Reading The Shallows as an ebook

As big a fan as I am of technology in general, I've had a skepticism of ebooks for quite some time. In some ways, this is clearly an irrational prejudice, since the vast, vast majority of the reading for pleasure I do takes place online in the form of news, blogs, and the like; and probably 75% of the academic-related reading I've done in the past 3 years or so has been in the form of PDF copies of articles. So it's safe to say that I don't have any inherent problem with reading off of a screen, but the idea of reading an entire book that way has never really sat comfortably with me. Although I don't read nearly as many books as I used to, the act of reading was a very substantial part of my childhood, and I have a pretty particular mental script for what the act of reading is like. Also, and this is not a small consideration, a big part of the enduring appeal of books is the ability to display them and/or loan them out. I feel the same way about DVDs (or Blu-Rays, if you will) - having a tangible collection has a way of transcending the category of "stuff" to become a reflection on your own character. It's possible and perhaps likely that my mind will change on this subject sooner or later. After all, I've pretty much accepted the idea that the digital file is the medium uber alles for music consumption.

Anyhow, despite my mistrust of ebooks, there is a lot of stuff that I'd like to read at a reduced cost and that I don't necessarily want to forever occupy volume alongside the rest of my worldly possessions. Case in point: The Shallows, Nick Carr's book-length expansion of his Atlantic essay "Is Google Making Us Stupid?", which I probably wouldn't consider paying hardcover retail for, but when I saw it on the Amazon Kindle store for 11 bucks, I figured I'd give it a go. Reading a cautionary polemic about technology in a digital format on a device designed expressly to promote all manners of networked consumption (my iPad, about which I may write more on a later date) had an appealing irony about it and seemed like a good test case for the ebook experience.

About both the book and the experience I can say this - good, but not great. The Shallows raises some good cautionary and exploratory points about the effects of the Internet on our attention spans and standards for intellectual engagement, but it suffers from the increasingly irritating problem of ignoring the commendable but modest explanatory achievements of the field of neuroscience in favor of the considerably sexier achievements that neuroscientists are perpetually saying they're about to make. I guess the subtitle "What the Internet Could Possibly, But May or May Not Be Doing To Our Brains" wouldn't have tested well. Also, there's a couple chapters about the history of reading technology that are perfectly serviceable but come across as kind of padding; I felt like Carr's thesis statement was strong enough and interesting enough to support an entire book without the extensive context that he builds in.

As far as the format goes, I went back and forth about how I felt about it, and I think that the duration of my reading sessions made a substantial difference in the experience. When I would spend 30-45 minutes reading, it felt pretty much like I was reading a book and I could mostly forget that it was all digital. When I spent 10-20 minutes reading, it felt quite a bit more like I had just begun reading a short article online, which was a bit strange to me. With a regular book, I'm usually able to pick up where I left off and get back into the text without much difficulty. On the iPad, it seemed to take longer to mentally re-establish the context of what I was reading when I left off. This is no doubt due to the fact that I've taken to doing a substantial portion of my Internet browsing on the iPad, which is similar in form to reading a book but very different in terms of duration of attention (as discussed capably by Carr in the book), so it may be a matter of rewiring that expectancy.

Another thing that bothered my more than I thought it would - there's no page numbers on an ebook, at least not in the format that they're vended in the Kindle store. This threw me because I'm used to PDF files, which are usually digitized versions of a paper proof, complete with page numbers and everything else the physical copy has. In the Kindle book, there's just a progress bar and an indicator of what "section" you're currently in. I get that page numbers aren't workable in a format where you can increase or decrease the size and number of words on the viewable portion of the page, but I'm used to regulating my reading by page numbers. Without them, and without the physical heft of the book, I had a tough time telling how far I was into the text, and I was kind of surprised when I finished - based on the progress bar, I figured I had another chapter to go (there's an extensive amount of footnotes, but on a digital copy, you're less prone to flip to the back end than you would be in an actual book).

Overall, I'd say that the ebook certainly has its place; it's sort of a thrill to pay ten bucks and be reading a full length book without getting off the couch. I enjoyed reading The Shallows despite some of the strangeness, and I wouldn't mind downloading another book to read in the same fashion - in fact, I wish I had one to read before bed tonight. I could see the Kindle store becoming a go-to source of impulse purchases, which is OK - very few of the Kindle books I've seen are that expensive, and risk taking with books is something that often pays good dividends. However, I don't see myself buying digital versions of things that I'm particularly excited to read and certainly not professional materials, at least not yet.

A Few Words About Halo: Reach

Above: Me, earlier this evening, pulling off one of the sweet new Assassination moves on some guy online.

Halo: Reach has been out for almost exactly two months, a modest span of time in which I have managed to devote comfortably over 100 hours to playing it. Yes, really. I'm stating that from the outset not to brag about the fact that some 4 and an half days of my life, which might have been applied toward any manner of personal or professional advancement in a not inconsiderably critical developmental period, have instead been spent in front of the 360, but rather to establish that Halo: Reach is a really good game. I had an inkling of this going in, from my experience with the multiplayer beta (chronicled here), but the extent to which Reach has become a staple of my nights poses an interesting question: why the hell do I still care about Halo?

After all, it's not incredibly different from the four Halo games that preceded it; there's a lot of tweaks, fine-tuning, and loving care put into the game, but that all really adds up to more of a refinement of the hallmarks of the franchise than any sort of reinvention. If anything, Reach deliberately sets out to evoke the first Halo and strips away quite a few of the added features of the sequels. It works brilliantly, even when it really shouldn't.

Here's why: as a franchise, Halo understands that video games as a form live and die by their controls. After you've played a Halo game for a few hours, the controls are about as natural as breathing; and moving to the latest incarnation rarely requires you to learn more than one or two new changes, which are characteristically more intuitive that what they are replacing. (Incidentally, the decision to break with tradition by remapping the melee button from B to right bumper in Reach was a stroke of genius that almost reinvents the game). When you're playing Halo, everything you could possibly want or need to do - shoot, toss a grenade, jump, pistol-whip, etc. - is a single button-press away. The ridiculous number of effective techniques and attack options underneath the essential simplicity of the control scheme means that you start to develop a personal style pretty quickly, which you are rarely punished for doing. Even hardcore skilled multiplayer Halo junkies vary widely in their favored tactics; there's not a whole lot of unfair advantages to be had.

In all the hours I've spent playing Reach and it's predecessors, I've never felt like there was one right way to play the game. The experience of playing Halo has always struck me as similar to a giant sandbox with a bunch of different toys that are all somehow fun in their own way; there's just this sort of tactile friendliness to the game that encourages that sort of engagement. Halo: Reach is the apex of the series because it takes the Halo mechanics and lets them be the endlessly reconfigurable Rubik's Cube they always were: out of the box, you can choose to play the excellent single-player campaign alone or with friends, you can go online and play any one of a slew of competitive game-types, you can team up with other people in the Firefight mode, which throws waves of enemies at you and grafts on an arcade-style scoring mode, or you can come up with something completely unique using the Forge editor that comes with the game.

I think that more than anything else, Halo: Reach succeeds so wildly as a game because it invites you to have the experience that you want to have (as long as that experience involves shooting things, naturally, but if that's not your cup of tea, there's always reading). Since I've been playing it, it's been hard for me to really contemplate switching to another game; I may eventually pick up Call of Duty: Black Ops since it's getting good reviews, and there's those neat-looking Borderlands and Red Dead Redemption expansions, but I think it's going to take some time before Reach gets its hooks out of me.

Today In Bullshit

Probably the biggest downside to having professional training in psychology is learning to cope with the cringe response as mainstream news and opinion types contort the discipline in idiotic ways to support arguments that mostly aren't worth making. A sterling example of this is an article published today on Slate as part of an ongoing series on "how your unconscious mind shapes you" that attempts to explain today's heated political climate by comparing the collective partisanships of the left and right to a married couple seeking counseling. The author, Shankar Vedantam, draws on research on predictors of marital conflict and dissatisfaction (conducted by John Gottman, the biggest name in the marital therapy field) to enlighten us on the fact that the "right" is expressing anger toward the "left" while the "left" is expressing contempt toward the "right," which by the way, is provably more toxic to the health of a marriage, and therefore worse for society by the logic of Vedantam's incredibly tortured analogy.

The first point to make here is one that's so obvious that Vendantam acknowledges it himself in the second to last paragraph of his article: opposing political persuasions are nothing like a marriage. The point of marriages are to help facilitate bonds of love and support between partners, which can be threatened by an excess of disagreement and dispute. Politics is about disagreement and dispute. If it wasn't, there'd be no need for multiple political points of view.

I suppose Vedantam might make the argument that our political discourse today is uniquely marked by anger on one side and contempt on the other, and that the emotional tone is baked in unconsciously to one's political leanings (this may be the point that he's making in the article, but it's difficult to tell because it's such an incoherent piece of work). That doesn't wash, though, because political tone, like everything else in politics, varies dramatically based on who's in power and who's out of it. Think back to the bygone days of the 2004 election, when Republicans controlled the executive and legislative branches. At that time, the Democratic base was at the peak of a nearly decade-long angry fist shake at George W. Bush. Meanwhile, the Republican base was sneering at John Kerry for having the sheer balls to be a decorated Vietnam veteran. Do those emotions sound familiar?

The thing that really gets me about this article is that it pulls the old trick of analyzing our "political discourse" without actually much, if any, reference to those who hold political office. I suppose if your sample size for liberal thinking is a smattering of blogs and Keith Olbermann, you could make the argument that contempt for the right is a dominant emotion, but wouldn't it be a good idea to mention President Barack Obama, who ran on promises to pursue bipartisan compromise and has, with severely limited success, actually tried to do so? This "both sides are at fault" thinking has gotten almost comical in an age where Senate Republicans have filibustered close to a hundred bills in the past 20 months.

So, no, marriage counseling can't tell us anything about liberals and conservatives.

The Social Network review

As you may or may not have already heard, The Social Network is an enormous critical hit. I honestly can't recall the last time I saw a movie that was so widely acclaimed, which is particularly impressive considering it's a feature length movie about motherfucking Facebook. It actually reminds me a bit of when Brokeback Mountain was announced and endured 15 months of gay cowboy snark before being rapturously received upon its actual release. Granted, Brokeback Mountain seems to have since had more of a shelf-life as a punchline, because making jokes about gay people never goes out of vogue, and maybe in five years no one will remember why everyone thought that a movie about Facebook was so great, but right now, it's a pretty big deal.

I saw The Social Network over the weekend. I liked it a lot, and I think it's a great movie. In the couple days since I saw it, though, I've been doing a lot of thinking about exactly why it's a great movie and I've found it pretty difficult to pinpoint. Part of the issue is that The Social Network is supposed to be a movie about the founding of Facebook, but it's not really primarily concerned with telling that story as a dramatic narrative. It's really more of a character piece that focuses tightly on Jesse Eisenberg's portrayal of Mark Zuckerberg. One of the most interesting things about the movie is the way it purposefully ignores depicting the larger context and effects of Facebook, even though the exploding popularity of the site is the major driver of the narrative. There's no montage of college students at their computers getting hooked into the Facebook phenomenon, or anything comparable to dramatize the network's broadening impact besides snatches of dialogue and other exchanges.

It's a smart decision, because no moviegoing audience in 2010 needs to be told that Facebook is a big deal. It also reflects the clear fact that nobody involved in the making of this movie gives two shits about Facebook. That's understandable, but where it really gets interesting is that The Social Network also doesn't seem to be terribly concerned with being about Mark Zuckerberg, insofar as Mark Zuckerberg is an actual human being, who actually exists, founded, and runs Facebook. Comparing The Social Network to Citizen Kane feels like somewhat of a cliche already, but thinking about The Social Network as something of a goof on the narrative structure of Kane is really the most useful framework I can conjure to discuss it. Both movies tell the story of the rise of wealthy men, but do so mainly through the perspectives of others. This latter fact isn't entirely obvious in The Social Network, mostly because Zuckerberg's character is alive and present during the telling of the story while C.F. Kane is dead, but it's clear that the framing device of The Social Network (two depositions regarding lawsuits filed against Zuckerberg) signals that the storytelling reflects the biases of the plaintiffs on key points, rather than objective reality. Basically, The Social Network has two main characters: "Mark Zuckerberg," an asshole computer genius who may or may not have screwed over other people on his way to creating a world-beating Internet company, and Mark Zuckerberg, an asshole computer genius who points out various flaws and inconsistencies about the story of the first character as it's being told.

The reason that I called The Social Network a goof on Citizen Kane's narrative is that while Kane  explores the flaws and complexity of its main character in an ultimately futile quest to arrive at a larger understanding of his identity, The Social Network doesn't really ask any questions about Mark Zuckerberg at all. Eisenberg's portrayal of Zuckerberg is a fascinating character to watch onscreen, but more because of his lack of complexity than because of the presence of it. The character can be essentially summarized by extremes of two traits: intelligence and self-absorption, and it's the latter that really seems to be of the most interest to the filmmakers. I think it's entirely fair to argue that The Social Network is about solipsism more than it's about anything else. The genius move is that the movie explores this by focusing entirely on the founder (s?) of Facebook while ignoring the users entirely. If Fincher and Sorkin explicitly said that social network addicts are disappearing up their own asses, The Social Network would probably have come off as reactionary bullshit. Instead, by weaving a creation myth by which Facebook was born out of a series of interlocking acts of self-absorption, they make the argument by proxy. The Social Network's Mark Zuckerberg isn't really a person as much as he is an avatar of a perceived generational flaw. As arresting as the closing image of the film is, it struck me as more of a red herring than a character insight - I don't believe Fincher or Sorkin think they're explaining anything substantial with it; just like Charlie Kane's secrets weren't really unlocked by that sled. (It may be a similar added "fuck you" to the character's real-life counterpart, though: The Social Network is pretty blatantly drawing on shopworn computer geek stereotypes, and "Rosebud" was William Hearst's secret nickname for his mistress's vagina).

I realize that all of this was probably pretty incoherent if you haven't seen The Social Network yet, so here's a couple general sentiments about the movie itself: the acting is phenomenal, the composition and cinematography is stunning and doubly so considering it's an entirely dialog driven movie about computers, the score is great, and it features movie history's hands-down most convincing use to date of one actor playing both halves of a pair of twins. Go see it already.

official end of hiatus post

This blog has laid fallow for far longer than I would have liked. In my defense, I've been fairly preoccupied in the time since my last post: working out the logistics of a move from one of the country's least humid cities to one if its most humid, officially getting my doctorate, and then the actual moving process itself, which involved me putting in a 16 hour day behind the wheel of a Budget truck towing an extremely bulky car carrier. I probably could have still managed to write a post here or there, but that would have involved cutting back on my prodigious schedule of time wasting activities, and obviously that wasn't gonna happen.Now that I'm pretty settled in over here, though, I'll be posting more regularly. I'm trying to make it a goal to update this blog with more frequent, but less lengthy, posts. I'll probably fail at both those goals, so caveat emptor and all that.

However, by way of fighting the good fight, I wanted to discuss briefly the new Arcade Fire music video. It's actually only kind of a music video; it's billed as an "interactive film." The hook is that you enter the street address for your childhood home and it pulls Google Maps data to incorporate images of the street you lived on into the onscreen action. The whole thing is synced quite nicely with "We Used To Wait," one of the strongest tracks on Arcade Fire's pretty excellent new album The Suburbs, and will probably strike you either as a neat trick or a deeply evocative work of art, depending on your emotional response to the sight of places you formerly lived. Personally, I'm a bit more on the "neat trick" side of the fence - the piece's use of pop-up windows as a method of editing seems more innovative to me than its incorporation of Street View and GMaps pictures - but I can definitely see how it could be genuinely affecting. It's certainly worth four minutes of your time. I watched it with Chrome, as the site recommends, but according to the Onion AV Club, it works in Firefox as well as long as you have a release version that supports HTML5.

P.S.: This probably goes without saying, but you don't have to enter the address of your childhood home. Here's a version of the video that centers on a Captain D's down the road from where I went to high school.

Extra Lives book review

Extra Lives is the best writing about video games I've read. It's so good that I'm not even mad that it's only 200 pages long and about a quarter of that is slightly expanded versions of articles I've already read (his piece in the Guardian that I wrote a post about in March and his New Yorker article on Gears of War 2.) Partly, this is because the quality of Bissell's writing is head and shoulders above even the more talented games writers currently working, but mainly it's because he understands that subjectivity is the special sauce of video games. Extra Lives's subtitle is Why Video Games Matter, which makes it sound like some sort of polemic entry in the "games as art" debate, but it's actually a gaming autobiography of sorts. That's a risky approach - somebody telling you what playing video games is like for them isn't the most immediately compelling hook for long-form writing - but Bissell captures it beautifully and comes closer than anyone else yet has to capturing what the experience of playing video games is like.

In the first chapter of the book, Bissell relays an anecdote that hooked me completely. He writes about living overseas and finally getting his hands on a copy of Fallout 3 on Election Day 2008. Intending to try it out for an hour or so before tuning to the news coverage, he winds up playing for 7 hours and missing the returns and Obama's victory speech. This made me smile, because although I did watch the evening coverage in full with a group of jubilant friends, I spent the majority of that day (which I had off from the state mental health facility I was interning at) trying to finish Dead Space so I could give it back to a friend I had borrowed it from. I didn't quite do it - Dead Space is a lengthier game than it probably needed to be, and I had to keep it until the end of the week - but the modest perversion of focusing so intently on a video game at the culmination of a historic and consequential presidential election was something that struck me at the time, and I liked reading Bissell's version of the experience.

The smartest decision Bissell made in writing Extra Lives, focusing almost exclusively on contemporary games, is the one that will by his own admission almost certainly date the book quickly (it was just published last month). With one exception, all the games he writes about have been released in the past three years or so and are on the current generation of consoles. Part of my admiration for this decision almost certainly comes from the fact that every game he writes about at length, with the exception of LittleBigPlanet is one that I've played, which is a nice frame of reference to have. There's also something to be said for the idea that examining the latest and greatest is the only way to get a good understanding of a developing medium like video games. More to the point, though, focusing on recent games allows Bissell to sidestep the influence of nostalgia. This is the single biggest Achilles heel of writing and thinking about gaming; as with any medium, there's a strong contingent of enthusiasts who have a marked preference for past eras. This usually manifests in the insistence that a bunch of BS Super Nintendo RPGs (or more pretentiously, PC adventure games) represent the apotheosis of the form. The problem with this is that unlike other mediums, the formal qualities of video gaming are still very much in flux, which means that 1990s games held up as The Godfather-style masterworks actually seem like charming but primitive Georges Méliès short films.

I think that the most valuable aspect of Extra Lives is the manner in which Bissell grapples with the shortcomings of games as a medium and the resulting unease that comes with being both an intelligent adult and a gaming enthusiast. Here's the paragraph in which he captures this most succinctly:

" ...I was then and am now routinely torn about whether video games are a worthy way to spend my time and often ask myself why I like them as much as I do, especially when, very often, I hate them. Sometimes I think I hate them because of how purely they bring me back to childhood, when I could only imagine what I would do if I were single-handedly fighting off an alien army or driving down the street in a very fast car while police try to shoot out my tires or told that I was the ancestral inheritor of some primeval sword and my destiny was to rid the realm of evil. These are very intriguing scenarios if you are twelve years old. They are far less intriguing if you are thirty-five and have a career, friends, a relationship, or children. The problem, however, at least for me, is that they are no less fun. I like fighting aliens and I like driving fast cars. Tell me the secret sword is just over the mountain and I will light off into goblin-haunted territory to claim it. For me, video games often restore an unearned, vaguely loathsome form of innocence - an innocence derived of not knowing anything. For this and all sorts of other complicated historical reasons - starting with the fact that they began as toys marketed directly to children - video games crash any cocktail-party rationale you attempt to formulate as to why, exactly, you love them. More than any other form of entertainment, video games tend to divide rooms into Us and Them. We are, in effect, admitting that we like to spend our time shooting monsters, and They are, not unreasonably, failing to find the value in that."

Bissell doesn't shy away from this topic, to his immense credit. Some of the most intriguing parts of the book are when he explores the mixed-bag role gaming has played in his personal life, such as when he spent 200 hours playing Oblivion in the grip of a depressive episode or the lengthy cocaine and Grand Theft Auto IV odyssey detailed in his Guardian article. I think that even someone relatively sympathetic to gaming could read these parts and justifiably come to the conclusion that it's a fundamentally problematic social pursuit. Despite my clear enthusiasm for it, it's something I question myself some days, and while Bissell comes out clearly in defense of his hobby, his admission that the issue remains open to interpretation is an admirable display of intellectual seriousness. This book is highly recommended. 

Alan Wake review

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Above: Memo to prospective Alan Wake players: Hope you like woods.

I was quite looking forward to Alan Wake, partly because of my admiration for the Max Payne noir-shooter diptych by the same creators, and partly because it promised to borrow narrative inspiration from pulp thriller novels and TV rather than the standard video game muses (respectively: Aliens and other video games). Briefly, Alan Wake is an action game in which you play a famous author who retreats to a hermetic community in the Pacific Northwest to cope with a chronic case of writer's block. Shortly after his arrival, his wife is kidnapped under mysterious circumstances, and he blacks out for a week. When he comes to, he finds that he has written a manuscript that he has no recollection of composing, and further discovers that the town has been taken over by a shadowy presence that possesses people and objects and imbues them with murderous intent. As you might guess, the player's role is to take control of Alan Wake, confront these people/objects, and shoot your way to the truth.

The gameplay hook in Alan Wake is that the possessing force renders the enemies impervious to injury, so you can't just shoot them outright. You first have to use a flashlight or other light source to burn away the darkness that protects them. This isn't the most mindblowingly original conceit, but it's a clever way of fulfilling several gameplay functions. Most significantly, it amps up the tension by increasing the amount of time between spotting an enemy and being able to kill it, and does so without gimping the controls, which is the route that most other horror-shooters take. It also allows your flashlight beam to double as a crosshairs, which goes a long way toward minimizing the HUD. Thirdly, it gives a gameplay excuse for the constant showcasing of Alan Wake's lighting graphics, which are quite impressive.

The thing about Alan Wake is that it's such a solid and well-crafted game that the few shortcomings it has seem all the more nagging as a result. Gameplay-wise, there isn't a whole lot to be mad at: the balance between burning away shadows with your flashlight, shooting, and keeping track of multiple enemies is fun and challenging, and the controls are very solid. The dodge button, which needs to be combined with a directional press, is very well implemented - when you pull off a successful dodge, which takes enough skill that you can't just spam the button, the game shifts into slow-mo for a second to showcase just how close you were to getting nailed by an axe aimed at your head or what have you, which leads to any number of memorable close-call moments. The graphics are great and do a lot of heavy lifting in terms of creating a spooky atmosphere. It's an enjoyable game, and has a lot to recommend it on that level.

Alan Wake, however, has set its sights a bit higher than "enjoyable game." This much is clear from the unique structure that divides the game into six episodes, which being with 'previously on' recaps and end with cliffhangers. This is a narratively-focused affair that wants to be a bold statement of purpose for gaming as a storytelling medium. And it's actually fairly effective in doing so; I liked playing the game half-an-episode at a time, and the plot twists and wanting to find out what happened next was a big part of what kept me engaged. It is refreshing to see a game put a clear emphasis on story and pacing.

The problem with Alan Wake as a narrative is that it can't balance its aspirations toward originality with its desire to pay homage to its influences, and the latter too often overwhelms the former. As reviews of Alan Wake never fail to note, the game is heavily inspired by the works of Stephen King and David Lynch. The Stephen King angle isn't really so bad, even though King is actually mentioned by name at least twice in the game's dialogue, but the constant cribbing from David Lynch in general and Twin Peaks in particular becomes actively distracting very early on in the game. Now if this were limited to the 'unsettling things happening in a bucolic Northwestern town' aspect, I'd say fair play and leave it at that. However, Alan Wake has the gall to deploy naked facsimiles of the characters of Shelly Johnson and the Log Lady from Twin Peaks. It uses coffee thermoses as hidden collectable items, with the inevitable associated Achievement being titled Damn Good Cup of Coffee. There was a part early in the game where a character told me to go to a lodge that made me groan audibly, although fortunately the lodge in question proved more concrete than the one from the show. The game's boner for David Lynch is such that the song soundtracking the first end-of-episode title is "In Dreams" by Roy Orbison, and although I'm sure I probably don't need to jog your memory as to why that's relevant, I'd be seriously remiss if I didn't take the chance to embed:


This is probably substantially less of an issue for the vast majority of Alan Wake players, who likely don't care about the subtle line between a deft professional homage and a vaguely embarrassing fanboyish one. My issue with it is less about Alan Wake trying to punch above its weight class and more about a serious missed opportunity to incorporate its influences on a deeper level. The brilliance of Twin Peaks was the way that it placed its unsettling and avante-garde elements within a wholehearted embrace of the formal strictures of the primetime soap opera format. Given the fact that video games live and die by convention, there was a huge opening for Alan Wake to do the same thing within the milieu of third-person shooters. However, instead of balancing the base gameplay against sometime more experimental that takes advantage of the interactive form, Alan Wake too often opts to cut-and-paste David Lynch. The only point in which I felt Alan Wake was really doing something truly different comes in a playable sequence that closes out the game, and that's tucked safely away after the final boss fight, causing it to feel set apart from the "real" game.

To be fair, there's a lot to applaud about the way Alan Wake approaches the narrative-gameplay fusion; for one, the game actually works a subtle, non-superfluous rationale for the existence of scattered ammo and supplies into the narrative as it progresses. There's actually a significant aspect of the plot which struck me as inspired by Diary, one of Chuck Palahniuk's best novels; if this is intentional, it's carried out with the kind of grace I wish had been used in incorporating the influences I mentioned above. Secondly, although the final boss is rather limp, Alan Wake has one of the better endings to a game story I've seen in a while; it goes out on an ambiguous note without skimping on a sense of resolution. Granted, the former has probably more than a little to do with the impeding DLC bonus episodes (of which the first is free to retail buyers who keep the voucher packed in to the box, classy move there) but it still works within the context of the core game.

All told, Alan Wake is a worthy game. Given the focus on story and atmosphere, it seems like it might be one of those games that's fun to watch as well as play. Despite my quibbles with some of the choices, I'm looking forward to checking out the downloadable bonus episodes later this year, and I do hope that it does well enough to fund a sequel where the designers can hopefully broaden their palette some more.