Salvatore Pane

Tag: Earthbound

Writing Routines

One question I was surprised so many students had for me this semester was how exactly I begin writing in the morning. We talked a bit about getting on a writing routine during workshops, but I knew how hard this was to do, especially in college when there’s so much going around you at any given minute and you’re so busy anyway. I didn’t have many good answers for them. “I don’t know,” I’d say. “I get up, and then I write. That’s pretty much it.” And I know that’s a luxury afforded to me by working at a university, but I don’t think that’s what they were getting after. I think they wanted a routine.

I’ve been thinking about this more and more now that the semester’s over, and I remembered being consumed by similar questions when I was an undergrad. I thought if I could just nail the right writing routine all my prose would shine. Andre Dubus III visited Susquehanna one time and said he read a poem, or a few pages from a short story, before he sat down to write. So I tried that for awhile back in college. I’d bring Among the Missing or the Collected Stories of Richard Yates or any of the Carver collections and read a few pages, make some notes, and then get started. But that never worked for me because I’d inevitably end up reading the rest of the story.

These days, my routine is far simpler. I wake up, I make coffee, I check e-mail, I drink coffee. When I’m a third of the way through the first cup, I begin. But actually, now that I think about it, there are two videos I watch before I really get going. It’s kind of interesting to me that I would never read a poem or short story now like Dubus does (I find it’s too distracting and influences my own prose too much), but I have no problem watching YouTube. I wonder if other writers do this, especially ones around my own age.

This video. THIS VIDEO! If I could get all my writing to feel like this I’d be set for life. It has this eerie quality. A sadness to it. From the music. But also there’s this nostalgia, the hyper cliches of American children. Then the robot at the end gives it this bizarre humor followed by the apocalyptic mushroom cloud. And of course, the Japanese announcer. So you can’t really get at the true meaning, you can only scratch at it. No crying until the end. Guaranteed masterpiece. I love this video. I love everything about this video. It mostly inspired this story I wrote up at Dark Sky.  And I still watch this video before I write, still remind myself that this is the tone I’m going after: the tone of a 1980’s Japanese Nintendo commercial. I can live with that.

Then there’s this:

This one immediately brings me back to childhood, to endless potential, to singing this song in the shower. Watching it now, there’s such an amazing mix of iconic American imagery–the constitution, Mount Rushmore, Lincoln, the Twin Towers–juxtaposed with utter nonsense–Hulk Hogan doing air guitar in front of the Statue of Liberty. Sometimes I watch this one, because if I can just hit that perfect note of sincerity mixed with an oh I was just kidding please don’t take this seriously attitude, I’d be set. Plus, the song just pumps me the fuck up.

So to sum up, Earthbound Zero and Hulk motherfucking Hogan. You’re welcome, reality.


Metal Gear Solid: A Narrative in the Digital World, A Narrative in the Physical World

(Note: this is the second in a series of blog posts looking back on certain formally interesting video games of the past twenty-five years. Check out the first one–about the 1994 forgotten gem Earthbound–here)

Between the ages of eleven and thirteen, I had horrible warts on the bottom of my left foot. We’re talking mini-flesh Death Stars on my heel and they hurt like hell. The first year or two was bearable, but then I actually started limping, the pain getting so bad that I found it difficult to run during basketball games. So I finally went to see a specialist and after multiple treatments, they decided to whip out a laser beam and fry that shit off. To repeat, I was thirteen-years-old and some creepy doctor shot a laser beam at bacteria on my foot.

It was awesome.

However, I learned right before they Large Hadron Collidered my foot that I would soon be in severe pain, that I would have to remain sitting up or prone in my house for a solid week. They numbed the shit out of my foot and told me I had one hour before the agony would set in. Once we left the doctors, my parents offered to take me wherever I wanted, to do whatever I wanted before retiring home for an entire week, a span of time which seemed practically incalculable to a young Sal Pane. I told them to take me to the mall. Metal Gear Solid had just come out for the Playstation, and I was more than ready to trade in three old games to get that gem of a stealth classic. They drove me. I purchased MGS. I spent the next week on the living room floor having the time of my life.

It removes foot warts AND creates black holes.

I had been anticipating MGS for months, ever since Electronic Gaming Monthly–a magazine that was the closest we had in the late-90’s/early-2000’s to Tom Bissell–started talking about it in hushed, reverent prose, declaring it months before its release as the front runner for game of the year. They ran a multi-page cover story over the summer before MGS‘ fall release, but what really hooked me, the moment when MGS really sunk its teeth into me, was when Konami–the beautiful wonderful corporation behind the Metal Gear franchise–released a demo with the latest issue of The Official Playstation Magazine. I purchased a copy the day it came out. Here’s how MGS begins. Prepare to be fucking awed, chumps.

HOLY SHIT!!! What was so shocking about this back in 1998 was that Metal Gear Solid Director–Hideo Kojima, one of the few gaming directors worthy of the title auteur–was clearly as interested in narrative as gameplay. There’s nothing inherently video game-esque about this opening. Instead, it apes modern action thriller tropes right down to the voice actor credits that roll across the scene. And how about the beautiful opera music 3/4ths of the way through the video? All of this was unheard of. What you have to remember is that 1998 was only two years removed from when gaming’s most narrative driven games looked like this:

And the music? The music of the mid-to-late nineties video games, even at its absolute best, sounded like this:

What struck me immediately while playing Metal Gear Solid–both the demo and when I finally purchased the full game just minutes before transforming into an immobile, cheesy foot goon–was how much of a quantum leap forward gaming had now taken in terms of narrative. Earlier game narratives of the culturally repugnant save the princess variety  could now be replaced with the more filmic qualities of political and action thrillers alike. Now that might not seem like such a big deal to non-gamers–is the plot of Clear and Present Danger that much of an artistic improvement over the simplistic story lines of Saturday morning cartoons?–but Metal Gear Solid was one of the first games to really tackle adult material. The politics of DNA mapping. The feasibility of nuclear disarmament. The ethics of genetic enhancement. A ghastly prediction of terrorism in a pre-9/11 world. These are the narrative questions that Metal Gear Solid is most formally interested in, and although it’s certainly not Shakespeare, it’s a massive improvement for an art form that only ten years earlier witnessed the launch of Super Mario Bros. 3.

Over the course of 20 or so hours, Metal Gear Solid tells an interesting story of political intrigue and nuclear escalation set amid the frozen tundras of coastal Alaska. The story interrupts the game frequently with cut scenes that are actually not all cringe worthy to watch (there are filmic perspectives, music, and acting that’s not actually terrible!).

But if all Metal Gear Solid had going for it was a groundbreaking story, it wouldn’t be as fondly remembered as it is. So many video games since 1998 have attempted vastly more sophisticated narratives. But what makes Metal Gear Solid stand out is its combination of filmic narrative with a metatexuality and interactivity only capable in video games. Hideo Kojima didn’t want to create a game that was merely a poor man’s action movie. He wanted to push games to their limit in terms of interaction with the player’s world. He abandons Tom Bissell’s notions of luddonarrative for a stringently linear structure that forces the gamer to actually interact with the physical world in order to proceed. Kojima’s most important tool? The recently released Dualshock controller.

About six months prior to the North American release of Metal Gear Solid, Sony released the highly advanced Dualshock controller for use with their sales chart topping Playstation. On the surface, the controller doesn’t look that different than their original controller; the only noticeable improvement is the addition of two analog controllers beneath the d-pad and face buttons. But the Dualshock actually contains two motors inside the controller that simulate tactile feedback experienced in video games. For example, let’s say you’re playing Gran Turismo, one of the most popular racing games of the era,  and you crash your vehicle into a wall. Prior to the Dualshock,  the only feedback you would get from the game would be visual. But now, the motors would spin causing the controller to vibrate,  thus simulating the impact of the crash. The Dualshock was much more advanced than Nintendo’s rival product–the Rumble Pak–because it could vibrate at various speeds and intensities. The Dualshock could mimic crashing into a wall at a hundred miles per hour as well as driving over a small speed bump at thirty. Although the controller was only released a few months before Metal Gear, Kojima was given a prototype and fully implemented Dualshock features into the game.

The first few hours of Metal Gear Solid are a delight to play. As mentioned, the narrative stands out as one of the best of its era and its gameplay–in which you’re actively encouraged to flee from enemies instead of taking them head on–was downright revolutionary for its focus on evasion over murder. But one of the first truly memorable scenes–when you first realize that Kojima is doing something far more interesting formally than you might have realized–occurs around the four-hour mark. Solid Snake–the gruff main character, a government manipulated soldier pulled out of retirement for one final mission–tracks down the DARPA Chief, one of the primary objects of the game. Kojima launches into a seven-minute cut scene that portrays the Chief’s death via heart attack. And what’s so intense about this scene, what’s so unlike anything in gaming that had come before, is that the two motors in  the Dualshock simulate this man’s heart attack. It mimics his racing heartbeat, climaxing with the seizure that causes his death, all in the palms of your hands. I could be wrong about this, but this is the first example I can recall of video game narrative being combined so artfully with real world stimuli: the mechanized simulation of a dying human heart.

From this point on, Kojima and Metal Gear Solid take great pains to blur the lines between playing a game in the digital world and playing a game in the physical world. The most meta moment–and easily my favorite moment in any video game ever–occurs less than an hour after the DARPA Chief’s death. Via Snake, the player encounters a character who tells you that you must contact an in-game character named Meryl. Your only clue on how to contact her? “Use the code on the back of the CD case.” Metal Gear Solid uses a simple radio program to contact its in-game characters. They all have different frequency codes, and you can pause the game at any time, enter one of these numbers, and talk to the various characters who are monitoring Solid Snake’s progress from afar. The first time I got this clue–laid-up with a throbbing sour foot don’t forget–I wandered around the limited area of the Shadow Moses fortress that I then had access to, searching for an in-game CD case which would hopefully contain Meryl’s frequency. I searched for hours, and then, in total desperation, opened up the case the game had come in to scan the instruction booklet.

What you have to remember is that this all occurred at the dawn of the modern internet era. I did not have internet access at the time, so unlike today, I couldn’t just go to GameFAQs and look up a walkthrough. I scanned the useless booklet for awhile, then gave up and sealed the case. Here’s what’s on the back.

See that box  toward the bottom middle? The black one with green faces? That’s the radio screen. On the right is Solid Snake, and on the left is Meryl. And what’s that in the middle? That’s right. Meryl’s code. There is no in-game CD case to find. The character was referring to the actual case you bought the game in. He needed you to inspect something that existed in the physical world.

This utterly blew my mind at thirteen, but I don’t think I truly understood the ramifications of what Kojima and MGS had actually pulled. For the first time that I’m aware of, a video game called on you, the player, to do something in the real world in order to advance. Let me be clear on this. If the player does not get up off the couch and inspect the back of the CD case, there is no way to advance. You’re stuck. You can continue playing the game, but there’s no way to further the narrative. The only way to move forward depends on an action in the physical world, not the digital one. This may not seem like such a huge deal, but what will the interaction be between digital narratives and physical narratives in ten years? How about fifty? Hideo Kojima was and is limited by whatever technology is available to him at the time. His imagination is limitless, but the same cannot be said about technology, especially about the now vastly underpowered Playstation. If Kojima is interested in blurring the lines between the digital and the physical–which I would argue that he is–what happens when the technology catches up with Kojima’s imagination? What happens when he’s able to make what happens in games “real”?

Metal Gear Solid is peppered with moments like this throughout. None so brilliantly capture how blended players have become with their digital avatars as the CD code, but there are other interesting examples. Later in the game, one of the bosses gives a demonstration of his physic abilities. In a cut scene, Psycho Mantis looks at the camera, at the player, and tells them whether or not they’re fans of certain games. I remember sitting there on the floor and Psycho Mantis shaking his head and telling me how much I loved the most recent Castlevania game, the now legendary Castlevania: Symphony of the Night. Holy shit! I did love Symphony of the Night! But how did Mantis know?

Like the Dualshock, one of the big peripherals for the Playstation was the memory card, a small plastic trinket that you plugged into your system, allowing you to “save” your progress in various games. Kojima programmed Metal Gear Solid to scan your saved files at this point in the game and then have Psycho Mantis announce whether or not you owned any other Konami products. A bizarre bit of meta-corporate commentary to be sure, but this was nothing in comparison to Mantis’ next trick. He looks at the player once again and instructs you to put the controller on the floor. I looked around the room, startled, and did as I was told. Mantis points his fingers at the controller, and then, with only the power of his mind, causes the controller to rattle across the physical floor in your living room! Obviously, this is accomplished via the motors inside the Dualshock. They rev at maximum intensity when Mantis points, causing the controller to jerk around. Once again, Kojima proves that he wants to obliterate the line delineating avatar and player. For this brief moment, the player is no longer herself. For this brief moment, she is absorbed into the digital world; the player becomes Solid Snake.

And the highlight of the Psycho Mantis encounter? That’s unquestionably the boss fight itself. No matter what you  try and do, Mantis anticipates your attack and easily dodges, chalking it up to his psychic abilities. You call your advisers via radio, and they don’t know what to do and only say that you must break the connection between Mantis and your mind. And while all of this is happening,  the picture keeps going out. The screen keeps going black with the word Hideo appearing in green on the top edge of the screen, just like old televisions used to look when you’d switch to the video channel. The implication here is that Psycho Mantis has actually taken over your television and is changing channels at will in order to kill you in the game world.

The only way to win the fight is to stand up and unplug your controller from the player one socket and insert it into player two’s, thus disrupting the link between Psycho Mantis and your mind/Dualshock/television. This bizarre marriage of technology and implied flesh really disturbed me as a young man. And after killing Psycho Mantis, while watching him bleed out on the floor and tell you about his terrible childhood in a third-world country, I felt like I’d been put through something, that I’d experienced something emotional. It’s sort of like with short stories, how when you get to the end of a good one you find that moment of emotional resonance. Only here, it wasn’t a character who had gone through the journey; I’d gone through that journey.

There’s so much more I want to say about Metal Gear Solid, and in many ways, I feel like I haven’t even scratched the surface. What about the part when you get sick, and Dr. Naomi tells you to put the Dualshock up against your forearm so she can give you a shot? You do as instructed and feel the controller’s motors vibrate once against your bare skin. How about the complicated–for a video game from 1998 at least–questions about love? How about the final battle which goes on and on, moving to set piece after set piece in a manner so obviously culled from a thousand Hollywood thrillers? How about Metal Gear Rex, the cartoony, yet alarmingly plausible weapon designed for launching nuclear missiles at any target on the planet? How about the character of Grey Fox, a dead soldier brought back to life through illegal cybernetics, a terrifying premonition of the military industrial complex gone mad? All of these things could justify their own essays, but what made Metal Gear Solid truly matter to me all those years ago sprawled out with my throbbing foot was the way in which a mere man–Hideo Kojima–had been able, if even momentarily, to merge my identity with that of a video game avatar, that he could so easily merge the physical and digital worlds. It’s an experience that has always stayed with me, and one that I continually go back to every few years with a six-pack of beer. How comforting it is to play through Metal Gear Solid one more time, to find that no matter how much I or the world have changed that Solid Snake and Meryl and Psycho Mantis are exactly as I left them, ready to once again bestow their curious gifts upon me.

Is it that unlike rewatching a favorite film? Is it that unlike rereading a beloved novel?

I’m Sick: My Triumphs, My Failures

I haven’t done a thing with this blog in a week because I’ve contracted the sore throat from Planet Fuck. That, combined with a three class teaching load, has seriously eaten into my ability to get anything done this week. Mind you I’m not complaining. I’m lucky to have a job, especially one that’s actually what I went to school for. But I feel like shit, have been writing less because I feel like shit, and sometimes I send half-delirious e-mails to my students when one too many of them agree electronically about their complete contempt for all things James Baldwin.

Regardless. How productive are you while sick? Are you able to actually get writing done or is it one of the first things to fall by the wayside? I haven’t written since Tuesday which is disgustingly bad for me. I’m planning on remedying that today, but I’m just sleeping so much more because of this cold and it just hasn’t been working out. Instead, I’ve been playing a lot of Earthbound. Its electronic warmth comforts me. Also, I’ve been reading the absolutely wonderful Elephants in Our Bedroom by Michael Czyzniejewski and Richard Yates by Tao Lin.

Me too, Ness. Me too.

Mostly, I’ve been spending a great deal of time thinking about what fictional books I’d most like to read. I don’t mean fiction books, I mean books  written by fictional characters in TV shows and movies. I feel (although I cannot prove) that someone on HTMLGIANT did a thread like this awhile back, but I can’t remember. For my money, I’d most like to read My Triumphs, My Failures by Gaius Baltar from Battlestar Galactica and Wildcat by Eli Cash from Royal Tenenbaums. The later was written in an obsolete vernacular, and according to Wikipedia, a mash-up of Cormac McCarthy and Jay McInerney. What’s not to like, right? And the former is the type of dry political nonfiction I crave. “The nature of modern life is obsession,” Gaius writes in the penultimate episode of season three. Have truer words ever been spoken?

To reiterate: I’m sick, and this is the type of shit I do when I’m sick.

An Excuse to Talk About Fantasy Football or It’s Prime Submission Season!

For a few days, I’ve been trying to think of a good excuse for talking about fantasy football on a blog that’s supposedly about writing and books and shit. I’ve done this before, coming up with justifications to discuss Scott Pilgrim and Earthbound and and all kinds of esoteric subjects. I thought maybe I could pass the draft day experience as an unfolding narrative, how once choice affects another (for example, if you use your first pick on Chris Johnson, you don’t then use your second on another running back with the same bye week).

But, in the end, I couldn’t think of a single, solitary reason for why I’d talk about fantasy football on this blog which (normally) has absolutely nothing to do with fantasy football. But you know what? Fuck it. This is, so if I want to talk about fantasy football I should be able to talk about fantasy football, right? Here’s the outcome of my draft:

Excuse me? Is you saying something? Nu-uh. Can't tell me nothin'.

How’d I do? I feel good about it with the exception of Winslow (I wanted Visanthe Shiancoe, but I’m in a league with Minnesota fans). Do you guys play fantasy? Or do you think, like Marvel Editor Nathan Crosby, that it “combines the excitement of the NFL with the sadness of role-playing games”? Can you come up with any parallels between the world of fantasy football and writing? Ok. Wait a sec. How about this shit? Assembling a fantasy football team is a lot like assembling the contents of a literary journal. You’ve got to balance things while playing towards your aesthetic. I’m a running back guy. I took one in the first round (then a WR then QB) and then a bunch of RBs in a row. Is this like editing a journal that primarily runs metafiction while still trying to balance things in terms of gender and race and sexuality? Are you also worried about Maurice Jones-Drew (language thugs like me call him The Hyphen) blowing out his knee and ruining your season? Are you too obsessed with the Talented Mr. Roto?

One last thing. And this has nothing to do with fantasy football but everything to do with lit journals. IT’S SUBMISSION SEASON AGAIN! I remember very vividly when I started my MFA program going for drinks with two recently graduated poets. They clinked glasses and made a toast to the new submission season. One thing I miss in an era when so much of what we do is digital is the idea that September 1st is the universal starting day for new submissions. So many online outlets read year round (which is obviously so much better for everyone–writer and reader both) that the anticipation of 9/1 just isn’t what it used to be.

However, I am preparing to send out a shit ton of new work. How do you guys go about this? Recently I told a current MFA student that I like to have no fewer than 30 submissions out at any given time, and she looked terrified. Is 30 high? Do you send to more places than that? Are you like me and get panicky whenever your submissions queue on Duotrope drops below 20? Do you not use Duotrope? How many times will you try a journal before you give up (DON’T GIVE UP; I’ve gotten into a bunch of journals that initially rejected my work)? How do you find new journals? Through the work of your peers? Through lit blogs like HTMLGIANT? If you don’t know Chris Johnson from LaDainian Tomlinson, but know the difference between Ploughshares and Diagram, hit me up in the comments.

What? Deal with it.

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Earthbound: The Best Meta-Satire of 1994?

(Note: this is the first in a series of posts examining formally interesting video games. Check the second–about 1998’s Metal Gear Solid–here.)

Last month, Oscar Villalon wrote a piece on The Rumpus echoing Tom Bissell’s sentiments that many members of this generation do not catalog their lives by albums or movies, but through video games. Of course, I made a few remarks in the comments section. One responder said that while interested like Bissell in thinking about the new narrative opportunities afforded by video games, she doesn’t actually want to play them. In fact, she wouldn’t even know where to start, and instead, she offhandedly hoped that somebody would make a gaming mix tape for those whose only introduction to the form is Tetris.


I thought that I might cover a couple video games over the next few months with the same literary lens I’ve been using to look at comic books. And the first one I’ve decided to go with is Earthbound, a 1994 release for the Super Nintendo. That should come as little to surprise to Earthbound veterans, but I’m imagining that most people who read this blog, even some gamers, aren’t aware of this relatively obscure game. The first thing we have to talk about right out of the gate is the box.

The box is bigger than my head.

That shit don’t mess around. And when you’re a ten-year-old boy wandering around the local Electronics Boutique, that giant face-sized behemoth is going to stick out. The box is so big because the game comes with its own strategy guide and a John Waters-esque pack of odorama gross out cards. Imagine me in 1994 utterly captivated by this box, so foreign, so alien, the sleek golden curvature of that figure on its front practically demanding a purchase.

So what’s the premise? Earthbound is about a group of kids who band together to fight hippies, eat cheeseburgers, break up Heaven’s Gate style cults, beat people up with frying pans, put their souls into robots, and ride the Loch Ness Monster. It’s a Japanese Role Playing Game, and for anyone not unspeakably nerdy enough to know what that is, JRPGs are text based narratives where your only method of interaction is steering the avatar (the figure the player controls onscreen) and selecting actions from a text box. Think Myst fused with Dungeons and Dragons. And up until 1994, these games for the most part followed the same formula. Dragons and magic and swords and castles. Plucky young hero watches his village destroyed by an evil empire, then has to fight them to save the world.

What’s so noteworthy about Earthbound is that it takes place in the present (199X to be exact), and the avatars are average kids with yo-yos and baseball bats for weapons. They drink soda, not potions, to repelnish their health. They get money by using their fathers’ credit cards in ATM machines, not collecting golden coins from fallen enemies. They fight crazed neighborhood dogs, not dragons.  They pal around with the Blues Brothers.


In 1994, this blew my fucking mind.

The aforementioned would be enough to make Earthbound noteworthy, just one in a line of excellent JRPGs released during the Super Nintendo era. But what pushes Earthbound over the edge from obscure gem into groundbreaking classic is the fact that it’s a satire, and it’s actually funny. Most people who play games acknowledge the fact that they’re funny. But games are rarely intentionally so. Games get chuckles when they have awful translations, not because of in-game jokes. Earthbound breaks that rule repeatedly. Sometimes you discover a trinket called “Insignificant Item” that does absolutely nothing. Other times you knock at someone’s door only to hear the hushed quotations of Beatles’ lyrics. If you approach a character called The Annoying Old Party Man you get one of these two messages: “The Annoying Old Party Man/Reveler grumbled about today’s youth” or “The Annoying Old Party Man/Reveler lectured you”. Mr. T makes a cameo. Sometimes, when fighting hippies, the game literally gives you this message: “The New Age Retro Hippie used a ruler! Now he can measure things more easily!” I’m not doing the game’s humor justice, because text can’t do the game justice. Its combination of offbeat soundtrack, Norman Rockwell-cum-Nintendo visuals, and insane story and dialogue in tandem are what make this game so truly bizarre and set apart from all the other deadly serious RPGs.

And did I mention the meta aspects of the game? Earthbound begins when an alien named Buzz Buzz (yes, Buzz Buzz) crash lands in the protagonist’s sleepy American town and explains to the young boy that he’s the inheritor of an important prophecy. This is typical JRPG crap, but Earthbound plays it off with style. Buzz Buzz alerts the player that he is critically injured and about to die, but after hearing his speech about what the game is about, he tells you he can explain it again if necessary, and in fact, can explain it an infinite amount of times despite being only seconds away from death. Multiple times throughout the game, the action will stop and a character onscreen will call to you (the real life sitting at home player, not the avatar) and ask you to take a picture of the avatars. At one point, they even ask you for your real life name and hint that they’re curious to know about the person who’s controlling them (again you) like a god-like figure in their 16-bit “lives”. And in the finale, the game asks you to send all your good karma to the protagonist so that he can defeat the final boss.


So meta. SO META!

And the ending? The ending. There’s no cut scene that finishes the game. The player has complete control and you’re free to roam around the massive game world where people thank you for playing or offer investment opportunities or chide you for missing school. There’s no true end other than turning off the power. And in 1994 this was truly memorable shit. Earthbound was the first game that made fun of itself for being a video game. Earthbound was the first game whose characters understood that they existed in a video game world, and they frequently commented on that fact.

I can’t imagine many people are going to rush out and play Earthbound after reading this (unless, like me, they’ve already played through it countless times). But like Bissell argues in Extra Lives, I think it’s important for the literary set to look at games and think about their narrative potential. They require a level of active participation that a book can never have (and that’s not a judgment on either medium). Bissell focuses much of his work on newer games, but my only true access point to gamer culture is fueled by nostalgia. Earthbound is the first game that truly made me aware of the storytelling capabilities within the video game, the first that made it clear that not everything had to follow the tired and culturally outdated “save the princess” plot line. And when I open up my Earthbound strategy guide and smell my Master Belch odorama card? Yeah. That’s a straight snort back to what it feels like to be ten-years-old again.

This reference is not lost on ten-year-olds.

Do I lose my writer card if I call Earthbound the Infinite Jest of 1994 Super Nintendo Japanese Role Playing Games?

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