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Wednesday, August 25, 2004

Rome: Total War Demo

I took at a look at the Rome: Total War demo yesterday, and while it's everything it should be, it was still less than I expected. In spite of the stellar graphics and the intuitive interface, as I played I was not disinterested but somehow unmoved. This says less about the game than it does about my perspective on RTS games.



I've written this before, but the RTS genre has evolved into spreadsheets represented by graphics. There is a relationship between the large numbers of units shown on the screen and an impersonal, remote feeling that pervades most of the canon. In a word, the genre is dispassionate.



That's not true of all RTS games. The two that stand out most vividly as exceptions are Startopia and Tropico. Startopia was a wildly divergent game--real-time strategy, but overflowing with personality. The space-station setting was packed with comedy and featured an entire level--the biosphere--that was a game in itself. It sold poorly and was the last game PC game Mucky Foot developed before they disbanded. That's me--I've really got my pulse on the market. My stamp of approval was the death rattle.



Tropico, to me, represents what might be the high-water mark of the real-time strategy genre. It does so by being extraordinarily personal. As the leader of a banana republic, you must monitor citizen unrest--at the citizen level. Click on anyone in your country and you can see his needs, his moods, his dissatisfactions. The number of responses available to any crisis are as varied as they are remarkable--you can provide more services, reduce taxes, bribe, even imprison the leaders of opposing factions, with the consequence that you might well ferment a revolution. In short, there is a cost for every opportunity. That's how well-balanced games work.



As I played Tropico, I never felt remote from what was happening. I was never above the action. I was inside the action, and that makes all the difference in the world to me. I respect Phil Steinmeyer so highly for this brilliant game that when Railroad Tycoon 3 came out last fall, something very curious happened. When I realized after about fifteen hours of play that this game lacked the deeply personal nature of Tropico, and was more like 'other' RTS games, I could not bring myself to write the criticism.



If you're wondering how often that's happened to me, the answer is never. I did not offer false praise, for my initial impressions were very positive, but I somehow could not force myself to say that after further play, the game was beautiful but distant.



That is remarkably similar to how I felt about Rome: Total War. Remarkably beautiful, yet distant. I'll still buy the game, and I'm (paradoxically) still looking forward to it, but I expect less than I did before.

10:43 AM | 0 comments

Tuesday, August 24, 2004

The Olympics, Where Urine Meets Religion

The Olympic gold medal winner in the discus, Robert Fazekus, was stripped of his title today for failing to submit a urine sample for a drug test. Well, he submitted one, but it was of insufficient quantity to be tested, which apparently is a red flag for several unseemly reasons which I won't mention here. Here was the response from the Hungarian athletic federation:

The IOC said the Hungarian delegation claimed Fazekas "was a deeply religious person who has always had difficulty to produce a sufficient quantity of urine in front of sample collectors."



I will rarely stand and applaud, but that is perhaps the most ingenious and spectacular excuse I have ever heard. I had no idea that religion could have such a constricting effect on one's bladder.



The number of people being disqualified in the shot put and discus events raises an interesting possibility. I could compete in either event, set a personal record of ten feet--and not finish last. I might even medal. I'd be on all the nightly highlight packages, screaming as I let go of the discus, watching it soar ten feet, then collapsing in the ring from dizziness caused by my pre-throw spin.

9:32 PM | 0 comments

Sims 2

The sequel to the best selling discouragement simulator of all time has gone gold. September 17 is the date when you can buy The Sims 2, with dismay docking about ten hours later. All aboard!

2:18 PM | 0 comments

Swim Club

I've noticed that as I get older (now a decrepit forty-three), I get injured more and more often in my workouts.



The frequency appears to be heading toward the physical fitness equivalent of the Golden Ratio, or 1.618 injuries per workout. I can only hope that this happened to Fibonacci as well, so that after he turned forty he pulled a hamstring every time he played bocci.



This has led me to conclude that I am cleverly made out of balsa wood. It appears that the only safe place for me to exercise is suspended in mid-air, pinwheeling my legs at high speed in a contraption made by the ACME Company. I'm one step away from trying that.



That one step, for now, is swimming. My primary asset as a swimmer is that I don't sink. I swim at a ponderous pace that evokes the operation of locks in the Panama Canal. I can swim for a long time, though, and I'm just trying to get fit again, so it's a decent match. We have a pool about a quarter-mile from our house, so I walk down there, thrash around like a manic seal, and walk home.



Swimming has kind of a seductive quality to it, and by 'seductive' I mean 'I can't raise my damn arms.' I am so sore that I feel like a walrus on land, barely able to even move. The only place I'm not sore is in the water, a rich and evil irony. No matter how sore I am, in the water I feel deceptively good, more than good enough to work out, and it's only when I step out of the pool that I feel my body merge with a fifty-ton anvil.



Wicked, wicked water.

2:16 PM | 0 comments

Monday, August 23, 2004

Welcome to East Ditch

Eli 3.0 was sitting with us on the couch last night, watching the Olympics. Suddenly, he pulls down his underpants and starts fiddling with his unit. I asked him why he was adjusting his package, and he said "My penis is stiff and it bothers me."



Man, if I had a dollar for every time I've said that...



We've started watching the Olympics, even though I swore that I wasn't going to this time. American television coverage, at least on NBC, focuses almost exclusively on American athletes, particularly winning American athletes. The footage is delayed, pre-packaged, and sanitized.



That's not for me. I'm always rooting for the guy from the breakaway republic of East Ditch, who was abandoned at birth and adopted by a family of doughnut makers. They were so poor that all he ate were holes until he was ten, and he ran twenty miles a day in the mountain to service his doughnut route.



That's no typo. His country was so small that they only had one.



When he was twelve, he used some webbing from his hammock bed and strung it on a rudimentary racket that he carved from an elephant's thigh bone. Some kids found a carburetor near the toxic waste pits behind the village school, and he used it as a shuttlecock. Now he's the eighty-fifth ranked badminton player in the world and his country's only Olympic representative. Every person in East Ditch is watching his matches live at 3 a.m. on the 13" black and white t.v. that constitutes the entire entertainment infrastructure of his country.



That's my guy.



To see him on the American Olympic coverage, you have to wade through program listings for a dozen sub-channels that list about fifteen different events in a five-hour block. If you're very lucky, after scanning the schedules for six hours you'll find out that your hero is in the badminton preliminaries at 4 a.m. last Tuesday on The Spice Channel.



We've also developed a bad case of expert-itis. This is the disease you get when you watch a sport for fifteen minutes and suddenly know everything about it. After watching platform diving for fifteen minutes last night, we sounded like this:

"She over-rotated that Inward Double Snack Basket," I said.

"I think Turkey Lurkey of The Alleged Republic is going to pass her after that dive," Gloria said.

"If she doesn't really nail that Triple Pike Burrito Grande in the last round, she might not even make the finals."

"My penis is stiff and it bothers me," Eli 3.0 says.



Just a quiet night at home.



Platform diving is an excellent choice for the instant expert because there appear to be only two rules when it comes to scoring:

1. Don't hit your head on the platform.

2. Don't splash.

There's a lot of technical talk about 'Immelman loops' and 'rich or lean mixtures,' but I was able to judge every dive within half a point just by looking for head wounds and low entry splash.



If there are any International Olympic Committee members reading this column, feel free to contact me if any platform diving judges are injured by falling contestants. Just send me a blazer and a hat and I'll be there as soon as I can.

9:25 AM | 0 comments

Linkage

Here are a few interesting articles for you to look at while you're staring at your monitor, steadfastly refusing to start the work week.



The first is an article in The Industrial Physicist on scramjet technology (http://www.tipmagazine.com/tip/INPHFA/vol-10/iss-4/p24.html). It's extremely readable and very thorough. Thanks to Slashdot, where I originally saw the link.



Second, an article on synaesthesia over at New Scientist (http://www.newscientist.com/news/news.jsp?id=ns99996294) which suggests that environmental factors can play a role in its development.



Finally, also at New Scientist, a fascinating article on how language may shape human thought (http://www.newscientist.com/news/news.jsp?id=ns99996303). A recently published study explores the language of the Piraha tribe, which has no word for quantities above two except 'many.' Tribesman were unable to consistently distinguish between groups of larger objects with different quantities--a group with four objects versus a group with five objects, for example. There are so many possible implications for human intelligence and what we understand that reading this article alone should keep you busy until lunch.

8:35 AM | 0 comments

Friday, August 20, 2004

On Heroes and Their Heads

"Hey Daddy! Look at my underwear!" That's Eli 3.0 in megaphone mode, dropping trou at a local eatery to demonstrate, quite conclusively, that his big-boy underwear is totally dry. It's the first accident-free day of his young life. I might drop trou myself, I'm so proud of him. We'll have a family trou-dropping celebration in public. If you see us, keep on walking.



There was a time when I thought I might be a secretive superhero, or at least some kind of sidekick in training, but I think this potty-training thing is going to take a while. Give my regards to Spiderman. If you see Batman, ask him why he drives a car.



Why does he drive a car, anyway? There's something very jarring about a superhero piling into a car. A secret agent, sure, but not a superhero. Shouldn't they fly or leap or bounce or swing or something? This is a grown-up in a bat costume with a sidekick who looks like an action figure. I like Batman, because for a superhero, he's a grinder, but the dude definitely has some issues.



Eli 3.0 has this action figure of a fireman, and on the box it refers to the figure as 'Fire-Fighting Hero,' so his name became 'Hero.' Then, and I'm not sure how it happened, Hero lost his head. For an adult, that's a quick trip to the trash can, but Eli absolutely took it stride. No head? No problem. 'Hero' became 'Headless Hero.' He was still capable of performing all his heroic duties, but he did so without the unnecessary weight of a head.



Several days later, we found the head and it was reattached. In a strange twist, though, Eli has not returned to calling him Hero. Now he is 'Headless Hero With a Head.' Eli has these elaborate and imaginative disaster scenarios involving action figures, rescue vehicles, construction equipment, and mermaids, all starting with "OH NO!" and eventually progressing to "Here comes Headless Hero With a Head!"



This is all part of him forming very specific ideas about what things should be called. This is what happens each time we go to the Wendy's drive-through:

"Eli, what do you want?"

"I want a plain cheeseburger with no cheese."

"So you want a hamburger?"

"No no no! I want a cheeseburger with no cheese."



Try explaining that to the drive-through clerk. Hint: you can't.

1:40 PM | 0 comments