75 – The Samaritan Paradox

The Samaritan Paradox is one of those backlog games that I played, got stuck on a puzzle, and moved to the “games I’ll probably never play again” category in Steam. Adventure games are a funny thing for me–I played them almost exclusively in middle school, half of my friends either design old-school-style adventure games or run podcasts on them or whatever–and yet I don’t always like to play them. (I still haven’t gotten to Part 2 of Broken Age.) I decided to give Samaritan another go, based on Ben Chandler mentioning that there was a certain twist at the end that was extremely polarizing; that Vince Twelve (developer of Resonance, which itself contains a couple of fantastic plot twists) chimed in to mention that he liked the twist settled it, and over the course of the next couple days I played and beat Samaritan–a couple of light nudges over Twitter helped me with a couple of puzzles, but I found it a mostly successful game with a really interesting story that falters in a couple of bits–some having to do with the fact that it is an adventure game and it takes on a lot of flaws with the genre.

Uh, spoilers.

The game revolves around the suicide of a writer known for political investigative journalism and potboiler detective stories; you play a down-on-his-luck cryptologist who gets involved in the search for the manuscript for the writer’s last novel. The writer has hidden the various manuscript pieces along a breadcrumb trail that begins to illuminate a deeper mystery, a conspiracy to sell weapons to third-world countries in turmoil. (The game is Swedish; I didn’t know that Sweden had a history of doing these things, but it’s nice to know that it and America have a lot more in common than you’d think!) The story is indeed interesting–the mystery is paced very well, the revelations about the conspiracy are parceled out in satisfying chunks, it’s the kind of game which answers a lingering question and then introduces a character who brings up two more questions and may or may not be untrustworthy. As you can imagine, there’s a bunch of secret codes and a couple of puzzle boxes, and thematically they fit: You’re a fan of puzzles who’s on a literal treasure hunt. When you find a section of the novel, the game shifts and you play through them; they’re a fairy tale story about a young woman fighting dragons and attempting to stop a ritual. In these sequences–and they’re some of the most visually beautiful in a game that’s lovely throughout–you have some more standard adventure game puzzles, and they fit here. Like I said, the game was very solvable–a couple of slight hints from friends were all I needed.

One puzzle seemingly falters. One of the things I’ve picked up from Andrew Plotkin’s game reviews is the question of: If you have a puzzle which clicks together in a complex and satisfying way, but where the player completely misses the clue which ties everything together and resorts to trial and error, is that a bad puzzle? One sequence in Samaritan features a locked chest; there’s an illustration of a harpy, a dial of numbers, and a blocked keyhole. The harpy refers to a series of constellations–constellations you learn from a segment of the missing manuscript and which you can view through a nearby telescope. Locating the Harpy constellation gives you a pair of coordinates, which you obiously dial in, letting you access the keyhole.

The key comes from a chessboard in the room. There are eight queens; if your Stock Puzzle Senses are keen or you found a book in the game which mentions the puzzle, you know that this is called the Eight Queens puzzle and it goes a little something like this: Can you place the eight queens in such a way that no queen threatens the other? I hate chess and I hate stock chess puzzles; I hate chess metaphors and I hate it used as shorthand; but more importantly, I hate stock puzzles. (Everybody hates Stock Puzzles; there’s a reason why everybody loves Richard Cobbett’s riff on the Towers of Hanoi in The Sunless Sea.) I don’t mind blundering through a weird Adventure Game Puzzle; but if I have to figure out Nim or Peg Solitaire or a sliding tile thing I am looking that shit up; 30 seconds on Google and I solved the chess puzzle, got the key, opened the chest, and moved on with my life.

I mentioned this bit to Chandler after the fact, and he said, oh, the clues were in the room with you, I liked how it connected to the constellations–and at that point the puzzle clicked. The Harpy constellation consists of eight stars, and if you recreate it with queens on a chessboard, you’ll see that no queen threatens any other: The Harpy constellation is the solution to the chess puzzle. In this light, it’s an excellent puzzle–everything is centered around this one constellation–and yet I just plain didn’t make that insight until after the fact, largely because I didn’t need to. Plotkin’s Maxim: I am a player, therefore I am lazy. If you put a series of riddles on a plywood door, and I’ve got an ax, I’m not gonna solve your riddles. In some ways, it’s kind of nice that there are multiple ways to arrive at the solution, but the one I used was mildly disappointing. It’s largely a question of lost faith: If I see something that looks like a stock puzzle, I’m going to assume that it’s a lazy designer padding his game–and you know, it’s really hitting me how neither player nor designer can be having a good time during a stock puzzle. They’re kind of cheating each other, or bullshitting each other, or whatever: It’s a totally bad-faith moment. And maybe players have had so many bad faith moments from lazy designers that a clever designer can’t quite do a clever variation on a stock puzzle.

And part of the problem is that there are moments where the game doesn’t justify that faith. The fairy tale segments of the game handle more adventure gamey puzzles in a better or at least more thematic way, but there are some in the real-world segment of the game that just blow up. You use a small saw to get through some drywall, timing it with a man’s snoring in order to mask the sound. You sneak into an office by setting up a series of dominoes involving a fan, some extension cords, and a stack of papers. In probably the worst moment of the game, you meet up with someone who can show you the boat that the writer drowned himself from; oh, but he’s entering a crossword puzzle contest and he’s got to solve this thing before the post office closes.

It wouldn’t–it couldn’t–you think, and for a moment, The Samaritan Paradox doesn’t let you down. “This would take an ordinary person hours to solve”, you say, at which point the screen fades to black: “FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER”–and of course, your character is a brilliant cryptologist with an omnivorous thirst for knowledge, this would be a piece of cake for him–except there’s one clue he can’t solve, one which he leaves to the player. And the clue is the name of the detective in the novels written by the writer you’re investigating. The writer is popular enough that it’s like if you had _OI__T as the answer for “Agatha Christie’s detective”, if you didn’t know it yourself you could ask someone or look it up.

But this is an adventure game, and you’ve got to solve a puzzle to do that, and it’s a puzzle I solved entirely accidentally. There are half a dozen very obvious places to look, not the least of which is the writer’s daughter, who you’re working for. Even considering that she’s estranged from her dad and actively uninterested in his writing, the game doesn’t even give you the option to ask her if she knows the name. But there aren’t any mentions of the character anywhere in his house, none of his books around anywhere. Worse, the entire game is kicked off by your discovery of a code to the writer’s daughter Sara *in one of his novels*–while your character scoffs at it as pulp detective trash and actively hasn’t read it, the book completely disappears from your apartment, taking away the option to look at the blurb on the back. You can’t even call the friend who *lent* you the book and ask him what the detective’s name is. The newspaper article about the writer’s death doesn’t mention it. Hell, the guy who gave you the crossword in the first place knew the writer personally and might even be familiar with it–you can’t even ask him if he knows the final clue on his own puzzle! I spent a good 20 minutes traipsing through the game (making several ferry trips to and from a nearby island, going across town sevearl times, the post office likely closing and reopening six times in the intervening time), asking everyone about everything, and ultimately blundered my way through when I noticed a hotspot that I hadn’t seen earlier, one which gave me an item–

–okay, I’ll get into it because the only copy of the writer’s novel that exists in the world (there are no bookstores, it seems, in Sweden) is in a bar, where a pissed off guy is reading it. I of course used everything in my inventory on him to no avail–it’s not even clear if he’s a puzzle piece or a background character. Over to the side is a “rocker” who’s fiddling with a jukebox and trying to change the song–again, unclear if he’s a piece or scenery. And finally, something I legitimately thought *was* scenery–a sofa whose hotspot is such that I didn’t even think it had one the first few times I went into the location. Clicking on it gives you three coins from under the cushions: What you need to do is give a coin to the rocker, who puts on a heavier song, disrupting the reader’s concentration and driving him from the scene, leaving the book behind for you to read the back and finally find the detective’s name. As a final, almost cruel punchline, the coins icon changes to show that you’re now holding two coins: Okay, this may not have been the best puzzle, but it was a clumsy way of forcing you to have these coins in your inventory, they’ll likely be used later on and they’re trying to avoid a dead man walking scenario. Except that’s not the case–the two coins are never used again. The sequence is *entirely unnecessary*–it’s an excuse made up by a very minor character to prevent the player from going to the next bit just yet, one which yields no insight into the world or anything, which could be solved in multiple ways, and which doesn’t really provide any other reward. It’s a bit that should have been cut: Ask to see the boat, the character takes you there without the hassle.

And yet, if that and a bunch of puzzles are based around poking at things until you find the dominoes are in place and the sequence goes in the intended way, I *did* solve the game without a walkthrough. The crossword puzzle puzzle was not one of the areas I needed a nudge on–one of the ones I did was a relatively fair puzzle where I simply didn’t realize a certain action was possible; another was a completely fair puzzle–the one I initially got stuck on–where I just needed to be reminded to read the instructions again. It’s one of the fairy tale segments: A dragon challenges you to a battle of wits in a contest involving poisons and antidotes, and I think I simply hadn’t made the right efforts towards figuring out how the mechanics of the puzzle actually worked.

As for the twist, I simultaneously liked it a lot and didn’t quite love what they did with it. The weapons conspiracy eventually leads to the writer’s son who is the lead arms dealer; you find the final piece of the manuscript in his apartment and figure, at this point, you more or less know where it’s going to end: The main character–who’s explicitly identified with Sara–defeats the bad guy (obviously modeled after her brother), and finds a home in the house of a kindly middle-aged man who’s recently lost his son: Who’s identified explicitly with the writer himself. It’s a sweet, heartwarming ending…which suddenly takes a very shocking turn when the young woman realizes the feelings of desire she has for the older man, and the two embrace–

–and suddenly you realize that the writer had molested his daughter and that the entire thing was an extended confession. The arms conspiracy was definitely a thing, and the writer had been investigating it, but it’s almost a red herring. While he was indeed murdered, it was not for what he knew or to stop him from publishing, it was a character who, realizing the writer planned to finally confess, decided to stop him before he could ruin Sara’s life. She’s got a career, she’s expecting a baby, she has a life apart from all of this–and a budding romance with the game’s protagonist–and this would crush her. It protects Sara and punishes him at once. It’s the kind of motive that’s both well-meaning and heartbreaking and completely wrong. And yet–it’s a motive that the game seems to agree with. The final action of the game involves rewriting the story’s ending. The Sara-analogue returns home, regains her memories, and is reunited with her lost lover (the son of the kindly older man who remains, thankfully, her doting father-in-law in this version), who’s obviously our protagonist writing himself in. In general, it’s a much better ending–it ties up a lot of the story’s loose ends in a way that “incest” doesn’t–and yet Sara isn’t completely fooled. She recognizes the ending’s been rewritten, but she finds it romantic and charming, and is content to dismiss the unread original version as “probably not very good”.

Listen, this woman is going through a hell of a lot of trauma at this point. Her father apparently committed suicide but was revealed to have been murdered by her mother’s nurse–a woman who’s more or less one of the family at this point. Her mother is deep into Alzheimer’s and en route to a nursing home over the course of the game. Her brother runs an illegal and immoral international arms trade and is arrested for it. A hell of a lot has happened and her life is experiencing some extreme changes, and to add “by the way, you were molested” to that is, well, yeah, it’s an additional stress. But at the same time, we’re talking about a highly-educated woman with a successful career as a chemist, who is about to have a child that Sweden’s generous childcare benefits will help out with, and she’s beginning a relationship with a more or less decent guy. If her support system isn’t as strong as it could be, it’s still there, and nowhere in the game is it even suggested that she’s a delicate flower who’ll crack at this news. There’s even suggestions that she sort of already knows–she’s estranged from her father, wants nothing to do with his writing, and seems worried about finding something very specific in the manuscript–even if she truly has consciously forgotten about or repressed the incidents, they would help her understand a lot about her feelings toward her father and towards herself.

So I guess to me it just feels wrong–it feels like hiding from someone the fact that they’re adopted, or lying to a cancer patient and telling them it isn’t terminal. It’s an old-fashioned, paternalistic attitude. Now, the game does take place in the 1980s, in Sweden, so it’s possible we’re dealing with a different attitude than an American in 2015 would have–but at the same time, the game wasn’t *written* in 1984; in general, it seems like an ending involving a housewife in Long Island in the 1950s.

But again–i think the reason the flaws are sticking out was because I did enjoy the game very much. It lasted a Friday and a Saturday evening–which is a great length for an adventure game, as far as I’m concerned–and the more satisfying puzzles *were* satisfying. I didn’t see the twist coming, and I mean that in a positive way–the game’s sense of misdirection did force my head to look at the wrong things and ignore the actual plot. And I’m really excited to see the next game. So I guess I’m glad I rescued this one from the backlog then.


I think I reeeeeally wanted to get out of playing Wizardry 7 for some reason. Look. I loved, loved, loved Wizardry 6. If it isn’t quite one of my favorite games, it’s certainly one of the five most important games I’ve ever played. I’ll spare you the gory details, but let’s just say that I started playing Wizardry 6 around a point in my life where the only other viable option was “commit suicide”, and that I could write an amazing Personal Essay about how crawling through the Bane Castle and the surrounding dungeons represented the dark, sludgy, smokey, fly-infested basement where I played the game and how my ending decision to take the Cosmic Forge represented my decision to become a writer of Twines and all of that Chicken Soup for the Dark Souls crap.

But, I mean, my darling, my darling, my life and my groom is Might and Magic. I love mapping, and it was Wizardry 6 which made me realize that fact. The moment that I fell hard for Wizardry 6 was the moment that I realized that the entire map was artfully and perfectly arranged to scale. Oh, let’s not compare everything to Dark Souls, but it’s got a similar enough structure. There’s a central area which connects to a bunch of side dungeons, and you’re constantly discovering new shortcuts and connections between the areas. I mean, at that point I had regularly been using the phrase “It’s not a world, it’s a series of videogame levels”. As primitive even for its time as Wizardry 6 was, as much as it was a maze full of questionably-designed monsters–there are a number of naked lady enemies with large bosoms, so you have to have a veeeeeeeeeeeery healthy sense of camp–it was a world. You could build the thing–if I ever get a larger apartment and go completely insane I’m going to build a model of Wizardry 6 entirely out of Lego(s).

But Might and Magic’s mathematical regularity just happens to be more aesthetically appealing to me–certainly it’s easier for me to get that game in my head than Wizardry 6’s sprawl. Might and Magic consists of 55 interconnected maps, each of which is 16 X 16 squares. It is organized in a regular fashion as well: The overworld is four rows of five columns–each designated by a letter and number. Coordinates are very important in the game, and you learn the system very quickly. They’re even referred to in-game. The effect this has on notetaking is astounding–a lot of Might and Magic is focused around knowing the precise location of a lot of stuff. For example, at E4 8,5 is a fountain which temporarily increases your Might by 20–a VERY helpful gameplay bonus. And of course I made plenty of notes on my Wizardry 6 map itself–noting locations of locked doors, unsolved puzzles, etc.

But while Might and Magic 3-5’s level design discourages graph paper mapping–their levels are larger and more sprawling, not tightly curled in on themselves like 1 and 2’s were but given the freedom to sprawl out a bit and–my experience with 3 so far–be a little less interesting–while Might and Magic 3-5’s level design discourages graph paper mapping, every square still has a coordinate. Notes are so easy.

I have a smaller apartment this year, and I don’t really have the space to graph out a gigantic map–from what I know about W7’s structure, it’s a lot larger. Having played for a couple days now, it appears to be a large interconnected forest type area with cities and dungeons peppered throughout–in other words, a Might and Magic-style structure without Might and Magic’s regularity. Wizardry 7 has an automap, and it’s actually one of the more interesting automaps I’ve seen–the quality of the map increases as you increase the character’s map skill at levelups, so it starts off shitty and useless without even walls drawn in, just a blob of floor tiles, and gradually fills in walls and, I assume, doors and probably hidden shit.

The issue is it’s still not fantastic yet–and there’s so much the automap can’t do. There’s, you know, locked doors and puzzles I have to return to, and I need to know the relationship of certain locations to each other, and that the automap just can’t do. I probably should buy the largest pad of graph paper I can find, because that’s probably going to be the only way around this. Yeah, fuck, I’m going to have to end up mapping Wizardry 7. I’ll go to Staples.

You know, I’d created a new party for Wizardry 8, and i started that, and it’s awesome so far–but Ben Chandler and a very sincere “thank you” addressed to players who imported their characters through the whole trilogy in the Wizardry 8 manual guilted me. It’s actually a little hard to go back. 7 is pretty much a facelift and a restructuring of 6, but in terms of interface and mechanics it’s the same as 6. 8 revamps everything–refines the skill system into a much less punishing and esoteric one, automates so much of the repetitive nature of turn-based games and takes away a ton of micromanagement–and, well, yeah, 7 is a step back. So I don’t know. 7 is very good. It’s a beautiful-looking game, particularly in the monster designs, but there are problems.

Like, it feels a lot more narrative based, and yet there are large and strange gaps in the game that make me feel like I missed something vital. From what I know from reading the manual and stuff about the game online, the game is structured like a giant free-for-all treasure hunt. You and a bunch of other factions are all on the same planet hunting for the pieces of a map that’s going to lead to an ultimate treasure. As you move through the game, you can find out rumors about where the pieces of the map are and if any of the factions have them. So from what I can gather, you’re supposed to be able to align with different groups, and certain ones can obtain pieces of the map and then you have to get it back from them.

I’m a little unclear so far as to how this works in practice, largely because I haven’t gotten that far and because I’m not sure how advanced this game was in ’92. I can see that being impressive and really difficult and really cool if it has a bit of proceduralness to it. I’m having the usual difficulty I have with keyword conversation systems…and I’m not sure how much this is integral to the plot or if it’s mostly window dressing. Is talking to people going to provide clues to where to go, or do I just need to bum around and explore and that’s how I’ll get most of it done? So far no one’s been able to tell me anything that seems that crucial–it’s all nice bits of worldbuilding and stuff, and there are a few recurring characters that are starting to appear–but I don’t know if I’m just not asking the right questions. One of the factions has given me a couple of quests in a chain–I’m on some sort of a spiritual journey and I’m learning little bits of a poem–so far I’ve got “Slay not he that cannot hear/Be thankful ye that hath an ear” which should give you an idea of the atmosphere of the game–but I don’t know if that means that I’m aligned with the faction or not.

You know, the general view of designer DW Bradley is kind of an ass, that his writing is a little purple–but also that it kinda works. Wizardry 6 had a decent amount of flavor text throughout–descriptions of rooms, evocative enough to supplement the minimal graphics–but it’s all over the place in 7, and yeah, there’s a really odd feeling that comes through. We are on a decaying planet, and an end of world prophecy is going around, and different alien factions are going to war over the planet’s great secret, and there is a feeling of faded glory throughout; it’s very Shelley’s “Ozymandius”. Every shop I’ve gone into has a couple of lines about how everything is broken down and cobweb-filled and how you see a strange shopkeeper who’s desperately selling his few items. The empty cities are actually abandoned cities. Ugh, let’s go back to Dark Souls again–Wizardry 7 is about abandoned glory where Dark Souls is about decaying glory, but the lands you’re exploring in both have been long since dead. You think this is cool now? You shoulda seen it in the gold old days. They’re elegies for places that were never quite appreciated in their time, and there’s no going back. The past is the past.


Rereading what I wrote about Richard and Alice after having played Sepulchre, I’m slightly surprised I felt as negatively about it as I did, given that Sepulchre has a lot of the same issues and yet I feel much more warmly about it. Maybe it’s simply because Sepulchre didn’t depend on me giving an iota of a damn about One Of The Most Obnoxious Children in The World. Maybe it’s just shorter–a fifteen minute short story as opposed to Richard and Alice, which was padded out to be a novella. Maybe it’s just free. Maybe it’s just got better graphics–I’ve spoken appreciatively about Ben Chandler’s artwork before, and the look of the thing is exquisite compared to R&A.

It’s got just as much Adventure Game Crap–go to one side of the screen and do a thing, then go to the other side of the screen and do a thing, then go back to the first side of the screen and do a thing, and then cross over to the other side and do a thing–and the puzzles themselves are more busywork than anything enjoyable–but then, the game’s something like six, seven screens large and short enough that it stops before it can begin to wear out its welcome. The puzzles themselves are either literal lock-and-keys, give-thing-to-dude, or incredibly simple object manipulation. The hardest part of the game was realizing that I had to put whiskey in a flask rather than giving the bottle directly to the guy who wanted it. And there are so few things in the gameworld that click-every-thing-on-every-thing isn’t exactly, you know, a problem.

You know, it’s a short little spooooooooky horror story, one which owes a clear debt to Poe, to King, to Lovecraft, to Christie, but rather than coming off as an overused set of cliches, as the internet attempting to make a horror story, Raze ends up using some of the lesser-known themes and settings, or taking them from such an odd angle that it feels at once familiar and yet off.

Yes, you can probably see the ending coming if you’ve read a book, especially considering how laden with obvious dramatic irony much of the dialogue is. At one point, in response to being charged for a drink, the protagonist moans, “You’re burying me alive here!” One can imagine the bartender, muttering under his breath, Dude, shut up, there’s foreshadowing, and then there’s foreshadowing.

I don’t mind, actually–Raze is writing extraordinarily tightly here; pretty much every word and image serves a dual purpose. Most of the story is told through misdirection and implication–something fairly funny in light of several peoples’ complaints about the little expository speech the main character gives about himself at the beginning, which may or may not be completely incorrect.

It’s the kind of thing you play once, with a decent idea of where the thing’s going but a few bits stay unresolved; you play a second time, and most of the bits fall into place and you notice bits of foreshadowing you didn’t before; maybe you’ll give it a third time and figure out, you know, why he names the paper dog Sam (something which is either utterly meaningful or something I’m reading too much into), or perhaps what exactly the Grub is intending to say to you.

There’s some deeper stuff in there, and the game’s so short, particularly once you know what to do, that digging for them–Ssh, says the bartender, don’t give it away!–becomes one of those Fun And Rewarding Experiences that we engage with narrative games for in the first place. You’ll see it advertised as horror, but it’s more properly Weird Fiction, but, you know, it’s October, and we can all use a cold night where we end a story with a vague chill down our spine or whatever.

Yeah, I think I really liked this one.

20 – The Rebirth/The Reaper

Ben Chandler and Francisco Gonzalez have released a pair of games called The Reaper and The Rebirth. The Rebirth is credited to Gonzalez–I’ve played and loved his Ben Jordan: Paranormal Investigator series Back In The Day; I assume that The Reaper is Chandler’s. I haven’t played anything of his, though I’ll obviously be working on that.

The games were created for a competition or a game jam or something; here’s hoping it’s an early teaser for a larger collaboration because I know I’m sold. The games are surprising enough that I’ll suggest you go play for yourself, but since they both take about five minutes to complete, I’m not too worried about discussing them in a tiny bit of detail.

Both games are tiny vignettes with violent punchlines. Rebirth features a government official and his assistant trapped in the office while some sort of nuclear holocaust occurs outside. The Reaper seems to take place in the aftermath of the apocalypse, with two scavengers fixing some equipment and discussing superstitions around ravens.

Significant in both is a painting of a noblewoman which presides over two acts of violence and the use of Roman character names. The connections are so skeletal and yet the games so obviously parts of the same whole that–well, you can do this sort of thing and this sort of thing poorly, and quickly as they may have come up with the idea, there’s a story of what’s going on, and I’m hoping this diptych is an announcement.

Rebirth is probably the better game–while both are extremely easy simple one-room affairs, Reaper seemed to have a little more pixel hunting and a little more noticeable “Get a Thing on the left side and use it on a Thing on the right side and then turn on the machine and then go to the machine and then turn the machine off and use a Thing from the left side on the right side”. But then, Reaper has the better art–the cursor, which is a transparent shard of neon-green glass, struck me as especially notable and beautiful. In both, the shot of the bombed-out city is a horrifying mustard and black. Whatever game comes out of that, it is going to be fairly disturbing in any case, and I’m looking forward to that.