Genericide Update: Rocket Surgeons are Useless

There are some men who achieve great deeds in their lifetimes. Some have spent their life toiling the pursuit of charity and goodwill. Some champion political causes for the betterment of mankind. Some sharpen their skills every day so they may become unparalleled masters of their respective crafts. Some journey where no men have gone before, across the reaches of space, time and our own human psyche.

Me? I have a working, up-to-date computer. CLOSE ENOUGH.

Genericide Update: A Cocktail of Slapstick Sorrow

Note: This one goes a little long, and is basically just me whining, so here’s the important bit: No updates yet. Maybe not next week either. Blame computer stuff. kthanxbai

I considered starting this post with a big hulking paragraph of parable all just to set up for my usual joke about inconsistent updates. Then I realized if I were making a metaphor for disappointment, the cleverest thing to do would be disappointing you! Actually, that’s a lie. I just got lazy. Hey, whaddaya know, mission still accomplished! I think I’ve found the perfect excuse, guys. That’s the real reason I don’t update with a full post each week, obviously. It’s not that I can’t be arsed to kick my cerebrum into gear, it’s that the whole thing is a deep artistic statement. An incredibly convenient deep artistic statement.

Oblivion Adventures Part 21: Bow-ing Pains

The sewers of the Imperial City were a bustling, thriving ecosystem. The towering monument of polished stone above was as strait-laced as can be. Things were pristinely maintained, gold flowed freely without concern, and the ratio of guards to actual citizens was near 1 to 1. The biggest threat to the police force was an imaginary man with a gray sack on his head. The closest thing the city had to back alleys were charming little decorative courtyards where you could barely hide from the blind. To put it simply, it was not a place that encouraged crime.

But crime isn’t some household pet that slinks away ashamed when given a good scolding. Like an annoyingly persistent fungus, it’s hard to get rid of and good at spreading itself where you aren’t looking. The Imperial City had a lot of people. More to the point, it had a lot of rich people. It also had an immensely sprawling sewage system, almost as spacious as the city itself. So long as the more unscrupulous members of society didn’t mind the smell or killing the occasional mudcrab (and who could object to that?), it was basically one giant rent-free, law-free living arrangement.

Genericide Update: Shambling Piñata Golems

Once more into the breach we go. Buckle up and simmer down, because you’ve got another week of no Genericide slamming straight in front of your headlights like the world’s most disappointing dead deer. I mean granted, I can’t think of a situation where a dead deer would be welcome, at least for the mentally sound. Perhaps it’s a deer filled not with grotesque deer guts, but instead delicious candy? Though at that point it isn’t so much a deer as a deer-filled piñata. I don’t know at what point we want to draw the line between deer and abomination of science, this isn’t a blog debating the philosophy of transdeerism. Besides, piñatamancy has been banned in these parts for centuries, so the point is moot.

Back in the realm of coherent lines of thought that are worth wasting brain space on: we have news on the next post!  Front and center amongst these interesting tidbits of knowledge is the following: Next post is not this week. You are not, in fact, reading it. Though Oblivion does in fact contain deer, I’m reasonably certain none of them are shambling piñata golems. Though I’ll grant you that should probably be a mod.

Genericide Update: Flawlessly Executed Yeti Surgery

So here we are, back to the comparatively insubstantial wisps of update posts. After three solid weeks of content, this was pretty much inevitable. Some of you may retort by pointing out there were four solid weeks of update posts before that, but as the words leave your mouth I’ve already dived out the window and left the attack helicopter to cover my escape. By the time you’ve alternated between taking cover behind chest high walls and firing the conveniently located RPG into the cockpit, I’ll be lounging on a scenic beachfront far from any consequences. It is at this point I will remember that my blog is entirely digital, making it impossible to flee from by moving to a different physical location. Also, I am like 90% sure I don’t own an attack helicopter.

Yet.

Child of Light: Combat and Progression

This Child of Light series has seen plenty of genteel discussion so far. We’ve spent some time admiring the serene beauty of the visuals. Whisked ourselves away to the soft and atmospheric soundtrack. Carefully and thoughtfully dissected the root problems within the writing. That’s all well and good. But the obvious follow-up question any sane person would ask: When do we get to the gruesome murder? That’s right, stuff away your pacifism you non-gender-conforming-deragotry-word-implicating-you-as-weaklings, it’s time we talked about the combat.

I really like the combat in Child of Light, except when I hate it with intensity unmatched by mortal men. This dichotomy is also present in the game’s RPG progression, albeit to a much subdued degree. In an effort to pace things properly and give you time to clean the bile spewing out of your monitor, we’ll be alternating on the good and bad. Think of it as eating a delicious ice cream cone in a flavor of your choice, then intermittently washing it down with a forkful of dumpster treasure and insect chitin. Now that I’ve whetted your appetite and fully convinced you how great this idea is, let’s launch right in!

Child of Light: Writing

The first post I made on Child of Light was pretty positive. Sure there were some minor grumbles round the middle. But I mostly said nice things and good feelings were had by all. I prostrated myself before the screenshots on my monitor, hailing such praise for the visuals that you’d think I’d started a new religion. The compliments I gave the music were so enthusiastically comprehensive that in certain countries the soundtrack and I are now legally married. I’m pretty sure every member of the audience got a free dirt bike.

That was then, and this, assuming my rudimentary understanding of time and written tense is correct, is now. Things will go a little differently this time, but I hold up last post as a shield against accusations that I am that most reviled of animals: the “hater”. Like a used nose ring in a bowl of cheerios, the bad must be revealed so it can be avoided in the future. I’m not trying to shoot the messenger or deride the culinary merits of cheerios, it’s just the nature of criticism. You know what they say: If you love something, sometimes you just have to kick it in the dick. That’s what they say, right? Pretty sure it is. If it isn’t then I’m beginning to suspect my parents were full of shit.