Defending Bishock

Poor old Bioshock has become the Tiger Woods of gaming in the last few weeks, its formerly glittering façade apparently showing some signs of tarnish. Why is that? Because of the internet, of course. A digit in the year is about to change and consequently every real and wannabe journalist (and on the internet, who can tell them apart?) has decided to mark the end of the decade with a list. Personally, I think the end of the decade should be marked with an insightful and wide-ranging article full of relevant interviews and research that seeks to encapsulate and learn from the preceding ten years, but I haven’t got the time to write it and nor does anyone else, so lists it is.

Anyway, despite having praise liberally heaped upon it ever since its debut in 2007, Bioshock’s presence in the never ending stream of best of lists which we’re using to finally smother the noughties out of their embarrasingly named misery has got a lot of people’s backs up. “It’s not revolutionary enough.” “It didn’t change the way we play games.” “It holds your hand to much.”

To be fair, those aren’t inaccurate criticisms. At its heart, Bioshock is just another first person shooter. It’s easy to be a little underwhelmed by it, but seriously, don’t write it off the big lists just yet. This is the decade that saw the likes of Madworld and Far Cry 2 hyped to the rooftops. That’s what happens if you don’t keep a firm grasp on the concept of what a good game is.

There’s more to Bioshock than what Yahtzee memorably described as objectivist folderol, although it has to be said, the folderol is a huge part of the experience. Hearing a paraphrase of Ayn Rand’s self-serving philosophies dished up by the game’s Andrew Ryan in a voice that resembles Charles Foster Kane at his most contemptuous is a huge part of the game, as much of the Bioshock atmosphere comes from the contrast between the contorted justification of greed and selfishness with the horrors it has led to. While Ryan booms out Zeus like pronouncements from the tannoy and Atlas charms you over the radio, the reality of the situation is revealed by Rapture’s many audio diaries that paint the real picture of the city’s decline through the fears of its citizens. There aren’t many games that craft such a nuanced, layered story or unfold it with such perfect timing, and all with barely a cutscene in sight.

If the story isn’t enough for you, what about Rapture itself? All gilt and neon, art deco at the bottom of the ocean, Bioshock is one of those games that constantly makes you stop to just look around. Remember how you loved the wide open environment when you first played Halo, but it soon wore off? Remember the way the pre-rendered backgrounds of Resident Evil gave a real sense of place and progress, but they soon wore off too? In Bioshock, Rapture never wears off. Even after several hours of play you’ll still be stopping in rooms and corridors to marvel at the view

Ten there are the achievements. Few games ever get the balance of achievements as right as Bioshock does, and its responsible for my final conversion into a scorewhore. It’s almost as if Bioshock is grateful to you for playing it, the way it constantly drops little 15 and 20g gifts into your score, whilst holding in reserve some slightly tougher rewards designed to make you play more, and harder. Even Bioshock’s big achievements are perfectly balanced between not being instantly attainable, but not being so difficult that they ever reduce the game to the drudge of pigeon-hunting or ingot-collecting.

Sure, Bioshock does have it’s weaknesses. For all the nuance of its story, the games famed moral choice aspect is a blunt and unsophisticated either/or proposition, and don’t get me started on the difficulty. Having heard time and again how tough the Big Daddies were, how I’d feel amazing when I finally beat one of these dangerous behemoths, how they’re among gaming’s best bosses, I naturally erred on the side of caution and set the difficulty a little low for my first Bioshock playthrough. I spent the game with medical kits raining down on me like manna from heaven, got to the point here I was killing Big Daddies in a nonchalant, offhanded fashion (can you wield a rocket launcher insouciantly? I certainly can.) and only died once in the entire game.

Of course, that’s a minor complaint. When a game offers character development and plot material right to the very last, it would be a terrible shame to miss any of it by turning the difficulty level up to the level of a brain aching slog.

No, Bioshock may be ‘just another shooter’, but it’s a brilliantly realised one, full of wit and clever asides, set in a beautifully degraded environment. It doesn’t reinvent the way games are played, but it’s mix of inventiveness and excitement reminds you of why you play them in the first place.

Lost dog, please help!

You know Yahtzee? That Brooker-esque games reviewer we all claim to watch purely for entertainment and never for buying advice? Well he’s recently repeated his not wholly incorrect assertion that morality choices in gaming are meaningless because they involve such extremes: ‘save Western Civilsation or eat a toddler’, and it got me thinking about a very recent gaming experience.

You see, I’ve lost my dog. I first found him in scrapyard in the Capital Wastelands, and my initial thoughts were grim, Another irritating noisemaker to hoover up medicine and supplies, just like Sheva in Resi 5 or Rufferto (my dog in Fable II). I know, I’ve just compared an AI woman to a dog, but her effect on inventory management is the same.

My mood didn’t initially improve, as my newfound companion did his best to prove me right, soaking up enemy bullets like a meatsponge and consuming precious medicine, whilst throwing himself headlong into battle with everything from Supermutants to Mirelurks, forcing me to abandoned my careful ranged approach and dive in to rescue him.

Bit by bit, however, I began to warm to him. It might have been when he dived into a room full of Radroaches and killed them for me, saving me the trouble of switching from combat shotgun to lead pipe and providing me with some irradiated bug meat in the process, or it might have been when I turned around in the wasteland and found that he’d saved me from an attack by one of his canine contemporaries. Whenever it happened, I grew to enjoy Dogmeat’s company, and consequently was keen to keep him out trouble, ordering him to stay on the outskirts of battle. Which is how I found myself shooting solo through a pack of raiders, who led to another pack of raiders, and a house, and a settlement, and a sidequest, and job, and a cave system, and another settlement, with another side mission…wait, where did I leave my dog?

What’s this got to do with morality choices? (Remember I was talking about them up there? You googled for Yahtzee and got my first paragraph instead?) Only that you can’t expect game designers to do everything, or to know what will push your buttons. I’m feeling so guilty about Dogmeat that much as I want to resist the urge and keep playing through Fallout, I know I’m instead going to spend hours scouring the wasteland looking for him.

In Fable II, despite being a paragon of virtue, I was perfectly happy to off innocent Spire guards for the boss or allow young maidens to be aged by shadowy gods, because I had an important job to do. I had no qualms about harvesting Little Sisters in Bioshock’s Rapture - no matter what Libertarians might tell you, their philosophy of unbridled self-interest regardless of the consequences is inherently corrosive, so the Sisters were hardly going to end up having an idyllic lifestyle if I left them alone. No matter what morality choices are engineered for me in the game, I still tend to put the game first and suffer no real guilt because of it. But lose one imaginary irradiated mongrel, and boy, do I get pangs. Such pangs that I have to abandon my planned defence of oft-criticised reviewers' snowclones in order to tell you about my lost dog. Moop.