This one if a bit of a kick in the jimmy for me. Dead Space 3 sold its essence in exchange for an attempt at a money grab. After shearing off what made the franchise memorable in favor of attempting to accumulate every tired gaming mechanic into one bursting shell, the entire whorish endeavor was for nothing. Fuck, fuck, fuck. While I would rather see the series die than suffer its painful metamorphosis, I would also wish they had maintained their original vision for their conclusion. ‘Cause their selling out changed nothing.
Welcome, friends. This is Monday Morning Commute, the column that details the various music, movies, books, and general chicanery that we as a collective are basking in on a given week. I am currently typing this bad boy from the empty confines of a general writing workshop I run at State University Y. This lovely University that employs me is one of the few actually open in the greater Boston Area after this weekend’s blizzard, which means that I have trekked onto campus for one meager hour (all of my other students cancelled). None the less. What can we do? So I will make use of my time, penning this paean to to the things I dig.
Now begins the dark age, when the football fiasco pop-culture zeitgeist begins to slumber until September. Without any weekly caloric-crushing, fantasy football fist-pumping, the average male wanders around lost. Not me. No way. Thanks to the courtesies extended by the various arts that I indulge in on a weekly basis. This is Monday Morning Commute, the column where we gather to discuss these interests. Look at that fucking segue, and fondle me. As you do so, I’ll pat you gently and caress your soft face. We are in this together.
At this point in the dance, continuing to complain about microtransactions in gaming is like me complaining about blood in my stool. It is part and parcel for the area. If I didn’t want blood in my stool, I’d stop soaking my cells in aluminium filings to keep away the Illuminati Mind Control. If I didn’t want to deal with microtransactions, I would stop gaming. Dead Space 3 is the latest culprit in this spreading phenomenon. But don’t cry! It has N7 armor for some of us. Wee!
This is a fucking treat. Caleb Mendoza is the winner of some sort of Dead Space 3 contest, and the weapon he designed is going to be up in the game. It’s a cute little reference, Caleb. Though, not what I would have chosen. I would have designed some sort of head-splitting cock rocket that Isaac channeled through his suit’s internal energy pack and out of his hog. Directly out of his hog. It would have been magic.
Try as I might, I can’t stop wanting Dead Space 3. Yeah, it’s going to be a wilted version of a fantastic formula. It’s still a form of that structure, even bastardized and farted upon. I’m sorry. I’m weak. I can’t say no to Isaac Clarke or late night peanut butter sandwiches. And might I add, the two of them go fantastic together.
Despite all my hot-winded, rot-gutted bitching about Dead Space 3, I’m not going to pass on the title. I just can’t. Even a neutered installment in the franchise is better than nothing at all. At least to me. Here’s some new screenshots for the jam, screenshots that have my balls a bit tender.
The litany of excuses for turning Dead Space 3 into Gears of Space continues. The latest fuzz is that the games were, wait for it, too fucking scary to be played alone. What the shit.
Ah, EA’s chief wunder-monster is trying to rally those of us Dead Space fans who point out that open-world action shooters aren’t what we want in an installment of the franchise. Unfortunately the shithead tips his hand when he drops the ubiquitous buzzword of the generation.
Electronic Arts and Visceral Games confirmed this week at E3 the inevitable. After weeks of speculation and rolling confirmation they acknowledged what we had already seen, the bloated cyst hanging off of the tits of the previously remarkable Dead Space series. The cyst is a predominant one, flaring up in magnificent lumps across many a franchise I have come to behold. You can call it multiplayer. It is blight across this generation, as company after company double-fist outstanding single-player games. Red faced and drunk for profits, their ten knuckles dig deep into the game’s previously welcoming sphincter.
Butt play is fun, fingering around with little changes. Exploding a game’s design in the search of the almighty dollar with hungry hands is not.