Rambling - Face Character Where

Yep, my wizard uses a katana.

I've been playing a metric fuckton of Diablo III, lately.  That's a scientific measurement.  As part of my recent subconscious effort to avoid actually making any progress with my work, I've become more deeply fascinated by games than usual.

For several weeks prior to this week, it was The Old Republic.  I progressed more during those weeks than in the previous two months, and my two main characters there are each at the peak of their power.  I've also explored more areas than I even knew were available to be found, mapping them with stubborn precision.

This week, though, it's demon-smashing.  I'm not really certain why, to be honest.  I do like the game, it's fun in a kind of non-brain way, but I've never been the biggest fan of the Diablo franchise.  For one thing I loathe that people actually call it an RPG, but I'm not going to bother getting into that subject (it's stupid).  I've just never found that the Diablo series has much in the way of gameplay depth.  That's not a crime, by any means, but for whatever reason it ended up diminishing the series in my list of interests.  I didn't have any real problem with the game, but neither did I have any great interest.  It was just there, and fun sometimes.

Wouldn't know it to look at me this week, though.  When I first got the game I beat normal difficulty with my wizard, and played around with each of the other classes.  I made a hardcore monk, of whom I'm strangely fond, and when she died due to a fucking random mob in a random fight due to a simple computer stutter I said fuck it and stopped playing.  Now that I'm back though, I've gone kind of crazy.  My wizard has beaten both Nightmare and Hell difficulties, and has spent a bit of time futzing around in Inferno.

So why am I rambling about Diablo III today?  Because I think it's an interesting example of a previous post I made, wherein I talked about characters being Vessels, Masks, or Personalities.  You can read the whole post if you want, but a brief summary doesn't help.  A Vessel is a game character that is devoid of personality or motivation, and has very little history if any at all; they are an empty space into which the player steps to play the game.  A Mask is a character that carries some personality or motivation, and has a bit of history that's likely vague so the player can fill in details; they're someone the player can experience the game through, but they provide more emotional investment than a Vessel.  Finally, a Personality is a character that has their own motivations and personality (hence the title), and they usually have some type of history to them; they're someone that the player can watch.

I'm bringing this up again because Diablo seems to me an interesting mix of both the Vessel and Personality character types.  There are literally no choices to be made during any point; your character makes decisions which determine your next objective or, more often, other NPCs simply give you instructions to which your character automatically agrees.  This would seem to lean toward the Personality archetype; you're just going through the gameplay elements while your character pursues their own agenda.  At the same time however, the character's complete lack of any real agency in the story leans fairly in the direction of Vessel.  There are very, very few moments where the character actually makes a decision about what to do; nearly every time there is a new objective, it's because one of the NPCs gave instructions.

All that's left of my monk.

This presents an interesting combination; a character with personality and motivation that doesn't direct the story by their own choices.  I'll use my monk as an example.  The game presents the monk as a character in her own right; she has a history, motivation, and a personality.  I can watch all this as I play the game.  Yet at the same time, her lack of decision-making, her part as a simple agent in the story rather than the one who drives it, allows me to interpret her personality and motivations as I see fit.

As presented in-game the monk is dedicated to the pursuit of her studies and furthering the goals of her gods.  She is quick to help the innocent, and is good-hearted, but she expects people who are capable to act accordingly.  Beyond this however, there isn't much to go with.  There are some interactions with the game's NPCs, but I was free to decide who my monk was as I played her.  She was Montesi; raised in a particularly harsh environment where only the strong and the brave survive.  Of particularly strong faith even at a young age, she took to the study of martial arts with a fervor and energy that bordered on the fanatic.  Yet her dedication paid off when, just as she was coming into her own, a star fell from the sky.  So she pursued her destiny, and that began to shape who she was just as much as her training had done already.  Before, she had simply been a servant of her gods; now she was a servant with a very specific purpose, and she would see it done at any cost.

Maybe I'm just having too much fun with it, but I think it's an interesting mix.  Characters with personality who are not the primary motivating agents of the story being told.  It allows for the character to be someone with whom the player can identify, yet frees them to a point where the player can personalize them to a fairly large degree.

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Copyright 2012 by J.L. V'Tar
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Fiction - Proven

This is a piece of fan fiction, set in the Elder Scrolls world, specifically the Skyrim region.  Bit of context: One of the Skyrim mods I play with is Frostfall, of which I am very fond.  Short version of the mod is that it actually makes Skyrim a dangerous, cold, northern environment like it's supposed to be.  This changes gameplay at a fundamental level in several different ways, because you can't just ignore the world around you.

Just so you have an idea of this character.

Most prominently, it changes some of the quests.  In particular, for this event, I was doing the quest Joining the Stormcloaks.  Normally this is a simple quest; you run to a nearby location, kill a relatively easy enemy, and run back.  With the mods I use however, and playing as I am currently with combat set to Master, everything changes.  A simple quest becomes a challenge just to survive the journey, let alone the enemy that I'm supposed to kill.

What follows is a fan-fiction telling of what happened to my poor beleaguered character.  I've taken some liberties in relation to game mechanics, and for various reasons I removed the fact that she's the Dragonborn.  Oh, and please forgive the character's name; it's one of the weirder character names I've come up with.

For no real reason, I've included pictures of my character.  I call the story "Proven."  Hope somebody enjoys it.  :)

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With a heavy roar, Vlga whirled her axe in a deadly arc.  Her swings were on the verge of uncontrolled as she shook from the chill and her muscles ached from weariness; the blade of her dwarven battleaxe struck a nearby rock, sending stone chips flying.  The warrior paid no heed to any of it.  Neither cold, nor weariness were on her mind right now.  The Nord warrior knew only her enemy, and she ducked to the side as the vicious ice wraith lunged at her again.  Though slowed by the cold and a weary body, Vlga’s movement was enough to avoid the wraith’s attack, and the serpentine creature sailed past her and was forced to whirl around in the air.

Turning to face her attacker, Vlga grunted with the effort of doing so.  She was strong and healthy, and full of youthful energy, but the last several days had been very hard on her.  The haft of her battleaxe felt like it was emanating cold all its own, nevermind the cold of the air around her.  Even through the leather gloves that held her bronze-armor gauntlets in place, she could feel the skin-searing cold of her weapon.  Forged of dwarven metal, it seemed to absorb and hold a chill with a vengeance.  Her bronze armor was just as cold, and only the padding underneath served as any kind of protection.

Again the wraith lunged, but this time Vlga didn’t dodge.  Instead she brought her battleaxe up, tried to catch her attacker as it seemed to slither through the air.  She wasn’t quite fast enough, and her axe whistled past the translucent creature as it bit into her arm.  With a cry of rage more than pain, the young warrior lunged to the side and slammed her shoulder against the stone she’d struck just a moment ago, pinning the wraith between herself and the rock.  It screeched and writhed, trying desperately to free itself and fly away.

Behind the mask of her helmet, Vlga gave a grim smile.  She pulled backward quickly and immediately slammed back against the stone, catching the wraith between her shoulder and the rock again as it tried to slither away.  Its movements were slower now, and she could feel it crunch beneath the weight of her strength and her armor.  Again she pulled back and then slammed her shoulder against the rock, and this time the wraith let out one final shriek, flailed for a moment, and then disintegrated into a cloud of frost.

The exhausted woman gave a roar of triumph, and resettled her feet underneath her.  She wanted very much to collapse, to sit down and rest, but right now that would be a terribly bad idea.  Wind howled around her, seemed to rip right through her armor, and her armored feet were sunk into the snow up to the middle of her shins.  No, there would be no sitting down right now.

Vlga looked up toward the top of the little island, where she could see a circle of stones surrounding an ancient standing stone.  There was the image of a serpent carved into it; not surprising, given the island’s name.  She had no interest in the stone.

“I’m sending you to Serpentstone Island.”  She could still hear Galmar’s gravelly voice.  “If you survive, you pass.  If you die, well, you weren’t going to be much use to me anyway.”

Again the young warrior smiled behind her helmet’s mask, but this was a smile of victory.  She didn’t bother heading up to the island’s top, instead she settled her axe in its clasp across her back.  With hands that shook terribly, she pulled a small vial from a safe pouch on the back of her belt, and knelt to collect some of the strange, glowing blue ice into which the wraith had disintegrated.  This would serve as proof of her kill; now to complete the proof of her dedication.

With a grunt of effort, she stood and hurried back down the little snow-covered trail that lead to the spot she’d first arrived on the island.  She had first set foot on the island late last night, and it was not even midday now.  Her trip to the base of the island wasn’t long, not even an hour she guessed, and her campfire was still right where she’d left it; nestled close to a steep rocky hill that would help the heat emanate in one direction.  Her little impromptu tent was still in place, too.  Bringing her actual tent to the island wasn’t feasible, so she’d had to make do; the top of her fur cloak was tucked into a crevice of the rock face, and its bottom was held in place by a heavy stone.

Vlga hurried to her makeshift campsite and huddled underneath her cloak.  Placed as it was next to her fire, it caught much of the heat and held it fairly well.  Her fire was dying, and so before anything else she poked it with her axe to stir the embers underneath what remained of her firewood.  Not much was there, so she pulled the last two pieces from a nearby oil-slicked leather bag and added them to the fire.  That bag, as much as anything else, had saved her life today; without it to keep her cloak and firewood dry, she’d have died on this island.  As it was, she had a long…very long journey back to Windhelm.

As she removed pieces of her armor, she thought again on why she was here.  The Stormcloaks.  Just thinking the name—about how close she was to her goal—sent a shiver up her spine that was not at all caused by the cold air.  She hadn’t met Ulfric yet, though she’d seen him across the hall when the guard brought her in to meet Galmar Stone-Fist.  Even from a distance, Ulfric had been everything a young Nord warrior could hope to admire; tall, powerful, and proud.  With just the image the man cut, and nothing else to go on, Vlga would have been tempted to join his cause.  Everything else just sealed the deal.

She thought about this—about her goals, about Ulfric and Galmar and the Stormcloaks—as she began to drift off.  The sun was still high in the sky, but weariness and cold had taken their toll on her.  As warmth from her campfire filled her makeshift tent and soaked into her body, she let herself get some rest.  She dreamt of many things, and amongst it all she relived her conversation with Galmar.  Again she heard his speech to her.  It seemed, she remembered, to be a speech he said often.  Likely it was one he’d said once to a potential recruit who needed to be tested, and he liked it so much he now said it to everyone in that position.

Vlga woke with a start.  The sun had dipped very low on the horizon, and it was dangerously close to nightfall.  Her cloak would serve as a tent well enough during the day, but not for too long.  When night fell, and the temperature dropped even further, her cloak wouldn’t do any good at all.  As quickly as she could, she packed her armor away in the oil-slicked bag.  On the swim over to the island it had held her armor, her cloak, and firewood; at least this time it would be much less cumbersome without the firewood.  Once her armor was packed she stripped down completely, since no clothing would help her in this icy water anyway.  Once that was done, she took a deep breath in preparation.

As soon as she pulled her cloak from is place above her, the heat it had capture dissipated.  Cold air seemed to barrel in against her like a physical attack, and she had to grit her teeth against the shock.  She quickly tucked her cloak away in the bag with her armor, and tied it shut with a heavy yank to ensure no water would get inside; she’d need that cloak badly on the other side.  With a look to the water—the dark, choppy, freezing water—she didn’t let herself hesitate.  She grabbed the leather bag in a fierce grip of determination, and before she had a chance to think twice she ran toward the water and charged headlong into it.

The cold of it knocked the breath from her lungs in a heavy gasp, just as it had done before, but she didn’t let herself stop.  Now she was committed; now there was no turning back if she wanted to live.  As she hurried forward she tied the bag to her back, wrapping its cord swiftly around her waist and shoulders and slipping her battleaxe into the makeshift holster along the side of the bag.  When the water was waist deep she dove forward and began to swim.  The cold was unbearable; even as a Nord, raised in this frigid land, it was nearly too much.  She could feel it sapping the heat from her body like blood from a wound.

Doggedly, she continued on.  She swam with all her might, which was considerable as a lifelong warrior accustomed to wearing the heaviest of armor and wielding heavy weapons.  Every sweep of her arms pulled her forward a considerable distance, and each time her head broke the choppy surface of the water she could see the chunks of ice ahead were that much nearer.  Again and again she swept her arms and kicked her feet, willing that she could pull the entire ocean with her efforts.

An eternity later, as the freezing black cold began to crush in on her, she felt her hand hit the slush of ice that surrounded the large chunks that were her goal.  This was no relief for the freezing warrior, only acknowledgement that she had achieved one stage of her goal to survive this day.  She swept forward several more times, pulling herself through the ice slush until she could grip one of the giant chunks of ice that floated around this small chain of islands.  With fingers that didn’t feel anything, and arms that were very quickly losing their strength, she pulled herself up onto the ice chunk.  She crawled up atop it, and wanted to rest.  Everything in her body wanted to stop, even here naked in the snow, on a chunk of ice, and just rest.

With a heavy roar, a battle cry, she surged to her feet with every ounce of strength she could muster before she had another instant to think about laying down.  She reached one hand back to hold the leather bag in a firm grip, and the other to hold her battleaxe steady across her back, and she ran.  Her blue eyes scanned the ground ahead, as she carefully picked every step, and she ran.  The snow actually aided her here, since without it the ice chunks likely would have been impossible to run across with bare feet.  She ran across the chunks, leaping from one to another with quiet effort as snowflakes began to fall from the sky.  Paying them no heed, she ran.

The shoreline was far away, and she had to cross another small island before she ever reached her destination.  It was even tinier than Serpentstone Island, and she never allowed herself to stop running.  On the other side, more ice chunks provided her with a way to run, but the cold of her swim, and the air, was taking its toll.  Every breath was ragged now, and her limbs were shaking terribly.  She felt like she was weak, certainly not strong and healthy; she felt like she couldn’t possibly go on.  She just wanted to stop, to take a break and catch her breath.

Vlga gave another ragged battle cry.  She hadn’t been bested in battle, and she would not be defeated by the cold of her own homeland!  Rather than stop, rather than give in to her weariness and slow down, she sped up.  Each stride was longer now, and faster, as she forced herself to run even more swiftly across the chunks of ice.  Her footing was unsteady, and she risked everything, but she couldn’t slow down now if she wanted to live.

Ice chunks gave way to narrow strips of frozen muddy ground as she drew nearer to the shore.  Only the harsh, rough sounds of horkers nearby caught her attention, and she risked a glance to the side.  Though she wasn’t terribly concerned about the horkers, there had been a sabre cat stalking them last night when she had made the trip out to the island.  Sure enough, just ahead, she could see the telltale white fur of that same cat as it worked its way around a fallen log out of the horkers’ field of vision.

With a curse, Vlga came to a halt.  There was no way she could fight a sabre cat right now; it would be a great challenge even in ideal circumstances, and here she was naked and freezing to death.  Her feet seemed to settle into the ground of their own accord, and she could feel her body eagerly giving in to its own weariness.  There was no time to stop and ponder; she just picked a direction and resumed her run.  Her legs were sluggish, but she gritted her teeth and forced herself to move.  Circling around to the side, behind the sabre cat, she hoped that if she took a wide enough route the cat would be too interested in its horker prey to give chase.

She skirted along the edge of the little strip of land for some distance, moving behind the sabre cat, until she came again to chunks of ice and leapt out onto them without hesitation.  One chunk after another, as wind howled through her ears, and she leapt from one unstable perch to another with faltering, shaking strides, the freezing warrior suddenly found herself running across the beach she had so desperately sought.  Up ahead, the small campsite of someone she hadn’t met remained just where it had been yesterday.  With a ragged cry of relief, she veered direction toward the camp, exhausted steps brought forward until she crashed painfully onto the rocky ground in front of one of the tents.

Yesterday, before making the trip out to the island, she’d moved one of the tents closer in to the campfire in preparation for just this occasion.  Her firewood was still there, covered by a log to keep it free of snow.  Vlga dropped the bag and the axe from her back, and ripped the leather cover off her campfire.  Picking up the flint and tinder was difficult; she could barely feel them in her shaking hands, and couldn’t get a decent grip on them at all.  Shaking violently, it took her many tries to get any kind of spark, but somehow she got her fire lit.

Her exhaustion and the cold was rapidly overtaking her now, as she struggled to open her oil-slicked leather bag.  Pulling at the cord with numb fingers, it took her great effort to pry it open and reach in for her thick fur cloak.  She pulled it out with sore arms, wrapped it over her shoulders, and huddled close to the fire to let its warmth gather in the area of her cloak.  Warmth began to slowly fill the tent she was crouched in, and the cloak around her shoulders, as night fell like a hammer.

-Time Passes-

The next morning, Vlga woke very slowly.  Her eyelids were heavy, and her limbs felt as if they were made of metal.  She opened her eyes very gradually, to see that the sun had come up but it was not shining brightly.  Snow still fell outside her tent, and her campfire had died sometime during the night.  She groaned, and curled up in her cloak for warmth, but she knew that she had to move.  There was residual heat in her tent and her cloak right now, but it would not last and she had no more firewood.

Though she was still cold and weak, she was not shaking as she had been last night.  She pulled her bag into the tent, and donned her armor padding as quickly as she could.  For a few moments she debated whether or not to put on the rest of her armor, but eventually decided it was better to have it than not.  Without aid, and in the cramped confines of a tent, donning the armor was more difficult than it should have been, but she managed.  As the last piece, she donned her helmet and fitted it securely, giving a heavy sigh as she did.  It seemed that just putting on her armor had taken every bit of strength she had, and she wanted to curl up and sleep again.

Without firewood, staying was not an option.  Still, she had warmed up at least a little bit, and she was certain she could continue.  With a quick check to make sure her axe was secure on her back, Vlga left the tent and headed out into the cold again.  The sky was overcast today, and the snow was falling heavily.  Her footsteps up the hill away from the water were difficult—each step slipped and just lifting her legs was tiring—but she managed to reach the top.

She continued upwards, climbing the shallow hill for several hours, without incident.  The world seemed very quiet, without even much of a breeze to move the snow that fell around her.  Up ahead, her destination was visible at the top of the hill.  Surrounded by small copses of trees, she could just make out the rounded top of the ancient ruins which was her next waypoint.  She didn’t know what the old place was called, only that it was an ancient stone structure shaped like an upside-down bowl, with an opening at its top.  Within that structure, she could find a bit of respite from the elements.  There was a doorway in the ruins, and she had tried it when she first arrived, but it was locked and built very sturdy; she doubted she had any real chance of getting inside.

It wasn’t long before she reached the ruin, and with faltering steps she descended the spiral staircase along the inside of the cylinder-shaped opening at the center of the structure.  At the bottom, her own personal tent was still standing just as she had left it, sitting next to another campfire left with firewood and covered with leather just as she’d done with the other one.  This tent even held the rest of her belongings; a fur backpack full of food, and everything else she brought on her travels.  Eagerly, the young warrior hurried to light her fire, and as it crackled to life she sat down to pull some dried meat from her backpack.  She hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning before she fought the ice wraith, and now she dug into the meat ration like only a hungry warrior can.

With a sigh as she ate, she began to relax; the hard parts were over.  Now all she had to do was return to Windhelm, and—

The terrible roar echoed through her little stone shelter like the sound of Oblivion itself.  She could feel it vibrate through the ground, the stone around her, and her very bones.  It was a sound that she had come to know well in the past few weeks, a sound that had been described in legends for as long as she could remember.  With a sinking feeling in her stomach, Vlga looked up to see the trail of smoke from her campfire arcing up into the sky, a beacon for hungry dragons.  The beast roared again, nearer this time; it sounded eager and vicious.

There was no time to think, and Vlga didn’t hesitate.  She grabbed her helmet, thudding it onto her head even as she stood.  One hand grabbed her axe and backpack, and she slung the latter onto her back as she ran.  As she climbed the steps, lifting each leg with effort, she secured her helmet by the time she reached the top.  Looking to the sky, sure enough there was a dragon swooping down right for her.  The beast was not using subtlety—they never did—but was bellowing that terrible roar again as it hurtled toward her.  She gripped her axe, and wanted to stand her ground; there was no greater victory than to best a dragon.  Yet in the weak grip was able to hold on her axe, Vlga felt the truth of this situation.  She couldn’t beat a dragon on a good day; perhaps someday, when she was ready…but not today.

She waited, just a few seconds longer, as the beast swooped down toward her.  It opened its mouth to bellow, and shot a giant gout of flame.  Without any more hesitation, Vlga leapt straight down the side of the domed structure, rolling across its hard surface painfully as flames scorched the air above her and the spot where she had been standing.  When she hit the snowy ground, she surged back to her feet in a roll and lunged forward in a full sprint.  She slowed only for an instant to secure her battleaxe on her back, and then she was sprinting again.

The dragon was right behind her, and it was eager for the kill.  Vlga heard the rush of wind as its wings stirred mightily and brought the tremendous beast around in a great arc.  Just ahead, she could see a small ridge that might provide some cover, and she ran toward it with all her strength.  The beast roared again, and Vlga jumped off the ridge blindly, just as the dragon landed with a heavy thud where she had just been, its weight and its claws tearing apart earth and stone.  She landed heavily on the ground below in a shower of snow and rock, but didn’t allow herself a moment to stop.

Back on her feet again she ran, and this time she headed for a nearby copse of trees.  The dragon was right behind; a giant burst of flame barely missed roasting the woman in her armor as she pounded her feet through the snow.  At the copse she began to weave between trees, trying to give the dragon a more difficult target.  Flame roasted several trees to her right as she did, and she heard other trees shattering with loud sounds of splintering wood as the dragon ripped them out of its way with mighty claws.

Still she ran, and the dragon pursued.  The walls of Windhelm were in sight, and so Vlga did not allow herself anything but to run, and to watch for the next spot that might make the dragon’s pursuit more difficult.  She dodged around every tree she could, as the dragon tore them apart; she jumped and rolled down every ridge and small outcropping she found, as the dragon tore stone from the earth trying to reach her; she ran, and she did not let her body slow.  Her heart felt like it would burst through her armor itself, her lungs were on fire, and her muscles felt like they were going to tear themselves to shreds, but she did not have the luxury of giving in to pain or weariness.  The Nord warrior ran, and she neared Windhelm with every desperate stride.

In the distance, she heard the cry of the Windhelm guards.  Whether or not they saw Vlga amid the shower of snow, stone, earth, and wood that the dragon caused in its rending charge, she had no idea.  She did not doubt that they saw the dragon.  Hope soared in her heart as she ran, and she veered toward one edge of the Windhelm wall that would take her around the eastern edge, just past the water, into the city harbor district.  She saw guards on the wall, hurrying to battlements as they rallied to defend their city.

“Look there!”  She heard one of the guards shout, and with a glance she saw that he was pointing at her.  She did not wave, or respond, but continued her run at maximum speed.  The guards began to fire; she heard arrows whistling through the air and heard the dragon roar in fury at their interference.  Now, finally, it felt wrong to run.  The Nord warrior refused to run any more, not when her kinsmen were battling the creature that was chasing her.

“Skyrim for the Nords!”  Her throat was raw, but her battle cry was loud and powerful, as she reached to her back and drew her battleaxe.  In the same motion, she slowed her run and whirled around, feet sliding to a halt on the snowy ground.  Axe held firmly in two numb hands, she resumed her run in the opposite direction, charging at the dragon with a roar.  She raised her axe, even as she saw that the beast has halted its own charge.  Under a hail of arrows, the dragon’s easy lunch had clearly been spoiled.  It roared in frustrated anger, belched a bright hot flame at the archers on the wall, and turned to fly away.  Vlga never had a clear shot at the dragon, but she took a heavy swing that landed a glancing blow on the dragon’s tail as it soared into the air.  She roared one more time, waving her axe in the dragon’s direction, and fell to her knees with the last of her energy.

She stayed that way, kneeling, resting her axe handle against the ground and barely holding herself upright.  Her breaths came in deep, ragged gulps of air until she began to recover.  By the time she did, three Windhelm guards had arrived at her location.  She reached up with a shaking hand to pull the helmet from her head, letting snow fall on her sweat-drenched blonde hair.

“Are you alright?”  One of the guards asked, as the trio arrived.  “Who are you?”

Vlga smiled, through her exhaustion and the cold that still ached in her bones, a smile of victory.  She reached to her belt and held up the vile of ice that she had collected from the ice wraith.  “I am Vlga Bronze-Helm.  I am a Stormcloak, tested and proven, and I am here to fight the Empire.”

Feeling That Punch in the Gut

It's been about three months now, just a day over I think, since I finished Mass Effect 3.

The end of the Mass Effect trilogy has completely thrown me for a loop.  Enough even to affect my writing schedule and the progress I make on creative works in general.  Yes, this is completely pathetic.  I understand that, and I admit it.  Doesn't make it any less of a reality for my overly-attached psyche.  I grew to love the Mass Effect franchise right to its very core.  I was excited and eager to see the end of Samantha's story (I'm calling her Samantha, not Shepard, it's my blog, eat it).  I was equally excited and eager to see further adventures of other characters within the wider narrative.

That, when everything is said and done, is what it all comes down to.  At least, for me.

I love Sam's story.  Her interactions with the crew of the Normandy, and all those wonderful characters who circulated in and out of the broad story spanning the trilogy, are what made those three games so powerful.  I won't bother going into the specifics, since I'm hoping anyone who might read this would understand completely.  Even now, if you're who I hope you are, you can easily think of at least a dozen touching, funny, badass, horrifying, or sad moments involving any of the characters.  So we don't need to go there; we've already arrived.  The story of Commander Shepard and her friends is what it is.

Yet, as I said, I love the setting as a whole.  The technology, cultures, even the politics of the setting fascinated me from the very first few hours of Mass Effect.  I was excited to see the stories of other people throughout the galaxy.  It's one reason the multiplayer of ME3 is so exciting to me; other heroes doing their part to fight the Reapers.  I was eager to see the exploits of soldiers throughout the galaxy go on their own adventures trying to bring things back under control after the Reaper invasion.  I wanted to see bounty hunters with their own rough-and-tumble ships chasing batarians through Alliance space.  I wanted an intricate murder mystery set entirely on the Citadel.  I wanted legends of the great Commander Shepard to inspire young heroes throughout the galaxy, sending them on their own adventures across uncharted regions of space on unexplored planets.  I wanted more!

But now, we won't get more.  Sure, according to Bioware, there will be more Mass Effect games.  They've said from the beginning that the trilogy would be the entirety of Shepard's story, but that they would make other games in the same setting.  What they didn't say was that the end of Shepard's trilogy would bring an end to the entire setting as we know it.

Soldiers now can't bring things under control, because they have no Mass Relays to go anywhere.  Bounty hunters and young would-be heroes suffer the same problem.  Mass Effect, as we know the setting, no longer exists in any form.  That, of course, assumes the destruction of each Relay didn't obliterate all life in its respective star system (as they are demonstrated to do upon death).

What I'm trying to get at, and using far too many words to do so, is that the ending of Mass Effect 3 didn't bother me for any story, choice, character, or plot reasons.  Those all exist, and are bothersome.  Yet I could have overlooked them.  They'd have angered me as much as they do, but I could have gotten past them.  The real kick in the gut as I watched the credits roll, I've come to realize, was the understanding that there is no more Mass Effect.  We can't have more.  If there are any more games set in the franchise, they'll have to either be set during the existing trilogy or, if post-Reaper Invasion, be completely unrecognizable to the Mass Effect we know.  Neither of these are satisfying.

The former option doesn't satisfy because we now know exactly how hopeless any struggle for hope really is.  It's one thing I keep hearing from other Mass Effect fans.  Some are perfectly able to replay the trilogy without a hitch but many others, myself included, are unable to do so.  My enjoyment of the moments within the games aren't diluted in any way, but I can't find any hope in them at all because I know that, in the end, Mass Effect will die completely.  It will end.  There is literally no hope.

Not to mention, of course, the problem of piling story after story onto the same frame of time.  The Star Wars franchise has seen its share of this problem.

The latter option doesn't satisfy because if we play a Mass Effect game, we want to play a fucking Mass Effect game.  I know I do, at least.  A setting where synthetic and organic life are one type of super-being sounds really interesting, but it isn't Mass Effect.  A setting in which all synthetic life has been obliterated sounds boring, and isn't Mass Effect.  A setting wherein synthetics have been mind-controlled to do....something....is ambiguous, and it isn't Mass Effect.  A galaxy without Mass Relays is not Mass Effect.  Fuck, the Relays have been one of the primary identifying images of the franchise since inception.

So there.  That's what my problem really is with the ending to Mass Effect 3, as I've come to identify it.  I suppose I owe Bioware some kind of gratitude, in a strange way.  I've been developing my own settings, of course, with the intent of ending the setting itself in a final and unalterable way.  This, I feel, is no longer something I can do.  When I first thought of it, I thought it sounded like a really fascinating idea.  I imagined it would stimulate dialogue about possibilities, shock and delight people who thought it wouldn't really happen, and shake my readers out of complacency in an interesting way because normally the heroes always save the day.  I can't do that now.  I've felt what they would feel.

I want to think that the Bioware team thought, as the built ME3, much as I did about my setting.  I really hope they've seen what I now see.  Ending a beloved franchise doesn't spark debate, shockingly delight, or shake from complacency.  It just damages any enjoyment of the franchise because...well, fuck, it's all already over, isn't it?

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Rambling - Ignorance, Love, Pain

Well, it's over.

I generally like to stay informed on the gaming hobby as a whole; the movements of various developers, corporate actions of publishers, innovations and concepts, plus a whole general slew of things that generally won't appeal to anyone who isn't interested in the design of games in its own right as an activity.  As a result, I tend to be fairly well-informed about upcoming titles.

For some reason, in the summer and fall of 2007, there was a hole in my knowledge of upcoming events.  I honestly wouldn't be able to say why.  Maybe I was distracted by other things (I was living without a roommate at that point and pulling extra hours to cover rent), maybe I simply rolled a bunch of 1's and missed every relevant article, but somehow I ended up being completely unaware of an upcoming title called Mass Effect.  By all rights, I certainly should have been.  Baldur's Gate was and is one off my favorite games, and KotOR stands high as one of the best games ever made.  Given my distaste for the standard ideal for Japanese-made RPGs, as well as games that focused on gameplay in place of story, here was Bioware as the champions of story dictating gameplay, and choice being given a prominent place.

My first indication of this thing called Mass Effect didn't even really ping my radar.  A friend of mine mentioned the game being made, and I even saw a teaser trailer leading in to a special showing of a BSG special on the big screen (I think it was Razor, but my memory could be off).  For some reason, none of it stuck.  The game just didn't settle into the "GET EXCITED, GEEK!" part of my brain.  As a result, I was not ready.  I genuinely wasn't excited for Mass Effect when it was released, and can't even remember the impetus for which I bought it, other than "it is a game, therefore I must play it."

So I made my first character.  Being that the vast majority of RPGs tend to favor hack-n-slash combat over tactical, and thinking that this strange "biotics" the character creator talked about sounded an awful lot like magic, I went with the assumption that the gameplay would be easier for a soldier than an adept (being that, in most RPGs, a wizard gets killed right and left while a fighter can barrel through most of it).  I figured a soldier would be an easy-mode way to get the story on an initial playthrough, and went that route.  Messing around with things, I ended up with a female soldier, earthborn because it sounded gritty, sole survivor because it sounded harsh.  Figuring she was a career-minded girl dedicated to her job as her only escape from a harsh earlier life, I gave her a shaved head and pale skin (doesn't see planet-side much).  I named her Samantha, and went off to adventure in the galaxy.

The artifact that gave her a vision, the adorable little quarian in the citadel, the silly asari scientist I met in a dig site, giving that dramatic speech to my crew, leaving a friend to die on Virmire, that conversation with Sovereign, falling in love with a geeky blue girl, that final end-run with Sovereign ever imposing and ever closer.

When the credits rolled, I sat in shock.  Nothing had prepared me for Mass Effect.  I hadn't pored over pre-release interviews and dev diaries.  There was no foreknowledge of anything at all; not gameplay, not story, not characters, not thematic elements.  Nothing.  After the credits finished, for three days I was at a loss.  Some people might give me shit for this, but for three days I couldn't play other games; they weren't good enough.  I couldn't watch movies; they weren't good enough.  Couldn't read books, either.  I couldn't even start a replay of Mass Effect, because I didn't want to lose the tremendous high on which the game had left me.  Later, when I did try subsequent plays, I found I had a very unexpected problem.  So attached had I become to my character, that I couldn't playthrough as anyone else, nor could I make different decisions.

Samantha Lynn Shepard.  Grew up on the streets of west-coast North America.  Did what she had to survive, even ran with a gang for a while, and got out at the first opportunity.  Joined the Navy with a fake ID (she's three years younger than her service file would suggest), discovered she liked soldiering and had a talent for gunplay, and promptly saw her unit on Akuze get wiped out.  Sam survived, thrived, and found herself in the right place at the right time to be the savior of the galaxy.  She's a good person, to her core, but she's also harder than anyone she's met; she'd put a bullet in your head to save the rest of your family.  Do the horrible things that must be done, because that's what a hero is.

I waited for Mass Effect 2.  I practically frothed.  Realizing that my lack of foreknowledge about ME1 had been part of why the game hit me so hard, I deliberately avoided anything and everything I could.  Yet still, I frothed.  I chomped my bit like a raging animal, and I couldn't get my hands on that game soon enough.  The day before it was released, my friend Kris and I stayed up all night watching our package track from Amazon, chattering at each other via Google Wave.  We pulled hair out when our package seemed to not be moving, or went in a direction that indicated it might take longer to get here.  We wondered what might happen, how the story might progress, and how characters might react.  Then the package finally showed up at my door, and I asked my roommates to provide food for me the next few days.

That horrifically glorious opening scene, Joker's return and the SR2's reveal, realizing Garrus is Sam's best friend, hugging Tali when she finds her father, Jack holding her own against the swarms and then hurling a wave of rage and hate at them to clear the room, that reaper baby, defeating the Shadow Broker, wiping out an entire star system.

During the final segments of ME2, I was literally on the edge of my chair, face less than two feet away from a 47" television.  I knew that ME2 was touted as a suicide mission, and I was terrified for my beloved companions.  Every time Tali begged me to hurry and open the next vent, I couldn't shoot collectors fast enough; they had to die now now now and I had to hit that next switch and Tali was burning and I had to get them the fuck out of my way this very second.  Sam even progressed and had a bit of an arc in this one.  She grew her hair out (since she's not in the Navy anymore, why bother), and realized she's in it for her crew now.  It became less about "I wanna be a badass because that's how I survive" and more "I wanna be a badass and stand between my crew and the enemy."  She remained the silver-hearted badass; wiping out the batarian system is entirely what she would have chosen to do, and in my mind she watched the wave sweep across that system not because she had to, but because she chose to.  She makes the hard decisions, and then doesn't let herself ignore the consequences.

I waited for Mass Effect 3.  It simply could not come fast enough.  I devoured every tiny morsel of information that Bioware sent our way yet, as before, if anything even felt like it might hint at story elements I flung it away from me like a chunk of living disease set to infect me.  Despite my own misgivings about story spoilers, I even played the demo because I just couldn't wait for another ounce of Mass Effect.  Kris and I again fretted, via text this time, going into near panic when it seemed our games wouldn't be delivered in time.  When they did, we began playing in earnest, texting away like teenage girls as we gushed over the gameplay, the story elements, and wonderful moments as they came one after another, after another, and another, and another.

That opening scene of reapers on Earth, shooting Mordin in the back and betraying all krogan and crying to gain salarian aid, saying goodbye to Garrus in a wonderful way, saving the quarians to hear Tali so joyful, saving the geth and being so proud, shooting Wrex and crying when he learned the truth, that failure at Thessia, making the assault on Earth and knowing I'd die in the process.  That ending.

My gut still twists when I think of the ending.  Everything about Mass Effect has been glorious from the first moment of character creation in the first game; when it thrusts you into the world by turning the character creation screen into an Alliance database error.  Everything about every game was amazing, engaging, and wonderful.  Right up through the desperate, ugly battle in London.  Right through that glorious charge down the hill toward the beam, reapers tearing apart everything and everyone around you.  Right through slogging along with no strength left, just a pistol to force your way to a Pyrrhic victory.  Right through talking The Illusive Man down, or at least shooting his delusional ass right the fuck off.  Right through Shepard dragging herself, bloody and hopeless, to that last console.  But not past that.  Never past that.

I do not understand, and unless some major revelation comes very soon, I will never understand.  Bioware carried my emotions to greater heights than any video game of any genre or platform has ever done.  They made me care about my character more thoroughly than I can care about any protagonist of a movie or book.  They made me care about my character's friends, who are her family.  By the time of ME3, Sam had let loose just a bit more--primarily influenced by her relationship with Liara, but partly because she had stopped caring so much about the military as a way of life--and even gotten a bit more sun.  Her world fascinates me, inspires me, and excites me.  I love the species, the locations, the history, the technology, I even love the politics of Mass Effect.  And then....and then that ending.  The ending that literally undoes all of it.  The species become irrelevant, the locations become unavailable, the history is made pointless, the technology is rendered useless or outright destroyed, and the politics become entirely nonexistent no matter which of the so-called choices I pick.  The decisions I made through three games which, granted, shaped my story in a wonderfully personalized way, have no bearing on that so-called ending.

I had planned, as anyone who scrolls down this blog might notice, to write some Mass Effect fan fiction as an exercise to get myself writing on a more regular basis.  I decided to hold off on it, considering I didn't know how ME3 ended and I didn't want to jump the gun.  Figuring I would wait until after playing the game, I put my writing on hold until I knew how the story unfolded; I wanted to be sure my fiction didn't conflict with the state of the galaxy once the reapers were defeated.

Never, not for even an instant, did I suspect that Bioware would completely undo everything.  The entire setting.  It was said they were setting up a franchise.  Well what kind of franchise did they leave?  There is nothing left of the Mass Effect I might recognize.  Depending on which of the three staggeringly different endings become canon (which in itself is a fucking insult to the idea of my choices being important), the Mass Effect franchise that continues in the future will be nothing like the one with which I have fallen in love.

Everything about Mass Effect was perfect.  Right up until that last tiny little bit.

Now I don't know what to do.

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Gaming - Old Republic Characters

It's almost here!  TOR is just around the corner, and I couldn't be much more excited than I already am.  Being as excited as I am, and having missed yesterday's blog post, I thought I would put together a post that has been in my mind for a few weeks now.  Below are brief descriptions of each of the characters I will be playing through the course of TOR's lifetime (or my interest in it during that lifetime, you never know).  Though I will be playing all of them eventually, I am going to begin with Dorenn simply because...inquisitor.  Fucking Force lightning.

I've kept the descriptions in a manner that does not limit me when game-time finally rolls around.  I avoided backgrounds wherever possible, because I don't know what kind of story the game will build for my character.  These two rules in mind, I set about simply developing the personality of each character, which will help me roleplay each of them as I see them in my head.  Hopefully, the names of these characters won't be taken.  I'll probably have to make each and every one of them on day one, just to be sure.  If the names are somehow already taken though, I'll have to rename them.

In the future, once the game's out and things begin to progress, I'll probably come back and update this.  Actually I rather like that idea, now that I've thought it up.  I'll keep this post as an active record of my characters, who they are, and what they become as they adventure.  That fun, and now I'm rather looking forward to the idea.

Anyway!  Enough rambling from me.  Here they are.

Aldri Pren - Powertech
Specifics: Female human; Homeworld: Coruscant
Build: Almost exclusively Advanced Prototype, with the occasional lean toward Firebug.
Personality: Not the most bloodthirsty woman in the galaxy, or the meanest, or even the most greedy, Aldri is simply an adrenaline junkie.  She definitely is not the oppressive type, but she's also not likely to go out of her way to help people if there isn't anything in it for her.  That being said, "in it for her" can be as simple as a good adrenaline rush.  She could have signed up for the Republic as easily as the Empire, except that the Empire got there first, offered more credits, and frowns less on her more adventurous escapades.

Dorenn Ljendrik - Sith Sorcerer
Specifics: Female rattataki; Homeworld: Rattatak
Build: Primarily Lightning, augmented by Corruption.
Personality: Quick to anger, but rarely disposed to rash action, Dorenn is as deadly in the long term as the rest of her people are in the short term.  Even small things can set off her temper but she will rarely give any kind of outward indication of that anger, instead holding her grudge for as many weeks, months, even years it takes to repay the wrong.  Often those who anger her are completely unaware of having done so, until suddenly they find one of Dorenn's minions throttling them, or Dorenn herself arrives to fry them like a stuck pig.

Edha Chos - Jedi Shadow

Specifics: Female miraluka; Homeworld: Alpheridies
Build: Even mix of Infiltration and Balance.
Personality: Edha's attitudes during the escalation of hostilities is a matter of grave concern to her friends and mentors. Always a fervent opponent of the Sith, speaking against what she called the "unrighteous" treaty, she has been aching for a return to hostilities.  In her estimation, the treaty is a black mark on the Republic, and she is eager to drive the Sith back to where they came from.  The mere idea that so many innocents currently chafe under the rule of the Sith eats away at her conscience every single day.  Thus the more hostilities increase, the more the treaty seems to break down, the more agitated Edha becomes and the more likely she is to act quite rashly.

Krig Ambren - Vanguard

Specifics: Male human; Homeworld: Coruscant
Build: Even mix of Tactics and Shield Specialist.
Personality: Krig is the poster-boy for the "this isn't my war" crowd.  Though he excelled during training, he remains uninterested in galactic politics.  He follows orders as they're handed down and does what he's told because this is simply what his family has done for seventeen generations, and he won't be the one to break that chain.  That said he is quick to develop friendships, being an affable sort, and he is quite protective of those soldiers and other allies that gain his trust.  Rumors abound that he has a pet bunny, named Peanut, that he keeps in his equipment pack.

Marden Tel - Jedi Guardian

Specifics: Male zabrak; Homeworld: Iridonia
Build: Primarily Focus, augmented by Defense.
Personality: Fond of meditation and silence, Marden was known among the other students during his training as the "Consular Guardian," as the other students joked that he was following the wrong teachings.  Marden took the jests in good stride, and maintains his practices of meditation far beyond what most other Knights might. He even seeks the advice of Consulars on occasion, well aware that his training did not lend itself to meditation as heavily as theirs did.   Still, he understands his role in warfare and is the first to charge among the enemy, saber flashing.

Ninna Targen - Sniper
Specifics: Female human; Homeworld: Dromund Kaas
Build: Primarily Marksmanship, augmented by Lethality.
Personality: Ninna is a complex combination of wild party girl and silent killer.  On the job she rarely speaks but that she has something significant to say, hardly moves but that she makes a deliberately calculated action, and is in all ways a cold, calculating precision instrument in the hands of Imperial Intelligence.  Off the job she is loud, rowdy, cheerful, and even quite friendly, known rather fondly among the denizens of the night crowd wherever she happens to be living.  If the people she partied with were ever informed that she was also a professional killer for the Empire, they wouldn't believe a word of it.

Sigien Thoth - Sith Marauder
Specifics: Female Sith pureblood; Homeworld: Dromund Kaas
Build: Almost exclusively Carnage, with the occasional lean toward Rage.
Personality: Known for her love of brutality more than anything else, Sigien is known to be just as deadly to her companions and allies as she is to the enemy.  Though quick to use any weapon at her disposal - the Force, a blaster, or a crude grenade - her preferred weapons are her twin lightsabers and her bare hands.  Sigien genuinely loves the feel of shattering bone, the smell of burning flesh, and the sounds of screaming innocents.  Through and through, Sigien is genuinely in it for the pleasure of the kill.

Starr Keori - Scoundrel

Specifics: Female human; Homeworld: None
Build: Even mix of Scrapper and Dirty Fighting.

Personality: Starr's interest in planets and starships is completely backwards.  Born on a freighter in mid hyperspace, she likes to claim that she's spent more time in space than not, and she might be serious.  One can never tell however, since Starr is almost as fond of fibbing, stretching the truth, enhancing facts, and flat-out lying as she is making money.  And she loves making money.  To her, the best thing in the galaxy is a recently emptied cargo hold paired with a recently filled bank account.  She cares about the Republic's war just as much as they can provide her with opportunity to make more credits.  After that, she's gone.

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Rambling - Olympic Sound Discs

To push gaming boundaries, or not?

Personally, I think this is a question that must plague all the top game development studios on the market today.  It is a problem that I think can make or break a studio, in both directions.  They might decide to push the envelope and do something never before seen in the genre of the game they make, earning the ire of fans who fear change and demand games that are more like others.  Or they might decide to play it safe and make their game quite similar to others of the genre, thereby angering the player-base who accuses them of being lazy.  In essence, I think it becomes a gamble on which side of the player-base they are more likely to rile depending on which path they decide to follow.

On one hand, the players who become angry when a game turns out to be drastically different from another in its genre are, I think, the vast majority of the player base.  They are those I referred to in a previous blog; gaming doesn't mean the world to them, but it's something they do and so they want it to be enjoyable.  Yet since they don't surround themselves with all things gaming, every time they play a game they have to relearn how this new game plays.  They are not interested in the nuances of different game mechanics, all they know is that when playing a game that is too different from others in the genre they have to spend time just learning how to play.  Learning the way a new game works is boring and annoying to these people, because they just want to have fun shooting, adventuring, flying, or what have you.

On the other hand, I think those players who crave innovative gameplay, the ones who chastise game companies for doing the same thing that other games of the genre have done before, are at the heart of gaming.  I, for one, count myself among this crowd.  Gaming is something to which I devote the significant majority of my time, effort, and resources.  When I play a new game I genuinely want to see new game mechanics because I find it entertaining to think about how those mechanics work with others, and how they're different from the way games of that particular genre normally do things.  For us, learning how to play a new game that's different from other games of its genre can often be part of the fun.  When we encounter game mechanics too similar to those other games of the genre, it appears to us as if the developers didn't care about their game enough to experiment, and just pushed out "another clone," to use a derogatory comment.

So to which group should the developers cater?  The first group is, in my estimation, the one to which is generally deferred in the vast majority of situations.  By simple virtue of their greater numbers, the casual gamers and hobby gamers carry enough monetary weight that either developers have no fiscal choice but to listen to their wishes, or the production studios that own said developers make it a requirement.  If they don't keep the majority of the customer base happy, a studio might simply wither away and die.  They are, after all, in the business of being in business.

Yet the second group is one I believe remains important to the developers simply because, in a sense, they're the same.  I don't doubt that there are some game developers who are only in the business because they see it as a burgeoning industry where fortunes might be made.  Yet I fully believe that most people who get into the gaming industry do so because they love games, they love gaming itself, and they want to be a part of it.  For this reason they can identify with those of us who crave new and innovative game design, because they want to see it too.  When they play new games from other studios, and when they make games themselves, it's more fun if the game mechanics are new and interesting.  So to avoid developing new mechanics for their games risks angering and alienating the core of the player-base that is, frankly, more identifiable with the development team.  They're the ones who follow specific careers, who genuinely care about the work the developers are doing.

So what you do?  Do you aim to please the people who genuinely love your work and care what you do, but whom are not numerous enough to support your business?  Or do you aim to please the people who don't really care about the love you put into your work and just want to play a fun game, but without whose money you cannot remain in business?

There are studios that manage to walk such a fine line, angering the smallest number of players possible.  I am continually impressed with, proud of, and happy for them.

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Rambling - Crumbling Banjo Bombs

I will endeavor, while writing this, to refrain from descending into fanboy ranting and raving.  I have specifically striven to avoid blogging about Mass Effect before specifically for that reason, but this time I can't not write about it.  Mostly because this time, rather than flailing my arms in excitement and screaming the glories of this game, I have something specific to say (I'll try to keep the flailing to a minimum).

I have a bone to pick with Bioware.  By far one of my very favorite development studios, Bioware has had their money in my pocket since I first played Baldur's Gate.  I have happily played each of the Baldur's Gate series, Neverwinter, KoTOR, Jade Empire, and Dragon Age.  With Mass Effect, Bioware absolutely stole my heart.  It is a setting that has struck more than one chord with me; I love the characters, the technology, the history, the themes, the races, I even love the politics of the Mass Effect setting.  Yet most importantly, I love Mass Effect for its refinement of the type of game that KoTOR first hinted at.

Like other RPGs, Mass Effect allows you to craft your own version of the story that Bioware wrote.  They form the setting, create a broad narrative, and allow you to choose the details of that narrative.  Yet Mass Effect went farther than other RPGs in the creation of Commander Shepard, in a way I talked about in a previous blog, and the result is fantastic.  Commander Shepard becomes the personality you want them to be as you play.  There is certainly a broad framework of character already developed, but like the broad narrative in which Bioware lets you choose the details, the character of Commander Shepard is a personality that you can shape to such an extent that he or she becomes your own version.  Often, this can vary quite significantly from other peoples' versions of the character.  Gender, race, and class aside, Commander Shepard's variations exist, throughout the course of the game, on a range from murderous to beneficent.

At the risk of being That Gamer, I can tell you a bit about my Commander Shepard.  Please, bear with me for just a little bit here.  Samantha Lynne Shepard (yes, I gave her a full name, I do that I'm a storyteller) is two years younger than her service file indicates, since she joined with an altered ID to get away from a difficult life on the streets of Earth.  She had no family there, just a small group of friends, and she did what she had to survive; even killed her first person at the age of twelve.  The Navy was her escape.  She made good as soon as she was possibly able, and hasn't looked back since.  Not long after joining, her unit was wiped out on Akuze, and she survived through sheer tenacity, natural ability, and a big mountain of luck.  She's a good person, always ready and eager to help out people at the bottom rung of society, with whom she identifies.  At the same time, she's got a mean streak a mile wide, and never hesitates to make bloody calls in the moment when necessary.

Sorry to put you through that, but I just wanted to specify what Bioware did when they formed Mass Effect in the way that they did.  My Commander Shepard is a specific personality when I play that game.  To me, this is one of several ways to make a game, and it is among my favorites.  I am quite fine with playing a game such as Deus Ex: Human Revolution, in which Adam Jensen is a defined character with a specific history and personality.  I like Adam, I thoroughly enjoy that game, and I like the way Adam is presented.  At the same time however, Samantha Shepard is as much a legitimate character to me as Adam Jensen.  And I'm not the only one.  I have met many other fans of Mass Effect who have specific visions of who Commander Shepard is to them, and their version of the character is as legitimate to them as mine is to me or Adam Jensen is to any of us.

Then I read this.  Most of it sounds great; specifically that it's an original story and not a rehash of the games' story.  Yet where they fail, on a staggering level, is when they specify that the movie will focus on Commander Shepard.  The specification that Shepard will be male in the movie is entirely irrelevant, even if I wasn't already a member of the FemShep fan club.  This is a bad idea on a level so much larger than the FemShep fans struggling against the BroShep majority.

I don't know the details about who decided at what point to make Commander Shepard the main character of the Mass Effect movie.  It may have been Bioware, it may have been Legendary.  In either case, the end result is the establishment of a "canon" Commander Shepard.  Since the game's inception there has been that short-haired BroShep glaring sternly at us as he went about his adventures in the game's advertisements.  With that I am absolutely fine; it's difficult to sell a game, especially an RPG, without an identifiable character that people can recognize and associate with said game.  Yet every single aspect of the Mass Effect universe has been carefully built to encourage us to develop Commander Shepard as our own character.

The books don't specify anything about Shepard.  The comics don't specify anything about Shepard.  The Galaxies game didn't specify anything about Shepard.  Beyond the use of an identifiable face with which to sell the game, Bioware has specifically avoided saying or publishing anything that would impinge on the character that customers have created in their own playthroughs.  Each time they did so, they strengthened the legitimacy of the character each of us has created.  Every instance in which Bioware specifically took efforts (even making their own work more difficult) to avoid specifying any details about Commander Shepard, they specifically validated our own versions of the character.

Throughout the Mass Effect games, we are given choices.  Each choice shapes the character we are playing, specifies who they are and makes the story more our own.  It could be argued that this is simply a game mechanic meant to provide us with a bit more of an interactive and therefor entertaining experience.  That argument fails however, as soon as you carry a save game from ME1 to ME2, and subsequently to the upcoming ME3.  Your choices span an entire trilogy of games, a feature largely unseen in the entirety of the video game industry.  This elevates the choices from a simple entertaining aspect to a fundamental feature of the series, perhaps even the setting, as a complete whole.  It makes those decisions important.  Now, with the introduction of a single specific version of Commander Shepard our choices are being made null.  You chose to save the council?  Too bad, FilmShep killed them.  Yet you killed the Rachni Queen?  Irrelevant; FilmShep kept her as a pet.  Who died on Virmire?  Doesn't matter, FilmShep already made that choice for you, the decision you made had no effect.

On a different level, using Commander Shepard in the movie is also a disservice to the setting, and the character, in their own right.  The threat that Commander Shepard faces in the existing trilogy is a very specific, well-crafted saga with a beginning and an end.  To stretch that story beyond its intended length just to put it in a movie would cheapen it.  To invent a whole new story for Commander Shepard to be involved in would risk making the whole idea ridiculous.

Yet most importantly, there is a larger aspect to this decision.  Beyond my hurt fanboi feelings that they're nullifying my character, beyond the ridiculousness of giving the galaxy's savior yet another galaxy-ending threat to defeat, is the fact that Mass Effect should not be about Commander Shepard.  Not if they want to make the setting last.  The Mass Effect setting is rich, intricate, and has the potential to become a Science Fiction setting on par with Trek, Wars, or B5.  Yet this cannot happen if the only thing with which the general public identifies is one specific character.  The setting must be presented as a setting itself, not a story about one individual character.   If too much emphasis is placed on Commander Shepard, then if Bioware ever does attempt to make the setting into a legitimate sci-fi franchise the public will be much more reluctant to accept it without that character.  They won't see it as "that sci-fi setting" but "those movies and games about that one dude."  Much like the reaction that many people had about Halo: ODST.  "How can you call it a Halo game?  There's no Master Chief."  People identify such an iconic and central character as the setting itself, rather than as a part of that setting.

I'll stop rambling now, I just had to write this.  I doubt anyone at Bioware or Legendary will see it.  Even if they do, I really don't think it will have any effect whatseover.   I wish it would.  I wish they would see it, understand my point and the place of genuine love it comes from, and agree with me.  That won't happen, but I just wanted to say my piece.

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