The lights are on
I killed a mob of civilians. Not out of gleeful delight. Not because I had to. I chose to gun them down because of something they did, and my squadmate followed my example. I didn't feel better afterwards, not justified or avenged or anything. I did not even have time to regret my actions because I needed to push forward because...now I forget. It must have been important, though. But I remember how they ran and they screamed, these piles of pixels draped in colors resembling flesh and blood. I remember explosions of red of cries of pain. I'm sure they deserved it. Two days ago, I killed a mob of virtual civilians in a video game, and I'm still thinking about it.
Yager's Spec Ops: The Line would not have even been a blip on my radar had it not been for significant press about the game's story. Military shooters like SOCOM, Ghost Recon, or Call of Duty never hold my interests. I recognize the near flawless controls of Call of Duty, but I'll likely not purchase another one because I cannot get into the multiplayer. On the surface, Spec Ops is one of these games, and it stays this way just long enough for the player to realize this, pitting the player, who controls a more macho Nathan Drake, against non-white enemies alongside trash-talking grunts in some desert wasteland. At some point in the game, though, things go from status quo to FUBAR--I just can't pinpoint the exact moment.
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