Monday, 22 September 2014

How to use a gun: Metro versus Modern Warfare

In his ongoing critical Let's Play of Modern Warfare, Brendan Keogh often describes how the games demonstrate, purposefully, the West's mastery of war through technology. The scenes involving night-vision goggles, laser sights, Predator drones and Javelin missiles are designed, principally, Keogh says, to show the awesome power of modern combat tech, to present, without criticism, the intellectual and industrial might of today's superpowers and how it allows them to more effectively destroy nations.

To take that further, I think the "feel" of weapons, specifically guns, in the Modern Warfare games communicates a kind of sleekness, an ease of use. Just like a Predator missile, which can be used to murder entire squads of soldiers with the push of a button, the guns in Modern Warfare are, for the player, incredibly simple to use. There is an aim button, a fire button, a reload button and, in some cases, a button to switch to a secondary fire mode. Ammunition is always provided and you begin each level already equipped with the perfect weapon for your upcoming firefight, for example in the "All Ghillied Up" mission, where you're given a silenced sniper rifle.

The ability to kill, and kill effectively, is handed to you in Modern Warfare. Rarely will you run out of bullets. Rarely, if ever, will you find that your guns are not ideally suited to your situation. These weapons operate flawlessly with just the use of four buttons on your control pad. They feel like a natural extension of your character's arm. In fact, they feel like they are you character's arm. He rarely does anything with his hands except hold and fire a gun. Even tactile actions like planting a bomb or pushing a button are performed instantaneously, invisibly - rather than see yourself reach out and actually press something, the object is simply "activated", as if by telepathy, when you get close to it and press the action button. Guns, immaculately designed, perfectly functioning guns, are all your hands are for in Modern Warfare, and that robs the violence of a lot of its gravity.

Compare that to Metro: Last Light. In the opening level, the first thing you character does is pick up a map and a cigarette lighter from his desk, and you actually see his hands. You're then instructed, via the game's tutorial text, that to use the map you have to press select to get it out of your bag then hold R2 to bring it up to your face. If you're in a dark environment, you can simultaneously hold L2 to hold the lighter up to it, enabling you to better see the compass. Straight away you have a sense of your character's body and of how physical actions actually work. Unlike Modern Warfare, where you can instantaneously produce weapons and explosives with the push of one button, in Metro, the act of fetching something for your equipment is mapped to the controller in a way that represents how it would work in real life. Select to reach into your bag, R2 to look at the item. You don't popcorn spawn items into your hands. The weapons and equipment are exterior to your character, objects that he has to consciously decide to interact with. He is separate from these items.

You then proceed to an armory and are asked to select three different weapons to carry with you on your first mission. It's a minor detail, but structurally it's much more effective than simply handing the player his ideal equipment, Making a conscious decision on what guns to take with you passes some of the responsibility over to you - it makes you complicit in the violence, since any act committed with these guns will be committed because you decided to bring them with you. It also calcifies that sense of guns as exterior objects, as tools you have to choose and physically collect. They don't simply appear in your hands - they don't teleport around with you, wherever you go. Once again, these are external objects. The live in the armory, not on the end of your arms.

The armory selection screen is also interesting. The interface is slick and easy to navigate, but when you scroll over the next weapon, you see it physically appear in the game world - a revolving shelf on the armory counter rolls around, with a loud clank, each time you scroll to the next gun. Once again, you have the impression that these are physical, separate objects, that have to be properly housed and displayed within the environment. They don't exist merely in floating menus, only seen by the player. They are actually there, in front of you and the other, non-playable characters. Again, guns are not just a part of your body. They have properties of their own. The exist externally to you.

The aesthetic of Metro aids this idea of items and weapons as external objects. Set during the aftermath of a global nuclear war, within the Russian subway system, the eponymous metro, there's naturally a focus on resources and equipment. With no natural light available (the surface of the Earth is uninhabitable due to radiation) the citizens of the metro rely on generators and lengths of copper wiring to provide their power. Throughout the game you encounter dozens of jury-rigged human settlements, roughly connected to dwindling sources of electricity and recyclable air. One of the key stealth mechanics, in fact, is shutting down the lights in an area where there are guards, which can be done either by flipping the switches on a fuse box or unscrewing lightbulbs by hand.

You also carry a gas mask. Again, like the map, in order to use it you have to first hold the L1 button and then tap square, a kind of shorthand for getting it from your bag and strapping it to your face. More important is that is uses up air filters, which you must constantly scrounge and replace once they become empty. It can also be damaged, in which case you can see physical cracks on its visor, and dirtied. If you're walking on the surface and fall into a puddle, brown water smears will appear on the outside of the mask. You can rub these off by tapping L1, which makes your character lift his hand and physically wipe the visor.

Then you have the flashlight. Continued use will cause its power to dwindle, but you can recharge it by again going into your bag with L1 and collecting a small, handheld kinetic charger, which you have to pump by repeatedly tapping the R2 button. After a few squeezes, the beam from your flashlight will return to full strength.

These items, components and appliances have actual working mechanisms. You don't simply press an action button, or walk over a new filter, which is then added to your inventory and automatically replaces your old filter once it runs out. You have to physically operate these machines. You have to maintain and manage them. You will see your character's hands reach up and unscrew his old filter, or depress the handle on the portable charger. Once again, you have that sense of equipment being external, of your character being one entity in the game, his guns and items another. It's the opposite of Modern Warfare wherein weapons simply are, simply work. My favourite tool in Metro is the compressed air rifle, which you physically have to pump back full of air after a few shots. Your character unhooks it, holds it sideways and you have to tap R2 to pump it up. With each pump, you hear your character strain a little more, see his arms moving slower, as if, as the canister becomes full, the pumping is more difficult. It's tangible. It doesn't just give your character a more defined physical presence, it it makes the weapon seem exactly as it is - a tool, an object.

And that representation diminishes its mystique, its impressiveness. The guns and technology in Metro are not flawlessly working things which magically appear in the player's hands. They're fallible. They have circuits, pumps and gears. Although, sadly, it never actually happens, you get the impression that the gun you're holding might backfire and explode at any moment, that the clip might fall out or the bolt might catch. In turn, that makes you feel more vulnerable. It makes you feel like this fragile item, be it your lighter, your gas mask or your rifle, is all that is between you and death. When you kill it doesn't feel easy or blithe. It feels like you've had to work for it, like you've had to collect your guns and equipment, carry them around with you in this backpack, maintain them and learn to use them. It makes the act of killing much more deliberate and conscious, since you've had to do all of this work to get to here. You didn't just appear with a perfect gun and start shooting. You went through a multiple step process, of selecting your equipment, carrying your equipment, maintaining your equipment, using your equipment. The violence is committed not by this technology, but by you, using this technology.

That's the fundamental difference. Keogh is right that Modern Warfare repeatedly boasts about today's military technology, but it doesn't do that simply for the sake of spectacle. It also frees the player of responsibility - it's the technology doing the dirty work, not them. In turn, that representation exonerates the Western superpowers. They may be complicit in the killing, but since their technology is so well-oiled, it is doing most of the heavy-lifting. Like the player, who is simply a gun and an ammo meter, Modern Warfare presents today's soldiers as mere carriers for these sophisticated weapons, vectors through which assault rifles and drones operate. It strips away a sense of being there, a sense of cognition or guilt. It suggests that the technology, the supremely powerful technology, is really the perpetrator here. That makes the in-game violence superficial, the real-world violence seem somehow justifiable.

You can support Brendan Keogh's critical Let's Play of Modern Warfare here

Wednesday, 17 September 2014

P.T. and How to Make Horror in Videogames

The best horror games require walkthroughs. By that I mean anything that's so straightforward you can blaze through it unimpeded isn't a horror game - it's an actioner. Horror is about confusion, disorientation, attrition. I'm thinking of Dallas crawling through the Nostromo's unending vents, Danny lost in the Overlook hedge maze. Monsters and jump scares don't make for good horror. You need to create a pervasive sense of wrongness, a kind of inaudible low hum of unease. A friend of mine said he always felt sick when watching The Shining but couldn't work out why until he saw this documentary on the film's set design. It's these kind of subtle abnormalities that really leave a lasting impression, that define a film, a book or a game that will get to its audience and stay with them. You don't throw it in their face. You leave it hanging there, quietly and unmentioned, like a portrait that seems to follow you around the room.

I've written about this before, specifically in regards to Resident Evil and Silent Hill (the games - not the piss poor movies.) The point I wanted to make is that modern horror, for all its spiky monsters, orchestral music and body shock (see Dead Space) is infinitely less effective than those PS1 survival titles. They have an internal puzzle logic that the player isn't familiar with. In Silent Hill's case, the environment physically shifts to confound and wrongfoot. You have an undercurrent of strangeness. Games are built on rules, and when those rules seem to organically and unceremoniously change as you play, that creates an enormous sense of dread.

That brings me to P.T., or Silent Hills, the upcoming game from Metal Gear disastermind Hideo Kojima and Pan's Labyrinth director Guillermo Del Toro. I just got finished playing the 40-minute teaser demo and, despite masses of reservations, particularly towards Koj, who wouldn't know subtlety if it broke character and started screaming and pissing in his face, I'm very intrigued. In fact, fuck it, I'm more than intrigued. Inside forty minutes P.T. has done more to advance horror in videogames than an entire decade of over-the-shoulder so-called action/horror games. This game was scary, properly fucking scary. I got an email at one point - some work thing - and it was like Christmas. I was relieved to have an excuse to put the controller down and do something else for a few minutes. That's not hyperbole. I promise I'm not exaggerating to make a statement. My sister was in the room with me as I played and she asked what I thought about it. I said I was dreading it being released, because it would mean playing the whole thing ahead of a review.

There are obvious things about P.T. that are scary, from the Lynchian, screaming, malformed fetus that lives in a sink to the sporadic appearances of "Lisa", a hulking, bloodied ghost figure that malevolently watches the player throughout the game's run time. But what's really important here is that P.T. all takes place in a single corridor. You walk into it, look around a little, perhaps solve one of the game's mind-mangling puzzles (more on those later) then walk out the other end, only to re-appear back where you started. Each time you loop in and out, the corridor changes, sometimes subtly, sometimes dramatically. Sometimes you'll go back through it and notice that, unlike before, the bathroom door is ajar. Other times you'll round the corner and see Lisa, stood still, gazing back at you. Furniture comes and goes. Writing appears and disappears from the walls. This is an environment that you intrinsically understand - it's a basic L-shape, it's in a fairly standard suburban home, you're forced to walk through it dozens of times - but constantly feel unsure about. P.T. hands the player a seemingly simple task - walk through this corridor - but continually wrongfoots them, not just by making them repeat the task over and over again but by slipping in new and terrifying elements each time.

It's a disorientating twist on videogame logic. The standard structure of a "mission" requires players to get from point A to point B, perhaps ticking off a few secondary objectives along the way. It's concrete and logical - like reaching the top of the Snakes 'n' Ladders board, it makes basic ludic sense. But P.T. casts that asunder. It not only disregards the rudimentary "start here, get here" videogame set-up, it refuses to let the player feel like they've learned something. Walking the same two halls over and over should make the player feel inveterate, bored even, like playing the most common map once again in a multiplayer shooter. Our most important tool in a videogame is knowledge - knowledge of enemy AI, knowledge of systems, knowledge of our own abilities. P.T. undercuts that dynamic, and makes a point of doing so. It asks you to repeat the same "mechanic," i.e. walking through the corridor, but changes that experience each time. It's as if you're playing Mario and every time you hit the jump button he does something different. By constantly changing, P.T. behaves less like a game, a rules-based, computational, decipherable game, and more like our own world, which behaves randomly and is affected by natural forces that aren't instantly obvious to us. That's why P.T. is scary. It doesn't seem to have rules or systems behind it. The logic is loose. Once you start to realise the surreal and myriad ways that these two corridors are changing, you begin to suspect that anything could happen.

And it does. I'm talking specifically about the puzzles here, which are designed on the most lateral, absurd, unlogic I've ever seen a game. One involves running around the corridors in an infinite loop until you find a minuscule hole in the wall, then peering into it and listening to some screams. Another, the last one, can only be solved by making the fetus thing in the sink laugh three times. The game doesn't tell you that that's the solution, nor does it tell you how to make it happen. There are no hints - none at all. It's only through pure coincidence and wandering back and forth for hours on end that the internet has finally come up with some answers, and they're bizarre.

I love this. I love how unapologetic and un-fun and fucking horrible it is. Again, it's anti-videogame. It belies the idea of an answer, a solution, a victory. Things just sort of happen in P.T. And truly, it's the closest I've seen anything come to faithfully depicting what it's like to have a nightmare. That's a trite compliment, often chucked at things like Inland Empire or Eraserhead, but it's really, really true here. In P.T. you're just lost. You're fucking lost. You have no idea how anything works, what to do, where you are. It's not an abstracted, black hole kind of world, it's something from your waking life, and that's what makes it powerful. That's what makes it like a nightmare. You're in this corridor, this formally laid out couple of hallways, but it's gone wrong. It doesn't work the way it should. Nothing works the way it should.

You're in a videogame. But it's gone wrong.

Tuesday, 12 August 2014

Defeat, exhaustion in Wolfenstein: The New Order

Wolfenstein: The New Order is a game about struggle and fatigue. It comes possibly from the studio culture at developer MachineGames, specifically creative director Jens Matthies, who quit his job at Starbreeze to set-up the company and was on the brink of having to sell his house when the game's publication deal finally came through. Matthies and Machine had to fight, hard, to get Wolfenstein made. That experience with strain bleeds into the game's narrative.

It's set up from the beginning. First you're told it's 1946 and the Nazi war machine is expanding at "an astonishing rate." Straight away, something is terribly wrong. The war has lasted a year longer than it's supposed to and, rather than flummox itself on the Russian front, the German army has clearly got its shit together - it's winning, big time. Then you take control and the weapon you have, this American-made sub-machine gun, is puny and quiet. By the time you get to shooting the first bad guys you've seen their super-fast fighter jets, their armoured attack dogs, their giant, stomping robots. You feel instantly outclassed. The German infantry rifle is black and heavy - it fills your vision. The US one is light. It's this clattering pop gun made of wood and tin.

Your commanding officer even instructs you to pilfer any Nazi ordnance. "It's bound to be better than ours," he says. From the go you're on the weaker side, the losing team. Like Matthies, trying to build his studio and stave off bankruptcy, you're in an uphill battle.

B.J. Blazkowicz is a tired character. It's in his eyes when Anya tells him the US has surrendered, in the way he whispers all his threats, barely flinches at physical pain. This guy has been through it all, twice, and he's just running on fumes the whole game. By the climax, when he tells his pals to go ahead and bomb the complex he's infiltrated, with him still inside, you get the impression that he just wants to die. He's crawling, covered in blood, severely wounded, ready to fucking go. He's like Max in Max Payne 3 - he wants to be dead, but he can't commit suicide. The best he can hope for is a glorious end, to go out swinging. He just wants to settle his scores and get his house in order before finally keeling over. Why else would he keep going on these suicide missions?

His comrades are equally exhausted. Look at Fergus, the aforementioned CO. When you meet him again in 1960, he's thin and covered in scars. The first thing he does when he's freed from a Nazi prison is collapse onto his bed, telling B.J. to fuck off, he needs some sleep. He sits in his room, agonising over his age, about being past his best. These aren't valiant, unbending heroes. They're reluctant. They're tired. They're here purely out of obligation and they want it to end.

The sex scenes are great. There is passion between B.J. and Anya, but they also fuck because they need to - they need something to stave off reality. "Sometimes Christmas," says B.J., "sometimes birthdays. Sometimes mayhem, suffering and death. Sometimes you just need to feel something good." It's tragic, that all this mess has seeped into something as joyful as screwing. But those sex scenes aren't anything close to erotic. They're melancholic, desperate. They're just another part of the B.J.'s defiance of Nazi rule.

And there are Tekla and J, two supporting characters who have been defeated by the Nazis in very different ways. J is supposed to be Jimi Hendrix, and he's so completely given up, to the point where he can't even acknowledge there's a war going on. He sits around the resistance HQ dropping acid and playing guitar into some headphones. He's distant, distracted - he's opted out of this struggle because he just can't face it. The bandanna he wears over his face, to cover scars presumably obtained when the Nazis bombed America, is a perfect symbol. He's hiding from the world, from himself, hiding the fact that all this is even going on. He's retreated inside his own head. He talks like it's free-love, liberation, a kind of righteous pacifism, but this is a world where the hippy movement never happened, where the anti-Nazi organisations need all the fighters they can get, and his dialogue comes over like defeatist self-delusion. He makes it sound like he won't fight on moral grounds, but he's just beaten.

Tekla is similar. She talks about fighting as if it's below her, as if her maths and calculations and philosophising about the nature of reality are more important. But you get the sense that she's just trying to find a way to rationalise all this evil. She doesn't sleep - she has these strange ticks and eccentricities. In the game's most saddening scene, she wakes up B.J. to discuss her theory about consciousness and the human spirit, and it all sounds kind of bright and interesting, in a college sort of way. But she keeps going on, rambling and rambling, and you start to feel like she's broken - like her mind has snapped. All her equations, her endless pages of numbers and notes on the predictable nature of reality, seem like a coping mechanism, as if she's trying to decipher some kind of rational, scientific reason behind the Nazi's senseless evil. She can't accept that anything happens randomly, that people do things just because. You get the sense that she's exhausted and baffled by the casual violence of the Nazi regime, that she can't live with the idea that people are just bad, that terrible things happen on a whim. All her ruminating is a way of putting the war into context, of distancing it, saying it's part of some grand scheme that had to happen and eventually will come good. She's trying to nullify the threat - if all these people die, including her, then at least it was for a reason. But she's just going around in circles. She never finds her answers. It's all talk and no result. The painful truth is that the cosmos is not coming to save her.

All this emotion is consolidated into the music on the main menu screen, written by Michael John Gordon. Just listen to it. It's a moaning, distressed, heavy track, oppressive and terrifying and drawn out. It exemplifies the themes of exhaustion and misery that run through both the story of Wolfenstein and its development. Fucking perfect:

Thursday, 3 July 2014

Resident Evil: Bring Back Puzzles

Put a red gem into a stuffed tiger's eye to get a pistol. Set fire to a painting to find a jewel. Stick a coin in a fountain to retrieve a key.

These are the solutions to puzzles in Resident Evils 1 and 2. Lateral, weird, amusing, they're examples of twisted survival horror logic, where bizarre combinations of items are usually the way forward. Time was scary games thrived on this shit: Silent Hill, Clock Tower and Hellnight are all late-nineties examples of backwards horror conventions. But around 2000, and the launch of Resident Evil 3, things started to change. Abstraction gave way to concreteness. Confusion replaced confidence. Horror was cast aside in favour of action. Rather than daffy game logic, ostensible frightening games started to operate on more familiar, real-world terms. The central puzzle in RE3 is finding components to fix the engine of a tram car: fuse, oil, battery. Contrast that with RE2, where the rear exit of a police station is opened using electronic keys shaped like chess-pieces, and you see where survival horror was heading. It was changing, along with the rest of old-guard game genres at the start of the 21st century, into something more akin to an "experience". It was becoming slick, cohesive, uncomplicated. In this new hybrid brand of action-horror, tangled puzzle logic had no position. It'd just slow people down, make them frustrated. It had to go.

Which brings us to today, a time when game developers wouldn't know good horror if it jumped them from the back seat of a car. It's not that designers like Visceral or Frictional have forgotten about horror. It's that, in a blind rush to do something with the genre that's new, these guys have neglected everything save for monsters and combat. That's all horror is now. It's a weak mix of creatures and subversive mechanics. In Dead Space the enemies are all crazy arms. You have to - fnar fnar - shoot their limbs, not their bodies. In Amnesia, the monster has a wild face and you can't fight it at all. Slender, Outlast, Penumbra, Daylight - these games all trade on the same floor. As long as the creature looks weird (or distinctive enough to use in the promotional art) and the combat system is odd (odd enough that it'll draw a reaction from bored reviewers) the directors on these games seem satisfied. They've given up on horror as a quixotic ordeal. It's about what makes sense on a design document.

Pitch confusing puzzles to a publisher or focus group and sure, you'll get a negative (read: shortsighted) response. But put them in your game anyway and bang, you're scarier than everything else on the market. Because this is what horror is. Horror isn't safety or understanding - horror isn't about getting it. Horror is running through the woods not knowing what the Blair Witch looks like. Horror is turning a corner in the Overlook Hotel and coming face-to-face with two dead girls. Horror is the impossible milky innards of Ash, the surprise death of Father Karras. Horror is uncertainty, lack of agency, surprise. It's a puzzle where the solution is the last thing you'd expect, a mansion where guns are hidden in stuffed animals, a police station where the doors are unlocked with chess pieces.

It's about displacement, see? You take the player, put them in a seemingly banal environment, then flip that shit over. Think of the apartment block in Rosemary's Baby. It should be normal, but thanks to Polanski's low angles, and Cassavettes's always off kilter delivery, it doesn't feel right. Same goes for the mansion, or the RPD building. These are places players feel like they should recognise, but because the keys are all funny and the doors are all bolted by abstract locking systems, it's backwards - it's vaguely fucking wrong. Puzzles aren't important because they break up homogenous gameplay, or because they're a tip of the hat to point and click fans. They're fundamentally a part of horror because they pump, surreptitiously, misinformation into the player's mind. It's like listening to a pop song at three quarters speed. It isn't in your face - it isn't teasing you, smugly, that you can't kill the monster. It's benign. It's getting in your brain.

If you want to know where the horror really wasn't shot out of the barrel of a machine-gun, via an over-the-shoulder perspective. It was delicately written out. It was filtered away by a bunch of developers who thought that wrongfooting people was what it meant to be scary. Horror games today are the equivalent of a jump scare - they're in your face, with their massive conceits, yelling "GOT YA!".  It's all for show. It's all ironed-out and deliberate. Real horror is strange and abortive - it's rough and non-sensical. If people want scary back, they need to start hiding more keys in more tigers.

Monday, 30 June 2014

Let me tell you about freelancing

I've seen a lot of posts from editors over the last week lamenting the state of game criticism, or positing ways that it needs to change. A lot of what they say is noble, well-meaning, but they always miss something out: for any of this to happen, people need to start opening their fucking wallets.

I can't tell you how many times I've had this email: "Hey Ed. I really like this idea, but unfortunately we don't have the budget for this right now." Sure. Fine. By all means, sites can spend their money on trips to E3, analysis of trailers of whatever the fuck. But it's a bit rich for the editors of said sites to then turn around and start rhapsodising about game crit being in a bad way. If it's better writing you want, you have to pay for it. Like anyone interested in games, I'd love to see more long-form features and analysis, more proper journalism. But I'm not in this just because it's a worthy cause. This is my job. I have rent to pay. If you don't have the budget for this kind of work, because you've spunked it all on travelling to where a PR said you should, then tough shit. You have to pay for change. You can't tear down the current status quo in the hope of rebuilding it on the back of good will. What we want - what we need - is for decent game criticism to become a viable business. And you, you editors who seem to want this change more than anything, you're the ones controlling the money, so start spending it on the right things. Your readers will read whatever you give them. Most of them are tired of the same old shit anyway - most of them have been playing games for years and can smell a bullshit story from a mile off. We all want to feel like games are of genuine cultural worth. Gamers want ammunition when it comes to the debate about games being art - they want something to pull out of their pocket when their peers or parents say playing games is a waste of time. So give it to them. Throw some money at the genuinely insightful freelancers who want to write 1500 words on why Splinter Cell is a post-9/11 masterpiece, or why Call of Duty is actually just horseshit. You want change, you want games to be more than they are? Then start fucking paying for it.

Or at least be polite. If someone pitches you an article that's researched, articulated and that they've spent a long time thinking about, reply to them, even if you don't want to run it. I know you editors are busy and it's fucking draining to go through and respond to every pitch, but guess what, if you don't keep these people on side, the quality of your output will never improve. Yeah, we're freelance game critics, but we still have SOME pride, and every time we spend weeks working up a good article idea, only to have it flat ignored, it fucking knocks our confidence. Do that to us enough times and soon you won't get any pitches. You'll fucking alienate the people that, ostensibly, you're trying to court. This is a two way street. You want to Change Game Journalism, we want to make some money so at the very least, let's talk. I'm gonna time myself to see how long it takes to write a rejection email: "Hey Ed. Thanks for emailing, but we're gonna pass on this one - thanks." 15 seconds. And when you do it, you won't have to reach for the shift button to put speech marks in. That's it. It might seem like a waste of your time, but one day, that person you ignored could come up with something that wins your site an award.

You're probably thinking that I'm some disgruntled fuck who can't get a gig, but no: I'm one of the less than one percent that manages to make a living out of freelance game criticism, and I'm grateful. I won't be going on holiday or nothing, and I never have more than a week's wages in the bank, but I'm surviving, just, which is more than a lot of talented writers - more talented than me - can say for themselves. I'm not writing this because I'm personally pissed off. I've just spotted an hypocrisy is all. Like I said, you can't complain about the state of game criticism and then turn people down because you don't "have the budget." If you legitimately do want change, cough the fuck up for it. Revolutions aren't free. You don't just blow the trains up, you have to pay to make them run on time. If I'm wrong, tell me. If I don't get the budgetary process or the pressures of editorial, let me know. That's a start at least, some fucking communication. And if it can't be done - if our New Wave of criticism isn't financially stable - then just say it. I'll go back to my old job, working on the construction site. I'll make ends meet, work on my novel in the evenings and ten other hopeful kids will take my place in this faltering so-called industry. If you're never gonna step up and fork out, because you're scared of losing traffic or alienating PRs, just say so. Don't um and ah. Don't blow hot and cold. If this truly is what you all want, then start fucking shelling out for it, because it's not going to happen otherwise. There's the ring. Get the fuck in it. We're ready to write for you and we need the money.

Thursday, 24 April 2014

Don't vote UKIP - An email to my dad

I feel like I wasn't able to properly articulate myself on the phone the other night. So, I've spent a few days doing some research and fact-collecting and I think you should take the time to read these things over before going to the polls.

First, you asked me about the amount of government money that is spent on foreign aid compared to the amount spent on the NHS.

The DFID (Department for Internal Development) estimates that roughly £11 billion is spent annually by the British government on foreign aid. In its own report, the NHS states that, in the financial year 2012/2013, its budget was £105bn. You find can those statistics for yourself here and here

I also told you that the spending on foreign aid amounted to roughly 1.1 percent of the UK's total budget. That figure was wrong. It is actually, now, closer to 0.7 percent. 

You might also want to know how that foreign aid money is spent. Again, according to the DFID, 40 percent of it, around £2.1bn, is diverted to African nations. Some recent news stories regarding Africa:

A further 25 percent of foreign aid money is sent to Asia, which contains Syria. 150,000 people have now been killed as part of the country's civil war, with a further 2 million forced to leave their homes. If you think this isn't or shouldn't be Britain's problem, it's worth reading up on the 1948 Syrian civil war, which was sparked when Britain took self-interested political control of the country after World War 2. The events of that war and, by proxy, Britain's foreign policy, created deeper divisions between the Arab and Jewish indigenous populations. The current crisis is an aftershock of that.

As a rough estimate, the foreign aid budget, per British person, per year, is £200. If you want to take that money away from these people, go ahead, vote UKIP.

Your other concern was Britain's membership of the European Union and how that affects trade, immigration and the budget.

First the financial implications. Britain's largest industry is pharmaceuticals and chemicals, providing roughly 320,000 jobs and generating £53bn each year. 56 percent of all goods sold by this industry are to fellow EU nations, which thanks to European legislation, share common laws regarding the trade and marketing of prescription drugs. If Britain left the EU, and abandoned European law, it would have to individually negotiate deals with all of the 28 EU countries it deals with, an expensive process which would detrimental to the industry.

Membership of the EU also facilitates easier investments into Britain from member states. Collectively, the EU comprises around 500 million people, with a total GDP (gross domestic profit) of £10 trillion. Abandoning the Union would, again, complicate these investments and shrink the UK economy.

2013 survey of small and large businesses, conducted by the Confederation of British Industry, found that 78 percent of British business owners would prefer to remain as part of the European Union, due to these trade benefits. Also worth noting is that Britain's paid contribution to the EU, per year, is around £8bn, or less than half a percent of total GDP. That's £130 per person.

Bear in mind that Britain is a small, island nation, contributing less than 3 percent of the world's total GDP. Without the clout of the EU behind it, it has no basis to negotiate trade deals with major players such as China and the US. The Global Times, China's state newspaper, wrote in 2013"The Cameron administration should acknowledge that the UK is not a big power in the eyes of the Chinese. It is just an old European country apt for travel and study." Britain can't turn its back on the larger global powers. It is not The Empire any more. 

Baroness Shirley Williams, a former Lib Dem member of the House of Lords, puts it best:

"The shrinking of the vision will also shrink our ideas, our attitudes and the scale of our innovations. It would be the cautious move of a relatively elderly society deciding to abdicate from any major global role. The once-upon-a-time alternative to the EU, our relationship with America, is no longer the option that it might have been. Our most powerful ally is increasingly multicultural, rather than Anglo Saxon, and its major strategic interests lie predominantly in Asia.
"America's interest in us is as a leading member of the EU and that is the one option that gives us global influence. On the economic side, it is clear some international investors will think very hard about staying here should we leave the EU. That is because they see us as a bridge nation – the nation that bridges the Atlantic and acts as a launching pad into the EU single market. If we are not involved in the EU, the key investors in Japan, the US and, increasingly, China will not see us as the best place in which to base their industries."

As part of the EU, Britain also receives aid in the form of Structural Funds, money that is accumulated by member EU states and then awarded on a case-by-case basis. Over the next five years, England alone will receive over £6 billion in Structural Funds, Wales £2 billion, Scotland £795 million, and Northern Ireland £457 million. Leaving the EU would cost the country this money.

This is perhaps the best article to read on the financial implications of leaving Europe. It's based on a report published by a Eurosceptic think-tank called Open Europe.

Abandoning the EU altogether will not be a solution to any, let alone all of the Britain's problems. Instead, a lot of people advocate a process of renegotiation, whereby, things like restrictive EU agricultural laws, which increase the price of food, are opted out of. Britain can be part of the EU and enjoy the trade benefits without having to ascribe to all European laws. That, surely, is a worthy compromise. 

Now, immigration. A few statistics for you from "The In/Out Question," a book by Reuters editor and researcher Hugo Dixon:
- EU membership allows free emigration to other member states. There are 1 million British people living in Spain, 330,000 in France, 65,000 in Cyprus and a further 330,000 living in Ireland. If the UK abandoned the EU, and ejected immigrants from the country or closed its borders, it's likely a lot of these people - British emigrants - would likewise be sent back the Britain. Membership allows unbridled travel for tourists and emigres. That's an advantage.

- As for immigrants arriving from the EU, their "inactivity rate" - i.e. people who are unemployed, retired or otherwise not working - is 30 percent. That's compared to 43 percent, when looking at the native UK population. 32 percent of EU immigrants are university educated, compared to 21 percent of native Brits. The point being, a large amount of people arrive from the EU to work, not in menial roles specifically, but in engineering, medicine and other professions. Statistically, "we" are lazier than "them."

Here's another interesting report, based on a survey conducted by King's College London and the Royal Statistical society. It discounts a lot of public perceptions about crime, immigration, benefit payments, foreign aid and employment. The key finding, in regards to UKIP's manifesto, is:

"Some 31 percent of the population is thought to consist of recent immigrants, when the figure is actually 13 percent. Even including illegal immigrants, the figure is only about 15 percent. On the issue of ethnicity, black and Asian people are thought to make up 30 percent of the population, when the figure is closer to 11 percent."

Speaking  of the UKIP manifesto...

Here it is. Some key points it makes:

- "Green spaces should be protected - we oppose HS2, excessive housing development and wind farms." UKIP plans to axe tax subsidies for the construction of wind turbines, and revert to shale gas for the country's main energy supply. Considering global fuel and pollution crises, that seems like a bad idea. However, it's also worth noting that the Conservative government plans to do the same thing, as it believes the UK's wind farm quota has already been filled.

- "We need more police on the streets, cracking down on crime and anti-social behaviour." This is typical firebrand rhetoric which (see above) does not reflect the true situation, i.e., that crime is at an all time low. Worth watching is the documentary The House I Live In, which explains why aggressive, street-bust policing is not a long-term solution to crime.

- "Real decision-making should be given to local communities." David Cameron tried this with his "Big Society" idea, but it failed. People want big government, not isolated pockets, governing themselves. Government protects people and their rights. Communities don't.

- "Money should be used for local services, not the EU, foreign aid and foreign wars." Again, see above. The money spent on these things is minuscule and widely beneficial to both the UK and people in other countries, to whom this country owes a debt.

- "Immigrants must financially support themselves and their dependents for 5 years. This means private health insurance (except emergency medical care), private education and private housing - they should pay into the pot before they take out of it." This is essentially a surreptitious way of saying "no-one will be allowed in." Can you afford private health and education? Can I? Can my friends? No. UKIP is constructing legislation that will, in effect, prevent anybody from being able to afford emigrating to Britain.

- "Enrol unemployed welfare claimants onto community schemes or retraining workfare programmes." I've been unemployed. This won't help. It'll prevent people from looking for more meaningful work. Also, shouldn't these jobs - litter-picking, street-cleaning, so on - be available to people as full-time positions, with wages, benefits, etc? Why should people do this work if they aren't getting proper money for it? How does giving people a job, but still classifying them as unemployed, help to improve the unemployment situation?

- "Remove the UK from the jurisdiction of the European Court of Human Rights." The EU Court of Human Rights is one of the most rigid, progressive defense courts in the world. It protects the rights of women, the disabled and the wrongly accused. Britain is a moral country. It can't abandon this moral organisation.

- "Make welfare a safety net for the needy, not a bed for the lazy. Benefits only available to those who have lived here for over 5 years." Contrary to hysterical news reports, the majority of benefit money is claimed by pensioners, not fraudsters and not "the lazy." UKIP is a party that wants to punch down, to trample the most vulnerable members of British society in order to benefit the most privileged. It's acting in interest of itself and its members, not the body politic. 

- "No to political correctness." This is a vague policy that sounds like it was thought up by Alf Garnett. I don't want to have to listen to white people refer to my black or Asian friends using derogatory words, and to feel like that's acceptable. People should be made to feel guilty about racism, homophobia and sexism. Those things don't represent free-speech, in its noble form at least. They represent unchecked ignorance.

I hope you've read and digested all of this. I hope if you know anyone who is also considering voting UKIP, you'll forward it to them.

If you vote for UKIP, you're voting for Britain to become un-British. This is a nation that, politically, for the past 100 years, has been geared towards welfare, unbridled capitalism and inclusivity. The founding of the NHS. The deregulation of the stock exchange. Gay marriage laws. These are what define Britain's social and legislative make-up. UKIP would see the country become a shriveled, isolationist island nation, with no power or understanding of the global stage. It's a selfish party. It will not operate in the interests of the British people, let alone the rest of the world.

Please don't waste your vote.

Wednesday, 9 April 2014

"Look, in this day and age, you've got to be tooled up."

There is, absolutely, no excuse for ignorance. You can't turn on, tune in, drop out - you have the resources and it's your prerogative to use them.

Between now and the end of civilization, we, us humans, are in the age of the internet. The acquisition of knowledge is no longer dependent on library cards, learned parents or even schooling. For all intents and purposes anyone anywhere can discover and unpick any piece of information from recorded past and present. We can all know everything. We're the first generation to have access to prosthetic intelligence - even if we don't have a fact or opinion to hand, we can look it up, we can get it.

But are we creating a vacuum, a lineage of people who, granted access to all knowledge will in fact end up knowing nothing? Will the persistent and free availability of wisdom foster a populace that is not, in a true sense, wise? When something is benign, ubiquitous, merely just "there" it provokes lethargy and disinterest. People who born into wealth don't appreciate money as much as the pauper, who has worked his whole life to earn enough to buy a house. With information now available everywhere and at every hour of the day, it is no longer precious, no longer a rarity or a resource. There's no urgency in acquiring it. So will we bother?