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To Eurogamer ξεκινησε ενα αφιερωμα που θα διαρκεσει 2 εβδομαδες και στο οποιο καθε μερα παρουσιαζουν ενα παιχνιδι λεγοντας γιατι το θεωρουν ως ενα απο τα καλυτερα αυτης της γενιας.
Ως τωρα εχουμε δει 3 τιτλους:
1. Portal
2. Red Dead Redemption
3. Journey
4. Fallout 3
5. The Last Of Us
6. Street Fighter 4
7. World of Warcraft
8. Spelunky
9. Dark Souls
10. Super Mario Galaxy
Ως τωρα εχουμε δει 3 τιτλους:
1. Portal
Released in 2007, Portal was met with unanimous, sustained praise and yet its influence has been almost non-existent. There have been no imitators, no cover versions, no respectful nods from other studios hoping to build upon its lessons and approach. That is, arguably, because it is a complete game, in which story and mechanics elegantly entwine and unfurl towards their natural conclusion. Like a short story that is too rounded to expand into a novel, and too idiosyncratic to birth a genre, Portal sits alone, majestic. It's a game that offered an exit from a cliché, but one through which only it seemed to fit.
Even the sequel, for all its cleverness and expansion, was unable to match its perfectly told story. In video games we are led to believe that a debut is a first swing: sequels, being technological evolutions as much as creative ones, will always curve towards improvement. Portal refuses to adhere to this rule, just as it rebukes the rest of them. It's proof that once you've delivered perfection where else is left to go but imperfection?
Even the sequel, for all its cleverness and expansion, was unable to match its perfectly told story. In video games we are led to believe that a debut is a first swing: sequels, being technological evolutions as much as creative ones, will always curve towards improvement. Portal refuses to adhere to this rule, just as it rebukes the rest of them. It's proof that once you've delivered perfection where else is left to go but imperfection?
If asked to boil down what makes Red Dead Redemption my favourite game of the generation, it'd would be this: it knew the value of emptiness, of silence, of space. It had confidence enough in its players ability to engage with the fiction that it could create a beautiful landscape and not clutter it up with crap. It saved its bullet points for the bodies of bad men lying in the dust, not for a press release, and in doing so offered the most singularly absorbing opportunity to live a different life that these consoles offered.
To walk in the bootprints of Ford and Leone, not to read, or to watch, but to feel history shift beneath our feet as an old world was ground away by the new, if only for a short time. Hopefully the next console generation will offer similarly powerful experiences, or we'll be destined to make more barrels than memories.
To walk in the bootprints of Ford and Leone, not to read, or to watch, but to feel history shift beneath our feet as an old world was ground away by the new, if only for a short time. Hopefully the next console generation will offer similarly powerful experiences, or we'll be destined to make more barrels than memories.
Journey's a game defined as much by what it isn't as what it is. In an era where the appetites of hungry audiences are satiated by companies tossing out swill buckets overflowing with content, there's a certain defiant charm in the 90 minutes it takes to see Journey through to its end. At a time when so many players define themselves by their conquests and achievements, there's something too in its obstinate refusal to raise a challenge.
Written in that arc, and in that playful moment of escape from gravity, lies Journey's theme of transcendence. It's a literal touch rather than a literary one, as thatgamecompany's reliance on the framework of the hero's journey provides a fittingly slight narrative thread - but here it's told through little beyond mechanics and systems. Journey proves in its epic minimalism that a tale told through the struggles and reliefs of a player with a controller can be just as powerful as that relayed through the spoken or written word.
And it's a refreshingly different tale that Journey sets out to tell. Its mesh of faiths and religions results in a strangely neutered brand of spirituality, but in the travels of its cloaked hero it manages to find between them a common thread that truly distinguishes thatgamecompany's achievement. When games have so often been about the adrenaline rush of escaping death, Journey is about no more or less than the melancholy triumph of embracing it.
Written in that arc, and in that playful moment of escape from gravity, lies Journey's theme of transcendence. It's a literal touch rather than a literary one, as thatgamecompany's reliance on the framework of the hero's journey provides a fittingly slight narrative thread - but here it's told through little beyond mechanics and systems. Journey proves in its epic minimalism that a tale told through the struggles and reliefs of a player with a controller can be just as powerful as that relayed through the spoken or written word.
And it's a refreshingly different tale that Journey sets out to tell. Its mesh of faiths and religions results in a strangely neutered brand of spirituality, but in the travels of its cloaked hero it manages to find between them a common thread that truly distinguishes thatgamecompany's achievement. When games have so often been about the adrenaline rush of escaping death, Journey is about no more or less than the melancholy triumph of embracing it.
A constant theme of this generation has been old ideas and formats being recycled and repackaged. Every publisher has visited dusty back rooms to inspect what licenses had been accrued over the years - what brands they could reinvigorate, which older gamers to reel back in, how many HD remakes could be hastily chopped together and what consistency of freemium bullshit could be feasibly be forced down a single throat.
Fallout 3 however (alongside the likes of X-Com) came from the right place - a design team energised and invigorated by the approval of their teenage selves. It used the past as an intelligent stepping stone towards modern mass-appeal roleplay and, arguably, eased the passage of kickstarted re-apocalypses like Wasteland 2.
Ron Perlman makes a habit of stating "War, war never changes" - it's his opening gambit at dinner parties. He must know, however, that it isn't true. War had to change, and Fallout had to change with it if it were ever going to survive outside the vault. The fans it left behind, the hardcore who thought it tainted by exposure to the outside world and cast it out, were saddened. That can't be denied. The way Fallout 3 strode out, blinked beneath an unfamiliar sun and went on to thrive, however, genuinely made it one of the greatest experiences of this generation.
Fallout 3 however (alongside the likes of X-Com) came from the right place - a design team energised and invigorated by the approval of their teenage selves. It used the past as an intelligent stepping stone towards modern mass-appeal roleplay and, arguably, eased the passage of kickstarted re-apocalypses like Wasteland 2.
Ron Perlman makes a habit of stating "War, war never changes" - it's his opening gambit at dinner parties. He must know, however, that it isn't true. War had to change, and Fallout had to change with it if it were ever going to survive outside the vault. The fans it left behind, the hardcore who thought it tainted by exposure to the outside world and cast it out, were saddened. That can't be denied. The way Fallout 3 strode out, blinked beneath an unfamiliar sun and went on to thrive, however, genuinely made it one of the greatest experiences of this generation.
The Last of Us is every inch the epic blockbuster. Its pacing and set pieces are well judged, its story of loss, hope and betrayal leaves us conflicted and the savage beauty of its world offers melancholic lows and dizzy highs. It is an experience whose individual parts can and will be replicated but that, as a whole, sits atop the pile of narrative driven experiences as a high profile, mainstream example of what the medium is capable of. Hollywood can keep its happy endings, I prefer mine bittersweet.
Street Fighter 4 single-handedly revitalised the fighting genre for an entire industry and, for those who were there during the glory years of the 16-bit era, for those who toiled over 10-hit combos in Tekken and for those who mastered the parry and thrust of Soulcalibur, breathed new life into rusty quarter circle forward motions. Even the most die-hard Street Fighter fan will admit - whispered in back alleys only - that Mortal Kombat 9 turned out okay in the end.
But why? Was it fate? Was Street Fighter's triumphant return a case of being in the right place at the right time? Perhaps. My answer is a simple one: Street Fighter 4 achieved all of the above because it's the greatest fighting game ever made.
Capcom and producer Yoshonori Ono intended for Street Fighter 4 to celebrate the series' heritage, but they also needed it to be accessible. They needed it to be more pick up and play than the complex Street Fighter 3 with its Parries and Super Arts.
Capcom's master plan was to design a game that would attract lapsed Street Fighter 2 players back into the fold. Despite the initially controversial 2.5D cel-shaded visuals (like The Legend of Zelda: The Wind Waker, Street Fighter 4's detailed, expressive graphics get increasingly gorgeous with each passing year), and the addition of a handful of new characters with - shock! - new play styles, the gameplay would work similarly to Street Fighter 2's.
But why? Was it fate? Was Street Fighter's triumphant return a case of being in the right place at the right time? Perhaps. My answer is a simple one: Street Fighter 4 achieved all of the above because it's the greatest fighting game ever made.
Capcom and producer Yoshonori Ono intended for Street Fighter 4 to celebrate the series' heritage, but they also needed it to be accessible. They needed it to be more pick up and play than the complex Street Fighter 3 with its Parries and Super Arts.
Capcom's master plan was to design a game that would attract lapsed Street Fighter 2 players back into the fold. Despite the initially controversial 2.5D cel-shaded visuals (like The Legend of Zelda: The Wind Waker, Street Fighter 4's detailed, expressive graphics get increasingly gorgeous with each passing year), and the addition of a handful of new characters with - shock! - new play styles, the gameplay would work similarly to Street Fighter 2's.
You can never go back. Or can you?
It's a defining characteristic of this generation that most of the games in our list play differently now than they did at launch. Bugs have been fixed, classes rebalanced, level caps raised, new content and modes added. The internet has even reached into solo experiences like Bethesda's RPGs and synced them with the remorseless march of time. If such a thing as final cut ever existed in video games, it's gone now. You can still experience most of the original versions if you try, but you'll have to try: wipe that install, delete that save data, unplug the router.
For World of Warcraft, though, that's all but impossible. Blizzard's mighty online world is now almost unrecognisable as the game that, just before the new consoles launched, heralded the dawn of a new age - the age, in the term coined by Valve's Gabe Newell and parroted by an army of publishing executives, of "games as a service". Not only has WOW undergone constant evolution in mechanics, design and philosophy over the last nine years, but its original content is gone. Wiped from the servers, never to return.
It was swept away by the broom of 2010's Cataclysm expansion, which exhaustively redesigned two continents' worth of dungeons and questing, in many places from scratch. This is a game that now contains nostalgic references to an earlier version of itself. Cataclysm was unpopular with WOW players - mostly for other reasons to do with its endgame - but it still might be the single most extraordinary thing I've seen a games developer do in my decade or so writing about games.
It's a defining characteristic of this generation that most of the games in our list play differently now than they did at launch. Bugs have been fixed, classes rebalanced, level caps raised, new content and modes added. The internet has even reached into solo experiences like Bethesda's RPGs and synced them with the remorseless march of time. If such a thing as final cut ever existed in video games, it's gone now. You can still experience most of the original versions if you try, but you'll have to try: wipe that install, delete that save data, unplug the router.
For World of Warcraft, though, that's all but impossible. Blizzard's mighty online world is now almost unrecognisable as the game that, just before the new consoles launched, heralded the dawn of a new age - the age, in the term coined by Valve's Gabe Newell and parroted by an army of publishing executives, of "games as a service". Not only has WOW undergone constant evolution in mechanics, design and philosophy over the last nine years, but its original content is gone. Wiped from the servers, never to return.
It was swept away by the broom of 2010's Cataclysm expansion, which exhaustively redesigned two continents' worth of dungeons and questing, in many places from scratch. This is a game that now contains nostalgic references to an earlier version of itself. Cataclysm was unpopular with WOW players - mostly for other reasons to do with its endgame - but it still might be the single most extraordinary thing I've seen a games developer do in my decade or so writing about games.
It's not that Spelunky was the first game to introduce procedurally generated levels, a practice that's been happening for over a decade in various dungeon crawlers and roguelikes, but rather Spelunky was the rare gem that reconstructed its architecture each go-round in a way that didn't feel arbitrary or like a cheap ploy to lengthen the experience. It understood the plight of man and knew exactly what challenges would feel worthwhile, and which would simply feel unfair - and in the several hundred games of Spelunky I've played (across three platforms, no less), I could count the number of supposedly "cheap" deaths I've had on one hand.
Ultimately, Spelunky, like Ico before it, was something of a pioneer. Without a strong gimmick to its name it would be easy for newcomers to write Spelunky off as a heartless void of a platformer where the player is at the mercy of a clockwork algorithm, but that would be a mistake. Spelunky is the gift that keeps on giving. Even when all of its secrets have been discovered, enemies vanquished, and items found, it still beckons me back for another go, as I know I've only gotten stronger, faster, and all around better at conquering its unpredictable challenges. Every shot is an adventure: a chance to prove I can overcome the odds, take bigger risks, and maybe, just maybe, come out the other end with a new high score. But more likely I'll get knocked onto some spikes. No matter. I know the very next day I'll be back.
Ultimately, Spelunky, like Ico before it, was something of a pioneer. Without a strong gimmick to its name it would be easy for newcomers to write Spelunky off as a heartless void of a platformer where the player is at the mercy of a clockwork algorithm, but that would be a mistake. Spelunky is the gift that keeps on giving. Even when all of its secrets have been discovered, enemies vanquished, and items found, it still beckons me back for another go, as I know I've only gotten stronger, faster, and all around better at conquering its unpredictable challenges. Every shot is an adventure: a chance to prove I can overcome the odds, take bigger risks, and maybe, just maybe, come out the other end with a new high score. But more likely I'll get knocked onto some spikes. No matter. I know the very next day I'll be back.
It is well accepted that Dark Souls is a game full of dead things, including you. From top to bottom, anyone who is still pumping blood is generally doing it on time borrowed from some greater evil, sorrowfully throwing themselves on your swords, axes and fireballs as much to end themselves as to halt your progress. Even the NPCs, when they see you, show little excitement. "Oh," they may say. Most of them don't even move. There is no life.
Rich Stanton called Dark Souls "a game where the mechanics are also the metaphors". Maybe the reason the atmosphere is so mournful is that the entire game is a metaphor, full of ideas and systems that are dying even faster than the demons we slay, resurrected here not in hope of re-establishing them, but to ponder their moving remains.
If that is the case, though, then I hope it is the only thing Dark Souls gets wrong.
Rich Stanton called Dark Souls "a game where the mechanics are also the metaphors". Maybe the reason the atmosphere is so mournful is that the entire game is a metaphor, full of ideas and systems that are dying even faster than the demons we slay, resurrected here not in hope of re-establishing them, but to ponder their moving remains.
If that is the case, though, then I hope it is the only thing Dark Souls gets wrong.
10. Super Mario Galaxy
That's it, we're done. Having brought you our pick of the games of the generation, today we bring you the final choice - the best game of the past console cycle, as voted for by Eurogamer contributors past and present.
It's no wonder that Mario Galaxy and its sequel have been so hard to follow, too. These games represent the culmination of two decades' worth of work, two decades of imagination and craft. Since his very first jump, Mario's been aiming for the stars. And once there, where next?
That's a good question. The plumber himself has long since reversed the powers-of-ten experiment that brought him out here by heading backwards - back down to earth, back to simpler dimensions, back to the pleasant warmth of the past. There have been great games since then, but they're great games that have been born from a retreat to former glories.
Galaxy's stages are scattered and diffuse. They're little lumps of fun, each asteroid a single idea where the designers have realised that there's no need to waste space or time connecting everything in a way that would make sense down on earth. The designers realised that fun can often be depended on to sort its own orientation out, just as fun can create its own aesthetic. With the help of little more than a touch of rim-lighting, Galaxy's levels emerge as some of the most beautiful playgrounds ever seen, and the beauty comes from how unadorned they are, from how they've been reduced to their bare machinery.
Everything works. The limited sight-lines of most planets you land on make this the most delightfully panicky Mario ever, one where you're always running into trouble you can't see until you're right on top of it. It's also the most restless Mario too, the endless hopping from one asteroid to another leaving you impatiently scanning the horizon for glimpses of the next destination, the next gimmick, the next five minutes' of brilliance.
Meanwhile, the strange spirit that created Galaxy has drifted far, far away - bright and glittering as ever, but now well out of reach.
It's no wonder that Mario Galaxy and its sequel have been so hard to follow, too. These games represent the culmination of two decades' worth of work, two decades of imagination and craft. Since his very first jump, Mario's been aiming for the stars. And once there, where next?
That's a good question. The plumber himself has long since reversed the powers-of-ten experiment that brought him out here by heading backwards - back down to earth, back to simpler dimensions, back to the pleasant warmth of the past. There have been great games since then, but they're great games that have been born from a retreat to former glories.
Galaxy's stages are scattered and diffuse. They're little lumps of fun, each asteroid a single idea where the designers have realised that there's no need to waste space or time connecting everything in a way that would make sense down on earth. The designers realised that fun can often be depended on to sort its own orientation out, just as fun can create its own aesthetic. With the help of little more than a touch of rim-lighting, Galaxy's levels emerge as some of the most beautiful playgrounds ever seen, and the beauty comes from how unadorned they are, from how they've been reduced to their bare machinery.
Everything works. The limited sight-lines of most planets you land on make this the most delightfully panicky Mario ever, one where you're always running into trouble you can't see until you're right on top of it. It's also the most restless Mario too, the endless hopping from one asteroid to another leaving you impatiently scanning the horizon for glimpses of the next destination, the next gimmick, the next five minutes' of brilliance.
Meanwhile, the strange spirit that created Galaxy has drifted far, far away - bright and glittering as ever, but now well out of reach.
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