Give Me The Sack

Games have a trending penchant for accurately mirroring real conflicts through fictionalised interpretations, its nice to know that some games can be the mitigating falsity that distracts us from heinous acts of cruelty perpetrated across the globe. A rather sobering and austere  introduction I’ll concede. But I’m simply surmising the resonance of titles such as Little Big Planet in the narrowed spectrum of gaming temperament, that despite the industries constant affiliation with war LBP has generated deserved acclaim, for where the suspension of reality is a conduct willingly obliged to. Not only does it Little Big Planet 1 and 2 grant ample provisions to stimulate your creativity, but what could be more resplendent than Stephan Fry’s tranquillising larynx ushering you through levels and tutorials with a serenading guidance? He’s narration alone could convince you that your cats death is a temporary malady and where even a torrent of profanities would sound considerate, like a soothing splash of radiance to wash away the grim façade of life’s cynicism. (I feel snuggled already) Though the indelibly adorable Sackboy could deceive you into believing that he was knitted simply to attract a more juvenile portion of gamers with a deluge of vibrancy, with the capacity for distributing decorative stickers and though I’m inclined to partially agree with this assertion, the technical efficiency of creating your own exclusive levels, or in this case race tracks contradicts this contention.

When you scour the litany of extravagant tracks structured with such finely nurtured gestation, with detailed persistence and exquisitely decorated, without the environmental radiance becoming diminished by convoluted mass of accessories, you doubt your ability to emulate that requisite definition. My methods are often frenetic, attempting to construct a track without a formulating mediary to guide me. The result is a track unintentionally formulaic, bereft of any distinctive direction or grace, conveying a partial effigy of pestilence, with abstract curvature of the course that even scalletrix would consider a logistically disproportionate. But it was mine! Created through my own mind, built with these fair hands (well thumbs). Though it lacks the thematic impression of other diligently cultivated tracks whose inventive creators continue to seek perfection by accessing their creations months after publishing, simply to ascertain faults in their circuit that most casual observers would consider as obtuse superlatives worthy of contrite omission. Such committed resolve is commendable, but sadly wasted on someone who feels that if you didn’t get it right the first time, you probably never will.

“There’s something fishy about this kart? When you said we’d play COD, I didn’t expect this…..Hey, wait. Come back. I got more where that came from….”

Though my premise is basic in form, delicate alterations were made as new, inventive adornments became available through progression of the game that expanded my slender depositary of accessories. In an attempt to stem the visual banality and amplify the benign landscape that was bereft of activity, I began receding the tracks behind dense vegetation that creates a foreboding ambiance with restrictive circulation of the track. With foliage perversely arching over with palliated restraint, reducing my peripheral visibility because of the thickets, making the negotiations around my track laborious, with a barrage of triffids almost looming like aggressive assailants. I hadn’t intended to formulate a bloated interpretation of my well documented eccentricity either, as I began to implement a spiralling ascent into penultimate corner, with apertures covering the exterior of the course and scattering ghosts and bovine haphazardly amongst the track for no other reason than I like the notion of them grazing (the cows obviously. Spirits don’t possess digestive tracts). The remiss notation that shifting the corrugated scenery continually auditing the constructed maladies affiliated with track before officially sanctioning the course for world-wide consumption is a monotonous affair is ignorant, because such intricacies are robustly liberating. Rotating and scaling objects becomes cathartic, almost bordering on euphoric (almost). OK it’s not the same dizzying ferment as gaining a head shot against a terrorist insurgent, but it’s still a consuming aspect. You find yourself scrutinising every facet of your applied schematic; “Is the curvature of the track too acute? Or is further angular construction required?” “Would a deviation enhance the linearity of the track? Or impede it, subtracting the now nonchalant jumps into nothing more than a diversion?”

My lack of application in these areas could be scrutinised as the tracks accessories that endowed every mutilated corner are haphazardly placed, provoking circumventing implication that I just didn’t care about the aesthetic implications, and were simply aimed at distracting participants from observing the visual desolation of the neighbouring area. Which is true to an extent. But as I suggested early I possessed only limited accessories available, each vying for petulant recognition. I could have distributed more variants with more appealing aesthetics but it would have felt like belated cosmetics, akin to applying make-up on a clown. Aright, now I’m just attempting to atone for my latent applications by making excuses. So lets end this farcical surmise of my track erecting skill–or lack there of and let you judge for yourself.

Check out my track called “That’s A Big Twinkie!” in honour of the late comedic writer/Actor/Director/Ghostbuster Harold Ramis, and let me know what you think. Don’t own it? Then download for free on PS Plus. Perhaps you could suggest other recommendations. Cheers.