Napalm Sprites

The best stories capture something about humanity, illustrate something about ourselves that we hadn't seen before. Games very, very rarely do this.

Remember when Alyx is trying to get a word in between Barney and Dr.Kleiner? She's saying, paraphrased, "What cat? Uh, someone? What cat!?" When she gets no response from either man, who talks over her, she rolls her eyes at you and walks away. At you. Never have I felt so important in a computer game than at this moment, when this girl chooses to relate to ME. I laughed out loud with the surprise of feeling that caught me. It's something human, and humanity is something games severely lack.

Absurd isn't it? The most unemotional expression, and it strikes me as a historical gaming moment. Imagine, then, a properly intense interaction like a marital break down or a tender first kiss. Imagine if you were one of the participants in a charged, important social situation, in a game. The shy slightness of your partner's upward glance at you, or a hateful glare as your best friend fills with colour while you blunder into a comment they didn't want told in front of others. Games could, can do this, and it would be glorious.

Earlier, I was examining some low res gameplay videos trying to identify whether rag dolls in Battlefield 2 apply only to enemies killed by explosions - it looked to me like gun kills were animated. We seem to be limiting 'realism' in games to destruction detail and the quality of grenade shadows. Realism should constitute the quality of cohesion of the game's characters to the world. Fuck the resolution of the napalm sprites, I'd much rather see how my squad mates reacted to the plane dropping the stuff.

Anyway, we're not far off now. I can see the playable intro now; it'll be a ceremonial dinner, a close affair for the family. The women laugh and fuss around the cooker, asking you and the children how much gravy you all want. The men will sit back, elbows on the table, talking over each other and dipping their bread in the dip, served in the traditional crockery. Candles light up their smiling faces, the small yellow fires reflecting in the special glasses. When everyone's finally sitting down, ceremonial hats are donned, and the reading takes place.
"This is where we are from," quietly points your aunt, who's sitting next to you. A picture on the facing page of your ritual book, issued to all, depicts a far away land. One quite different to that you can half see through the darkened windows at the far end of the room.

At the head of the table, father booms the old language you don't understand. Children and adults sit with their heads bowed in concentration, but when any one of them meets your upward gaze, it is offered with affectionate return. The gleaming display of food between them all. The floral pattern of aunt’s dress looms large on your left side as you look around. A brother, his fringe cut crooked, frowns at you - motioning that you look at the reading as the others do. You concentrate on the picture of the far away place. None of children, even you, can follow the Old language father, with his loud breathing and louder Aramaic diction recites. The crude drawing seems to hold your all your attention. The foreign monotones and dim colours start to blur. When the discordant siren whines into blaring action, the recently happy faces become taut with fear, they seem displaced. A hand pulls you forward, you stumble across an over turned chair, the candles light is quenched.

Your memory doesn't seem to serve you well enough.