*** Warning *** This article contains
major spoilers that may blunt the impact of the game. If you have
not played Transistor and have the slightest shred of interest in
doing so, you are not allowed to read this. Go get the game, finish
it, and come back later. *** Warning ***
I'm usually a “wait for the sales”
type of person, but Transistor is one of the few games I've bought
within a couple of weeks of its release. I sprang for it on the
strength of its predecessor Bastion, which is excellent (though it
hasn't furnished me with any deep lessons that would make fodder for
a blog post). And hoo boy, I was not disappointed. Transistor is
one of THOSE games. The ones that stay with you for a long time.
Hey, God? Can the New Jerusalem look a little like Cloudbank? Maybe? |
One can tell, by this point if not
sooner, that Transistor is not a light-hearted game. Maybe I should
have taken more warning by that song than I did. Another warning
note comes when Red stops at her apartment long enough to eat a meal,
then proceeds to lock herself out … somehow, she knows she's not
coming back. In the story's last act, the surreal, quiet, wistful
beauty of a Fairbank district overrun by the Process hints at a
journey toward the end. Nonetheless, I wasn't quite expecting what
actually happened.
Red seldom met another living
character, but I was able to get acquainted with the city's cast of
influential citizens by means of their traces: digital remnants of
each individual's personality and skills, safely stored in the memory
of the eponymous Transistor. They're a colorful bunch, sometimes
flawed, but all important. As Red hauled this precious cargo around
the city, I looked forward to finishing the game and restoring them
somehow. Even the members of the Camerata – full of hubris,
morally gray, and at times personally unpleasant – caught my
sympathy. There were little things I could identify with, like
Asher's refusal to be seen without his cat, or the childlike glee of
discovery that came through in Royce's study notes on the Process. I
wanted to save them all.
In the end, I didn't save any of
them.
Red finishes her story with the full
power of the Transistor in her hands. The engineer's dream: think
what you want to create, and it appears. But though the Transistor
can repair the buildings and machines of Cloudbank with ease, it
can't bring back the people. And without citizens, all the rest
becomes worthless. There's nothing left for Red in the city, no
reason to rebuild. Cloudbank is done for, destroyed by the
machinations of a few people who thought they would forcibly change
it for the better. And where does that leave us?
Some things can't be fixed. Renewed,
yes (as one sees after waiting out the game's final song), but they
can never go back to the way they were before tragedy struck. You
won't … can't … save everyone. That's the theme this story
leaves me with. It's an interesting contrast to Bastion's ending,
which allows the player to literally rewind time and clean up the
mess. It's also an unconventional message for me to like. I deal
with enough of this particular type of powerlessness in real life, so
why would I want it in my video games? Yet I appreciate it here,
because … maybe it's a lesson I need to learn. I don't get the
impression that Red failed, but rather, that she did everything she
possibly could to save the city, and was ready to move on. Hers is a
different kind of hero's journey in which the attempt is the
important element, not so much the results. And this is something
helpful for me to remember whenever I'm tempted to beat myself up
because I haven't yet solved all the world's problems or created
multiple works of genius. Transistor broke my heart for an
afternoon, but oddly enough, it's left me with a greater feeling of
peace about life in general.
I'm also full of inspiration and
ready to get back into robotics work. Expect some updates about the
artificial muscles, and maybe some other things, in the near future.
Let me know when you finish that Madoka
ReplyDeleteRogue-like you've been coding in your sleep.