Tuesday, 31 December 2019

Game of the Decade (it has to be done)

With just hours left in the 2010s, it's time to arbitrarily assign a group status to any games that happened to be released in the period of time between January 1st 2010 and December 31st 2019. What has gaming in the last decade meant to me? Even if I just narrow it down to my personal favourite games and genres, there's so much to think about. The past ten years have seen the launch of multi-entry franchises that have become essential favourites, like Dishonored, Telltale's The Walking Dead, and Life is Strange; new releases in the Portal and BioShock franchises that were originally responsible for broadening my gaming horizons; and individual games that have had a huge impact on me, including Until Dawn, LA Noire, SOMAJourneyHellblade: Senua's Sacrifice, and A Way Out, among many, many others. I've also played more indie games than I could possibly name without this becoming a tedious list - many excellent, a few terrible, but almost all memorable. And it would be remiss of me not to mention The Sims 4 - a game I've put over 200 hours into over the past six months alone (on top of playing other games; working at my two jobs; and actually having other hobbies, responsibilities, and a bit of a social life - no mean feat!) - because it was my knowledge of The Sims franchise that got me my first professional gig in games journalism earlier in 2019. After nearly twenty years it's still my go-to comfort game, and I now actually get paid to play it, so the way I see it I owe it a nod of gratitude.

But once I stopped to think about it, the game that I identified as my singular Game of the Decade was none of these. In fact, it's a game I've not actually played - for the very good reason that, by the time I owned the only platform it was ever released on, it was no longer available. And if you've made it this far into a video game ramble, the odds are that you know I'm talking about P.T.

P.T. (short for "playable teaser") was a short demo for a now-cancelled game, released on August 12th 2014 as a PlayStation 4 exclusive. In what was an unusual and original move at the time, P.T. was released as a free faux-indie game which didn't reveal its connection to the famous Silent Hill franchise or its all-star creative team (including Hideo Kojima, Norman Reedus, Gillermo del Toro, and Junji Ito) until after the player beat the game and found its secret ending. The secret ending revealed that the full game would be entitled Silent Hills, and would be the ninth main-series instalment in the Silent Hill franchise, which had lain dormant for over two years at that point.

The hype was incredible, but short-lived: Silent Hills was officially cancelled on April 27th 2015, and two days later, P.T. was removed from the PlayStation Store, just eight months after it was released. Originally available for re-download by users who had already installed it, the game became unavailable even to those individuals in May 2015 (unintentionally resulting in PS4 units with the game still installed selling on eBay for double the price of a new console). In the past couple of years, it's been rumoured that even those who preserved their installation of the game are now unable to play it.

But what was it about P.T. that captured our collective imagination? To the point where - over five years post-release, and with the game itself unavailable for the vast majority of that time - it's still considered sacrilege if it doesn't top every list of "scariest games of the decade"? The answer is contained within that last question: it was scary! Hideo Kojima wanted Silent Hills to be a game that made you shit your pants, but for most people, P.T. already did the job. For years beforehand, fans of the horror genre had complained that horror games were increasingly action-oriented zombie-shooters and no longer really scary... and Kojima was there to remind them to be careful what they wished for.

I'm not going to recap P.T. in its entirety here, but here are the key attractions as I see them:

  • P.T. casts you in the role of an unknown first-person protagonist, forcing you to identify yourself with the character; and then, crucially, renders you completely defenceless, your actions limited to "walk" and "look".
  • Because of its incredibly simple game mechanics, P.T. has an extremely low technical thresh-hold for enjoyment. In theory, if you're able to manipulate a PS4 controller, you can play P.T. to its conclusion, and even get the secret ending. It's been said that the human mind is the greatest game engine ever created, and P.T. proved that it's true: if you can't continue, it's entirely your own fears that are preventing you.
  • P.T. features photo-realistic graphics, creating an environment that really feels like an ordinary suburban American home that just happens to be slowly turning into hell. But it combines this ultra-realism with fourth-wall-breaking meta-scares: the game fakes you out with "glitches", "crashes", subtitles that suddenly switch languages, and mission-critical items hidden in options menus. Add to this the fact that the solution to P.T.'s central puzzle is practically an ARG, and the lines between the game and reality become increasingly blurred.
  • Crucially, P.T. introduced the concept of the recursive loop to horror gaming: the same environment re-used dozens of times with unsettling and sometimes downright horrifying variations. On a practical level, this keeps production costs down, which probably explains why it was embraced so enthusiastically by indie developers soon after. On a psychological level, it turns out that the thought of being trapped (even in a familiar environment), with all exits replaced with entrances that lead you back to the same nightmare and no control or hope of escape, will fuck most people right up.
If all of this sounds pretty familiar now, it's worth remembering that most horror games made post-P.T. have drawn inspiration from at least one of these tropes. Almost as soon as the news broke that Silent Hills had been cancelled, indie remakes of and homages to P.T. were going into development: starting with the (itself unfinished) Allison Road, you can now number Infliction, Visage, Madison, Suite 776, and countless others among the imitators that see a first-person protagonist investigate a seemingly ordinary home under increasingly bizarre circumstances. Resident Evil 7's first demo was self-consciously taking its cues from P.T., and even though the final game diverged significantly, the original Silent Hill-esque demo was still incorporated into the rival franchise's successful reboot. The Layers of Fear franchise, which took a lot of inspiration from P.T. while also differing enough to eventually stand on its own, is now joining its antecedent on most lists of the best horror games of the decade. Even though Silent Hills was cancelled, many aspects of the P.T. legacy live on in Kojima's first independent production, Death Stranding (I've fallen down a YouTube rabbit hole that suggests P.T. may in fact have been intended as a demo for Death Stranding all along: GamesRadar have a fascinating video that sets out the theory quite convincingly). P.T. itself was still bringing new scares with a surprising regularity towards the end of 2019, thanks to Lance McDonald's videos uncovering cut content and behind-the-scenes scares from within the game's code - most of which is still creepier than almost any horror film I've seen in the past five years.

In short, it's not an overstatement to say that P.T. tapped into what horror fans really wanted, and in doing so single-handedly changed the face of horror gaming almost overnight. Not bad for a two-hour demo for a game that never got made, and that most people never got the chance to play for themselves. You only have to compare the horror games released in 2010 with those from 2019 to see how quickly and completely the landscape changed, with P.T. as the turning point midway through the decade. It was surely one of the most influential games of the 2010s (especially considering its length and its brief lifespan), and the fact that it still stands up as a great game in itself too is why it's my game of the decade.

Wednesday, 25 December 2019

Quiz: TV Christmas Specials & Their Music - What kind of nightmare flashback are you living in?

The end of the year is approaching yet again, and that can mean only one thing: British TV specials are going to ruthlessly abuse Christmas music in order to set the tone for their inevitable flashbacks to Christmas Past. Specifically, those who remember Christmas 1973 (I don't, but my parents do) will presumably need an extra shot of sherry to help them deal with the vivid memories it all brings back. You see, as far as British TV producers are concerned, there are only two songs you need to use to set the mood for your very special seasonal episode; and which one you start hearing ought to tell you a lot about exactly what sort of fictional reality you've woken up in. Think carefully - are you listening to:


"Merry Xmas Everybody" by Slade
You and a selection of relatives, some of them improbably elderly, are sitting slumped on a brown sofa in front of a tiny TV. Paper garlands hang disconsolately from the walls, which are of course papered in faded orange and dull green stripes. You can't feel the heat, but you know that this room is being kept at a barely livable temperature by either a gas fire or a space heater, or quite possibly both. Everyone is wearing those cheap tissue-paper hats from crackers and a thoroughly underwhelmed expression. They are stuffed full of turkey and so bored they're nearly asleep. Granny might actually be dead.

Congratulations! You're in an ironically nostalgic flashback! The show you're appearing on is most likely a sitcom or light-hearted biopic, and you're probably here for one of two reasons. Maybe you're a Millennial or part of Generation Z, and your middle-aged parents are attempting to convince you that this was the 1970s family Christmas they've modelled all their ideas of festive perfection on since (which you highly doubt). Or maybe you are the Baby Boomer / Gen X-er in question, looking back on the stuffy Christmases of your childhood and teenage years with a barely suppressed shudder - and then you'll turn around and try to convince your kids it was magical anyway, just to save face. Either way, it'll all be over in thirty seconds or so, when the screen goes wavy and your 2019 family start asking why you've got that glazed look on your face. Merry Christmas!


"I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday" by Wizzard
Unlike Slade, which is usually playing at low volume but high fidelity from some unspecified off-screen source, "I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday" is typically emanating from a tinny radio on a nearby table, or potentially from speakers that the warden has had installed very high up on the wall, out of your reach. You make awkward eye contact with whoever you're shut in with, and start a depressing conversation about your past lives before you came to be in this place. The song is here to mock you: it is not very Christmassy where you are, and you most certainly don't wish that it could be like this every day - but, sad irony, that's exactly what it is.

Commiserations - you're in some sort of gritty drama. If it's a crime drama, thriller, or a historical period piece (note: the 1970s are a historical period now), your on-screen flashback will be replaced with you and your scene-mate mumbling Christmas-themed monologues at each other for the next quarter of an hour, until the unexpected arrival of the next plot point moves the story along another agonising inch. If you have the misfortune to be in a science fiction or otherwise speculative piece, be warned - the flashback is a lie! You are, in all likelihood, trapped in a prison of your own mind, eternally tormented by the crimes that sent you there and doomed to live out the message of this song in all its horrifying literal implications. Try to get eyes on the technology in the room to establish whether you're in an episode of Black Mirror or just a particularly grim re-imagining of Porridge.