's hands and allows them to identify more strongly with the Kid--which is vital to Bastion.

The second thing that makes Bastion powerful is the world. The world of Bastion is visually dynamic, but the level design creates the feeling of a broken and empty world. This is partially because the world, as it is portrayed, is literally broken. As the Kid moves, the world begins to reform around his feet. It is filled with junk and rubble, and there are indications that it was a lush and rich world before the Calamity. In addition, there is an incredible sense of loss and emptiness. In the beginning, the Kid and Rucks are the only characters who show up at the Bastion. All other Caelondians are seen only as fossilized statues. When you encounter one of these statues the first time (and inevitably smash it), Rucks' response is a wry and darkly amusing "He always did want his ashes scattered in his bar." When the Kid actively goes searching for survivors, however, he encounters statue after statue. As you encounter them, Rucks lists off their names, followed by "didn't make it." The sense of loss is automatic, frustrating, and overwhelming. When the Kid encounters Zulf at the end of the level, he is in shock and near catatonic, meaning that even the survivor you do find is, in a sense, lifeless. It provides a very strong sense that you, as the Kid, are alone in the world, the weight of the future entirely on your shoulders. The feeling is a powerful one and allows players to understand much of the Kid's character solely through empathy.

This desolation and lifelessness provides great emphasis to the lively parts of the game. In contrast to the crumbling world of Caelondia, the Bastion is a solid place of hope, and it's easy to become very attached to it early on (in fact, revelations about the nature of the Bastion and the Calamity are accompanied by physical damage to it, making it appear more broken as our own perceptions of it begin to change). The Bastion is a broad example, but there are also two specific examples that come to mind. The first is when the player finds Zia. After feeling so alone in an empty world, the background music begins to shift. Rucks' narration fades out as the lyrics start. Suddenly, the BGM is not music, but a song, full of life. That's where the Kid finds Zia, alive and relatively well, playing harp by a pool of water. It feels like a huge success, rather than the Pyrrhic victory that finding Zulf was. The other specific example is when the monsters of the world begin creating their own Bastion. The player is fairly invested in saving the Bastion at this point, and it's heartbreaking to see the monsters attempting to create a safe haven when you know you'll need to destroy it for the greater good. To create life in a desolate world, you're forced to take it away.

In terms of the game's actual writing and plot, the story is full of themes of loss, regret, revenge, and hope. The Kid is a boy whose whole life has been filled with loneliness and hardship, even before he became humanity's last hope after the Calamity. Zulf's discovery of the Calamity's sinister history drives him towards anger and revenge. Rucks, as a man who had a hand in the Calamity, regrets his decision and is obsessed with the Bastion's potential to let him change his mistakes. And Zia, despite the hardship she suffers, is determined to move forward, doing what she can and holding out hope for a brighter future. These motives drive all the characters fairly strongly, and the Kid has to deal with all of them throughout the game. The Kid's loss and Zulf's vengeance drive much of the game's plot, as they have both experienced great loss, and that loss drives their vengeance later in the game. When Zulf's zealotry ultimately causes the other Ura to turn on him, the Kid is forced to make a choice: continue with his revenge, or abandon his ultimate weapon and save Zulf, leaving himself defenseless in the process. Interestingly, almost all players decide to save Zulf. They are rewarded with a scene where the Ura notice the Kid's decision and slowly stop attacking him. I don't know what happens if you don't decide to save him. I never made that decision.

The ultimate decision comes down not to vengeance or loss, but to Ruck's regret vs. Zia's hope. If you activate the Bastion, will the Calamity be prevented? There's a chance of it happening again, but is the attempt to prevent it worth that cost? Or should we just accept the past as it is, break free of the cycle of tragedy, and try to move on? The decision is left to the Kid, and consequently, the player.

All these themes, all these nuances of story--they're powerful because they're not explicit. They're lurking just below the surface, and while the game seems to take a definite stance on several of the questions it raises, it also invites the players to decide for themselves. Some characters aren't exactly right, but Bastion never gives you the impression that they're wrong. The game invites you to become the Kid and to make your own decision. I think that's the thing that left such a strong impression on me: that it invited me to question the choices I made, and then offer suggestions rather than answers.

To close, here's Zia's theme, since it's beautiful. Check out the rest of the soundtrack too, as it is equally marvelous.

Gaming Reflections: Gone Home

Hey, everyone! It’s been ages since I’ve actually bothered to write anything, huh?

Anyway, I’m here to talk about a game I played called “Gone Home.” I first heard about it in my narrative design class and it looked vaguely creepy but with a feel-good 90’s vibe, and I heard a few recommendations that were pretty much just “play this,” so I was looking forward to playing it.
When I actually played it, I was actually less than impressed.

Gone Home focuses on a girl named Katie who has gone home (I get it!) after visiting Europe. However, she arrives home sooner than her family expects, and she returns to an empty house. From there, the goal is to explore the empty house to figure out where her family has gone and why. Players discover who the family is through Katie’s interactions with the environment of the house.

That’s what the game is about in theory. In reality, it’s a bit different.

Let’s start with what I liked about the game. First of all, it did well at telling a story through the environment, and at building a realistic environment. It feels like a real house, and while several bits of matching furniture personally make me raise an eyebrow, the family is implied to be fairly well-off. If they want to get identical ornate cabinets, they probably could. The game manages to maintain a sense of non-linearity while simultaneously guiding the player through linear sections. In that sense, it did what it was supposed to and worked. The atmosphere was also decent, and while the music didn’t leave much of a lasting impression, it worked well enough and gave the game a particular flavor that helped counteract the whole “creepy empty house” thing.

In addition, there are a lot of things to love about the storytelling. I liked how I was left to put the pieces together from notes and the environment. Learning of the father’s struggles with writing through letters from his publishers and boxes of empty books was good. The unspoken implications in the communications between the mother and her coworker say volumes about the state of their marriage. The personalities of Katie, Sam, and Lonnie come through really well through the things they’ve written. There are a few things that made me smile just because the comedic interactions felt so real and true. They were friends/family joking around with each other, and you got a good sense of that.

So that’s what Gone Home did right. Now let’s talk about what it did wrong and why it left me unimpressed.

One issue I had with Gone Home was the whole “pick anything up” thing. It’s a double-edged sword. On one hand, it’s nice to be able to look at a few personal items more closely and to be able to move things around. On the other hand, there is absolutely no point to being able to pick up pencils or packs of toilet paper. A lot of things that can be examined are completely arbitrary, and I don’t like being given the option to muck around with things that aren’t important. If you give me the option to take all the food out of the freezer and chuck it all over the kitchen, I’m going to want to do so. Also, give me the achievement for finishing the game while holding a banana.

But that’s nitpicking. I could also nitpick the fact that there was pretty much no gameplay, which is why the “pick stuff up” mechanic seemed so prominent, but nitpicking that isn’t really the point since Gone Home is really more of an interactive story than a game. The real issue with the game is in the story. I mentioned earlier how I liked piecing the little scraps of story together. The game initially seemed to be an exercise in the principle of “show, don’t tell” when applied to stories in games. While there is definite value to telling when utilized properly, I really respected that Gone Home was trying to tell a story with as little text as possible. And then it completely destroyed that principle it had set up.

There is one story that is pushed to the forefront of Gone Home, and it is Sam’s character arc. Certain notes will trigger narration from Sam, elaborating on the story. This makes it clear that Sam’s arc and Sam’s arc alone is the one that matters. The father’s writing aspirations and the mother’s marital struggles are treated as unimportant. Instead, the important story is Sam coming to terms with her sexuality and her relationship with Lonnie.

While Sam and Lonnie are certainly interesting characters, their story is not particularly good. It’s stock “rebellious teen” stuff, and the ending (in which Lonnie goes AWOL from the military and Sam abandons her potential college career so the two can run off together, stealing a lot of valuables from the family in the process) is played as a heartwarming romance. However, past the surface level, it is the story of two young adults potentially ruining their lives because they think with their hearts instead of their heads. This is presumably supposed to be sweet solely because the relationship is a same-sex one. Make it a heterosexual relationship, and the characters’ youthful stupidity become much more noticeable. Are we really supposed to be cheering for these shortsighted and self-centered characters, just because of their star-crossed relationship?

Gone Home seems to have confused “hot-button issue” for “good writing.” I’ll admit that, as someone who comes from a conservative background and holds a lot of moderate political views, my opinions may be a bit biased, but I felt that much of Gone Home was just a heavy-handed political statement (as an aside, if my stance on such things truly matters to how seriously you take my opinions on the game’s writing, you can find my in-depth opinions here). But anyway, that brief digression aside, Gone Home got pretty blatant about things, sometimes at the expense of actual writing. The initial “abandoned house” set-up is a clear bait-and-switch that can feel a bit manipulative to some, the arcs of characters other than Sam and Lonnie are—as I’ve already mentioned—brushed aside as “not important enough,” and even some elements of the story itself get heavy-handed. I can forgive some things that seem like stock LGBT issues just because I’m sure those are stock issues for a reason, but the bit of Sam’s writing where her character’s love interest is given a magical sex change in an obvious metaphor for her coming to terms with her sexuality? This sort of transparent self-insertion is the sort of writing I’m legitimately expected to believe is coming from someone who wants to go into creative writing?

So overall, I found Gone Home to be a decent exercise in environmental storytelling and character development, but little more. On those two counts, it was incredibly strong. The soundtrack was fitting enough but unmemorable, the lack of actual game mechanics made issues with existing mechanics more noticeable. The “show, don’t tell” storytelling was wonderfully done, but putting emphasis on a single story over the others did more harm than good, especially since the story it chose to focus on did not have a particularly strong narrative. It was ultimately a very stock romantic story with a “but they’re lesbians” tacked on, and I think it detracted from what was otherwise a great experiment in storytelling. Personally, I don’t get the praise. I think that the praise is, again, largely because of the tendency of people to mistake topical statements for quality. It’s artistic, but “artistic” does not mean “inherently good.” I think from an objective standpoint, Gone Home is above mediocre at best, with its strong aspects dragged down by its weaker ones. In addition, it is incredibly short (2 hours long at best, 2 minutes long at worst), and is in no way worth the $20 dollar price tag--meaning that, unless you're able to get it on sale, there's really no good reason to buy it.

I guess it just goes to say, anything can get called a masterpiece as long as it’s about gay cowboys eating pudding.