With fresh gameplay, Final Fantasy VII Remake looks great and plays great.
There's a certain surrealism inherent to playing the demo of a game that you've been doggedly following for five years.
Going into the demo for Final Fantasy VII Remake, I knew exactly what to expect—After all, the demo was first playable at E3 2019, and videos of second-hand playthroughs have been on YouTube ever since. I knew that the demo covered Cloud's first mission alongside Barret and the eco-terrorist group, Avalanche. I knew that I'd get to slash the sh!t out of some Shinra goons. I knew that a giant metal scorpion waited for me at the Mako reactor's core.
But as the opening cinematic—which I'd already watched at least ten times—came to a close, I still could hardly believe it when the camera lingered on Cloud instead of skipping me to another YouTube video. After five years of actively waiting, at long last I was actually playing the Final Fantasy VII Remake.
For a solid three minutes, I ran Cloud around in circles, wildly swinging the Buster Sword in the air. Each thrust had a nice weight to it. In shoddier ARPGs (action role-playing games), weapons tend to feel weightless, so it's always a good sign when your character's giant, heavy sword actually feels like a giant, heavy sword.
Eventually, I decided it was time to move on from the empty corner I started in and proceed with the mission. In a larger sense, the Final Fantasy VII Remake demo is clearly designed as a gameplay tutorial for people who are already familiar with the franchise. While it gives some helpful insights into Final Fantasy VII's sprawling story (and even fleshes out a plot point from the original), the demo's primary focus is throwing enemies at Cloud and teaching you how to mow them down. That was definitely the right call.
Pretty much everybody who is even mildly familiar with video games already knows that Final Fantasy VII has one of the most beloved narratives in the history of the medium. So the Final Fantasy VII Remake demo doesn't need to sell the promise of a narrative—It needs to sell fresh gameplay that sets the reimagining apart from the 1997 original beyond just incredibly updated graphics.
Thankfully, the Final Fantasy VII Remake combat system plays phenomenally, blending modern ARPG combat with more classic JRPG elements like a real-time, menu-based system for magic, specials, and items. The resulting system feels incredibly distinct and entirely new, yet so obviously inspired by the original.
Better yet, even at its simplest, there's an inherent complexity to the gameplay that will almost certainly deepen and expand with the addition of Materia, summons, and new party members in the larger game. One of my biggest worries going into Final Fantasy VII Remake was that it would feel more like a generic hack-and-slash than a Final Fantasy game, but the demo puts all those fears to rest—This is a game that looks great and plays great.
One of my favorite parts of the demo was stepping into Barret's shoes. As cool as it is to swing the Buster Sword willy nilly, I've played as Cloud in everything from Super Smash Bros. to Ehrgeiz: God Bless the Ring on PlayStation 1. Firing a slew of bullets from Barret's machine gun arm felt like a fresh experience and, most surprisingly, his ranged gameplay flowed perfectly with Cloud's close combat style.
Switching between characters with such distinct play styles can oftentimes lead to a sense of dissonance, but the Final Fantasy VII Remake battle system manages to feel cohesive whether you actively switch characters or just stick to one and dish out commands. In fact, there's so much variety to the potential gameplay tactics that the 45-minute demo actually has a substantial amount of replay value.Thus far, I've only played the demo once, but I have a feeling that I'll be spending a lot more time with it before Final Fantasy VII Remake's full launch on April 10th. The only thing more exciting than a game with a story I love is a game that compounds a great story with a great gameplay system, too. Final Fantasy VII Remake is shaping up to be the whole package, and after so many years of anticipation, it actually seems to be worth the wait.
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Let's take a look at Nazi-inspired fashion.
Villains always have the best outfits.
From Darth Vader's polished black space armor to The Joker's snazzy purple suit, bad guys always seem to show up their protagonists in the fashion department.
Way more handsome than Batman. static.giantbomb.com
But could there possibly be a real world equivalent to the type of over-the-top villain fashion often found in fiction? It would have to be sleek and imposing, austere and dangerous. Probably black.
Maybe it's him. Maybe it's fascist ideology.
Let's call a spade a spade. From an aesthetic standpoint, the Nazi SS outfit is very well-designed. The long coat tied around the waist with a buckle portrays a slim, sturdy visage. The leather boots and matching cap look harsh and powerful. The emblem placements on the lapel naturally suggest rank and authority. And the red armband lends a splash of color to what would otherwise be a dark monotone. If the Nazi uniform wasn't so closely tied with the atrocities they committed during WWII, it wouldn't seem out of place at Fashion Week. Perhaps not too surprising, considering many of the uniforms were made by Hugo Boss.
Pictured: A real thing Hugo Boss did. i.imgur.com
Of course, today, Nazi uniform aesthetics are inseparable from the human suffering doled out by their wearers. In most circles of civilized society, that's more than enough reason to avoid the garb in any and all fashion choices. But for some, that taboo isn't a hindrance at all–if anything, it's an added benefit.
As a result, we have Nazi chic, a fashion trend centered around the SS uniform and related Nazi imagery.
History of Nazi Chic
For the most part, Nazi chic is not characterized by Nazi sympathy. Rather, Nazi chic tends to be associated with counterculture movements that view the use of its taboo imagery as a form of shock value, and ironically, anti-authoritarianism.
The movement came to prominence in the British punk scene during the mid-1970s, with bands like the Sex Pistols and Siouxsie and the Banshees displaying swastikas on their attire alongside other provocative imagery.
Very rotten, Johnny. i.redd.it
Around this time, a film genre known as Nazisploitation also came to prominence amongst underground movie buffs. A subgenre of exploitation and sexploitation films, Naziploitation movies skewed towards D-grade fare, characterized by graphic sex scenes, violence, and gore. Plots typically surrounded female prisoners in concentration camps, subject to the sexual whims of evil SS officers, who eventually escaped and got their revenge. However, the most famous Nazisploitation film, Ilsa, She Wolf of the SS, flipped the genders.
The dorm room poster that will ensure you never get laid. images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com
Ilsa was a female SS officer and the victims were men. She spent much of the movie wearing her Nazi uniform in various states, sexually abusing men all the while. As such, Ilsa played into dominatrix fantasies. The movie was a hit on the grindhouse circuit, inspiring multiple sequels and knock-offs and solidifying Nazi aesthetics as a part of the BDSM scene.
Since then, Nazi chic fashion has been employed by various artists, from Madonna to Marilyn Manson to Lady Gaga, and has shown up in all sorts of places from leather clubs to character designs in video games and anime.
Lady Gaga looking SS-uper. nyppagesix.files.wordpress.com
Nazi Chic in Asia
Nazi chic has taken on a life of its own in Asia. And unlike Western Nazi chic, which recognizes Nazism as taboo, Asian Nazi chic seems entirely detached from any underlying ideology.
A large part of this likely has to do with the way that Holocaust education differs across cultures. In the West, we learn about the Holocaust in the context of the Nazis committing horrific crimes against humanity that affected many of our own families. The Holocaust is presented as personal and closer to our current era than we might like to think. It is something we should "never forget." Whereas in Asia, where effects of the Holocaust weren't as prominent, it's simply another aspect of WWII which, in and of itself, was just another large war. In other words, Nazi regalia in Asia might be viewed as simply another historical military outfit, albeit a particularly stylish one.
In Japan, which was much more involved with WWII than any other Asian country, Nazi chic is usually (but not always) reserved for villainous representations.
OF COURSE. i.imgur.com
That being said, J-Pop groups like Keyakizaka46 have publicly worn Nazi chic too, and the phenomena isn't limited to Japan.
In South Korea, Indonesia, and Thailand, Nazi imagery has shown up in various elements of youth culture, completely void of any moral context. For instance, in Indonesia, a Hitler-themed fried chicken restaurant opened in 2013. And in Korea, K-Pop groups like BTS and Pritz have been called out for propagating Nazi chic fashion. Usually such incidents are followed by public apologies, but the lack of historical understanding makes everything ring hollow.
So the question then: is Nazi chic a bad thing?
The answer is not so black and white.
On one hand, seeing Nazi chic on the fashion scene may dredge up painful memories for Holocaust survivors and those whose family histories were tainted. In this light, wearing Nazi-inspired garb, regardless of intent, seems disrespectful and antagonistic. Worse than that, it doesn't even seem like a slight against authority so much as a dig at actual victims of genocide.
But on the other hand, considering the fact that even the youngest people who were alive during WWII are edging 80, "forgetting the Holocaust" is a distinct possibility for younger generations. In that regard, perhaps anything that draws attention to what happened, even if it's simply through the lens of "this outfit should be seen as offensive," might not be entirely bad. This, compounded by the fact that Nazi chic is not commonly associated with actual Nazi or nationalistic sentiments, might be enough to sway some people–not necessarily to wear, like, or even appreciate its aesthetics, but rather to understand its place within counterculture.
Ultimately, one's views on Nazi chic likely come down to their own personal taste and sensibilities. For some, Nazi chic is just a style, an aesthetic preference for something that happens to be mired in historical horror. For others, the shadow of atrocity simply hangs too strong.
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Why Death Stranding affected me more deeply than any other game I've ever played.
*MAJOR spoilers for Death Stranding follow.*
After clocking over 60 hours in Death Stranding, I can comfortably say that I had almost no fun playing any of it.
I can also say that, after nearly three decades of gaming, Death Stranding was one of the greatest, most revelatory video game experiences I've ever had. No, those two points are not contradictory. Allow me to explain.
A Game That Defies Its Medium
Movie buffs don't seek out The Deer Hunter because they expect to have fun watching it. Literary enthusiasts don't keep the Russian classics alive because they're amusing reads. Anime fans don't continually analyze Neon Genesis Evangelion because it's an enjoyable series. With every other artistic medium, audiences understand that while some works are meant to be fun, others are meant to be intellectually or emotionally challenging. But with video games, perhaps due to the interactive nature of the medium, fun still prevails as the loftiest goal in most people's minds—myself (usually) included.
When I think back on my favorite games over the past few years, Mario Odyssey stands out as one of the highlights. Odyssey is rich in creative level design, novel mechanics, and innovative gameplay that pays homage to everything gamers love about the Mario franchise while constantly keeping the experience fresh. Playing Odyssey makes you feel like a child who was just handed an overflowing toy box and given permission to go wild. I played it to 100% completion with a big, dumb grin on my face the entire time (with the exception of the jump rope minigame...damn you jump rope minigame). Of course, there's hardly any narrative beyond "Rescue Princess Peach!" but a Mario game would only get bogged down by anything else. The entire goal is to have fun playing. In a sense, Death Stranding is the polar opposite of Mario Odyssey.
But Death Stranding never presents itself as a traditional video game. Created by Metal Gear Solid auteur Hideo Kojima as his first release after breaking up with his career-long publisher, Konami, even the marketing for the game centered entirely around the bizarre, star-studded cinematics and inherent mystery surrounding its visuals. Featuring Norman Reedus and Mads Mikkelsen, alongside supporting performances by Guillermo Del Toro, Léa Seydoux, and Margaret Qualley, Death Stranding exists in a bizarre subspace between movie, video game, and something else entirely.
A Game That's Not Fun to Play
Set in a post-apocalyptic America, the plot of Death Stranding follows Norman Reedus' Sam Porter Bridges, a porter with aphenphosmphobia (a fear of being touched, both physically and emotionally) who carries packages for a government organization called Bridges led by his mother, President Bridget Strand. With humanity all but wiped out, civilization hinges on a few remote waystations, bunkers, and prepper outposts. Bridges tasks Sam with connecting all of these stations to the "chiral network"—a supernatural, high-tech Internet of sorts—meaning that Sam must travel across America on foot, delivering supplies and convincing preppers to share their information with the government. As any fan of Kojima's work already knows, the plot gets mind-numbingly complicated, but that's the basic premise.
The core gameplay of Death Stranding is walking across vast stretches of barren, oftentimes gorgeous terrain, packages in tow. As Sam Porter Bridges, every rock and bump on the ground is a fresh obstacle to stumble over, with the threat of hard, cargo-damaging falls hanging over your every step. Your shoes and equipment degrade as you trek across the wasteland. You constantly check the weather to avoid "Timefall"—contaminated rain that speeds up aging for anything it touches. Power-ups come in the form of more advanced equipment that allows you to carry more weight or cling to hillsides a little bit easier, but none of it ever changes the careful, difficult manner in which you're forced to move throughout the world whilst lugging heavy packages. If that sounds grueling and tedious, well, it is.
There are enemies, too, in the form of MULEs and BTs. MULEs are other porters who have lost their minds and now troll around encampments in the wilderness waiting to steal packages from any porter unfortunate enough to enter their territory. BTs, on the other hand, are supernatural ghost-like creatures which loiter in the air, waiting for you to get close so they can pull you into otherworldly pits of black tar (wherein giant BT animals attempt to kill you and, more pressingly, ruin your packages). You're given weapons to deal with both of these threats if necessary, but no matter how much you upgrade your bullets, the battles are long, fraught, and stressful. Avoidance is always the easier approach.
Then there's Lou, your BB, or bridge baby, which is essentially a baby in a pod who can sense BTs. The narrative presents BBs as a tool, not to be mixed up with real, living babies, but that doesn't stop Sam (and by proxy, you) from forming a genuine connection with Lou as the only two sentient beings traveling together for miles and miles. Lou coos when you run quickly or escape a tense scenario and blows heart-shaped bubbles to show affection. Lou is also an ever-present consideration during gameplay. If Lou gets too stressed, then he'll enter a comatose state called autotoxemia, and anytime you take a tumble or get hurt, Lou will start crying, which echoes loudly from your controller. To soothe him, you need to manually detach his pod from your suit and gently rock the controller back and forth.
But while one might think that gameplay would be more stressful with a crying BB attached to their chest 24/7 than without, Lou is taken away from you for an extended period of the game, which ends up being an absolute nightmare to deal with—partially due to your inability to detect BTs, but also due to the feeling of loneliness that sinks in as you hike snowy mountain tops with your only traveling partner absent. Therein lies the reason why Death Stranding so deeply affected me, perhaps more than any other game I've ever played.
A Game With a Powerful Theme
Death Stranding breaks you down through boring, repetitive, yet challenging gameplay that requires constant attention. Once you've mastered the basics, the gameplay loop inspires a borderline meditative state, wherein you're forced to reflect upon the very concept of walking in a video game. What is the purpose of playing a game like this? Is this even a game?
Death Stranding opens with an excerpt from surrealist Japanese author Kobo Abe's short story, "Nawa":
"The 'rope,' along with the 'stick,' together, are two of mankind's oldest tools. The stick to keep the bad away, the rope used to bring the good toward us. They were our first friends, of our own invention. Wherever there were people, there were the rope and the stick."
Everything in Death Stranding, absolutely everything, revolves around the theme of humans choosing to connect with one another instead of driving each other away. But Kojima isn't content with players simply recognizing that theme. He wants them to experience it for themselves. Every element of Death Stranding is intended to put players into Sam's headspace as an antisocial loner, and ultimately find comfort through human connection—not just through the narrative but through the actual gameplay.
In a lot of ways, Death Stranding is less a video game and more an indefinable work of participatory art. It would be impossible to talk about the merits of Death Stranding without delving into the deeply personal experience of playing it, and yet, so many of those experiences are so minute that they'll undoubtedly sound absurd to anyone who hasn't played it themselves.
For example, some of the tools at Sam's disposal include ladders, climbing anchors, and bridges, which Sam can set up to help scale particularly difficult ground. Then, assuming you're playing online, whenever you bring a local waystation onto the chiral network, the structures that other players have built will appear for your use, too. When you use one, or if you happen to be feeling kind, you can award that player with "Likes"—which have very little practical in-game use.
But alongside immediately useful tools like ladders, players can also construct seemingly useless signposts displaying emoji-like symbols including smiley faces and thumbs ups. When the concept was first introduced, I immediately thought it was stupid—or more specifically, "Who would ever use these?"
A little later, I was tasked with delivering packages to a remote weather station nestled atop a steep mountain. Throughout the course of my slow, arduous climb, I was caught in a heavy Timefall and attacked by BTs. With packages degraded and shoes worn out, I barely managed to escape their ghostly tar pits. Finally I reached the station to make my delivery and bring them onto the chiral network. Then it dawned on me—I couldn't actually rest at an outpost. Before I could properly recover my energy, I'd need to make it all the way back to a proper hub, back through the rain, back down the mountain. The dread felt so real. But as I reached the top of the first rough peak to begin my long descent, something caught my eye. Someone had posted a thumbs up sign.
A warm sense of comfort immediately washed over me. I wasn't alone. Someone else had been here, another human being. They had conquered this trial, and they left this sign to assure me that I could do it, too. There was no logic to my response; it was entirely emotional. I awarded the thumbs up sign the most Likes I possibly could, and from then on, whenever I topped a particularly challenging peak, I left a sign, too. Every so often, the game would notify me that someone else liked a sign I set up, and I couldn't help but feel like I was part of something larger than myself.
And then there are the moments where, at the height of a horrible trek, you catch sight of a breathtaking mountain vista rendered with some of the most photorealistic graphics you've ever seen in a video game. Or you hit the bottom of a slope, the next hub just on the horizon, as a haunting Low Roar song begins to play (seriously, the soundtrack is incredible). These moments are fleeting, profound, and wholly beyond words. The world may be empty, but you're not alone. Even at the end of the world, there's still beauty, and there are still people on the other side. Kojima instills these views in us not through telling or demanding, but by leading us to understand for ourselves...and then he puts what we've learned to the test.
A Game With a Greater Point
***MASSIVE ENDGAME SPOILERS FOLLOW
Author's Note: Before proceeding, please, please, please ask yourself whether or not you ever plan to play this game. As a lifelong gamer, I'm confident that going into Death Stranding with as little knowledge as possible is truly one of the greatest experiences possible. It's not too late to turn back.
If you've already finished the game, or really never plan on playing, please proceed.***
The final confrontation in Death Stranding will forever stick with me as one of the most brilliant strokes of storytelling and game design imaginable.
Upon completing your task and reconnecting America, Sam is faced with horrifying reality that his mother, Bridget Strand, is an Extinction Entity—a being whose entire purpose is to bring about a massive global extinction event (this makes more sense in context of the larger plot). Bridget hands Sam a gun and tells him that he has two choices. Option one: Sam can shoot her, potentially stopping the destruction she's already set off, but with the caveat that he'll be trapped forever on her interdimensional Beach (this also makes sense in context of the larger plot). Option two: Sam can do nothing, spending his last few moments with his mother as the world ends and knowing full-well that if it doesn't end now, then it will end eventually.
You resume gameplay with the gun drawn. You have six bullets. Bridget slowly walks from the Beach's sandy bank towards the horizon, where a giant, apocalyptic ball of destruction looms in the sky. Clearly, the game expects you to shoot Bridget, but if you fire the gun at her, the bullets warp through her like she's an apparition. As soon as you run out of bullets, you're out of options. Tears of blood run from Bridget's eyes as she rises into the sky. The world is over, and the game resets to the beginning of the confrontation.
I imagine that it takes most players a few tries to figure out what they're missing. Why won't the bullets work? Is there something else to shoot? Did Kojima hide something somewhere? The answer is no. You're not missing anything. You're just not thinking about the scenario properly.
After my own slew of failed attempts, it dawned on me: Death Stranding is all about connecting with people. Just like Abe's quote in the beginning of the game said, the gun is the "stick." In that case, what is my "rope?" I unequipped the gun and approached Bridget, causing an action prompt to appear: "Hug."
Indeed, hugging Bridget in the face of armageddon effectively ceases the destruction of humanity. By connecting, by drawing people closer, we accomplish far more for humanity than we do by pushing them away. Hideo Kojima knows that every video game we've ever played has conditioned us to shoot when given a gun. Through setting up a scenario where the gun we're given is useless, he forces us to utilize the lessons that he has attempted to instill in us throughout the entirety of the game.
If the average video game is a power fantasy that grants you superhuman skills and cool powers, Death Stranding feels almost like a de-powerment simulator. And yet, it all serves a thematic point. The emotional core of Death Stranding is conveyed so powerfully, so experientially, that it's hard to picture any other medium providing anything even close. I didn't have fun with Death Stranding, but I felt frustration and wonderment. I laughed occasionally, and I cried, too. Death Stranding connected me with other people I couldn't even see, and I walked away with a deep sense of emotional fulfillment. Connection is everything, and I feel that in my core—that's the beauty of Death Stranding.
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