Limbo (PC) - a review

Most modern games are insubstantial shit. Take sand-box adventures for instance. Fun for all of a few seconds until you recognise playing pool is way more fun with real people, in a real bar, with real beer. Meaningless side-games only exist to detract from the fact that mindlessly running over people in stolen vehicles is dull and tedious in the long-term. The Sims; fun for about a nano-second until you realise that earning real money, buying your own house and kitting it out with your own stuff is way more fun. Modern Warfare; amazing graphics that simply mask the bland, tedious level design suggesting most gamers are idiots that would somehow prefer style over substance. Oh!

I could go on.

Of course, I say most modern games. There is the odd occasion where a title sneaks out thinking it is still sometime between 1984 and 1998 and that words like 'challenging', 'unique' and 'tough as mittens' remain in common gaming parlance. So, if Portal 2 is the Head Over Heels of the modern age that would make Danish developers Playdead's latest title 'Limbo' the natural successor to Delphine Software's rather spectacular (at the time) Another World. Well, kind of the same, just more macabre, less colourful and with a silhouetted protagonist that you kind of end up caring for rather than a goofy, ginger-haired scientist tossbag.

Another Modern Warfare campaigner throws in the towel...

Limbo's plot is quite simple: small boy wakes up in a somewhat haunting and bleak forest with his sister missing. He has to find her whilst navigating a surreal monochrome landscape and the deadly, brutal traps lurking within its dark underbelly. That's pretty much it. Playing very much like a horizontal scrolling platform adventure, Limbo's roots are aligned with old school retro-gaming conventions. Instant deaths and immaculate timing are routine and hark back to bastard hard single-life Spectrum games like Treasure Island Dizzy. Yet the touch of the modern ensures it's not insanely frustrating as was the case with games of yonder. The puzzles have been logically and lovingly crafted with the difficulty level spot on, meaning that even the short attention spans of most modern gamers will revel in the challenge (instead of immediately searching for an online walkthrough).

The mechanics behind the instant deaths, for example, are actually a quirky design necessity, rather than an infuriating bollock ache, to aid the player in game progression. So, stepping on an unseen pressure pad usually ends with the protagonist getting squashed into mangled little pieces. You've now learned not to tread on said pressure pad again. When confronted with blow-dart wielding humanoid figures further on, back-tracking and leaping across the pressure pads leads to their mucky end instead. Simples! Likewise, the punishment for making a simple error in judgement when leaping over a circular saw is much more restrained than in the pixel perfect days of Dizzy. After the protagonist's body is mangled and shredded in an impeccable display of quality gore, you are simply returned to the beginning of that puzzle to try again. Dizzy would have required you to begin all over...

Jump you fool, jump!

Added to these design mechanics is the games unique style. This, if anything, is what makes Limbo a highly memorable gaming experience. It's not just a game; Limbo is art! The visuals are utterly compelling in both conveying the surreal dream-like quality of the nightmarish environment and, in the absence of a more elongated plot, generating the emotional high-points that make you care for the little boys plight. The lack of colour, the foregrounds in shadow tempered by the greys and whites of the parallax scrolling backgrounds, ensures the hazy macabre reality is an unsettling, yet awe-inspiring experience for the eyes. As soon as the protagonist wakes and begins his journey, you're thrown into a feverish night-terror straight out of a graphic novel. The accompanying silence and minimal sound throughout simply enhances this atmosphere. As do the few segments of lively action that take on a film like quality, especially the sequences involving a giant fecking spider. Running away from that behemoth, whilst applying pin-point timing to every leap, certainly makes for a welcome change of pace to the more plodding puzzling aspects of Limbo.

 

Fucking spiders!

 Then there's the little boy; a shadowy, silent silhouette with two piercing bright eyes who is animated superbly to convince this is just a little boy. It's simply remarkable that such a diminutive avatar can create the much needed pathos the longevity of the game relies upon. Of course the range of deaths in store and the discombobulation of his body parts at these junctures kind of helps. Every time he is impaled on sharp spikes, falls long distances before breaking his neck (or legs, depending on which way up he lands), carved into little pieces by circular saws or mashed against the ceiling by hydraulics is one more time you regret your latest action. After all, this is a lost little boy, in a nightmare world, looking to find a way out, whom you've just killed because of your complete ineptitude. The lack of a driving plot may irk some, but the conditioning Limbo works on the player to see the little boy through to sanctuary at the end of the game (his forlorn, piercing eyes are incredibly affecting) is a compelling driving force throughout. Indeed, Limbo works, in many ways, due to the care and attention afforded to its style, which ultimately complements the substance. Just looking at the game has much reward!

Sure, there are complaints. Gradually, the oppressive forest environment is replaced by a detritus strewn, lifeless industrialised shitscape - Limbo starts to lose its way around this point. The puzzles seem less enjoyable and limp without gigantic spiders, brain slugs and shadowy humanoid figures perpetuating the lurking danger. The static puzzles that seemingly frequent the last third just seem like more of a chore. And once you do reach the end the ambivalent finale is likely to leave some gamers with an unsatisfied taste in the mouth (although for my money the symmetry and minimalist explanation of the conclusion makes Limbo wonderfully thought-provoking, not underwhelming).

The calm before the storm.

It's also a relatively short game and should only take four to five hours for most competent gamers to complete, which brings into question longevity. Although for seven quid you can't really complain. Like Portal beforehand, the length of the game is moot when taking into consideration the unique appeal that Limbo provides. In a medium of never-ending first person shooters, Limbo is a refreshing change to the norm. In addition, there is one Steam achievement (complete the game losing only five lives throughout) which is an old school hardcore gaming convention. This certainly adds further scope for play, it's just a shame that Playdead did not think to include this in Limbo from the outset - that would really have sorted the men from the muppets.

But these are fairly inconsequential points. Limbo remains a highly impressive title and certainly much more than you would expect from an independent developer. Its artistry is beautiful despite the depressing bleakness. The puzzles are challenging and superbly crafted without the unnecessary frustration. The simple 2-D platforms are retro enough to give older gamers a refreshing tingle, yet it's world away from Mario. Witness the traps that are of the skull-fucking until you're mashed to a pulp variety. Vastly different to dodging Goombas and getting smashed on mushrooms. Limbo is, therefore, the perfect blend of old and new; perhaps that's why it plays so damn well!

Overall - Probably one of the best games of 2011. A beautiful nightmare and a real treat for retro and modern gamers alike.

New Year Bollocks!

Happy New Year everybody! Just to remind you, in case the Tories haven’t got their selective messaging across quite so assuredly yet, 2012 is the year of the London Olympics and the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee, not the vital year of economic upturn that the country probably needs. So we should all turn those smiles upside down. Whilst train companies continue to take the piss with their inflation busting fare increases, bankers remain exactly that, the NHS is slowly phased out of existence and the poor get poorer, the Olympics and Jubilee double whammy (and the pitiful two weeks of the year those events cover) are expected to make up for the shower of bollocks we’re likely to suffer for the rest of 2012.  

David Cameron with Michael Gove yesterday...

So, if it wasn’t bad enough that the country was being run by Baron Silas Greenback and his legion of inept crows or that Osborne’s fiscal policies have been about as much use as two fish in a tank (how the fuck do you drive this thing?), what else does 2012 have in store? Well, there’s Euro 2012, where once again England will be humiliated at the hands of technically superior European football teams who do not have the liability of Wayne Rooney in their ranks. Poor Wayne has not scored at a World or European Cup Finals since 2004 (when he was actually quite good) and, after serving his current two match ban (which Clive Tyldesley will continually harp on about), will only get sent off in the must win final group match after kicking out against a solid Ukrainian defender for simply doing his job – snuffing out any potential threat Rooney poses. Which won’t be difficult if he’s got another super-injunction in place. No, the only football supporters that will feel any joy this season are followers of Manchester City. But that barely counts for much seeing as they have to live in Manchester…

Moving on, you’d hope that Twitter could not get any worse in 2012. Yet it’s only January and Diane Abbott has already announced herself as a front running candidate for Twitter twit of the year. Even that, however, seems a triviality when compared to the language entering the general usage of Twitter users. I mean, whoever allowed ‘Amazeballs’ to enter the English lexicon should be taken outside, lined up against a wall and shot, just before they’re hung, drawn and quartered. Right now, any number of tedious cnut’s are attempting to draft up 2012s killer Twitter dictionary based on the exposure granted to an inanely awful phrase like ‘Amazeballs’. Before you know it we will be swamped with ‘Brillpants’ and ‘Boomtastics’, and drowning in ‘Kumquats’, like a zombie plague of the spoken word. Twitter: the very definition of a billion monkeys and their keyboards attempting to craft together the full works of Shakespeare. And failing miserably.

Maybe TV will give us some respite from the awfulness of it all. Alas, unless you’re willing to sell your soul to the devil and subscribe to Sky so you can access the quality of Sky Atlantic, you’re pretty much hunting for scraps. Sherlock is inspired quality viewing, but a few episodes a year is barely enough to satisfy particularly when everything else on TV seems to feature hideous, vacuous wankers. Desperate Scousewives says pretty much everything you need to know about the quality output of British television. There’s good stuff out their but it’s hidden away behind bonkers, manipulative shite (Beauty and the Geek, Geordie Shores, My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding, the continuing irrelevance of Big Brother, etc) that simply goads us all into becoming judgemental arseholes. I’d rather be flayed alive and turned into a pair of shoes thanks. Looks like another year of watching repeats of Big Bang Theory on E4 then…

So, at a glance, and despite the Olympics and Jubilee, 2012 will be the most disappointing year in history. Ever. Enjoy it losers…

Buzz! Off

Great! It’s Christmas again. There’s nothing quite like spending quality time with family and friends to forget about the woes and realities of the real world (kicking George Osborne in the shins can wait to the New Year) whilst tucking into shit loads of food and booze. This year is the little man’s first Christmas and whilst I can’t wait to see him open all his presents (sadly Star Wars Lego is not suitable for a one-year old) there are other Christmas matters that need attending to that are of far greater importance. Like revenge…

Let me explain. For the last few years Christmas has been spent round the parents-in-law. Father-in-law provides the real Ale, which makes the piss-water of lager ever more obvious; mother-in-law cooks a mean turkey to keep us all plump and fat; and the remainder of the family are left to watch the Christmas Dr Who special and to play games during the Queen’s speech. Usually, the gaming involves the well-known mechanisms of Trivial Pursuit and Pictionary, but two years ago, whilst browsing this place I had a serious moment of genius:

http://www.dooyoo.co.uk/playstation-3-game/buzz-quiz-world-ps3/

I’ve got a PS3; Buzz! could be a winner in bringing about extra-curricular family joy and festive cheer to all. And it did. With four players knocking heads together in deadly quizzical combat it brought forth frenzied button mashing, gamesmanship and the odd bit of friendly banter. The endeavour was a hugely entertaining success. Mostly because I was freaking untouchable. No one could get close my fastest finger first. Not even my brother who, truth be told, is a bit of a gaming savant, has defeated me on Buzz! in the intervening period as yet (which I hope still seriously pisses him off). My avatar of the Dark Lord ruled supreme. Jason Donovan continually bowed down and worshipped my amazing skills. Everything was right with the world.

Until the day it happened. I was finally defeated on Buzz! last Christmas by my sister-in-law, who continually likes to remind me of the fact by posting photos of my defeat on Facebook! This would be okay if the Chrimbo tree in the photo didn’t look like it was laughing at me or if my conqueror had defeated me with any kind of discernable talent. The final round, however, consisted entirely of button bashing on sis-in-law’s part in the hope of attaining the right answer as the platforms our avatars were standing on slowly fell towards a bottomless pit of doom and defeat. Except sis-in-law’s platform was gradually starting to go upwards with every answer she managed to correctly ascertain before the other contestants, whilst mine continued to plummet. What in the blue hell? This non-tactic of frantically bashing the buzzer to get the answer right was working. Working, dammit! And before I could accidentally trip over and press the reset button, sis had been victorious. Endless mugging for the rest of the year has since followed.

So, this period of festive cheer is time for revenge and for the status quo to be re-established, as I magnificently reclaim my Buzz! throne. This year I won’t be distracted by the late arrival of the little tinker (due Christmas Eve my arse) and the enforced sobriety, which obviously provided an advantage in your derisory victory. The blue touch paper is lit. The gauntlet has been thrown down. I’ll bring the PS3 and a big bag of awesome; sis, you just attempt to bring it. Sadly, all you’ll be able to do is watch on forlornly as your wretched avatar is crushed into a gormless pulp as my superior quiz skills and answer response outwit your inferior button bashing.  

Re-match?

Bear necessities...

Everyone had a favourite cuddly when they were a tinker. Don’t attempt to deny it you soulless goon! The typical teddy bear (or close alternative) was way better than an invisible friend – mostly because they actually existed and didn’t talk back – and were much easier to take to bed and snuggle up to than the stabbing plastic of the Millennium Falcon. My own personal bear was actually a dog cuddly with big floppy ears, which had a top layer of fur you could unzip and remove to reveal a garish pink and black horizontal striped pyjama number underneath. Despite his colour-blindness and piss-poor taste in bed-wear, he was an exceptional listener (teddy bears have to be when you’re a highly demanding attention-seeking niblet) and pretty much went everywhere with me. I can’t remember that damn dog’s name for shit (‘Poppy’ suggested my hippocampus a minute ago – which can’t possibly be true seeing as I’m a gruff man, RAHR!) but just like all of you and your own bear of choice, he was my buddy, my snugly and, most importantly, my protector.

Yes, protector. It’s amazing how, as grown-ups, we quickly forget about all the freaking monsters under the bed, the jism monkeys in the closet and the skunk pussies hanging around outside the bedroom window waiting to pounce on the easily terrified child. When our irritable little ones are having the night terrors or the nap-time creeps we like to think we’re saving the day once we enter their bedroom to give them a big hug; but the truth is bear has already skull fucked the dribbling snot-creature that was looking to feast on the tinker’s soul whilst we were all busy watching The Only Way Is Essex. Don’t deny it. You love The Only Way Is Essex! With his protector job done, bear simply returns to his role of snugly, waiting for the next foul beast to attempt to encroach on his best friend’s room. Mostly so he can knee-cap the muddy-funster…

And for this he gets no gratitude from the ignorant parents (except when it’s plainly obvious that an unstitched arm or a loose eye from the previous nights near death encounter at the hands of an incredibly powerful Wixard requires Mum’s handy needlework skills). He needs not that. The warm hug of his padawan everyday, for the short-time he is required (before being put in storage), is enough to justify any and all night time heroics. My boy has had his own little blue bear now for a fair while, and he loves that bear to bits. I’m sure the feeling is mutual for bear (but he refuses to speak to me – git). So, if any monsters are out there reading, little blue is waiting for you to try it on. Just don’t be surprised when he punches you in the kidney, knees you in the nuts and gouges out your eyes with a knitting needle in protecting all that is dear to him. Teddy bears rock. You have been warned!

There’s a film in that picture somewhere. Perhaps we could call it Toy Story or Monsters Inc? Sort it out Pixar! 

Chuggington Corner!

Chuggers tend to remind me of a sequence from much loved eighties flick The Monster Squad. The Wolfman makes a sudden appearance and seems to have one of the squad cornered (the fat kid, as far as I can recall, who was supposedly this flicks Chunk from The Goonies). The rest of the gang shout for him to kick the Wolfman in the nuts. Fat kid replies the Wolfman hasn’t got any nuts. They all shout out kick him in the nuts anyway (hmm, I don’t recall The Monster Squad being so pantomime) to which fat kid lands his big square foot square between where Wolfy’s plums should be. The Wolfman howls in pain allowing fat kid to make his escape.

Dodging charity muggers involves a somewhat similar gambit. Most don’t have nuts (being female) and success in avoiding their cornering tactics remains reliant on your ability to metaphorically kick their idealistic, transparent rhetoric square in the balls by breezily walking past them with little concern for their plight. Success is usually met with their howls of derision and a look that’s supposed to devour your soul as you continue unmoved down the street. Look, I said somewhat similar to The Monster Squad…

Chugging is a rather pointless endeavour. Not only does it miss the whole point around the concept of charity (giving voluntarily), it also gives chuggers a misplaced sense of self-righteousness. Just because you’ve been given a cue-card to base your preachy sermon around does not give you the right to look down upon everyone else as utter bastards. Perhaps peeps don’t have the time or inclination to talk to you about the charity you’re representing. Some may, y’know, already be particularly generous making various donations to other charitable organisations. Others, as is their prerogative, simply might not care. One thing’s for sure, cold calling on the street is more likely to lead to people giving the charity you’re working for a much wider berth in the future. Typically because chuggers are smug, charmless, insufferable, irritating tits…

Equally annoying are other methods of extraction employed by more shameful charities to help kick your guilt reflex into action. It reminds me of a time, as a piss poor student, where I was donating a fiver a month to the NSPCC from my much needed student ‘beer fund’ loan. A couple of months into providing this regular donation I received what was essentially a begging letter, clouded by emotive language and pictures, asking for a more significant contribution. I cancelled my Direct Debit immediately. The NSPCC have been struck off the list ever since, no matter their worthy agenda. In comparison I’ve never seen a chugger representing or received a contrived begging letter from the MS Society. Perhaps this is why my donation shifted to an organisation that doesn’t harangue those making a regular contribution – they’re actually grateful for the fact people are willing to give voluntarily without coercion.

And that’s what charity is about. Giving to a cause that’s meaningful to you in someway because, sadly, the average person on the street doesn’t have magic pockets stuffed with more money than they know what to do with. We can only give so much too so few. So, my annoying chugger friends, particularly the ones outside the Sainsburys and Boots opposite Holborn station (also rather inconveniently right next to my office), please give up and fuck off. You’re in the West End where everyone’s rather liberal and cool anyway, and likely already give to worthy causes. You’re preaching to people that sympathise but think your methods suck big hairy donkey balls. Let us decide for ourselves and give back the meaning of the word ‘charity’. Otherwise, we’ll start kicking you in the nuts for real…

Fulham's lucky mascot!

One of the benefits of having a work mate who’s a season ticket holder at Fulham is that he can often get cheap seats for Europa Cup fixtures. Because seriously, who in their right mind wants to be out watching crap football on a dreary, cold Thursday night? Well, me for one thing. Since the arrival of the little man I don’t get out as much and when I do it needs to be 1) when he’s in bed and 2) on the cheap, otherwise I’ll feel a little bad for cutting into my boy’s future Lego fund to sponsor my beer intake. Ten pound a ticket is obviously too good an opportunity to turn down, so last Thursday night I spent the evening in the company of Bobby Zamora, Andy Johnson, Danny Murphy, Clint Dempsey and John Arne-Risse (nice to see a couple of Liverpool legends there)…

This is not the first time I’ve been to the Cottage. I was fortunate enough that said mate asked if I wanted to attend a few games a couple of seasons ago when Fulham marched to the final of the Europa Cup, only to miss out on lifting the trophy due to a Diego Forlan inspired Atletico Madrid. I missed the final (as it was in Hamburg) but did frequent the three preceding matches against SV Hamburg, Wolfsburg and, luckily, the unforgettable knock out encounter against Juventus. It’s not often you get to see a World Cup winning captain being completely bullied and out muscled by a previously much maligned striker. It’s also rarer to see such an extraordinary come back. The atmosphere in Fulham after that game was electric. Conveniently, it had occurred shortly after Chelsea had been knocked out of Big Cup, so the chants of ‘there’s only one team in Fulham’ were even more rousing that night. I don’t think anyone could quite believe what had happened!

Of course, Clint Dempsey's winner looks awesome, but we all know the reality that it was really a rather wanky cross...

Anyway, Wisla Krakow are no Juventus, and as Thursday’s match was still in the group stages of the competition there was not as much riding on the game. Any celebration was likely to be muted. From Fulham’s perspective of course; every Pole in South West London that turned up for the game (all of them then) would probably disagree with that assessment. The normally sedate seated Putney End, normally filled with part-time supporters (such as myself), was instead a sea of standing Krakow fans singing, chanting and thoroughly enjoying themselves. Most Fulham fans looked on bemused (or cowered depending on the root of their xenophobia) but it seemed to charge the players into frenzied activity. Before you could say “fuck me, woeful defending” it was 1-1 inside five minutes. Then Andy Johnson scored an absolute peach – a volley from a corner with the goal slightly behind him. It’s always nice to be sitting directly behind the net when a fantastic strike like that hits the back of the net. And slowly Fulham cruised to another 4-1 victory (although even that didn’t manage to quite pierce the noise and joviality of the Krakow fans). Well worth the tenner!

Anyway, the point of this post: that’s four in four. Four UEFA… sorry, Europa Cup jaunts to Craven Cottage, four pretty outstanding victories. Not a tedious game in sight, goals galore and whilst nice Uncle Roy has evolved into Kojak, the same approach to playing good passing football with the occasional hoof up to Zamora remains Fulham’s bread and butter. So I’ve been declared by my work mate and his fellow season-ticket chums as a lucky mascot. Based on my current attendance to win ratio, Fulham should win the Europa Cup this season. So, if you want to see a decent game on the cheap on a wet mid-week evening in south west London, against quality opposition, where an upset is likely, I heartily recommend visiting Craven Cottage. It’s the better option to watching the forlorn figure of Fernando Torres trudge around Stamford Bridge, miss another sitter, look up to the sky and ask where it’s all gone wrong. How much do you have to pay for that shit?

Sign me up Al-Fayed and European domination is yours... I'm lucky like that!