Bat-Villains, or “How to keep a lid on the camp” (Batman Canon II)

Gimmicky, campy villains are, unfortunately, a nuisance we must tolerate if we want to read superhero comics. More often than not, stories prominently featuring baddies such as Mad Hatter or the Ventriloquist/Scarface disregard logical plot and character development in favor of exploiting that villain’s obsessive/compulsive tendencies to the max; the comic becomes more an exposé on pathological fetishism than, well, anything else we might want the comic to be. Oddly enough, we could legitimately argue that some superhero-comic writers have a fetish for fetishes.

Even some of Batman’s more respectable rogues have fallen prey to this kind of writing. There is almost nothing more irritating to me in a Batman comic than one that has Two-Face running amok in Gotham City committing crimes entirely based on twos — I mean, is he a sociopath, or is he a character on Sesame Street? (“This caper brought to you by a silver dollar and the Number 2!”) Two-Face at his best is a character obsessed with the conflict between order and chaos, not with ripping off the 2nd Bank of Gotham on the second anniversary of his arrest. (True story — see Batman Forever. Or on second thought, don’t.) On a related note, what’s Joker’s deal with fish? I don’t know. I suppose we can only presume he finds them funny.

Anyway, what do we do with all these circus acts and their apparent obsession on oversized household objects?

Same thing the Batman does. Confine them — not in Arkham, which seems to have installed a revolving door in place of cell blocks, but to a specific role and frequency in your collection. Choose your Batman stories in part based on how logically and three-dimensionally those villains are presented, and reject those in which they are buffoons. I’ve chosen three to mention briefly here:

Batman: The Man Who Laughs by Ed Brubaker and Doug Mahnke

This one-shot from 2005 updates the first encounter between Batman and the Joker in familiar fashion: early in the Batman’s career, a psychopath with a fixation on the blackest of humors attempts to murder millions with a deadly toxin that literally causes its victims to laugh themselves to death. This is a good comic first and foremost because the Joker is simultaneously frightening and funny, a feat that’s apparently a lot harder than it sounds. It leaves Joker’s origin fairly ambiguous, which is unique in the superhero genre, and yet it suggests at the same time that maybe the Batman is partially responsible for his existence. And really, Batman’s arch-nemesis deserves his own full-length intro-story, whereas I’m content to ignore that of many others of his rogue’s gallery (some because they’re not all that important, and some because they’re just dumb). We will of course be talking about lots of other Joker-stories later on as well, and they only get better from here.

Batman: Haunted Knight

A brief mention for Jeph Loeb and Tim Sale’s first Batman collaboration: Haunted Knight collects three one-shot Halloween specials that were originally printed under the Legends of the Dark Knight title. It features Scarecrow, Mad Hatter, Joker, and Poison Ivy in succinct form, showcasing their personalities and, yes, their fetishes, but Loeb and Sale are pretty even-handed about them; the stories are fairly strong and none of them are long enough to really get on your nerves. Overall, Haunted Knight serves my collection well as a makeshift intro for a few of the more bizarre Batman villains out there. Makes for fun Halloween-season reading material, too, as the villains Loeb and Sale have chosen already have a kind of Halloweenish motif.

Batman: The Long Halloween— Loeb/Sale

According to the creators, this title grew out of their work on above Halloween specials and became something much more. Running 13 issues long, Long Halloween features a different guest-star supercriminal in each chapter, but the main story revolves around District Attorney Harvey Dent and his collaboration with Jim Gordon and the Batman against the Falcone crime family. It’s also an extended murder mystery that updates Dent’s transformation into a ruthless killer bent on exacting “justice” upon the Gotham City mob. Christopher Nolan drew heavily from this series for The Dark Knight, even going so far as to lift the scene with Batman, Gordon and Dent on the roof of the GCPD building straight out of this comic. All in all, this is pretty much a must-have in any modern Batman collection.

Again, the goal of my Batman collection is to create (something approaching) a fleshed-out character arc that captures many of the defining moments and supporting cast of the Bat-canon, while simultaneously jettisoning the campy, the nonsensical, and the far-fetched (“far-fetched” being a relative term). A hero is in part measured by the obstacles he or she faces, so if we want to take Batman seriously as an object of cultural study and appreciation, we ought to be able to take his rogue’s gallery seriously, too.

Advertisements

Birth of the Batman (Batman Canon I)

Batman: Year One (BATMAN #404-407) by Frank Miller/David Mazzucchelli/Richmond Lewis

This four-part story is the point of origin for basically all of modern Batman. It deserves praise for that, sure, but I like it for a few reasons that I think many critics tend to gloss over.

Mazzucchelli’s vision of the Wayne murders, imitated often but rarely surpassed. The last frame is brilliant; Bruce is becoming the Batman right before your eyes.

The artist should get first credit on this comic. I don’t think I’ve read anything else illustrated by David Mazzucchelli, but I’d like to on the merits of his Year One artwork alone. Each and every line is rich and stunning, as if he hit “Ctrl+B” in his brain before setting the pencil on the paper. Anything lost in detail is more than made up for in the sheer strength of the images, complimented perfectly by Richmond Lewis’ vivid coloring and judicious use of contrast — especially in the derelict building scenes in Chapter Three. This is one comic where I’d say the artwork far outshines the writing, even to the point where I think some of the text could be left out and the same meanings would come across equally well, perhaps even more powerfully. Mazzucchelli was also apparently the first person in decades to draw Batman as if he’s a real person, with a simple, utilitarian black-and-gray costume that completely lacks the comically conspicuous musculature typical of the superhero genre. And Gotham City is a real place, too, where in this artist’s unique style, no single object in a scene is left as an afterthought, or mere “scenery,” right down to the layer of detritus lining Gotham’s streets and alleys.

Regarding the writing: this is Frank Miller’s most restrained and nuanced work with Batman. Where  in The Dark Knight Returns the character is 100% fatalist, full of merciless conviction and explosive anger, in Year One he defines himself for the coming revitalization of comic books: haunted, obsessive, and self-critical, but also altruistic, self-sacrificial, and utterly determined. He’s got a mean streak, but he channels it well and, more importantly, he keeps it in check. Year One is essentially free of the unabashed sadism that plagues DKR and its sequel, The Dark Knight Strikes Again, and mangles the character beyond recognition in All-Star Batman and Robin the Boy Wonder.

All of this is to say: Batman: Year One is a great comic, but more so for its style and themes than for its actual plot. The pacing has always been a little off for me — I think it’s tough to tell a year’s worth of story in four monthly comics and still retain the immediacy and locality, two of the traits that make comic books so much fun. But the story is adequate to the task of propping up Miller and Mazzucchelli’s revamp of the Dark Knight, and it introduced the world to a few characters that would show up 20 years later in Batman Begins.

Stylistically and thematically, Year One is as realistic as superhero comics have ever been. The enemies Batman and Jim Gordon make for themselves in this comic all exist in real life. When I reread it recently, I also happened to be finishing up HBO’s The Wire (praised for its persistent and uncompromising realism), and I couldn’t help but notice a resemblance between Year One‘s Police Commissioner Loeb and his counterparts on the show. Barely a mention is made of the rest of DC’s pantheon in Year One; when Alfred pithily suggests to his employer, “Hmf. I suppose you’ll take up flying next– –like that fellow in Metropolis,” Bruce Wayne just grins. And fashions himself a Bat-hang-glider.

Gotham’s Finest.

More than just because it’s a great origin story, Year One appears in my collection of comics because the only thing that separates its gritty crime-noir setting from modern urban reality is its title character; lacking Batman, Year One would still read well as a grim tale of a good cop in a bad city (indeed, Jim Gordon often feels more like the central protagonist of the story than Bruce Wayne). Beyond declaring that Batman can be relevant to real life, this comic declares that we, the readers, are at odds with ourselves. Just by seeing the comic through to its conclusion, by acknowledging that Gordon, for all his hard work and integrity, can’t really go it alone, aren’t we implicitly agreeing that Batman should exist, that he needs to exist in Gotham City? And when Gotham is a fictional city in name only, aren’t we also tacitly approving of a real person donning the cape and cowl, despite whatever beliefs we think we hold regarding rule of law and due process and all the other social mores the Batman violates on a nightly basis?

In just four issues in 1986, Year One called for a new kind of comic book reader: one who’s eager to explore the complications of street justice and vigilantism, one who’s willing to confront these inherent contradictions without feeling put off and without retreating to the more traditional, fantastical sorts of comics because they’re “more exciting” or because their heroes have superpowers.

I still see this sort of audience as a work in progress; in recent years, DC continues to publish (and make truckloads of money on) some of its most far-fetched and fantastical adventures yet (see: Final Crisis or even Batman: The Return of Bruce Wayne). And The Avengers movie has set the all-time opening weekend record for box office sales at over $207 million, but for films only appearing in 2-D, The Dark Knight Rises now holds that same record, stealing the mantle from its own predecessor The Dark Knight. So cheap thrills and flashy action still trump thematic depth and realism — but only barely, and if we adjust for the 18-25% price hike for 3-D tickets, Avengers and Dark Knight Rises (and Dark Knight, too) are probably on much more even footing than we realize.

Batman: Year One represents the intellectual predecessor to Christopher Nolan’s Batman trilogy, a vein of comic book writing that firmly believes the medium can be about far more than some guy in tights who can lift up a car. With a rare exception, these are the sorts of comics I add to my library; these are the sorts of stories that keep me awake at night.

Next up: Batman: The Man Who Laughs.

Building a Better Batman Canon

Holy unnecessary alliteration, Batman!

The author is dead. So why am I talking about “canon,” which is eternally tangled up with the notion of authorship? Because in some media, it can still be a useful way of organizing how we think about the text(s). Put simply, “canon” is those works which a) originate with the creator of a given fiction, and/or b) are considered “official” by a fiction’s fan base. For example, Twilight is a part of Stephanie Meyer’s canon, while Twilight fan fiction is not. Revenge of the Sith is, sadly, official Star Wars canon, while anything that contradicts it is not. Such distinctions are relatively simple when the fiction has only one author from whom all the creative vision of the imagined universe stems.

Crisis on Infinite Earths #1, written by Wolfm...

DC’s heroes meet their most bewildering foe yet: the dreaded Retcon of the Multiverse! See them whirl about in an interplanetary vortex of utter befuddlement!

But what about comics? Between Batman’s first appearance in Detective Comics #27 in 1939 and the current Bat-family of monthly magazines, literally hundreds of authors and illustrators have contributed to the Bat-mythology – nevermind the films, TV shows, novels, and newspaper strips external to DC’s ongoing continuity. Even the notion of a “creator” is meaningless; Bob Kane was only directly involved in DC’s monthly publications for roughly the first twenty of Batman’s 73 years thus far, and may or may not have actually done the creating anyway. And even after all that, DC has rewritten its own continuity several times, just to simplify (read: complicate) the internal chronology of their characters.

In comic books, then, it seems the only semi-solid conception we have of “canon” is that stamp of publisher’s approval, the indication of copyright: DC. Canon is as much proprietary as it is visionary. DC is owner, operator, and author all in one.

But wait! The author is dead! As dead as, say, Jason Todd on the wrong end of a crowbar!

Aha! So does that mean I don’t think the author is dead? Perhaps the author has  ascended to superhero status; perhaps he is become the Ghostwriter, aka the Worldly Word-Slinger, eternally reanimated by clamoring fanboys and falling comic book sales, whose only weakness is the inability to permanently kill anybody, ever, no matter how completely, totally done in they might at first appear!

Fuck that shit. In my Gotham City, Jason Todd still lies stone dead of Joker-inflicted crowbar whacks, despite trade paperbacks, despite animated movies starring Neil Patrick Harris, despite his ever-increasing prominence in DC’s current publications. Why? Because Jason Todd’s death added a new layer of meaning to Bruce Wayne’s nightly crusade, a new wound reopened by every mention of Jason’s name, every glance at Jason’s Robin uniform enshrined in the Batcave, every single subsequent encounter with the Joker. I am the master of my comic book collection, and I say BATMAN #635-641 and #645-650 never happened.

DC’s decisions begin and end with their bottom line. No surprise there – it’s why they killed Jason Todd, aka Robin II, in the first place. He had become unpopular with readers, and DC’s editors felt it was time for him to shuffle off his (im)mortal comic book coil. Further, DC even let the readers decide via 1-900 number whether A Death in the Family would really end in Jason’s death. Comic book fans rarely have such direct influence on the course of their favorite characters’ storylines, but this underscores a truth about popular media: the relationship between consumers, writers, and copyright holders occurs in a triangular rather than top-down fashion.

A page of “reader response” to the Dark Knight from BATMAN #250.

But why not ignore the authorial stamp of approval altogether? In a story printed in BATMAN #250 in 1973 (adapted twice into animated form, in The New Batman Adventures in 1998 and again in Gotham Knight in 2008), a trio of boys narrate to each other their impressions of the Batman, all of which differ so wildly that they are mutually exclusive. In the original 1973 story, the youngsters are supervised on a weekend retreat by none other than Bruce Wayne, who is understandably shocked by their wildly inaccurate claims (one wonders at his indignation here, given that he generally cultivates this sort of mysterious aura). According to Will Brooker in his book Batman Unmasked, “Bruce Wayne, of course, is in a position of authority here… because of his ‘authorship’ of the Batman – and is therefore viewed within this story as a ‘dominant’ source of official meaning” (18). But the kids don’t care; even when Bruce dons the real Bat-costume and jumps out of the darkness as the real Batman, “the authorial meaning is derided, mocked, exposed as just another ‘reading’ and a pretty feeble one at that” (Brooker 21). Brooker’s point is clear: in this story, Bruce is a stand-in for DC Comics, the owner/operator/author, and their interpretation of the Batman is just that  – an interpretation, no more valued by readers than they value their own readings of the character.

So in that spirit, I’ll merrily dance on the grave of Jason Todd as I present to you the vital chapters in my own “reading,” my own “canon” of the Batman, including what I find meaningful within each story and how I think it fits into a larger arc, the overall Legend of the Dark Knight.

BATMAN #655-658: Batman and Son (Grant Morrison: “I loved Angel Season 4!”)

Once upon a time there was a dark, avenging creature of the night who banged one of his erstwhile lady-foes in a (few?) moment(s?) of implausibly poor judgment. In a startlingly predictable turn of absolutely no dramatic significance, lady-foe-turned-S.O. has a baby. Since babies generally have a damping effect on tales of derring-do and, incidentally, demand a measure of responsibility and maturity utterly beyond the medium’s target audience, the youngster is hastily squirreled away in the writers’ undoubtedly overflowing and smelly communal footlocker labeled “shit to pull out later when we run out of cool ideas.” Somehow our hero, ostensibly a talented detective, seems to have no fucking clue that any of this is happening.

Well, eventually (some twenty years later in real-world time, about half that in DC Universe time) the youngster comes of age and turns up in our dark avenger’s stronghold, trendy medieval weapons in hand, and begins to fulfill his inevitable destiny of Being an Unbearable Teenage Nuisance, Lacking Character Depth, Attempting to Murder Our Hero’s Sidekicks, and just generally Fucking Our Hero’s Shit Up.

Cover of "Batman and Son"Somewhere amidst Hero Jr.’s insufferable douche-baggery and his attempts to spill everybody’s jugulars, I had to stop reading and just consider the facts that a) I had already watched the fourth season of Angel, and b) it sucked balls the first time. Sadly, this was not Angel. It was Batman and Son, a four-comic storyline by Grant Morrison appearing in BATMAN #655-658. After nearly twenty years of waiting for the other Bat-boot to drop, Batfans have finally started to suffer Batman’s (ahem) conception of an appallingly trite and totally unlikeable character.

Bewilderingly large supporting casts? Absurdly convoluted and complicated plots? A disturbingly detailed familiarity with the Joker’s most private thoughts? All these are things I’ve come to expect from Grant Morrison. But an astonishingly annoying genre trope? The only shocking thing about Batman and Son is that such an utterly cliched storyline would come from one of DC’s most acclaimed writers of recent years, a writer who is typically (for better or worse) pushing the boundaries of what’s believable and, sometimes, what’s even comprehensible in a comic book.

Further, has Grant Morrison ever, you know, read any Batman comics? Bruce Wayne already has sons. Three of them, in fact. Their names are Dick Grayson, Jason Todd* and Tim Drake.  Bruce has legally adopted all three of them. Along with Alfred, they are the three people he cares for most. He positively LOSES his SHIT every single time one of them may or may not be seriously injured or dead. Did we really need yet another ascendant Boy Wonder, this time bearing all the burdens and complications of heredity?

My initial response, obviously, is an emphatic no. Six years on, Damian Wayne still offers nothing significant to the ongoing Bat-stories, he’s still a spoiled little shit, and he still thinks it’s cool to kill people even though the goddamn Batman has repeatedly told him “Don’t fucking do that.” Maybe some new blood in the DC writing staff will come along someday and make a name for themselves by molding Damian into a 3-dimensional, likeable character; it’s happened before with characters less prominent in the Batman mythology (see: Mister Freeze in the Batman: The Animated Series episode “Heart of Ice”). Until then, I’ll do my damnedest to completely ignore his existence.

And on that note, our next post will discuss comic books as a unique medium in which each and every fan can have complete control over his or her own canon, allowing us to jettison garbage like little Damian without a shred of remorse.

*Yes, Jason Todd was dead for a while, but now he’s not. Deal with it, and please address all complaints to one “Superboy-Prime,” who apparently spun the world backwards or altered history or some such fucking nonsense and somehow incidentally resurrected him right out of his grave.

PC Games as “Art” — The Catch-33 of Deus Ex

The only ambiguity here is what exactly I’m shooting at… pixelated vampire Hitler?

I’m not using that term quite right, but you’ll get it in a minute. For those of you lacking the patience to plow through what’s certain to be a long post, feel free to skim and comment: Name some instances in which you appreciated shades of gray in a game’s plot or worldview.

Let’s dive right in. I think the most important distinguishing feature of video games is the immersion of the player into the narrative. You, personally, are participating in the unraveling story, not sitting at a comfortable remove as a passive observer. The First Person Shooter (FPS) genre has an easier time achieving this than others for obvious reasons, and the home of the FPS is undoubtedly the personal computer, emerging with Wolfenstein 3D in 1992 and solidifying with Doom in 1993 (it took a full four more years before a console would produce a truly worthy counterpart with GoldenEye in 1997).

The proverbial tip of the iceberg.

Now, nobody’s trying to avoid the honest truth here — games like Wolf and Doom were conceptual and technical successes only. Their plots can be summarized roughly by a mere handful of words: “Get weapons. Shoot [insert appropriate undesirables here]. Repeat.” (The only ambiguity I see here is what exactly I’m shooting at… pixelated vampire-Hitler?) But with their undeniable popularity, these proto-shooters gave rise to a genre that has blossomed into a powerful vehicle for complex narratives. Much as Rapture’s lighthouse represents but a narrow portal into the depths of its underwater city, gamers have come to expect not only an entertaining variety of gameplay dynamics in their first-person shooters, but also a wealth of story and character that they experience through that gameplay.

An FPS is possibly the easiest way to get a visceral thrill out of your gaming — see Omaha Beach in Medal of Honor: Allied Assault or the darkened, demon-infested Mars-base of Doom 3 — and these are fun and valuable experiences. Lord knows I love to stay up into the wee hours of the night with the lights off and the volume up and scare myself witless with some Doom 3 or Dead Space. But these are still largely reactions you can get from popping in Saving Private Ryan or any (in)decent horror flick. What I want to talk about in this entry are the responses that I think gaming has a unique opportunity to effect.

Enter Deus Ex, which I regard as the magnum opus of the modern cyberpunk-thriller genre. Read my review here, or skim the Wikipedia article for more info. Dark, serious, and solidly based upon real-world politics and theoretical sciences, Deus Ex extrapolates logically upon current social climates and technological development (circa 2000) to a future overrun by parasitic, corporate capitalism (that’s not too far-fetched for you, is it?) and troubled by increasingly questionable uses of bioengineering and genetic modification. The player character represents the synthesis of those two motives, a superhuman created by a “cabal of technophiles” to defend national interests against various “terrorist” groups (noteworthy is the fact that national and corporate interests are essentially equivalent in this context). Your job throughout the game is, in the simplest terms, akin to peeling an onion — an onion whose every layer is another conspiracy of global portent.

Ok. Are you still reading? Then you probably realize that a set of problems this massive and complex simply cannot be satisfactorily solved unless you’ve got a big red “S” stuck to your chest. The key word is “satisfactorily.” There are solutions available to you at the end of the game (three, in fact), but none of them are anything but problematic, much less offer you a sure road to human salvation and the obligatory victory cutscene. The brilliance of Deus Ex is that though you are, more or less, a superhero, you cannot save the world. All your extraordinary abilities win you is the chance to get yourself all good and invested in the outcome of the plot only to arrive at a tie between three equally dubious choices.

One of the three endings quotes Voltaire. Can you name another game that quotes Voltaire?

Many games offer the player options; a (sometimes paralyzing) degree of control over your character serves as a supporting pillar of basically every RPG in existence, and several other franchises have also capitalized on player choice as the impetus of plot development (see the Star Wars Jedi Knight series), but these choices are largely relegated to very black and white, good vs. evil situations (do I wantonly slice that hapless bystander with my lightsaber, or… not?). Deus Ex is one of a relatively small contingent of games to thoughtfully, persistently delve into moral territory so grey as to be virtually impossible to navigate. There are no right choices in Deus Ex, only choices.

Of course, we shouldn’t praise moral ambiguity simply for its own sake; if we did, we might just as easily prefer characters like, say, the Joker to come out on top instead of Batman, at which point… what’s the point? But the complexity of Deus Ex provokes a kind of reasoning that is really only just beginning to be utilized in gaming: ethics. To keep the superhero thread running, who’s really going to boo Superman for saving a bus-load of children from toppling off a bridge? He’s a stand-up guy, no doubt about it, and that kind of simplicity can be satisfying, too. My favorite novel, The Lord of the Rings, features one of the clearest notions of right and wrong ever put on paper. Clarity is definitely a good thing.

But consider, in contrast, the conclusion of a film like The Dark Knight, with Batman accused of multiple homicide. It’s certainly not the ideal outcome, but the way the characters deal with it says a lot more about them than a knee-jerk reaction to the tired “rescue X from Y” trope ever could. In Deus Ex, it is the player who must react effectively to an unyielding, unforgiving environment, and I think the process of that reaction unlocks not just an exploratory gaming experience, but a self-exploratory one. Isn’t that exactly what “art,” however we define that almost totally useless term, is supposed to provoke? Explorations like that are vital to our media because they require us to examine and sometimes redefine the beliefs and the values with which we approach the world; they’re especially vital to our video games because they continue to prove that this medium can make worthwhile contributions to modern culture.

I digress. Next time, I’ll dive into Rapture in search of a little thing called “cultural relevance.” Sounds thrilling, doesn’t it? I know. I’ve had Django Reinhardt’s “La Mer” on repeat for days in anticipation. (Just for clarity, that’s repeat in my head. I apparently can’t make it stop.) So, readers — what other games haunt you with their moral complexity? Any I absolutely can’t afford to miss? And yes, I’m already working on Fallout 3.

 

 

 

PC Games as “Art” — An Introduction

Thus commences a long-planned exploration of the medium that demands (and receives) a massive allotment of my fascination and my imaginative energies. Throughout, I hope to perpetuate, at minimum, the following idea: PC gaming is a valuable medium in modern pop culture, offering complex, entertaining narratives that are (with the rare exception) unique in that they rely entirely on decisions and actions taken by the participant rather than following a predetermined arrangement of scenes and characters. (This is not to say that game plots are not linear; rather, the manner in which they progress is determined by the player rather than the developers.)

To that end, I will not stoop to arguing why PC games are, in fact, art; at this point in time, I believe the only persons who would actively argue against this are both a) snobbish, likely aging members of academia with a vested interest in keeping a relatively new medium in its place, and b) woefully uncool (see right). Sorry, Roger, but your argument assumes that all other art forms except video games contain no dialogue whatsoever between artist and consumer, which any English major worth his or her student loans will tell you just isn’t true. Instead of arguing something that’s been successfully argued already, I will provide and discuss examples of PC titles and concepts which prove the point. (And for further discussion on game narratives, check this out.)

And why PC games, as opposed to video gaming in general? Two reasons. One — quite simply, I am a PC gamer, and always will be. The personal computer offers a degree of customization and end-user freedom that is and always has been light years ahead of any other gaming platform ever produced. Case in point: user modifications, which simply do not exist elsewhere, not to mention the ability to tweak the game and/or your hardware to achieve the best performance possible for any given title.

Second, I generally regard the PC as the most economical option for today’s video gamer, considering that a brand new console from each competing developer emerges every few years and costs $300+, simultaneously rendering the previous ones obsolete, while a single PC can continue to evolve with the technology.

Let me tell you now, the line about PCs being more expensive because they require constant upgrading is a steaming pile of bullshit. I purchased a pretty middle-of-the-road PC in 2006 for about $600 (AMD Athlon 64 3500+, 1GB DDR SDRAM, NVIDIA GeForce 7300 GT, for any who care) and have been happily gaming away ever since. Don’t believe me? Check the BIOS date in the pic at the left. Only this past January did I have to add memory and a new video card to play BioShock and Batman: Arkham Asylum, which cost me roughly $100 (Newegg.com ftw!). I have only recently broken down and decided to replace the motherboard and processor, but that’s it — they’ll be going straight into the same old casing and hooking up to the same old power supply and hard drive. The cost of maintaining a decent gaming computer is, at the very most, more or less equivalent to purchasing a single brand of consoles (e.g., Microsoft/Sony/Nintendo) over two of their generations (Xbox + Xbox 360, PS2 + PS3) — except mine runs games and does everything else a PC can do, which means I don’t have to drop an additional few hundred dollars just to be able to write this blog post or use a word processor.

And, on a pleasantly responsible note, the less you replace your electronics, the less you contribute to the problem of conflict minerals, and the less you have to take your old ones to a special recycling center or, worse, commit the wasteful and environmentally harmful act of just tossing them in the garbage. And, on another responsible note, upgrading your own PC means you will necessarily learn a lot more about how your entertainment devices function, which is never a bad thing.

This is not to say that console games don’t have their own positive aspects (in-house multiplayer rather than over the internet and their generally much larger libraries come to mind) — I just don’t plan on discussing them here, except in relation to their PC counterparts.

Well, the day is getting on, and I’m due at work in about an hour, so the “actual” first entry in this series will have to wait. As a teaser, though: I’ll discuss the value of moral ambiguity and Really Tough Choices in a medium where all is dependent on player action, via Deus Ex and BioShock. Read up on them so you know what I’m on about.