By James Pinnell on March 4, 2014 at 2:33 pm
Maniken50 doesn’t mince words in his short, fairly disturbing review of the phenomenally popular survival builder Rust.
“I love this game”, he muses. “I built a house around a guys house and made him my prisoner, I fed him cans of tuna and cooked chicken when it was available, and some times I would drop in spare logs of wood (when they were available).”
This is followed by what can only be described as a Hannibal Lector love note, where he describes torturing and restraining the poor fellow, in a recreation of a scene from Silence of The Lambs. Strangely enough, or not as it were, this review was helpful to 93% of the 18,000 people who rated it, with comments congratulating (and damning) the player on his efforts and pledging a purchase based on his story.
This isn’t as much as an exception as the rule in the new world order of online sandboxes — both Rust and DayZ, two titles that are almost certainly the most unrelenting, unforgiving and anarchic games of the decade. Griefing has now grown to become de rigueur when building a new community in a space with little to no rules, restrictions or, most importantly, consequences.
By James Pinnell on January 17, 2014 at 3:04 pm
On the long, long road to Guild Wars 2, even the hardened critic inside me couldn’t get enough of ArenaNet’s breadcrumb trail of hype laced videos, previews, interviews and reveals. The beautiful art, the varied number of classes and races, the lush, gorgeous locales that encouraged exploration and teamwork. Everything about the game seemed to entice once die-hard players back into the fold – your level dropped appropriate to the area and your party, PVP was engaging, difficult and rewarding, and leveling was actually fluid and, well, fun. To top it off, it was free to play – forever.
It should have been the perfect game. But it wasn’t.
By James Pinnell on April 18, 2013 at 2:12 pm
I wanted to play. I would jump onto my PC, browse Reddit and Twitter for a bit, and then stare at the client launcher on my desktop. But I knew that once I logged onto the server I’d be swallowed up for hours, catching up on all the time I’d “missed”, and avoiding the requests to jump on TeamSpeak. Burnout is a horrible thing, brought on by a toxic addiction that overrules everything else in your universe. Each full night you ignored your wife or ate dinner at your desk was just another sliver of life debt you added to the pile, like playing a great song on repeat for hours.
Eventually, and inevitably, the thing that you adore morphs into that digital version of hell.