Brilliant! You’ve finally completed all your domestic duties. You’ve put the kids to bed. You settle down with your partner to watch some abhorrent CGI crapfest when your significant over gestures to you with her outstretched arms and involuntary yawn, indicating that they’re going to bed for an “early night”. “Oh yeah!” you exclaim with great relish having read the subtext in their sudden prostrated admittance. It’s been too long since we’ve spent some quality time with one another, and such intimacy has to be utilised whenever the rare opportunity arises, to sustain a deeply connective relationship with your spouse. “Are you ready to be turned on?” you coo. With a quick peck on the cheek, a nurturing exchange of pleasantries, ensuring that they sleep long and comfortably, waving your other half good night, safe in the knowledge that they couldn’t possibly leave you for a more affectionate consort….as you remain downstairs to play your neglected PlayStation (or whatever your preferred means of gaming is) until you awake at 3am greeted by the static words “Game Over” etched across the screen of a long since passed battle. “My how I’ve missed you darling”. Of course there is a far greater threat to gaming than mere marital or parental concessions. Oh yes there is a far more assertive danger that lurks in the furtive servitude of your consoles inanimate dormancy. An enduring hindrance that provokes world-wide agitation with its protracted obstinacy. The compulsory interference of the dreaded software update! How I loath them!
As necessary as some of these patches can potentially be their automated intermissions can be incredibly disruptive, refuting the whimsical spontaneity associated with gaming. The ability to casually select a game to play is compromised because of an expanded update that could take up to an hour to implement! If you have a limited window to indulge in games like me then this is an unacceptable restriction. Now you have to manage, delegate or even prioritize other content just to free up time to install a patch for the game you wanted to play. My favourites are the ones that ask you if you’d like to continue without first downloading the requested update. You respond with a yes but are then prompted that you can’t until the necessary update has been implemented. Great. Thanks. Why bother asking me then? Games now become inaccessible, forcing you to yield to its data consuming whims. Sure most software updates require marginal space to facilitate the downloaded amendments, but when there’s 1, 2 or even 5 separate games in need of updates then all of those auxiliary space soon accumulates, exceeding the internal storage facilities by a ridiculous margin. Data consumption is mercifully a negligible thief for me thanks to some genius foresight on my part, with the installation of an expanded capacity in the form of a 2TB HDD. Having replaced the default storage system mitigates concerns regarding the allocation of game storage as well as updates, but still doesn’t help the speed or consistency of them. You can of course alleviate the problem by downloading updates in the background while you play an alternative game, but unless it’s a single player game that doesn’t require Internet connection then you’ll have to share your router. Besides you shouldn’t have to compromise what game you want to play! By far the worse thing about updates and patches to my mind is that the majority are generated to fix specific systemic issues within the game. Surely the game shouldn’t suffer such persistent maladies in the first place?
I accept that there are a number of variables that you can’t always predict nor adequately prevent. A game as expansive and interactive as Skyrim for instance is understandably going to suffer a few innocent textural blemishes. But a recent update on the PS4 and Xbox One version had to be generated to swiftly correct a glitch that forced the game to crash after 5 minutes?! A problem that didn’t exist until a previous update. So what, is was added? Evidently quality control is a minor consideration and resolving disputes as well as issuing a sizeable reparation seems to be reserved for after it has been mass-produced and distributed? Is it ignorance, laziness or just an acceptable practice to permit the release of a game riddled with bugs with companies only feeling obliged to redeem their credibility with belated initiatives to remedy the issue. I may sound old, bitter, nostalgic and perhaps even a little medicated, but forgive me if I yearn for the days that I could play any old game – regardless of how long ago it was since I last played it, without being concerned about game breaking glitches and intrusive updates that consume precious gaming experience. Functionality is a distinct advantage long since humbled and it’s funny how a modern game can be praised simply because it works. When has that ever been an acceptable barometer for a games quality?
How do you deal with updates? And do you think companies deliberately ignore glitches just to get the game out? Let me know in the comments below. Cheers.
Playing Skyrim again is like coming home after a long absence away. You greet people you haven’t communicated with for years. You take a look around relishing the familiarised surroundings that nostalgia has elegantly preserved in your memory for years. You arrive in town bound in shackles in the back of a horse drawn carriage, prepared to face the executioners Axe. It’s like coming home at Christmas! And it’s rather nice to be back. Your almost breathing in the piercing Skyrim air. Exploring the glacial terrain and harsh subterranean labyrinths. Oftentimes just gazing wistfully at the mountains and pure expanse of the continent, with the beautifully glistening spires casting an eerie shadow across the holds and cities of Skyrim. And it’s curious just how comforting familiarity can be? It’s like I haven’t been away. Sure it takes a little time to become adequately competent in hacking down dragons or necromancers without regenerating my health with restoration spells. I have to remind myself to engage with enemies with a little more covert nuance to negate the need for such drastic rejuvenating incantations. But it doesn’t take long to master the basics, improve your most primary skills and slay dragons quicker than Skyrim guards sustain arrows to their knees. Oh yeah, I’ve even missed those guys too. “Skyrim: Remastered” has ironically arrived at a time when the British weather has eloquently departed, morphing from humid sunshine to straight up nipple hardening winter, completely bypassing the Autumnal season in the process. If only Game Of Thrones could’ve done that?! And my approach to the remastered version is similar to the one I adopted when Skyrim was originally released back in 2011.
I’m generally conforming to the stipulated pageantry of Skyrim and it’s dependency on my goodwill and leadership. I’m preserving the sovereignty of the empire and it’s residents. Courteously completing errands for the companions and any other menial tasks for the greater metropolitan areas with efficiency, professionalism and exerting a great deal of effort to reduce the number of casualties that have been inflicted by my clumsy and sluggish swing of my sword, only engaging in more hostile encounters when my sub par stealth skills have alluded me. I do revel in my vocation as an honourable transient, protecting the innocent from the corrupted whims of authority. Defending the helpless civilians from the devastating aggression of vicious dragons. Stripping the carcasses of vanquished foes for armour, gold and anything that can be sold for a reasonable price. And collecting substantial rewards (cash) for my acts of valour and defiance against those that attempt to obstruct my honourable deeds. Before long I’m sitting in a tavern nursing a pint of mead, warming myself by the hearth, with an inventory fully laden with enough apples to sustain a distillery for months and sizeable quantities of arrows to mount a small offensive against the knees of every budding adventurer in Tamriel. In fairness the game still permits ample reward for noble deeds, but there’s just too much temptation to be just a little bit bad.
Having tasted the corruption afforded by greed I decided that glory, feigned plaudits and disposable trinkets given as payment for my solitary and dangerous excursions were hardly befitting a Nord of such prominence, prompting my inauguration into the Thieves Guild. Larceny, murder and general insubordination soon became my bed fellow. Discretion is key, and having bested some of Skyrims most notorious crypts utilising the accommodating concealment of shadow I’m well facilitated in the ways of successful infiltration. Becoming an Archer of considerable proficiency is also highly beneficial when merged with stealth. I was soon rising through the ranks, ascending to the higher echelons to become leader of this infamous guild. And oh how I relished it. Your encouraged not to kill by your comrades, owing to some code of conduct that could besmirch the “honourable” traditions associated with this band of Thieves that steal coin, possessions and in my case, the very clothes potential marks are wearing! Pfft, sod that. I can tell you now that very few of my marks have been spared my blade, particularly the ones that disrespect me. It’s not as though being ordained as a Dragonborn has bestowed you with the luxury of quite civility, graciously escorting little old mages across the snow capped plains of Windhelm. Why is it acceptable to desecrate the tombs of the dead, slaughtering the necrotic perversions that roam these crypts – or in some cases pretend to be asleep? Yet it’s morally reprehensible to kill known bandits? Well as leader I can tell you things are going to change around here!
I’m not a bad Nord, I just do ethically bad things on occasions like stealing, murdering and thooming goats off mountains. Sometimes you can work up a thirst that can only be quenched by the case full of mead I pilfered from some sorry merchant foolish enough to greet me during my morning constitutional. As I stagger drunk and disorientated to my next sordid adventure, probably to abuse some Argonian tavern wench that has kindly permitted temporary accommodation after some wearisome quest. Why? Because that’s my right as a Dragon slaying Nord, that’s why. I’m here to save your ass….eventually. Grant me a little leeway! Sure there’s always a modest degree of remorse for my hostile actions that prevents me from going full Tarantino, with lingering desires to propose to the raggedy dressed merchant girl in Whiterun and settle into nonchalant monogamy. But then it doesn’t take long for me to equip my staff of destruction, now studded in gleaming runes and emitting an inferno to lightly singe prospective clients…..I mean enemies, murder my peasant wife in her sleep (I’m fairly certain she was canoodling with Cicero anyway) and go as mad as a heretic at a satanist convention! Within the confines of Skyrim’s borders, irrespective of my visibility being greatly compromised by the harsh ambient climate, I can still see clearly. I maybe a vessel for good, but that shouldn’t necessitate for one moment that I’m a good person. I’m un-tamable, unrelenting. I am the Dovahkiin and you’d better not cross me. Now if you’ll excuse me I have to teach the Dark brotherhood a thing or too.
Have you been playing Skyrim: Repackaged? What do you think of Remastered games? Let me know in the comments below. Cheers.
I’ve just pre-ordered Skyrim Remastered on the PS4 (yes I’m immediately aware of the controversy surrounding Sony’s refusal to incorporate mods into their version and I don’t care…..much). It’s been a number of years since I last explored the vaguely racist continent of Skyrim and though I own the PS3 version, I felt like this was an opportune moment to revisit the verdant pastures, snow peaked mountains and subterranean musk of Skyrim. With my knee suitably healed from an arrow wound sustained from a previous adventure and the allure of improved environmental visuals and additional features I missed from its initial release, the compulsion to once again establish myself as an aggressive, woodcutting, book collecting pyromaniac, betrothed to some tavern wench with ample *cough* “dragon tamers” and flays his own adopted children was too much to resist. I am once again relishing the challenge of the adventure. That is until it gets too challenging and I finally decide to reduce the difficulty in tiny increments at regular intervals when the challenge will be easier than surviving a Marvel movie. For me in my twilight years of gaming buying a remastered game with proven credentials is a far safer purchase than new unproven material. The limitations related to my depleted resources belies my eagerness to engage with every and all original content released, but sadly I’m constrained by the bonds of parental responsibility. I have to be certain that what I’m buying is not only good but great. There are no guarantees, no quality control and I cannot afford to squander what little finances I have on an insufficient game. The wounds of games riding high on the crest of expectation yet failing to capitalise on it, conferring only brazen complacency are all too frequent. Rather ironically applying a degree of cynicism is an invaluable asset in the ever damaging fight against consumerism.
The trend of recyclable content, regurgitated for the purpose of expanding and consolidating residuals on an already established product with little effort is something I’ve been eagerly critical of in the past. And Skyrim adheres to that formula. But like I’ve said money is the priority and the certainty of liking a game increases exponentially if you’ve played it before. So it is easy to understand why so many popular titles have been “remastered” and also why they sell so well. Most new games require a great deal of risk. Convincing potential candidates to part with their hard earned money necessitates that the buyer is fully complicit in the generated marketing. Whether a game is good or not is of secondary consideration for the publisher and probably for the developer too. Beyond Good And Evil was a great game, that financially flopped. As was Okami, a game of considerable originality, sadly ignored. So we as consumers have to participate in this theatrical parlance with significant caution, yet a willing desire that the product might actually be good. I’ve made questionable purchases purely on a whim and liberated by uninhibited ambition. But with Skyrim, despite the repetition of playing a game I’ve already completed (not that you can ever really finish a game of this scale) I know it will be as good as I remember. Having said, that opinions expressed here are subject to drastic revision.
Do you think there are too many remastered titles released? Let me know in the comments below. Cheers.
Over the past couple of months I’ve fostered an enduring yearning to delve back into a game I’m remiss to admit that I’ve excluded for conventionally asinine reasons. Secreted between unfinished copies of Star Ocean and Watchdog’s, The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt has been a permanent resident of a shelf scattered with intermittent reminders of my failings. The explanation for my prolonged evasive absence in vacating the Witcher’s replete land isn’t attributed to the conditioned difficulty, nor is it a measure of enjoyment prescient from my adventures or even the time permitted to explore, but rather I find negotiating such spaciously endowed lands rather intimidating to traverse. Convention would dictate that such behavioural peculiarities are cause for dismissal from gaming in general as though I should be banished to the darkest alcove of restricted linearity. There’s always been something about being capaciously uninhibited in a game that strangely generates a sense of isolated impediment. It’s an arcane sentiment that has precipitated cursory rifts between games abounded with richly pliable ecosystems and my own refractory coordination. Games that encourage an almost coercive requisite for exploration are liable to provoke a lapse in concentrated motivation for me. I kind of need narrative boundaries to help me focus or become totally overwhelmed by the frivolity proposed by games like Skyrim.
“Welcome to Skyrim sir. Hope you weren’t too inconvenienced at being apprehended by our local constabulary. Frightful misunderstanding I assure you. I’m afraid the temperatures here are rather bracing and the continent as a whole is rather disrupted by the sudden return of dragons, but take a look around and go wherever you want. We have caverns, mountains, forests and streams for you to explore, at your earliest convenience of course. We have a beautiful settlement off to the north there, with resources, commerce and stocked with all the necessary amenities a vascular adventure such as yourself may require, all replenished frequently. Anything you want, we’ve got. Taverns, an adoption agency, blacksmiths, a medical canopy with adventurers much like yourself nursing knee wounds sustained through arrow penetration. Whatever you want to do, you can. So, where would you like to go sir?”
“Uh, could you point me in the direction of the main quest please?”
“Oh. Well, certainly……I suppose. You sure you don’t want to go through the dense thickets over there first? Maybe go up that ledge a little? No…..OK then. (weirdo?!)”
If I ever begin to feel disconcerted by the imposing environment, regardless of the setting I could rely on the escorting repose of prime directives. In GTA V, before I’d become accustomed to extracurricular activities at my convenience, I could expedite the discharging intimidation of my surroundings with the simple adherence to the cardinal missions to suppress the formidably prodigious suburbs of Los Santos. The same applies to the Witcher 3, albeit exhibited at a later date than I had anticipated. But with the Witcher 3 you have the added pressure of trying to understand anything that is going on, let alone mitigating the ambient distractions of a region encrusted in proponent mythology and fabled creatures. Comparatively more detailed than GTA and consisting entirely of its own fictionalised heritage separate from the elder scrolls your not ever really sure what it is your supposed to know? The Startling contextualised brevity administered only elevates your confusion as these are tales largely populated by characters many have familiarised themselves with during the previous titles, none of which are available to me. Once you’ve breached the atmospheric thematics however and adapted to the overwhelmingly auspicious spectacle all the imitative conjectures that stifled your inaugural ventures is soon dispersed. Now equipped with my duel swords, hilt etched with gilded runes, clasped to my back with elegant poise, I once again set off on my journey destined to replicate my grandiose overtures months before. And it’s like playing a new game, a reformed adaptation of my memory.
Because months of alienation has permitted interpretive perception of what I think I’ve played, I’ve been exposed to the rigidity of my misinterpreted evocations, recalling issues that only manifested in my head. These partial cognitive recollections are laced with such indistinct memories posing as fact. Like an administrative error or archival misplacement that belies the flourishing retinue of the Witchers environments. You forget how intuitive the combat was, how satisfying it is to gallop across dusty thoroughfares that reticulate through venerable woodlands. You don’t expect the superfluous exteriors to be as interactive or indeed accessible, with deeply detailed landscapes so huge you’d think the continent had been rogered by an omnibus! With active and responsive wildlife, residencies nestled with integrated communities and pragmatic commerce. Even the cities have distinct territories. From the rigorously occupied commercial districts, smiths forging steel for the domestic military and the municipal domesticity of occupants saunter between various outlets, to the palatial spires adorned to the ornate fortifications adjacent to the squalor of a poverty stricken community, with the fettered carcass of some unlucky transient being gnawed on by famished rats and sewage drifting through the murky cisterns. No idea how this happened. Certainly nothing to do with me obviously! With some residents struggling for mortal purchase, desperately bartering for provisions while others dine on braced lamb and suckling pig. This operational class system is indicative of a game that requires your undivided attention.
These kind of immersive and polished titles remind me why I’m a gamer. I know people that claimed to be gamers, the types that love Fifa and COD, that would hasten to add the personal rancour they reserve for RPG’s, particularly open world ones. The general antithesis towards RPG’s like Skyrim is a shared ambivalence deployed by those of a more casual persuasion. The functionality of an RPG is contingent on your routine, prioritising regular intervals of interactions that desultory persuasions simply aren’t compatible. Even the most intimidating, perhaps even confusing games require a second chance. It’s then perhaps a little sad that some won’t even attempt one chance.
Let me first say just how privileged I feel in becoming your messiah. It’s always an honour to be considered for such prestigious invitations. As you know I have successfully preserved the lives of countless innocents from many malignant evils. I unified two potentially warring continents in Sylverant and Tethealla. I prevented the invasion of Tamriel from literal Oblivion. I formed my own organised criminal syndicate in Vice City, San Andreas and Liberty City, under various identities of course. I’ve slain numerable dragons, saved many damsels in various degrees of distress. I deterred an evil king who sought to plunge Hyrule into eternal darkness, a mild skirmish for someone of my repute. I’ve even ascended through bastions and forts replete in lava under the false guidance that an incarcerated princess resided there, only to discover she’s in another castle?! Boy was my face red. As was as my hat. I’ve also been cited as the potential suspect in a slew of adventurers taking arrows to the knees, though I don’t indulge in idle conjectures. Now I’m writing simply to assure you that my asserted esteem has been verified by some very reliable referrers and that I can once again endeavour to replicate similar results in your designated province. But I’ll also require your compliance.
I refer you to my legally binding contract, specifically article 12 paragraph 5 that states that “under no circumstances should hero/heroine or any travelling companions be stopped to perform menial trivialities that defers him/her from their prime directive, without the expressed consent from his employers (namely an omnipotent being that has no form of communication with domesticated civilisation).” These regulations originated from the persistent enquiries into my availability, when my eternal vigilance in protecting their jeopardized world was constantly being interrupted. I found myself contributing to some of the most elaborate, most fiendishly convoluted circumstances, that I really have to wonder if these quests aren’t merely an assortment of planned orchestrations manipulated to test my resolve and patience. You wouldn’t ask a serving soldier to assist you in hanging out your washing, or advise a nurse to cease assisting an elderly paraplegic to sip a drink of water, and instead aid you in finding your misplaced jewellery?! My assets are tied up in other revenues, ideologies that should warrant commendations for my selfless exploits from my would be benefactors! I’m not conditioned for compassion, and this circulated rheumatism or some other neglected malady that circulates through the realms like a cancer is a distraction I can ill afford. Did I receive an omitted candidacy to be your personal chaperone? To comply with your every whim? I am not a vagrant slave, travelling from place to place merely to suite your baffling needs!
Clearly there’s an inured reliance on governmental citations. When governed by a constituency devoid of compassion I can amiably understand your frustrations. But I’ve been assigned a very specific role, one that neither entails nor compels me to help you find your escaped chickens. What would they have done if not for my gracious hospitality? Can you people not take care of yourselves? Escorting you from one safe locality to another via aggressive junctures whereby I’ll be forced to protect you, or more commonly your livestock?! To hell with this, I’m the saviour of the world! The anointed one. I didn’t escape incarceration/rise from the dead/leave the safety of my horticulture farm to become employed by “Parcel Force!” You have to realise that without my intervention this world will collapse at the behest of doom, yet I’m instead performing errands for an NPC with the brain capacity of spilt custard. I can’t be dealing with negligent residents who have misplaced their necklace or other trinkets, conveniently located in the bowels of some acrid tomb or cavern. You should be helping me. Providing provisions and necessary amenities for my journey to you know, save the world from imminent destruction?! I don’t have time to circumnavigate your house, to inspect the muddy indentation of some surreptitious intruder. That’s what the guards and police are for. I’m here to aid you in a more general capacity, not simply a municipal confident sought to eradicate some rodent infestation.
Now I understand that you have your business to run, families to feed and a predestined route you fill complied to walk for the rest of your lives but I’m openly attempting to pacify the immediate threat denoted from the very lamentable state of affairs that afflicts your world(s). Charging me extortionate prices means for necessary equipment only provides our enemies with ample time to successfully eliminate your useless behinds…..which is worth saving of course. You should be helping me. I kinda need to concentrate my efforts on preserving humanity as a unit. I already have a raft of obstacles to negotiate, surplus inventory that is in steady declination and the reduced authoritative presence to intercede with minor demeanour’s. Having shopkeepers charging me extortionate prices means I’m forced to regulate my feeble accumulated wealth on products that are hardly sustainable, especially in this economy. Reduce your prices guys, or at least provide certain concessions to aid me in saving your worthless hides! Sorry, sorry. I maybe the prophesied one that will lead you to freedom and prosperity from your accursed pursuers, but I’m not Jesus. Also I’m aware that JC’s parents were denied room and board at a number of hotels, but that doesn’t mean you should charge me progressively more expenses as I travel. These singular circumstances require specifically singular actions, actions that can’t be compromised for lapses in motivated coordination’s. Also, if you do encounter me in one of your daily constitutions around the same basket of fruit, do not under any circumstances feel compelled to simply stroll right into me and then blame me for walking into you. Step aside peasant!
I fully appreciate your compliance in this matter and hope to resolve the threat soon.
Kind regards, your saviour.
P.S- Money or other useful gratuitous would be preferable to your generous appreciation.
Let’s just modify the gradient of my nose. Yep that’s better. Not sure my eyes are quite symmetrical, just a little more structural alteration needed there…..let’s separate them a little more, yeah that’ll do. Wait, why I am I black? Need to amend that promptly to reflect my pasty Caucasian skin. Don’t want people to think I’m Rachel Dolezal now do I? Oh come on, I don’t know what height I am in centimetres?! Can’t you give me the measurements in feet! All right very well; 170 cm? That must be around 6,2 right? Whoa, my hair has never retained that much volume! No that’s too long. Too short. Too effeminate, though I do like the way it brightens my eyes. Ah, that’s much better. You handsome devil, you’ll be slaying more woman than you will necromantic mages. Now for some additional cosmetic definition. Let’s define those cheekbones a little, allow my skin some modest blemishes and allow my face to be studded with some mild pigmentation just to reduce my punctuated masculinity (don’t want the woman to be too distracted). Now with the application of a cleftal philtrum and some alluring stubble…..I…..am……finished. Say, your looking…..OH MY GOD! KILL IT! KILL IT WITH FIRE!
That is my reaction to almost every character I have ever designed!
Moulding a creatively affable entity that’s both expressive and displays a semblance of humanity requires inherent facilitation of patience I simply don’t have. This particular brand of inertia is indicative of my ruthless need to progress into actual gaming elements, rather than expel the few precious hours I have pruning the nuances of my forehead or moderating the precise specificity of my ear alignment. I have effusive respect for the creative solicitation demonstrated by those with a fastidious requirement for accuracy and the extrapolation of detail that goes into animating a form, where the subtle contours of an individuals face mimics their own anatomy. This projection of creative influence is evidently latent in my own depictions, as I’m left to settle for interpretive tendencies that strongly alludes my tolerance for authenticity. It’s not that I don’t try, I just have little time to be that finicky, instead settling for colloquial interpretation of an androgynous being. I could, time permitted and suitable intervals of astringent discipline generate a loose familiarization of myself, where I’ve adhered to the subtle concavity of a dimple, or the accurate dimensions of my pout. But due to certain nonchalance restraints, measured details allude me as my eagerness takes precedent. As a result I’m left with a character that retains a culmination of my attributing parameters, much of which are dependent on vague definitions, that contort an image with contravening misinterpretation, thereby depicting me as a vacantly expressive rapist, with stunted verticality, a cleft chin and derp face that is most likely to be convicted for the violation of your anus with a machete rather than hailed as a saviour of a civilisation. What’s the point when your efforts result in a creation that looks like a stubbed toe and leaves the elephant man questioning the legitimacy of your humanity?!
I’m always a deftly hideous creation with dearth of facial authenticity, With parameters so banal you can’t resist but settle for a stock version of yourself. In Skyrim the surplus parameters at my disposal afflicted my Nord with a visibly necrotic complexion, with symmetrical rigidity applied to the jaw so I resemble a Hexagon, with an irregular space between the eyes. He’s burdened visage sends out warnings such as “Caution Do not approach. Recently escaped resident of Arkham Asylum. Known degenerate and Bum tickler!” Fifa complied with similar interpretive variance, only this time the character, a supposed reflection of myself was so strikingly handsome that I feared he’d run away with my girlfriend?! When even a mii that I contributed to my mother’s Wii console presents a more realistic adaptation of myself, then there has to be something amiss. I’m hardly in possession of features that are distinctive, so you’d expect fashioning an accurate imitation of myself would require minimal fiddling. Dark hair, hazel eyes, expression of constant neutrality, cheekbones you could cut your hands on and a bulbous nose. I don’t want a vaguely recognisable me if people have to squint to the point there eyes are closed to recognise my features. I know it shouldn’t matter how closely related we are in appearance, but I feel more immersed if it’s “me”, or an inert perception of it. And I’d be OK if there was a capacity for passive intervention to tweak the characteristics later on with posthumous amendments, rather than having no retroactive reparations conferred to change my character. I don’t want to endure the trauma of being some mutated freak that looks like, wait. Unless, oh no. Is, is that what I look like?! Oh god no!
Let me know about the bad experiences you’ve had in creating a characters. Cheers.