Just for a change this week, Toby's decided to use his Sitrep column to write about Far Cry 3.
By Toby McCasker on December 13, 2012 at 1:13 am
I don’t always stay up playing games ‘til 4am, but when I do, it’s because I’m playing Far Cry 3 and things have gone horribly wrong. I’m hesitant to use a jerk-off clinical buzzword here, but the emergent gameplay in this thing is awesome. Seriously. I remember its preamble: No two encounters are ever the same. Sure, sure, I thought. Heard that before. All encounters were subsequently the same except people got shot in varying orders and I died in ever more embarrassing ways. Yawn.
Not yawn. Absolute truth in this case. There are a lot of reasons Far Cry 3 has really gotten its claws into me – sometimes literally – but the biggest is this: When things go wrong, they go brilliantly. I’m an anarchist at heart. I derive immense joy from the sudden eruption of chaos and confusion, so long as nobody actually gets hurt. Someone knocking over some other guy’s beer and then that guy getting mad at the wrong person and that wrong person’s girlfriend suddenly vomiting and then a light fixture falls down. Spoiler: I’m the guy who accidentally [*citation needed] elbowed over the beer.
In Far Cry 3 I am the most profoundly dumbass trickster god of all time. How often have you sleuthed your way through the bushes, expertly camera’d up all the goons in that base, and initiated Glorious Master Stealth Protocol #999 only to have the slightest thing absolutely derail your efforts and all of a sudden the entire jungle is on fire and a tiger is loose? My answer is: lol always. I don’t think I’ve ever successfully infiltrated anything. I am a bumbling oaf laden with automatic weapons and explosives and a flare gun, for some reason. Wait, I know the reason: Hilarity. Pizz-ow.
Even better: Sometimes it’s not even about the goons and their bases. A lot of people on Rook Island have problems, and I seem to excel at making them worse. A great deal of these problems involve broken down cars. One time I’d just decided to take the repair torch thing out for a spin and I was busy skiing up and down a grassy knoll when I chanced upon a guy and the smoke sizzling from under the bonnet of his Ford Laser or whatever at the bottom of it. Let me stress: This knoll was very grassy.
“Help me out bro,” he said, or something. It just so happens I was out taking my repair torch thing for a spin that day! The number of times I’d hooned past befuddled Maoris and their junked rides without being able to help was a lot, so I thought, I can make amends here.
“Step aside,” I told this guy without saying it, and got to work waving miraculous car-healing blue fire on his side mirror. This guy starts screaming, like, I thought I was doing something wrong. How am I meant to know? I’ve never repaired an entire car by blasting a side mirror with fire before. I look up and he’s on fire. The entire grassy knoll is on fire. The car, is on fire. I’m also on fire. My love for Far Cry 3 is the most fiery of them all.