Wednesday, 27 August 2014

Tim + Alex Get TWATD #1.1: Death, Parents, Needle Dicks

This is the high concept behind The Wicked + The Divine, the latest Image comic from Kieron Gillen, Jamie McKelvie and Matt Wilson.
Every ninety(ish) days, two handsome young writers return to this blog. They read the last three issues of The Wicked + The Divine, and they write three essays each.
Welcome to Tim + Alex Get TWATD. Each set of essays will be broken into two posts, to save our wrists and your eyes. We might be doing close readings of particular scenes or panels, picking out a theme or character that's caught our attention, or just speculating wildly. Spoilers will be everywhere, so if you haven't read the comics yet, avert your eyes or, better yet, grab them and come back later.
In two years, they'll probably still be doing this. The idiots.


“But not yet.”

You know, given that its very first page is dominated by a skull, and the majority of its cast's lives have a guaranteed expiration date of two years' time, The Wicked + The Divine has actually shown a remarkably light touch when it comes to mortality.

In the opening pages of #1, which take us back to 1923 and the era's own set of deities, we get a preview of the gods' inevitable fate. Eight have already been reduced to the aforementioned skulls, and a couple of pages later, we see the explosive murder-suicide of the remaining four. But their demises don't weigh too heavily on us – they're not characters we've had time to get invested in, despite their wonderful Jazz Age designs – nor, it seems, on their 21st Century counterparts.

Over in 2014, Amaterasu (aka 17-year-old Hazel Greenaway) is asked about her imminent demise by the comic's resident cynic, Cassandra. There is a regretful pause, a moment of wonderfully-drawn sadness in Ammy's big brown eyes, before she pretty much shrugs it off:

There are a few possible reasons for all this:
  1. They're teenagers. Do you remember being 17? The threat of dying before 20 feels more like a promise. Amaterasu's reaction is pretty much this.
  2. They're also kind of immortal. After all, that elegant set up makes two promises: You will die. But, in some sense, you'll be back, long after everyone else here is gone. It's just like pop music – I can just about conceive that Prince Rogers Nelson will one day die. But Prince, the artist previously known as an unpronounceable symbol? He's not going anywhere.
  3. They're too busy making the most of being not-dead. Creation is these gods' main business, both in the artistic being-popstars sense and the procreational one. Based on Luci's accounting in issue #3, pretty much the whole pantheon has touched pelvises. (More on that from Tim in our next set of essays.)
  4. Simple dramatic license. If The Wicked + The Divine was wall-to-wall moping about the gaping abyss (and not the kind Badb is taking about), it'd be about as much fun as hanging out in a funeral home. Besides, with a promised run of 30-40 issues, the comic has plenty of time to reach that point yet.
In fact, the one time so far that the comic has really pushed the issue – with a pure black page, lit only by the refrain “We're all going to die” – it came from the gods' music. (The two-page sequence being, as far as I can tell, a particularly abstract way of depicting the trance-like state of a perfect gig.)

It's a performance, and it's the message Baphomet and the Morrigan choose to send to the outside world. So it's probably telling that the sequence ends with three more words, lighting the darkness and breaking the rhythm: “But not yet.”

Won’t Somebody Think of the Grown-Ups?

The Wicked + The Divine is a series with its eye fixed firmly on the young.

Laura, our entry point into the story, is 17. The gods and goddesses are, at most, in their early 20s. Apart from the elderly and possibly immortal Ananke, the only major character that could rent a car in the US is Cassandra, who is old enough to have a Masters degree, but young enough to still be annoyed about her student loans. That said, one group of adults is very conspicuous in their absence – the parents.

Laura’s parents are both seen and heard, and her interactions with them root her as a 'normal' figure caught up in the supernatural events of the Recurrence. In issue #2 we are presented with a portrait of their normality, as the family sits around the television watching Baal’s interview. Laura’s father gently prods at his daughter’s affection for the gods, her mother prevents it escalating beyond good-natured familial banter. In issue #3, we see the consequences of Laura being caught (quite literally) at the Morrigan’s gig, and the ensuing row, again a picture of normal teenage life.

In contrast, we have the parents of the gods. Amaterasu is 17, Lucifer maybe a couple of years older. Minerva is only 12. It’s common knowledge that the gods live for a maximum of two years after they are awoken. Where are their mortal parents, lamenting their childrens’ inevitable early deaths? Or, given that we’re also dealing with pop stars and the modern cults of celebrity, where are the parents desperately trying to edge their way into their child’s spotlight, barely acknowledging their foretold doom? Granted, we’ve only had three issues, and the plot has been moving at a fair tick, but we've already had our attention drawn to the empty seats at the family table.

Lucifer’s parents (or rather the parents of the girl who became Lucifer) are twice referenced. First in Cassandra’s interview, where she conjures a picture of Luci discovering Bowie in her parents’ “embarrassingly retro record collection”, and then again when Luci regales Laura with the tale of her transformation into a god, while her parents “were out at some awful Britpop covers band”. If her parents are at the court hearing in issue #1, they never make their presence known, even when Luci is being tackled by bailiffs. Where are they, and what do they make of their young daughter suddenly declaring herself the Lord of Flies?

Of course, there’s another way to look at this. If anyone would have an absent parent who remains caught in the past, reliving their faded glories, oblivious to the damage their child is causing, it should probably be Lucifer...


The Baphomet Problem

Our gods so far: Luci(fer). A gender-flipped Bowie/Satan figure, dropping acidic soundbites like they were carpet bombs. Love her. Amaterasu. A young, even-more-divine Kate Bush who makes her fans leak from the trousers at gigs. Love her. Sakhmet. S&M-era Rihanna turned literal sex kitten. How could I not love her? The Morrigan. Three-in-one none-more-goth queen. Love her.

And Baphomet. Hmmmmm.

Maybe it's the look. Leather jacket, chains, mirrored aviators, animal skulls... Baphomet is the rare Jamie McKelvie costume design I wouldn't want to cosplay as. Even those exposed abs, against the dirtier crosshatching-in-every-corner world McKelvie and colourist Matt Wilson have conjured up, come off a bit Ken-doll.

Look at the texture of the first two panels below, the visual noise obscuring and framing Baphomet. Then he clicks his fingers, reveals himself – and everything goes a bit shiny.

Baphomet 2

Or maybe it's that I'm just not a fan of the musical archetypes Baphomet draws from. There's the swagger of a thousand cock-rock frontmen in his hips, some Sisters of Mercy, the hyperbole of early Manics, Nick Cave at his murder-horniest. None of them are really my thing.

Baphomet certainly falls into a character archetype I'm fond of, though: the kind of arrogant male Kieron Gillen writes so well. In his Uncanny X-Men, Namor is Kanye West's Power incarnate (I guess every superhero needs his theme music). Phonogram's David Kohl is a swinging dick of a human being who introduces himself with the Afghan Whigs' Be Sweet.

You get the impression that going to bed with Kohl or Namor, as much as you might regret it the next day, would be worth it. To quote the Atlantean king himself: “Only Namor has the ability to make the Earth move. And he reserves that privilege for one woman at a time.” David Kohl was recently named 'Babe of the Month'. Baphomet, on the other hand, is apparently blessed with a “needle dick”.

And then it struck me. It doesn't actually seem like the comic has much love for Baphomet either. Maybe this is the correct response. After all, he's introduced in a final-page splash – which, in the language of superhero comics (like Gillen/McKelvie/Wilson's last collaboration, Marvel's Young Avengers), tends to mean the reveal of our villain.

Like the real-life Top 40, The Wicked + The Divine is populated by charismatic problematic people. Luci's apparent desire to have sex with underage groupies is quickly forgiven amongst all the crowd-pleasing one liners and the humanising moment of her framing at the end of issue #1.

There's no real attempt to redeem Baphomet. When we first mee him, he's clutching the apparently severed head of a much-anticipated female character. Soon afterwards, he sets fire to a policeman and makes a speedy exit, leaving Laura and the Morrigan to face the consequences.

Given the brilliantly seductive dicks Gillen has written in the past, it's probably worth paying attention to the fact that Baphomet is the first male god we've been introduced to. In fact, he's the first male character in this series to get more than a couple of lines, and not shot/exploded/set on fire, and he's a total prick.


Next time on Tim + Alex Get TWATD: 
Laura, she's more than a superstar. Let's talk about sex, Badb. They're right and crazy pretentious!

Find Tim's blog at, where his piece on the semiotics of TW+TD's finger snaps first gave us the idea for this whole thing, on Twitter @trivia_lad, and even, if you think you can handle the sexiness, on Tumblr.

Saturday, 9 August 2014

What I'm Playing: XCOM

So far in our journey through mobile gaming, we've shuffled tiles with  Threes, murdered demons with Hoplite and explored wordy galaxies with Out There.

Throughout, I've been trying to work out what makes a good mobile game. What is the right balance between complexity and simplicity? What length of game works best? How important is randomisation? Should you be able to abandon a game and come back to it days later?

Or does none of that actually matter?


Originally a PC game, with very little changed en route, XCOM is in many ways a terrible fit for mobile. It requires your full attention, revolves around drawn-out battle sequences that are a little fiddly to control and impossible to drop and pick back up without disastrous consequences. The app annihilates battery, and if you play for too long my phone, at least, burns the tips of my fingers. One particularly heavy session left my right hand a rigid arthritic claw for days afterwards, something I haven't experienced since my mid-teens.

Luckily, while XCOM might be a bit rubbish as a mobile game, that doesn't really matter on account of it being just a fucking great game.

It's probably my favourite of the past however-long-it's-been-since-Spelunky-first-came-out, and in spite of all those problems, XCOM actually feels pleasantly incongruous on the tiny screen. It's a blockbuster miniaturised and bottled like the city of Kandor. The screenshots peppered throughout this blog don't do it justice, but in motion the game is Aliens and Independence Day and Starship Troopers squashed down into something you can play on the bus.
If you pull at XCOM's edges, and tease it carefully apart, you'll find it divides into neat halves: a resource-management base building game and a turn-based strategy game.

The turn-based battles are the star here. Half a dozen soldiers are dropped into an invaded city, or UFO crash site, tasked with hunting down every alien in the area and welcoming them to Earth in the fashion of a young Will Smith. You have to keep as many of them alive as possible.

It's taut, tense stuff. Especially if you plug in headphones – another way that XCOM is out of sync with most mobile games – and take in the soundtrack. Ambient birdsong and the odd chirrup of alien tech gives way to an electronic score, building agonisingly as the soldiers push back the fog of war, praying they're not about to uncover a nest of Mutons. Occasionally, screeches suggest the position of nearby enemies, then suddenly the soundtrack explodes into action-movie techno as an entirely new species steps out of the darkness.
Make it through all that, and any remaining squad members get to fly back to HQ, to treat their wounds, collect their promotions and pick out a special ability. This is the other half of XCOM and, though it might be possible to prise them apart, you soon realise that the two halves describe a perfect yin-yang, feeding endlessly into one another.

Each mission gathers you resources which you can use to build equipment for the next foray into alien territory, or artefacts you can study to unlock new technology. Which can be used, in one instance, to take aliens prisoner and bring them back to base for autopsy. Which unlocks...

Each long-running game of XCOM is its own clockwork construction. Appropriately, it's also one that runs on time: in the battles, with each soldier granted two actions per turn, and also back at the base. The latest discovery might take a few days to research, building and launch a satellite a whole fortnight. This adds up to a compelling list of interlocking tasks. Three days until the new recruits arrive, five until your latest superweapon is ready.

It's here that other mobile games might take the opportunity to squeeze in buy-with-real-money gems to speed up progress, but there's no forced grind. You can fast-forward as much as you want, racing towards that next unlock – but lean on that button too heavily and you'll be accelerating your own demise.

Every few days, there's a new city being invaded for your soldiers to rescue – or, worse, two or three simultaneously, of which you can only attempt to save one. Constantly ticking away beneath all this is a monthly timebomb, in the form of the end-of-term reports issued by the shadowy council of nations behind the XCOM project. Fail to protect a country and it might abandon the project, taking precious income with it. Lose enough countries and it's game over.

Ignore Hamburg because London is under threat? Expect panic to spread in Germany, and a highly unfreundlich call from Merkel. So, that satellite I mentioned? You're going to need it to stop Germany tipping over the brink. You sell all the unusued alien tech you can on the grey market to raise funds, then realise you need to build an uplink facility in the base before you can launch it. Then, as you skip through the agonising weeks, it hits you. Council report: 10 days. Building completion date: 11 days. Auf wiedersehn.

Countries and cash are big abstract resources to threaten the player with, but speeding ahead has another cost. Every squad you send out on a rescue mission is made up of a half-dozen fragile human beings. With their own speciality – there are four different classes: sniper, assault, heavy, support, plus some added psychic business later in the game. Their own rank – awarded for successful missions and kills, giving each character access to a class-specific tree of special skills. And most cruelly of all, their own name.
XCOM 2 Jeffy
Meet Jeff Jefferson. Nowadays, that's Colonel Jeff Jefferson, Support Division, but he's been with me since the very first mission, when the game automatically generated his hilarious name and Canadian origin. I have a Canadian friend called Geoff, so naturally I tweaked Jeff's appearance to match, posted a screenshot on Facebook, laughed when he was assigned the nickname 'Rogue'. And then I started to catch myself pulling Jefferson back from the action. To safety.

Each mission is an opportunity to lose your best men and women. If Jefferson gets blown to hell, as he inevitably will, eventually, that's the end of his story. His name will be engraved on the 'Memorial' menu in the base's barracks, with a brief history (how many missions, how many kills, the ridiculous codename for the mission that finally claimed him), and that's it. All his experience and personality will be lost, like tears in rain.

Somehow they're not just jumbles of stats or resources with arms and leg, they're little people. Contrast with the 'SHIV' robotic gun platforms which can fill the role of a soldier in a battle. I'll happily let these anonymous droids perish, despite the adorable way they skim across the landscape, but the humans gather stories and identities too quickly to ever be disposable.

Meet 'Papa Bear' Muthambi, who was always up front ready to take his lumps from those alien bastards. Deceased. 15 missions, 42 kills, KIA: Operation Brutal Gaze. Or Tiffany Spencer, who I was already predisposed to like even before she earned the nickname 'Shotsy' and took a whole squad of Mutons with a shotgun. Deceased. Or 'Doomsday' Liu, who once had to blow up a civilian to take out a Chryssalid that would have torn through the entire squad – the right decision, but she was never the same again. Deceased.
A confession: some of these people have died more than once. I've let myself cheat a couple of times, purposely crash the game or just boot up an earlier save. That's something I never did on PC, but this is my unreliable smartphone, and these poor bastards shouldn't have to suffer because of a clumsy thumb or hungover commute.

Still, even knowing I can reload at any time, XCOM is terrifying. Ridiculously so, for something that's playing out on the five inches of plastic burning my hands as I miss a vital tube stop. For all its complexity, the beating heart of XCOM is simply this: sending beloved characters forward into the unknown, over and over again.

That can hurt, but when one system exhausts you, another pulls you back in. A battle ends, disastrously, but there's that fast-forward button. Inviting you to research the piece of alien tech your one surviving soldier dragged back to base. To build that new plasma rifle that's going to avenge your fallen comrades. But then you hit an alien encounter, and it's all go again, and the combat draws you back in.
This alternating loop pulls you through the story being told by your game: which countries you save, which you let burn, who makes corporal and who dies alone on a battlefield. Because at its best, XCOM is the equivalent of a cracking pageturner. The game engages your attention on a moment-to-moment basis but what's really compelling is the constant question: what happens next?

Which brings us to the reason that XCOM is actually, secretly, a fucking excellent mobile game too. Like that thick wad of paperback you're addicted to, it can go everywhere, fill any gap, become an intrinsic part of your life for months.

Unlike a book, though, this story belongs entirely to you. There's never going to be another Jeff 'Rogue' Jefferson. That's why I have to hold onto this one.

Other games what I've been playing:

Tuesday, 22 July 2014

What I'm Playing: OUT THERE

Moving house and not having an internet connection has put something of a dent in my proposed fortnight month-long series of blogs. But that's all done with now, which means we're back on track with our look at mobile games and what makes them tick – and hopefully less of the maudlin introspection that has frequented the subtext of this blog for the past six months.

Now, onward with the games blogging!

Out There Logo
Out There is, essentially, a modern update of the choose-your-own-adventure book. You know:
You are an astronaut stranded out in space, alone. Through the viewscreen, you see a constellation of stars. Do you pilot your ship to the YELLOW DWARF or the distant NEUTRON STAR?
The similarities are most obvious in the chunks of text the game displays when you arrive at each new star system, a sort of randomised captain's log. Some of these provide a bit of flavour (“99 alien races and not one looks like a pretty girl. Damn you, Captain Kirk”). Or they might unexpectedly damage your ship's hull, or dump a bounty of desperately-needed supplies in your cargo bay. Or they might hand you another decision:
You encounter a giant alien pyramid. Do you FLY INTO ITS DARK HEART or FLEE LIKE A COWARD?
Out There 4

The remaining majority of Out There is compromised of basic resource management. Each star is orbited by a handful of planets, broken down into three types: rocky planets which can mined for minerals to repair your hull or build new equipment; gas giants which can be probed to extract fuel; and, best of all, the oxygen-rich Garden Planets inhabited by alien lifeforms.

Even here, though, the simple binary choices the game presents – do you go to one planet, or all of them in sequence, or just switch on the hyperdrive and continue on to the next star – and the often unexpected consequences of those decisions still retain that same choose-your-own-adventure feeling.

The key difference is that when you do inevitably make a mistake, when the fuel runs out leaving you stranded orbiting a planet that you have single-handedly exhausted of its natural resources, there's no option of cheatily flicking back to the last time things were okay and trying to work out where you went wrong. It's back to page one.
Out There 2

This might sound familiar if you've read my last blog on Hoplite. At its heart, Out There is another roguelike. A slightly peculiar one, admittedly, stretching that 'like' to its elastic limit, but built around the same two vital components: a randomly-generated word to explore and a start-the-game-all-over-again fail state.

The most obvious roguelike(-like-like) comparison is FTL, which also put you in the seat of a spaceship captain, but Out There lacks that game's focus on combat and crew. FTL evokes Star Trek or Star Wars or Firefly. Playing Out There feels more like... actually, I'm not sure there is a completely accurate film comparison for Out There, and that's wonderful.

In Out There, you come in peace. Your encounters with aliens don't end in violence, but in conversation, in the standardised gibberish spoken by the various races spread across its universe. Each time you come across an alien, they ask a question. Whether you answer correctly or accidentally threaten genocide, this will add a new chunk of language – just one or two words – to your arsenal, so that you have a better chance of understanding and saying or doing the right thing next time.

This is the game at its most brilliant. In general, games' most successful verbs are either 'look' or 'kill' but, by approaching language as a mechanical puzzle, Out There makes 'talk' into a viable alternative. More, for my money, than any Bioware RPG or Lucasarts point-and-click adventure ever really managed.

The writing – not always perfect, but packed with giant warships chucking moons at one another, planets baked to caramel, and other pulpy sci-fi ideas – is the tractor beam that pulls you through Out There's weaker parts.

Out There 3
Those weaker parts being the actual traditional 'game' bits of Out There. The resource management is basic, right up until it's frustrating.

Basic because the game is built around a mindless core loop: arrive at a planet, choose a drilling intensity out of 10, use the collected resources to top up the fuel, hull and oxygen bars, and move onto the next. And it doesn't take long to figure out that 7/10 is the correct level of drilling, producing the highest yield with little chance of breaking your equipment.

Frustrating because every ship is slightly too small to hold everything you're likely to want. 'Inventory Tetris' can be a greatly satisfying sub-game, but there's no way of knowing what you'll need or collect next, and there are too many limits on when you're allowed to use or move around the contents to free up space without having to chuck them out into the void.
Out There 1

So, Out There is an unusual thing for me: a game made attractive almost exclusively by the way it's written.

The stories I tend to remember from games are the ones I authored myself, out of the unexpected way two parts of a system rubbed against another or from a scattered series of incidental environmental clues.

The irony of 'choose your own adventure' was always that you did no such thing. The reader/played followed a firmly set path, with the only real deviation in mistakes and subsequent backtracking.

There is a specific story waiting for you in Out There, with set twists and turns. But that took me a few dozen plays to even uncover, and it lets you tell your own story in the margins. The strange adventures of a space captain, stranded and going slowly insane.
Out There 6
The text vignettes that make up this side story are shuffled with each playthrough, but what makes them really special is the context. Each event takes on a new weight when you know you haven't got the resources to repair any of the damage that giant snowball did to your hull; or when you encounter a dozen disastrously ruined ex-civilisations, one after the other; when a conversation with an alien rewards you with a block of omnipotent Omega which can be transmogrified into the fuel you need to make it to the next star along; or...

This is unexpectedly powerful stuff, especially if you can give Out There an unbroken half-hour session. It's much more of a long-term investment than Hoplite's 10-minute dips below the earth, and coming back to your virtual bookmark a day or two later, none of it makes any sense.
You hold this game up to your face, explore its facets. Some shine brighter than others, but you have a feeling that without these, the whole just wouldn't hold together. 
If you decide to PICK OFF the dull elements, then turn to a proper text adventure instead.
If you think you'd rather PLAY SOMETHING with a bit more meat to its strategy, then why not check out this new FTL Advanced Edition expansion written by Chris Avellone?
I'm indecisive. I put the book down,  forever unanswered. Choose your own conclusion.
Out There 5

Other games what I've been playing:

Tuesday, 24 June 2014

What I'm Playing: HOPLITE

Part two in a promised four part series, trying to figure out why mobile games so rarely make any impact on me.

Hoplite Logo

Hoplite is a roguelike. Comfortable with that bit of game jargon? Then you can skip the next section. But if not, allow me to quickly explain:

Named after Rogue, a 1980 game that cast the player as an adventurer pushing deeper and deeper below the crust of a fantasy world, the roguelike is a peculiar little subgenre. As in the original, movement and combat most are commonly based around tiles and turns. Heroes are upgraded by levelling up and/or collecting equipment as you descend. But most importantly: every death is permanent, whisking you back to the start of the game to face a whole new set of randomly-generated dungeons and monsters.

More recently, the likes of Spelunky and FTL have distilled the genre's spirit into something frothier, keeping the permadeath and different-every-time levels but translating them into platformers or strategy games. These game are known as roguelites.

(Suggested Further Reading: my potted history of the genre for IGN.)

Hoplite 1

Hoplite keeps the same quest structure as classic roguelikes: you play a chunky little Spartan warrior, tasked with the retrieval of the Fleece of Yendor. (The name is a dual reference to the McGuffins from Jason and the Argonauts and classic roguelike Hack.)

The Fleece is on the sixteenth level down, protecting an ever-increasing number of enemies. Once you've picked it up – which took me a few dozen attempts – you can choose to port back to the surface, ending your game in victory, or push further and deeper for a better score and the simple thrill of challenge.

In fact, while it feels like a roguelite, Hoplite is actually a remarkably orthodox example of the genre. As well as the permadeath and random levels, it maintains the turn-based combat: your avatar is able to move one hexagon at a time, slaughtering anyone on an adjacent hex, or take one action, then the forces of hell take their go.

The big difference is that Hoplite is built from the ground up with mobile in mind, streamlining the experience to fit the small screen and fat fingers. Classic roguelikes utilised an entire keyboard's worth of commands, even down to capital letters having a different effect to their lower-case equivalents. Hoplite does away with all that, leaving only movement and three attack commands: use shield, jump, or throw a spear.

Combat feels like a puzzle, thanks partly to this limited arsenal and partly to the clean Fisher-Price presentation, which displays attack paths for any character you hover a digit over. It encourages the player to think ahead a couple of turns – if I jump over this baddie's head, running him through with my sword, I can use this demonic demolitions-expert as cover from that archer, and next turn deflect his bomb back at them both – for my money, more than Threes ever did.

Hoplite 2

You'll need that kind of forward planning as you descend further. Each successive floor pushes up the number of enemies by one and adds new flavours of demon to the mix – the most fearsome being the sorcerer, who can shoot fireballs across almost the entire screen. Before long, each level is  painted with a convoluted criss-cross of attack patterns leaving only one hex safe, and often tantalisingly out of reach.

To balance this out, there are altars on every floor where your Spartan can pray – in a shouty Scottish accent, if 300 is to be believed – for one of five upgrades. It's the levelling up process simplified to its absolute core principles, minus skill trees or item augmentation.

The upgrades on offer range from prosaic (an extra healthpoint, a quicker reset on the shield bash attack) to game-altering (the ability to teleport to any hex your spear lands on), and can be expanded through the game's achievements system. Restore your health with a single heart remaining, for example, and next game you'll be able to pray for a pair of winged sandals which let you leap across much further distances.

These upgrades, once unlocked, are available from the same altar each time. That's useful for planning but it's also indicative of Hoplite's one major issue . The game in general could do with a little more randomness. Each floor always features the same number and type of enemies, with only their placement and a few scattered lava tiles to differentiate it from the last time you made it this far.

Maybe that won't matter the first few dozen times. But after your hundredth battle with the third level's two swordsmen, one archer and one bomber, it starts to feels a little restrictive. And make no mistake, your playthrough count will reach the triple figures.

It's shocking how well the pecularities of the roguelike suit mobile. Just about any chunk of dead time can be transformed into a string of enjoyable deaths, a couple of minutes apart. In fact, once you've done it a couple of times, beating Hoplite – that is, picking up the Fleece and teleporting back to the surface, presumably to be carried on the shoulders of your cheering comrades and paraded through the streets as a hero, never to sleep alone again – can be done inside of ten minutes.

But as the challenge of grabbing the Fleece fades, the promise of cheers and endless lovemaking for your little Spartan pales into insignificance next to the promise of a few extra points, a new level reached, a new ability unlocked. You push deeper and deeper, taking more chances, deftly avoiding the attacks that would have felled your younger self.

Until you suddenly realise you have to jump off at the next stop, and abandon your hero's epic tale, never to be finished. So what? You've lost maybe fifteen minutes of your time. It's not like you would have done anything good with it in the first place.

Hoplite 3

Other games what I've been playing:

Friday, 20 June 2014

THE WICKED + THE DIVINE #1: "People We Want"

Image's The Wicked + The Divine #1 landed this Wednesday, bursting with the promise of being my new favourite comic. It's too early to say that yet and, besides, reviewing single issues of a comic is a bit of a vulgar business. So let's get our essay on.

(Spoilers follow, both visual and textual.)

WicDiv Covers

Let's kick off this two-part blog with a big old declaration of bias:

Jamie McKelvie & Kieron Gillen together make up just about the only fandom that I'd identify as part of. Their first comic together, 2006's Phonogram, introduced me to a whole host of ideas – formalism, poptimism, Kenickie – which make up a not-inconsiderable chunk of who I am today, and not just why but the way I'm writing this blog.

Their work is the exception to the rule that I don't buy comics monthly, and certainly not as print issues – I'm writing this having read a digital copy of issue one, knowing there's a pre-ordered copy waiting for me in my local comic shop. Their Thought Bubble DJ sets drag me halfway up the country on an annual pilgrimage of drinking, dancing, and ill-advised behaviour. I'm pretty sure Drunk Alex has tried to make out with at least one of them.

I am a complete fanboy and frankly, my opinion on any new comic they put out is not to be trusted.


So why the hell am I telling you this? Because it's one half of what The Wicked + The Divine is about. It's a story about the relationship between creator and consumer, centering around an excellent high concept: once each century, twelve gods reincarnate on earth. In human bodies. As pop stars.

The story is already in motion when we join it. The gods have been manifest for a while – or at least, based on the three blanks in the chapter's introductory Jonathan Hickman-esque diagram, nine of them are. The public are aware of their apparent divinity and are reacting in various ways, ranging from utter devotion to the application of semi-automatic weaponry.

This is a narrative-driven comic – exposition and explosions, a couple of mysteries, a cliffhanger to close – in a way Phonogram never was. My first impression was that the issue flies past too quickly, despite the doubled page count, but it actually manages to seamlessly introduce the concept and establish an incredibly broad cast across two distinct time periods without ever having to stop the story to make time for introductions.

So let's do some introductions:

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So far, it appears that The Wicked + The Divine belongs to Laura, our viewpoint character. For now, she's pretty much just a Fan, with the suggestion that she's trying to escape something in her own personality through her relationship with music.

Amaterasu is the first of the gods we see, mixing Florence & The Machine and Kate Bush with an added splash of Bolan glam, some openly mystical iconography and eyes that (in a classic McKelvie/Gillen motif) turn into tiny eclipses when she's in full performance-god mode.

Luci(fer) is the first god we actually meet. She's an androgynous Bowie-esque retro revivalist, referencing the Rolling Stones, Beatles and Philip Larkin, decked out with a white suit and a La Roux quiff. Luci probably gets the most development of any character in the issue. She's introduced as something of a standard-issue Warren Ellis Female – sharp tongued, fearsome and permanently smoking – but towards the end of the issue that trope gets exploded, fairly literally, and again we get a glimpse of the young woman she is underneath.

If Luci and Ameratsu were real pop stars, though, I suspect they wouldn't be part of my pantheon. The god I could imagine tributes to on an alternate-universe version of this blog is also the one we see least of: Sekhmet, Egyptian cat goddess by way of Rihanna.

It's the most striking and direct visual resemblance to an actual celebrity in the comic. More specifically, though, Sekhmet embodies a particular side of Rihanna: the pelvic thrust of S&M, the stamina-and-virility-challenging super-dominatrix of Rude Boy. She's all that good stuff stripped back to pure animal form, draped over two groupies (one of each sex, obv), uninhibited in the most literal sense, chasing red dots across the furniture like an actual cat.

Then there's Cassandra, a journalist and non-believer who probably deserves her own essay. For now, let's just say acts as the voice of scepticism. 

(Something you might have noticed – that was a lot of 'she's. Of the (by my count) ten potentially recurring characters, just two are boys. If that doesn't sound too important to you, well, you're probably not a regular comics reader.)

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Cassandra tries to ground Amaterasu by reminding her she's just "a seventeen-year-old from Exeter". It's simultaneously a paean to the transformative power of pop and a suggestion that maybe she's just playing the same game as Laura. Less Amaterasu, basically, and more amateur.

She points to Sekhmet, saying it's not "a dignified way for a woman to behave". You've probably heard someone say a similar thing about Rihanna or one of the other pop stars in Sekhmet's DNA, and it raises a question of control and choice. Would whoever Sekhmet was before have chosen to become a cat sex god? How much of Rihanna's sexualised presentation is self-determined?

For a comic which I said goes by far too quickly, it manages to pack in a remarkable amount of questions about the creation and consumption of pop creation, both the specifics and the universal. Here's one more question: how much am I extrapolating?

Look, I told you I wasn't to be trusted. The Wicked + The Divine feels like a comic that was made for me, from concept to execution to the fact that, based on the caption box and the look of the houses, Laura lives a ten-minute walk from where I'm currently sat.

There's a scene early in the issue where Laura attends an Amaterasu gig. The star-god scans the audience, and meets Laura's eyes. You can read in her wonderfully-rendered expression what Laura's thinking: some variation of 'she knows me'. 

"It's so seductive when she understands", to steal a Kenickie lyric. But it's more than that. The art responds. Ameratsu extends a hand, in a gesture I last saw on the poster of Michaelangelo's The Creation of Adam that hung on the wall of my student flat, next to a McKelvie print.

What makes Laura different, so that she is the one picked out? Internally, we don't know yet. But externally, I think it's that, unlike the other girls at the gig cosplaying as Amaterasu, unlike the one passing out to her left, Laura's makeup is a reaction to the style of her hero, not a straight lift. It's a work of criticism.

You can maybe see why I like her.


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Videogames, film, music, comics: feed them into the Alex-Spencer machine and out come neat little articles. Like the ones you're looking at here.