- 28 Okt 2011, 14:05
#2305460
Jedan od dragulja koji sam pronasao malopre. Ekstremno je kratka (5 min) i mala (pola megabajta skoro)... Odusevljen sam 
http://hcsoftware.sourceforge.net/passage/
Bolje da odigrate prvo igru a tek onda procitate sledece redove
WIRED Games Without Frontiers Commentary by Clive Thompson
(Editor's note: Warning: There are some major spoilers in this column.)
Are games art?
If you're like me, you are sick to death of this argument. It has raged for years, and recently reached a crescendo when Roger Ebert wrote a column sniffing that games will always be "inherently inferior to film and literature." That's because games allow the player to control some of the outcome -- and art, for Ebert, is all about surrendering to the control of the artist.
Personally, I think Ebert made some excellent points, but I'm not going to debate him blow by blow here. Instead, I'm going to try and shift the grounds of this debate by suggesting that you stop reading this column -- right now! -- and take five minutes to play Passage, a free, downloadable game.
Wait: Did I call Passage a game? I actually meant to say poem. Because while Passage behaves like a game, it's psychically and aesthetically closer to a superb and tightly crafted sonnet. More than any game I've ever played, it illustrates how a game can be a fantastically expressive, artistic vehicle for exploring the human condition.
To prove it, let me describe what it's like to play Passage.
When I first launched the game, I was struck by the weird size of the play screen: a thin, horizontal strip only a few inches high. The graphics are old-school, low-rez pixels of the sort you'd see in an early '80s videogame. Your character is a little blond, blue-eyed man. You have five minutes to play.
As I started moving around, I quickly realized that while you can only see a small strip of the game world at a time, it contains a maze that stretches far off to the east and south. This makes exploration tantalizing but also frustrating, because you can't figure out what direction to go in.
About 30 seconds into the play, I encountered a little pixelized woman, and when I touched her, a heart bloomed around us -- and suddenly we moved as one. Marriage! It was charming, but I soon found that it limited my movement, because there were parts of the maze that only a single person could fit through.
Then things got weird. About three minutes into the game, I realized with a shock that my character had changed appearance. My hair had darkened, and -- hey, was I getting bald? My "wife," too, looked older, her hair whitened.
We kept on exploring eastward and southward; the lovely but impressionistically vague backgrounds changed color, shifting like Picasso-style fall leaves. But pretty soon it was obvious that my avatar was getting really, really super-old. Then abruptly, my wife died: A little tombstone blipped in her place. I walked on alone for another 30 seconds, then, just as suddenly, I died, too -- another little gray tombstone.
Which is when I realized, with a stab of pain, just what Passage is:
It's a game about life.
http://hcsoftware.sourceforge.net/passage/
Bolje da odigrate prvo igru a tek onda procitate sledece redove
WIRED Games Without Frontiers Commentary by Clive Thompson
(Editor's note: Warning: There are some major spoilers in this column.)
Are games art?
If you're like me, you are sick to death of this argument. It has raged for years, and recently reached a crescendo when Roger Ebert wrote a column sniffing that games will always be "inherently inferior to film and literature." That's because games allow the player to control some of the outcome -- and art, for Ebert, is all about surrendering to the control of the artist.
Personally, I think Ebert made some excellent points, but I'm not going to debate him blow by blow here. Instead, I'm going to try and shift the grounds of this debate by suggesting that you stop reading this column -- right now! -- and take five minutes to play Passage, a free, downloadable game.
Wait: Did I call Passage a game? I actually meant to say poem. Because while Passage behaves like a game, it's psychically and aesthetically closer to a superb and tightly crafted sonnet. More than any game I've ever played, it illustrates how a game can be a fantastically expressive, artistic vehicle for exploring the human condition.
To prove it, let me describe what it's like to play Passage.
When I first launched the game, I was struck by the weird size of the play screen: a thin, horizontal strip only a few inches high. The graphics are old-school, low-rez pixels of the sort you'd see in an early '80s videogame. Your character is a little blond, blue-eyed man. You have five minutes to play.
As I started moving around, I quickly realized that while you can only see a small strip of the game world at a time, it contains a maze that stretches far off to the east and south. This makes exploration tantalizing but also frustrating, because you can't figure out what direction to go in.
About 30 seconds into the play, I encountered a little pixelized woman, and when I touched her, a heart bloomed around us -- and suddenly we moved as one. Marriage! It was charming, but I soon found that it limited my movement, because there were parts of the maze that only a single person could fit through.
Then things got weird. About three minutes into the game, I realized with a shock that my character had changed appearance. My hair had darkened, and -- hey, was I getting bald? My "wife," too, looked older, her hair whitened.
We kept on exploring eastward and southward; the lovely but impressionistically vague backgrounds changed color, shifting like Picasso-style fall leaves. But pretty soon it was obvious that my avatar was getting really, really super-old. Then abruptly, my wife died: A little tombstone blipped in her place. I walked on alone for another 30 seconds, then, just as suddenly, I died, too -- another little gray tombstone.
Which is when I realized, with a stab of pain, just what Passage is:
It's a game about life.