Finally, I’ve done it. I’ve waded through horde upon horde of grunts, fended off Tickers, Brutes and Boomers, even ridden a Brumak into the very heart of the Locust hive. Now comes the showdown, the last stand, the battle that all prior confrontations have been steering me towards. The beast before me is vast, mutated and enraged. Its freshly grown tentacles thrash the emulsion that brought them forth; its mouth is contorted in a shriek of agonized rage. It wants blood. My blood.
There is no way back now. Circling in the COG chopper, I dig in my heels, steady my nerves and prepare for the fight of my life.
Zap. Thud. Roll credits.
First off, I think it’s fair I make something clear: I love Gears Of War. It looks fantastic, it sounds awesome and, most importantly, it plays like a dream (albeit a rather scary dream about freaky-looking heads on legs that scuttle towards you at speed and then explode in your face). The combat mechanics are pure, brutal satisfaction, gunplay is a kinetic thrill and the difficulty curve is approachable but rewarding. There is a noticeable upping-of-the-ante throughout: grander environments, bigger guns and badder (!) bad-guys. So why, in the name of Shiva, Ifrit and Ramuh (yes, that’s right, I totally went there) does the final boss have to be such a catastrophic letdown?
I’ve always considered the process of playing through any game as the building of a skill base; the game teaches you to run, gun, drive, dodge, jump a frog across a road (or whatever weird sub-genre you’ve chosen to wallow in) then challenges you to put these skills into practice. As the game progresses the difficulty increases accordingly, via super-tough enemies, geographically implausible racetracks or Tetris blocks raining down from the sky like jet-propelled hailstones. Thus, once you’re toe-to-toe with that final boss (or trying to steal first place from that WipEout pilot who has blatantly been schooled in the Jedi arts) the abilities you have been feverishly honing for 10-plus hours are stretched to the limit. And when you emerge victorious the rapture is divine, because damn-it, you EARNED it.
I’m sure I’m not the only one who felt short-changed when that toxic Brumak fell after a couple of measly laser blasts. What about the dying moments of Assassin’s Creed, when Al Mualim and his useless clones were picked off one terminal stab at a time? Or even (and I’m treading on hallowed ground here) Halo and Halo 3, when your gun-toting prowess is thrown out the window in favour of one last buggy ride? I realize that plot has to be considered, that there is a reason why Marcus Fenix is using the biggest weapon at his disposal to eliminate his enemy quickly and efficiently. But plotting should never come at the expense of gameplay. I want a warm glow, a deep sense of satisfaction when the pixilated dust settles and I lay my sweat-soaked joypad to rest. Instead, these experiences leave me feeling like a dark chocolate Easter egg: bitter and hollow.
Come on Bowser, show ‘em how it’s done.
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