The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild is the Greatest Game I’ve Ever Played

This “review” began life as a typical Craig Lupienski review: wistful childhood memories married to emotional analysis of a present-day video game. That’s fine usually. That’s how I write. But that’s not good enough for The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild.

My writing ability cannot match the feeling of joy, discovery, melancholy and exhilaration I felt playing what is the single greatest video game achievement in beauty and design. Breath of the Wild so wisely leaves gaps with which to fill one’s imagination, and my imagination is not yours.

Instead, please enjoy this photolog of my 100 hour journey through Hyrule. I hope it captures even a portion of what I felt.

Please be advised, the last few photos contain what some would feel are spoilers of the endgame.

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Nintendo Switch is the System I’ve Always Wanted. Now What?

I have no interest in a new console, Nintendo or otherwise. I only occasionally use my Wii U and I don’t think I’ve used my Xbox One since Rare Replay came out about a year and a half ago. Between my girlfriend and I, the PlayStation 4 sees a lot of use, but even then you can boil the bulk of our playtime to just a few games in the more than three years we’ve owned it.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve always loved handheld games, but that love never came at the expense of enjoying console games until recently. Playing on a console is an exception for me at this point in my life. It’s hard for me not to see consoles as hulking anchors, tethering me to my living room and weighing me down with lengthy updates and installations. Given the choice, I’d rather just play a handheld game and enjoy the flexibility it brings.


Old Nintendo Game Boy Ad


And hey, Nintendo’s newest thingamabob does give me a choice! The Nintendo Switch is either a console or a handheld. Or both! It’s whatever you’d like it to be in that moment! You’d think I’d be over the moon, but as much as I like the Switch, I’m not over the moon. I’m not so sure I was actually ready for a new handheld.

The 3DS is six years old this month. Its technical capabilities were only modest when it released and so it’s pretty long in the tooth now. But the thing is, good games are still coming out for it. I’ve long lost interested in chasing the best tech specs, so a dumpy handheld with a consistent selection of fun games is just fine by me. If 3DS releases had dried up, it might be a different story.

Nintendo knows this, and they’re not in an enviable marketing position. They can’t market the Switch as a 3DS successor (that also happens to play on the TV) because they still have 3DS games in the pipeline and the 3DS still makes them money. Nintendo has to replace the thing that doesn’t make them money and that’s the Wii U. A console.


Nintendo Switch Dock


Broadly speaking, Nintendo is positioning the Switch as a kind of lifestyle gaming device one might play at home on a big TV or on mass transit or at a rooftop party, which is actually a clever way of skirting the issue. But when faced with an either-or dichotomy, Nintendo refers to the Switch as a console

Which is unfortunate, because when viewed as a handheld, all of Switch’s shortcomings suddenly seem like selling points (or at least, not quite so bad). Its horsepower doesn’t match the PlayStation 4 or Xbox One, but it’s by far the most powerful handheld gaming device. Handheld gaming devices traditionally come packed with no onboard storage, so while the Switch’s 32 GB is paltry by console standards, it’s a step up from previous handhelds. And the Joy Con controllers aren’t as ergonomic as other console’s controllers, but handheld gamers are used to sacrificing a little comfort for the sake of portability.

The truth is, Nintendo is selling the Switch to the wrong demographic. Console gamers are usually unwilling to concede power or comfort for novelty, but handheld gamers are.


Nintendo Switch Kickstand


As much as the Switch is the handheld I’ve always wanted, and as much as I really like it, I actually really don’t know how I feel about it, you know? I don’t want to play the console Nintendo is selling and I wasn’t ready for a new handheld. I should be the easy sell on this thing, but I don’t know where it will fit into my life in the near future.

Right now, it’s a Zelda machine, and that’s fine because I actually think The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild may just be the greatest video game I’ve ever played.

But I’ll rarely be playing my Switch on the TV and I’ve only been to one rooftop party in my life and I won’t be doing it again. I will be playing the Switch as a handheld, while wearing a sweatshirt and PJ pants lounging on my couch with one leg draped over the side. I don’t really care what Nintendo calls the Switch, or how they market it, and I know it only just launched, but if the direction of the games and features don’t match my kind of usage (especially when the 3DS still does), I’m not sure what I’m going to do with the gaming machine I’ve always wanted.


Nintendo Switch Handheld


On Game Collecting, Part 3: Creating Meaning in a Vacuum

Craig Lupienski

If you haven’t already, you can also read Part 1, Forging an Identity
As well as Part 2, A Shot of Dopamine

It’s Saturday morning. I’ve just finished issue 164 of the British gaming magazine, Retro Gamer. There’s a great article by Kieren Hawken about the development of Todd’s Adventures in Slime World on the Atari Lynx. It’s an informative piece about a game I love on an underrated system I also love. After finishing the piece, I had the strongest desire to make a YouTube video talking about Slime World. But it’s 2017 and even if I had the same clout I did in 2010, it’d still be a niche topic. In short: No one cares.

I decide not to make the video.

As anyone who has watched my floundering YouTube efforts over the last few years knows, this slow slink into irrelevancy has been hard on me. It’s easy to believe, as some critics do, that my grievances are about massaging my bruised ego. Maybe I’ve not been very good at communicating just how much my mental health, rightly or wrongly, hinged on sharing things I loved with people. I genuinely enjoy telling others how great something is (which is why almost all of my videos are about things I like, and not rants and raves about things I don’t).

Passion with no place to go is difficult to accept.


Empty Room

My game room, gutted and dark upon moving out

In 2012, after I split with my longtime partner and lost my job and townhouse, I looked at this mountain of games I still had and felt disgust. To be clear, YouTube, video games and collecting played no part in my loss of any of those things. But when every important aspect of your life is in upheaval, it’s hard not to look at something like a massive video game collection and think that, perhaps, you wasted your time.

On a related note: Have you ever moved house with hundreds of pounds of video games? It’s terrible, backbreaking work and I never felt more terrifically stupid for owning all those games.


Nintendo DS Collection

Part of the DS collection, packed and ready to move

Not long after moving, I considered selling my collection. All of it. It was a stone tied around my neck, weighing me down. My collection connected me to a life I no longer lived. This was mostly the unchecked depression talking. When it’s burrowed so deep in your brain, it can easily convince you that you hate the things you love. I’ve thankfully learned that acting too impulsively is a recipe for misery later and I didn’t sell my collection then. I sold my a good chunk of it later though.

With some distance and time from my series of significant losses, I approached the idea with a clearer head. I was no longer a 20something with endless income and I no longer had the same draw on YouTube. This was a different era of my life. I individually assessed the 2,400 games and 75 systems in my collection and put together a few questions to determine whether I should keep the item in question:

  1. Do I truly plan on playing this game within the next year?

  2. Does this game hold sentimental value?

  3. Is this a handheld or Nintendo game?

Over a period of about a year, I parted with hundreds games that didn’t meet this criteria and I had to make some hard decisions. Take a game like Panzer Dragoon Saga for the Sega Saturn. An expensive, uncommon game coveted by collectors. I had a copy! I sold my copy. I enjoyed Panzer Dragoon Saga, but I was never going to play it again and I had no emotional attachment to it. It was a trophy rotting and collecting dust in storage. I sold it to my sister at well under market value. If I couldn’t adhere as closely as possible to the criteria I laid out for myself, I’d make all kinds of exceptions and I’d never get anywhere.


Panzer Dragoon Saga

I felt triumphant when I first brought Panzer Dragoon Saga home

I’m often asked if I regret selling all those games. Strangely, I’m never asked if I ever regret spending $6,000 a year on video games. It’s the loss that people assume is the painful part, not the acquisition. If anything, selling half my collection was the healthiest aspect of all this! But to answer the question, I don’t actually know if I’ll regret this purge in the future. I might.

What I regret more is the series of events that lead me to make the decision to sell half my collection. Maybe regret isn’t the right word. It’s a lot like a relationship that had a lot of good times, but along the way, something went wrong and now the relationship isn’t healthy. So you split up with your partner. And splitting up was absolutely the right thing to do, but you kind of wish it wasn’t. I miss spending evenings in my game room playing obscure shit no one has ever heard of with a cold Newcastle at my side. I remember spending a sweltering summer, before I installed an air conditioner in my game room, playing Atari 2600 games for hours on end. I didn’t have one growing up and I was amazed by how addictive such a simple console was.

And I loved sharing what I experienced on YouTube.


Blood Will Tell PS2

You should totally play Blood Will Tell if you haven’t already

These are great memories, but I no longer live in that era of my life and desperately clinging to it is foolish. As difficult as it was, it was far healthier for me to forge forward instead of trying to find solace in a past already lived.

And it’s not as if I don’t still collect! Number 3 in my criteria left an opening. As someone who loves both handheld games and Nintendo games, I created a path for future collecting based on the tastes I developed over the years of collecting anything and everything. So instead of buying 30 games a month, I have a big month if I buy as many as five. This feels a lot better. And hey, I own every Nokia NGage game ever released now, so there’s that.

What really sets this era in my life apart is that collecting is no longer the entirety of who I am. It’s still a hobby I find pleasure in, but I’ve made time for other things. I read a lot more. I paint and make art (sometimes I’m even good at it). I’ve taken a shine to hiking because it’s good outdoor exercise that doesn’t require much coordination. I’ve had to rebuild meaning in my life.


Squid Painting

Still up for debate whether mediocre paintings are a better use of my time

Spreading myself out a little more is probably also a kind of defense mechanism. I’m future-proofing myself against further assaults on my mental health. It probably makes me a little more interesting to talk to as well. Sometimes, though, I miss the bright fiery passion of having a singular obsession, but then I remember the devastating loss of self when there was nothing left of me to burn.


Over the past few years, I’ve become more open about my mental health. Although stigma, stereotypes and misconceptions still persist, the climate for discussing these things has become a little friendlier. It’s still difficult for me, not because of shame or guilt, but because I am not prepared to perform in the spotlight it places on me. Speaking about one’s mental health is still novel enough that even off-the-cuff discussions can be enough to capture a rapt audience. I don’t know what I can actually add to the conversation.

To wit, many viewers and readers privately told me that they appreciate the open dialog about my mental illness. Some have even taken the time to tell me their own stories. I’m surprised, and in some ways, heartened, by the response. It’s made me wonder if there is something inherently attractive to nerd culture for those with mental illness, but that’s a different subject and probably difficult to qualify (not to mention well above my pay grade).

I’m embarrassed to admit that there is no real point sharing my history of mental illness. I am telling self-indulgent stories in search of my own catharsis. If you incidentally find comfort or wisdom in this, then that is fantastic and I wish you the best of luck. But beyond that, I have no panacea and for that I am sorry.


Playing Together

On Game Collecting, Part 2: A Shot of Dopamine

Craig Lupienski

If you haven’t already, you can also read Part 1, Forging an Identity

I was first diagnosed with major depressive disorder, generalized anxiety and panic attacks in 2000 when I was 16. Looking back, my childhood was littered with warning signs and by age 13, I was keenly aware something was wrong. I had no framework for depression as an illness and my parents seemed unconcerned, dismissing my coded pleas for help as pleas for attention.

To be fair, it was definitely both. I needed help, but I also needed attention. I grew up with a mother that had no desire to provide affirmation, but placed unflinching demands on my own affections. From a young age, I was constantly abused of my emotions and given little in return in a fiendish familial cult of personality. I needed to be helped and to be validated by people who offered neither.

This is not a ploy for sympathy or an attempt to insult my parents. I’m being frank, and it’s important for this story to understand that this is how I entered adulthood: a broken mind with an unquenchable need for recognition and no true sense of self. I had spent years in therapy and on medications, but by the time I started collecting games, I had left that all behind.


Craig TV and Lust

Me at 16, a Super Cool Guy


In the long run, this was probably not a good idea, but I was in a good place in my life. I was gainfully employed, I was in a long-term relationship, I had pets, I had a nice home. No two sufferers of mental illness experience their symptoms the same way, but for me, these external factors were a distraction from mine; anxiety in particular.

Managing my depression was a little different. I bought video games. Lots of video games.

For a long while, I justified collecting in different ways, but never as a method of therapy. Either I didn’t know it was tied to my mental health, or probably more accurately, I didn’t want to confront that truth.

With a newfound burning passion, and modest income burning a hole in my pocket, I sought to experience all the games I possibly could firsthand. That was my rationale, and while it wasn’t the whole truth, it was, at least, a truth. I was tired of hearing that E.T. on the Atari 2600 was the worst game in the world or that the Zelda games on Philips CD-i were abhorrent nightmares from people online who hadn’t even played the games themselves. So I read up on these games, and I played these games, and I talked about these games with others.

[For the record: It turns out E.T. was produced from conception to manufacture in about 5 weeks and it’s a miracle it’s even as playable as it is, and the Zelda CD-i games, Faces of Evil and Wand of Gamelon, are admittedly not very good, but I’ve played much worse]


Craig Tv and Lust Collection

Part of the cycle: Playing games alone, in black and white


Here’s how my therapeutic cycle went:

  • I’d learn about a game, usually from a YouTube personality similar to myself
  • I’d research the game further by reading Wikipedia or watching videos
  • I’d hunt the game down for the best bargain
  • I’d bring the game home, or more often than not, it would arrive in the mail
  • I’d snap a photo for Twitter and Facebook
  • I’d play the game
  • I’d discuss the game in a video, article, forum post and/or tweet
  • I’d find a place for the game in my game room

Each step was a shot of dopamine, and I would always have various games at different steps in the cycle. I often purchased as much as 30 a month, and some were quite old and quite expensive. One year, I spent $6,000 on collecting. My collection swelled to 2,400 games and more than 75 systems.

Make no mistake, I had priorities. I made time for my then-girlfriend. I visited my family often. I hung out with my friends frequently. I occasionally dabbled in other hobbies or pastimes (reading and teaching myself conversation Japanese mostly). I actually worked a lot too, anywhere between 50 and 100 hours a week, which is how I afforded all those games.

But every other waking moment was devoted to collecting and building TV and Lust, my YouTube channel. TV&L was spun out into a website (a prior incarnation of this one, which provided the standard game news, previews and reviews) and a mildly successful podcast.


Pax East TV and Lust Media Pass

I have no idea why this photo is so blurry, but I wasn’t there as a photographer


It was a lot of hard work, but for me, it felt worthwhile. I’m not one to overstate my celebrity, but I found a modicum of success online. My brand was recognizable in the circles I wanted it to be recognizable in and YouTube’s ad revenue was reasonably generous during that time period.

But this all took a significant toll on me. For years, I barely slept. Dark circles appeared under my eyes and my weight constantly fluctuated. Because maintaining the niche I had carved out for myself required more and more work, video games became the most prominent aspect of my identity. I was overweight, overtired and I don’t think anyone really knew how to talk to me outside the context of video games.

I’m not sure I ever really caught onto problems. I thought I had made it. This was exactly the validation I had craved since I was a child, and more importantly, it wasn’t just handed to me. I felt like I had earned it.


Suda 51 Grasshopper

With Suda 51 of Grasshopper Manufacture


The truth is though, this was just a flimsy structure propping up my mental health. The endless, rapid fire hustle I had trapped myself in was the only thing holding my unchecked MDD and anxiety at bay.

Then, over the course of about a year in what my psychiatrist called “a series of significant losses,” I split up with my girlfriend of 7 years (we were engaged, actually), lost my job of 8 years, and without a job or financial support, I had to move out of my townhouse into a tiny studio apartment with my two cats.

The flimsy structure collapsed. My “series of significant losses” made it impossible to focus on TV and Lust, which only compounded my depression. I dipped in and out producing content, bleeding viewers and losing ground. For a couple of years, I tried to reclaim the niche I once had, but the audience had moved on to things that I wasn’t interested in emulating or talking much about, like PewDiePie and Gamergate.


Pelaaja Magazine

About play for the sake of play in Finnish gaming magazine Pelaaja


A lot of good came of all the time I spent on TV&L. I learned and experienced a lot about a hobby I enjoy, I made a lot of friends all over the world, I freelanced for magazines and websites, I guested on podcasts. I remember having a really engaging conversation with Nate Wells, then of Irrational Games, about video game narratives and environmental storytelling at a private after party. For someone who started just wanting to talk about games on YouTube, it felt surreal to have achieved all that, but I also felt like I belonged. This is who I am, I thought.

When it all slipped through my fingers and I couldn’t get it back, I had no idea who I was. I had invested so much of myself into video games and collecting and TV&L that without it, I felt rudderless and hollow.


If you’d like, you can also read Part 3, Creating Meaning in a Vacuum

On Game Collecting, Part 1: Forging an Identity

Craig Lupienski

I think it’s fair to say I started collecting in 2008. Before 2008, I certainly owned more games than the average person. Since my mid-teens, I had been steadily building a carefully maintained library of games, and I had become to the go-to guy for purchasing advice. I followed gaming magazines and dabbled in freelance writing (which, back then, was generally compensated with publisher-furnished games and passes to E3). It was a unique position to be in –until the seventh generation of consoles.

Budding video game collectingI started my empire in a tiny bedroom I shared with my brother

Before the seventh generation of consoles, a friend might have pointed to a sad, miserable stack of PlayStation 2 games when asked, “Can I see your games?” Just a few years later, that same friend would proudly display a well manicured shelf of 30 or 40 or more PlayStation 3 games. Your friend’s sad, miserable stack of games had become a collection.

What the hell happened?

1) A Cambrian Explosion of Choice

The seventh generation brought with it an unimaginable trove of variety. Never before had there been so many platforms with real, genuine difference from one and other, and never before had they all been so successful in their own right. All the major publishers supported these platforms not just with AAA heavy-hitters, but also a healthy “mid-tier” of games ranging from decent to pretty good. Indie developers also broke into the mainstream, occasionally finding success on par with their more well known contemporaries. There was just an absolute flood of games to play.

2) Creativity Flourished

It wasn’t just the volume of games, it was that many of them were interesting. Developers leveraged now-standard features such as online multiplayer, motion controls, touch screens and downloadable content to provide new experiences, and there seemed to be a real drive to do unique things.

Xbox 360 collectingThe day I got suckered into buying a bunch of Xbox 360 crap


3) Unprecedented Low Game Prices

While many blockbuster new releases retailed for $60 USD, games in the seventh generation actually enjoyed a wide MSRP range. Waiting six months and one could purchase a $60 game for as low as $20. Wait 12 months, and one could purchase the same game with all its bonus features and add-on content for $40 in Game of the Year edition. Sixty dollars on release day for Call of Duty may have been tough to swallow, but on the whole, games were remarkably cheap.


An immense range of unique games for pennies on the dollar explains how casual players went from purchasing just a handful of games to several dozen, but how did a guy like me, who owned an above-average but otherwise unremarkable library, come to own 2,400 games and 75 systems?


4) The Rise of Social Media

Facebook, Twitter and YouTube came to be powerful social platforms during the seventh generation of games, and with it, a host of personalities using these platforms to showcase their collections. Because, now, the stacks of games were collections. And the players were collectors. The terminology had become vogue.

During the early years of YouTube, existing game collectors (that is, the few people who had been collectors for years before the term or hobby was popular), shared their games in videos. It was an easy way to talk about games and build a following in a time period when fancy editing and game footage capture was expensive and out of reach for most folks.

Videos like these, boasting “100+ Xbox 360 Games!”, unintentionally egged on an audience to match those collections. And it had never been easier to do so!  There had never been such a wealth of cheap, fun games. And with an inexpensive Logitech webcam, these folks could make now videos of their own.

Wii Collection on YouTubeTalking about Wii collecting on YouTube in 2009

I was one of them. I discovered the YouTube collector scene just after I started making my own videos. I wanted to match their collections, so I bought games. Then I made videos about the games I bought, and compelled others into matching me. And on it went, a brand new cottage industry the key players had no real stake in.

And it wasn’t just my little pond on YouTube. According to industry tracking firm the NPD Group (via the Entertainment Software Association), video game spending was 7 billion dollars in 2003, the halcyon days of the sixth generation. By 2010, when the seventh generation was in full swing, spending topped a record breaking 17 billion dollars.


Huge game room collectionMy collection grew so large, it had its own room

Game collectors existed before the seventh generation, of course, but their numbers were scant and the hobby fringe. And it’s also fair to say, I’m sure, that a population of the new collectors formed in this time period balanced their other hobbies, their relationships, their wallets and their sense of being just fine. But I was unquestionably, hopelessly sucked into all this. I fed on it, and into it, and I witnessed uncountable others around me doing the same.

At the time, I had a very well paying job, a supportive significant other and a stable home. It was easy to justify my uncontrollable spending because it wasn’t driving me to the poor house or alienating the people around me.

But almost as dangerously, collecting and talking about collecting had become the sum totality of my identity. I had become so inseparable from my YouTube show’s name, TV and Lust (an inscrutable nod to my then-girlfriend), that I began to introduce myself by name in the beginning of every video to curb being called “TV and Lust” myself, and reclaim some semblance of individuality.

Just my name though. The rest of me was lost in a suffocating wave of games and the recognition owning games brought to me. And I enjoyed it.

If you’d like, you also can read Part 2, A Shot of Dopamine


Side note:

Retro collecting was a little different. Interest in concurrent collecting during this period probably sparked a desire to look backward once GameStops and flea markets had been depleted and a generation of players who, now into young adulthood, found themselves with wistful memories and a little extra money. The drive to acquire Nintendo, Super Nintendo and Genesis / Mega Drive games caused prices on eBay to skyrocket, closing that avenue off to latecomers without deep pockets. Social media almost certainly played its part here, too.

Nintendo Switch and the Buffet You Will Never Eat

Craig Lupienski

I like Nintendo’s new system, Switch. I’m not necessarily going to regurgitate its features and games and accessories here. I don’t feel like typing it and you can find that somewhere else. Sorry.

As primarily a handheld gamer, the idea of a hybrid system is very appealing to me. I do occasionally play games on the TV, and sometimes even games that aren’t Overwatch, so it’s a nice feature to have! This is a system designed with me in mind.

Nintendo Neon Switch

The current and known 2017 Switch library seems a bit thin when measured by sheer volume or recognizable brands. I think there’s a tendency among gamers to hoard games, both in practice (as one may do during Steam sales) and in spirit (as in endless lists of titles forum warriors may use to justify the value of their chosen console). I think a lot of gamers appreciate the confidence that comes from the support of major franchises and publishers, even if they will likely never play most of those games. I know because as a teenager, I felt the same way! So on the one hand I can understand this mindset, but I think we should stop pretending we want a buffet when our own behavior suggests we really only want a few comfort food entrees.

And when it comes to comfort food, Nintendo is head chef. I prefer a new Zelda and a new Mario, both of which look the best their series have to offer, a new Bomberman, a new Splatoon, half of a new Mario Kart, Puyo Puyo Tetris, Has Been Heroes, and Rime (in less than a year!) over a slew of EA Sports titles I will never, ever play and will end up in the Walmart clearance bin for $9.99 a month after release. Even Nintendo’s stranger offerings, such as Snipperclips and ARMS, a multiplayer puzzle game and a one-on-one brawler respectively, look increasingly creative and engaging the more I see of them. ARMS in particular looks like the beautiful love son of Teleroboxer and Dissidia Final Fantasy.


Nintendo Switch Arms


The real takeaway from Nintendo, both in hardware and in software, is to purposefully not expect the same thing that Sony and Microsoft are doing. It’s foolish, and yet, without fail, folks walk away enraged that Nintendo has not revealed a samey black box with a samey black controller to play samey big budget AAA Activision games. It’s a blessing few recognize that the gaming space can accommodate three competing manufacturers (plus PC!). Sony and Microsoft operating mostly in lock-step with each other producing predictable machines and games gives Nintendo the breathing room to conduct the experiments I would argue the industry needs. If you want to play Ubisoft games scattered with a million tedious icons, there are three platforms to already do that. What is with the whining for a fourth? Why would we not want to leverage the fourth for something different and take comfort in knowing that the different has its own home?

(For the record, I sometimes like the drudgery of Ubisoft open world games. Far Cry is terrific, delicious busywork.)

This is all to say I accept and even enjoy the reality of a Nintendo console and its library, and not to say I don’t have any grievances with any of those things. I don’t have any complaints about the price of the system itself though. I’ve read comparisons stating that one can purchase a PlayStation 4 for the same price and that’s somehow a biting critique or something. That’s a great value if you want a PS4, but it doesn’t do you any good if you want a Switch. I don’t care if the specs are better in the PS4 if I can play the new console Zelda on the shitter with the Switch. Three hundred dollars is competitive. It’s fine.

I am disappointed that Nintendo’s new minigame extravaganza designed to highlight the unique uses of the controllers and console, 1 2 Switch, is not packed in at $300 though. I’m not disappointed for me, I get it, but I’m disappointed for the normies. Nintendo waffled on packing in its last minigame compilation, Nintendoland, and only included it with the the more expensive version of the Wii U. I still think that was a mistake. The Wii was a good system and deserved to succeed on its own merits, but let’s be realistic: Its success was due in no small part to packing in Wii Sports. Why would you not want to duplicate that business model?


Nintendo 1 2 Switch


It seems absolutely insane that Nintendo dreams up these weird systems and controllers and expects consumers to figure out the benefits on their own.  The Wii was a smash hit because they didn’t have to figure it out. It was right there in the box. Don’t tell me how great your bizarre Joycon controllers are and then ask that I spend another $60 to actually see it in action. I’m sure some bean counter thought it more profitable to sell it separately, and it could be argued that 1 2 Switch is a great game that stands on its own two legs, but none of that matters if no one buys the system in the first place. To wit, every non-gamer at the office that I told about the Switch thought it was a great idea. They didn’t even balk at the price tag! But they’re unlikely to understand the true value without something like 1 2 Switch in the box.

Swallow your pride and pack in the fucking game.

It’s also frustrating that the Switch’s internal storage is hilariously scant. Nintendo is very economical with game file sizes; whereas Doom, a 10 hour linear shooter consumes 75 fucking GBs on my PS4, The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild, an expansive open world RPG, is only 14 GBs. This is good! But the Switch comes with 32 GB built in and although it will support MicroSD cards up to 2 TB, 1 TB cards don’t even exist yet, let alone 2 TB, and the cards that do exist are not cheap. This is bad! If it’s a matter of cost, drop all the crazy bullshit in the Joycon controllers and build in more flash storage. As neat as the controllers are, I guarantee in three years none of that nonsense inside them will matter, but storage will.

I think the last thing that bothers me is that less than two months from launch, Nintendo has almost no details on its online plans other than they will now be charging a fee for online play. I can’t begrudge Nintendo for wanting to be dealt in on a game Microsoft and Sony have been playing for a while, but Nintendo has no credit in this casino. If you liked to casually play Mario Kart and Splatoon with your friends or strangers, both the Wii U and 3DS were functionally adequate in this regard, but in basically no other regard. The biggest issue is that Nintendo does not tie your digital purchases to your account, but rather to your hardware, which is a disaster if your Wii U explodes or your 3DS is stolen. You can’t simply buy a new machine, log in and redownload your purchases like you can with literally every other similar appliance on the planet. Even if you just upgrade to a new 3DS model, you have to lay the old 3DS and new 3DS side by side to transfer the purchases from one to the other in a lengthy process that leaves your previous 3DS empty. Heaven forbid if two people played your third Virtual Console copy of Super Mario Bros 3 at the same time!

Needless to say, Nintendo has a lot of work to do before their online services are worth paying for. They’re barely worth tolerating for free. The lack of online details and Nintendo’s aversion to showing the Switch’s OS leaves me to believe all that stuff is coming in hot for launch. Like, on fire hot. Not really surprising given both the 3DS and the Wii U had similar launches, but I wish Nintendo would have learned by now.

But that’s Nintendo! They’re the mad scientist who can’t tie their own fucking shoes. The things they screw up are obvious and irritating, but Jesus, have you played Splatoon? It’s incredible. Nintendo at their best are absolutely, unequivocally unparalleled. Their top tier games are well worth minor annoyances and forgoing the buffet I’ll never eat anyway.


Nintendo Switch Splatoon 2 Dab

Fallout 4 and the Art of Fort Building

Craig Lupienski

Building a childhood clubhouse is, if not an ubiquitous experience, it’s certainly an ubiquitous theme. Bart Simpson had a treehouse, and it was kind of a nice treehouse. Treehouses are a pain in the ass to build (as I so learned in middle school). When I was a kid, we built forts. A fort was raw, it was primal. It wasn’t treated wood purchased from Home Depot and nailed neatly together. It was cobbled together junk I found, and after a Saturday of building, I could stand back with my hands on my hips and take pride in my work.

Just past the woods line in my backyard, nestled against a sheer rock drop, I built my first fort in a thicket a friend and I cleared out. It was the summer of 1991 and I was eight years old. The air was thick and moist, and smelled of the hot wild grapes growing in the woods. Frankie and I stacked heavy rocks on one side for a wall and used the remaining tangled brush as a barrier on the opposite side. Deep in the woods, we had discovered an old Volkswagen Beetle wreck, far from any road. Scattered around the car were various tools and a cache of sheet metal. Frankie and I scavenged and lugged what we could back to the fort, including the bucket seats from the Beetle, and outfitted our hideout.

A tree in the corner of the fort served as a lookout nest, and its hefty vines a means of escape –a lookout for whom and an escape from what, we never really figured that out. Home Alone was a recent favorite movie of mine, so we devised booby traps of falling rocks and buckets of water; the only real safe way into the fort was to lower oneself from the rock drop on a ladder we had made from an old cargo net. Even still, the traps were only ever sprung when we intentionally triggered them on one and other.

The key to building a good fort is uselessness, and building forts in Fallout 4 is the crowning champ of uselessness. It’s a whole fiddly system of extraneous bullshit busywork. And I loved it.


In Fallout 4, the player can build settlements by throwing a bunch of garbage together scavenged from the ruins of Boston. The denizens only have a few basic requirements to consider the settlement home, but the piles of pilfered paraphernalia can be used to build toilets for people who don’t use the bathroom, dumpsters for trash that never comes, and pool tables that are never played. Even the required defenses, much like my own traps and lookout towers, are for foes that never come.

Settlement residents pantomime lives, creating routines that seemingly give the appearance of a functioning establishment, but it’s not much more convincing than a couple of eight year olds trying to build stuff from looted sheet metal. I think Frankie and I assumed we needed to do something in the fort we built, but I don’t think we ever really bothered to ask why we built a fort in the first place. Building settlements has no bearing on the progression or the resolution in Fallout 4, they don’t matter either.

There is a sense of pride, though, in scraping together disparate junk and carving out a space of your own with what feels like no help at all. I didn’t receive any guidance from my dad or anything like that as a kid, and I certainly didn’t receive any guidance from Fallout 4; its building system barely fucking works. But when it all finally comes together, there’s nothing like standing back with all the satisfaction of an accomplished eight year old on a Saturday summer afternoon.

Metal Gear Solid’s Terrible Child

Craig Lupienski

Lightly crumpled at the top of the bathroom trash can was a child support check stub. It was for me. I was the supported child. I plucked it from the trash and just inadvertently discovered that my father was not my real father.

I had long suspected something wasn’t quite right, that my parents weren’t exactly honest about my genetics. I initially thought I was adopted, thinking situations like these were binary: either both my parents were my parents, or they were not. When I was 10, I asked about it and my mother was furious at the insinuation that she wasn’t my real mother. But the anger was a deflection. She knew I was on to something, but refused to admit it. Finding out from the garbage was maybe a better way in her mind.

At the end of the first Metal Gear Solid game, it is revealed to the hero, Solid Snake, by his genetic brother, Liquid Snake, that they are clones of Solid’s nemesis, Big Boss. Products of the Les Enfants Terrible program, they are the terrible children, engineered to be super soldiers. Liquid laments his role in the program, his belief that he was born of Big Boss’s recessive genes so that Solid may inherit all of his dominant genes. Then, the two battle and Solid is forced to kill his brother.

twin snakes

Before the Metal Gear Solid series delved into Byzantine stories of shadow governments and private miltaries, it was a story about genetic legacy and identity. Or, that’s how I took it anyway, having just discovered my own genetics were in question.

Metal Gear Solid is known for its dramatic and overwrought stories, ripe for a depressed teenager to latch onto and cherry pick. But I believe, as someone who is no longer a teenager, that there’s still humanity under the melodrama. Liquid’s anguish over being the lesser sibling shook me; my biological father had a number of other sons, those he kept and took care of, and I, the lesser son he did not.

It’s later revealed that Solid, the triumphant sibling, is actually the recessive twin. I did not know how to parse this. Liquid only believed that he was the lesser sibling, like I did, but I, like anyone, wanted to be the hero of my own story. If I were the hero, would I actually be the lesser sibling? Would I ever actually be the hero?

Metal Gear Solid V: The Phantom Pain released this week and I probably won’t be playing it anytime soon. Funny, considering I’ve played every other Metal Gear Solid, including Ghost Babel, Portable Ops, and Peacewalker. I enjoyed most of them to some extent, but none have resonated with me like the first. Worse, many entries in the series star the player as Big Boss in a sympathetic hero cum villain role, and I didn’t want to play as the absent father. That’s probably a subject best left untouched.


The original game hit me like a freight train, arriving at the right time (or wrong time, maybe) to speak to me with its verbose  cutscenes in a way no other game could. I find most games in the series clunky and uninteresting. But Metal Gear Solid played my pain out between two brothers, fighting each other for the right to exist. I was both of them all at once. I was the abandoned. I was the dominant and the recessive. I was the terrible child.

I first played Metal Gear Solid burned to a CD-R on a borrowed PlayStation. The console wasn’t mine and the game was just an illegitimate copy. I was a grieving, illegitimate kid. Without that sense of crisis and confusion, Metal Gear Solid would have been just a hollow, clumsy game with a silly script.

The Quiet Restrained Progress of the Game Boy Color

Craig Lupienski

I lived with my grandparents in 1998. I was 15, the carpets were rusty copper shag and my bedroom was lined with wood paneling. Puffy Disney VHS cases filled shelves in a spare bedroom, but in the office we had a pretty modern PC. It was like being stuck in a time warp with little bits of disparate eras slamming into each other.

Nintendo was in a similar position by then with their aging Game Boy hardware and its incremental follow up, the Game Boy Color. Nintendo had coasted on the Game Boy for nearly a decade with only two revisions that altered the mass or screen, but never the guts. The Game Boy Color’s Z80 processor is twice as fast as the original Game Boy’s Z80, and the GBC has three times as much memory as the GB, making it the first real update to the innards, but even then it was still only a stepping stone to the real successor, the Game Boy Advance.

Reeling from the then extravagant cost of The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time released the same month, I had to wait until Christmas for a Game Boy Color. I remember sitting on that shag carpeting surrounded by scraps of wrapping paper, utterly floored that I could now play The Legend of Zelda: Link’s Awakening in color.


And Link’s Awakening perfectly exemplifies the time warp the Game Boy Color was trapped in. Like many other early GBC games, Link’s Awakening was really a Game Boy game masquerading in a black cartridge and a severely limited color palette. These “dual compatible” games maybe made good business sense because of the potential to reach both legacy Game Boy owners as well as new Game Boy Color owners, but because they also work in the original system, they take no advantage of the GBC’s updated specs.

Games strictly compatible with only the Game Boy Color were housed in translucent cartridges and had been around since launch, becoming increasingly more common the longer the machine was on store shelves. Nintendo has never provided a breakdown of system sales in the Game Boy line, so it’s impossible to say for sure how well the Game Boy Color actually sold, but given there are more dedicated GBC games than dual compatible games, it either sold well or developers were extraordinarily confident that their game would succeed in a fractured market.

The Game Boy Color was only around for about two and a half years before the Game Boy Advance made its debut, but in that time, there are a number of games that really pushed the system to the limit. Not necessarily just in terms of raw processing power, but also conceptually. There are games that straight up might have just been a better fit on another platform.

Lufia: The Legend Returns, for instance, did begin life on another platform, the PlayStation. It was reworked significantly for the Game Boy Color, of course, but its battle system is exceptionally deft for a handheld title, probably owing a great deal to originally being designed for a console.

Warlocked is an excellent little known Nintendo published title for the system, probably passed over in favor of Pokemon Gold and Silver Versons which released just a few months later. Real-time strategy games are not very common on home consoles, they’re usually best left to PCs, but the fact that developer Bits Studio crafted a good one on the Game Boy Color is a remarkable feat.

I’m personally a big fan of Magi-Nation, an impressive western developed turn based Pokemon-style RPG. Metal Gear Solid is a fantastic game that borrows heavily from previous titles in the series designed for more capable hardware. Shantae’s animations are second to none. There are games with rumble feedback, motion controls, fully voiced dialog, and even games that connected to a mobile network in Japan. The Game Boy Color ushered in an explosion of often overlooked technical and creative advancement.


It’s as if developers were desperate for something more powerful in the handheld space and almost immediately created games far richer than anyone would ever dream. But just as quickly as these games surpassed their predecessors, they just as quickly hit the Game Boy Color’s wall of limitations: Lufia struggles to communicate everything it needs to in its cluttered menu screens, Magi-Nation’s battles are sluggish, Metal Gear Solid is begging for a couple extra buttons, and Warlocked could probably use a bigger screen.

There is tremendous innovation and ambition in these games. The drive to create something new, something beyond what the original Game Boy was capable of, is clearly evident. But it was a progression of restraint, bound by the confines of the Game Boy Color’s humble specifications. A brand new computer in a home of shag carpets and wood paneling.

My Last Great Online Thrill

Craig Lupienski

I picked up Gears of War: Ultimate Edition for Xbox One this week, and while playing, a friend signed on. I met him playing Gears when it originally released in 2006, huddled under blankets and drinking bottles of Sam Adams. We played a series of well-coordinated rounds in matchmaking together and had a blast, so we became “Xbox friends,” playing Gears together through the winter. We haven’t spoke, let alone played together, in years, but I paused my game and checked to see if he was also playing Ultimate Edition. He was.

Gears of War was probably the last time online gaming still felt surprising for me. In sharp contrast, my first experience in the late 80s or early 90s was lackluster and I was too young to appreciate what I was actually doing. My paternal grandfather, who was the sort of guy who bought the weird shit you never heard of in the back of a Radio Shack, showed me how to dial out and play Carmen Sandiego. It was slow and frustrating and I quickly lost interest.

Over the next decade, I lacked both the hardware and the desire to play games online. In the mid 90s, playing GoldenEye with my friends or siblings in the same room seemed more appealing than fighting with America Online and fiddling with PC games.


That didn’t change much late in 1999 when my best friend convinced me to invest in EverQuest. I forced myself to believe I was having a good time for months before finally giving up. The unfriendly world seemed better suited for only the most dedicated and ardent players; I wished the landscape was free of other players and mobs so I could just explore. The kinds of experiences most online PC games provided at the time just were not for me.

And PCs were always prohibitively expensive for my family growing up. I had had little experience with them for much of online gaming’s infancy, so it’s little surprise my first memorable experiences were actually on consoles. As a fan of RPGs, Phantasy Star Online for the Dreamcast was like a wonderful dream (as opposed to the nightmares of EverQuest). I couldn’t play often because it tied up our phone line, but I played as often as I could. I remember logging in on Valentine’s Day and seeing the ship decorated with hologram hearts. I didn’t even know that was possible! I thought a dynamic environment was just the coolest thing.

A couple years later, I bought a modem for the PlayStation 2 specifically for Tony Hawk’s Underground. Although I could clear the single player goals in a Tony Hawk game with little problem, I wasn’t a very competitive player until Underground. Underground introduced a battle mode called Fire Fight, wherein creating bigger and bigger combos would launch bigger and bigger fireballs from the tip of your board with the goal of destroying the other players. I was devastating at Fire Fight. Matches would culminate with the text chat scrolling across the screen cheering on my handle, Big Mac, as I annihilated the last of the competition.

That thrill of being cheered on by strangers was new and intoxicating. I played Underground until the community dwindled and no one was left to cheer for Big Mac. I only half-heartedly dabbled in other online games until I bought an Xbox 360 with Gears of War.

Even by then, the Xbox 360 online community had earned a reputation of being filled with foul-mouthed children but I found the early Gears community was composed mostly of friendly young guys like myself. I liked the single player, but the multiplayer wouldn’t have been nearly as attractive if the other people playing weren’t so welcoming.


I remember one match on the Fuel Depot map, standard four on four Warzone deathmatch. The opposing team, still numbering four, had killed the other three players on my team. I skulked around the map, staying in cover and out of sight. My only hope was the Hammer of Dawn, a weapon that takes a few seconds to acquire its target before triggering a column of fire from the orbiting satellites. The only problem was that on Fuel Depot, the Hammer of Dawn was located in the wide open and I was severely outgunned. I made a mad dash for it, picked it up and spun around. The opposing team, huddled stupidly close together, were running toward me. I pointed the Hammer of Dawn at the group, praying the acquisition would complete before they reached me. The Hammer’s beeping slowly ramped up and just before I was sure I would be killed, all four enemy players exploded into thick, meaty chunks. My mic cut over to the post-game lobby and all I could hear was my team loudly cheering in my earpiece. I’m not very good at games, especially competitively, so the feeling of winning a match like that was incredible.

I probably won’t recapture those memories playing Gears of War. I don’t play online very often and when I do, it’s not with a headset. My friends have different schedules and different consoles. Different lives. So I don’t even intend on trying. But it’s sort of nice to play the game again, virtually side by side with someone I played it with years ago. Online gaming can be pretty great, even at its most passive.