I was there, back in '92, killing Nazis, blasting my way through Castle Wolfenstein, and toppling Mecha-Hitler. Then in '93, I turned back Cacodemons from the mouth of hell itself. Goldeneye absorbed me for months, as I perfected speedruns to unlock the most pointless cosmetic cheats. I wasted hours of my adolescence basking in the cathode-ray glow of Quake 3 and Unreal Tournament, telefragging and railgunning until the early hours of the morning.
I even sifted enjoyment from Iguana's notorious fog-fest Turok 2 and its frantic multiplayer, complete with skull-boring homing missiles. As adulthood approached and I left home to study in a new city, I cemented new friendships over hours of splitscreen Halo.
I've played my fair share of first-person shooters, which is why my recent realization feels so alien: As the FPS has risen to dominate the gaming landscape, I think I've left it behind.
After years of listening to friends and critics rave about Halo 3, I finally borrowed a copy and sat down to reclaim my university days. Dead. Dead. Frustrated. Dead. Bored. Beyond all reason, I finished the campaign, wondering at every turn whether each new scenario was where it became the great experience everyone talked about. Sure, the multiplayer was fun, but I play games primarily for the narrative experience. I like the feeling of being a solitary individual able to turn the tide of whatever situation I find myself in. Apparently, Halo just didn't provide that same high any more.
Surely, it wasn't just me. It was something wrong with the game, not my tastes. After all, I love Metroid Prime. I still enjoy the blocky textures of Thief. I wasted hours staggering across Fallout 3's Capital Wasteland. Portal bewitched me with its wit and design. But Halo 3 forced me to face the truth: first-person though they may be, none of those games were really shooters. (And the more the Metroid Prime series became like a shooter, the less I liked it.)
Desperate, I sought solace in Steam. Half-Life cost me a quarter of my daily bus fare, and I petered out six or seven hours in. I didn't even pay for Half-Life 2 (some kind soul gifted me an extra copy), and I've never even made it as far as the much-vaunted gravity gun.
And Bioshock. Oh, Bioshock. If there had ever been game aimed straight for my heart, this was it. For the marine biologist and diver in me, the setting spoke volumes. For the plot whore in me, audiologs wove a rich tapestry of character and motivation. But for the gamer in me….
How could I not love a game which so utterly matched my own personal quirks? I guess I just have no more love left to give. I wanted to bask in Rapture's architecture — to admire the ocean-floor beyond curved glass and soak up the storytelling — but at every turn, identical-looking cannon fodder hurled themselves before my wrath with reckless abandon. I tried reducing the difficulty, but still the overpopulated hordes flung themselves at me, dying with ever greater alacrity. And despite my desire to see what was around the next corner, the thought of it being just another faceless, mindless splicer finally quashed the last vestiges of my desire.
I played Bulletstorm the other day. It was nice to spend a few minutes lost in memory of the genre I'd once been so fond of, but the demo was enough. Perhaps one day I'll return to Rapture or City 17 — to those killing fields and tight corridors — and discover a new joy.
But not today.
Originally posted at Generation Minus One, the webcomic of last-gen gaming.