Davey Rootbeer
05-12-2005, 04:52 PM
TAKE CONTROL
Randomized pixels of light dance across the screen, some blue, some brown, others red, yellow, green, purple, pink, or orange. They bunch together to form shapes.
Fiddling with the black plastic four-way directional on the left side of the rectangle, the “D-Pad”, the cluster of pixels clumps together and changes position on the screen. Teeny tiny dots, changing color at the whim of an arrow, move as the controller speaks. It is connected by a long, black throat of wires to the 7-pronged voice box, and it orates every command that one puts in.
Right. Left. Up. Down. Jump.
Inside, is a tangle of green and brown and copper, receptors hooked up to every point on the directional pad, and all four of the buttons, which come together to travel through the throat. Each piece of plastic serves its purpose, and is executed equally inside the great machine known as the NES.
To the eyes of the gamer, each control means a different thing: The sharp, black 4-way D-pad on the left houses the thumb of the left hand, while the other fingers await jealously in the back. The striped black and gray center, with two soft buttons and red text: “Start” and “Select”: where the thumbs met, seldomly, but at critical times, to discuss things of important matters, standing as two bosses at the water cooler and formulating strategies to help save the day. On the right, under the vigilant eye of the “Nintendo” signature lays the red, shiny buttons, curved slightly inward from the surface. The two red buttons, known only as “A” and “B”, which take up so little space, but do so much, can launch nukes, hit a home run, or throw ketchup-flavored jellybeans to a giant blob. The box is a sharp, gray rectangle, slightly smaller than an eyeglass case, but large enough for two hands to rest comfortably, to grasp it, and to explore the depths of the world within without fatigue.
The separation between Bushnell’s Atari joysticks and this gray box are endless. The controller, the brainchild of one Gunpei Yokoi, symbolizes the change from the old guard of the Atari joysticks to the new era of home video gaming. It is small, compact, and sharp, a visual confection conceived in the mid-80s that is so prevalent in the automobiles and artistic styles of the postmodern era. It’s a callback to the days where Nintendo stood as the top tiger in the electronics world, where their fearless team of lawyers pursued and won every single copyright case thought possible, defeating universal studios and making a Donkey out of King Kong. The days where they completely rebuilt a decimated video game industry, luring back investors who were scared away during the collapse of Christmas, 1983, when a flood of new and underdeveloped game systems confused the new prospective home video game market, and competition simultaneously wiped it out.
A playing card manufacturer based out of Kyoto-turned-international computer game giant, braving soviet Russia through the collapse of the USSR, and emerging with a falling-blocks game that workers across the United States and Japan, and their children, fell for, with a nod to the classical strains of “sugarplum faerie”. The company that bullied and pushed its way to the top of the late-80’s corporate world, crushing competitors like Little Goombas.
This controller symbolizes an extension of power, a challenge to the gamer to take control of his or her own destiny. It provides an escape from a hard day of school, or work, putting the gamer into the game itself, rather than tarry about as a mere observer. The interaction with the characters and background give the gamer control: any one of several choices could lead to a different path. For a few moments, the gamer loses his identity, and assumes the role of the character. The controller speaks, and the game listens.
The pixels change again, and yet again, as two thumbs converge in sync with each other, the two greatest teammates in the world, bar none. Are they saving the princess? Are they defeating Spain in the World cup? Slaying vampires? Are they sorting falling blocks, pills, or ninjas? The controller doesn’t have any memory of the high score you got on Double Dragon 14 years ago, or the first time you ran through Bowser’s legs and discovered that the princess was in another castle. It just sits there, ready to be touched, explored, and become an extension of a person. It becomes the key to unlock a world where clouds are always white and puffy, where the sky is always the same shade of Cyan, and where mushrooms always make you grow taller.
What you decide to do with your controller is up to you. The power is in your hands.
###
Okay, so, this was my final paper for Feature Writing this semester. For my final assignment, we were supposed to take our last paper, and revise it according to the professor's corrections, which is what we usually do in wiriting intensive classes.
There's only one slight problem though. I got this back, and the professor had graded it an A/A. A in grammar/syntax, and A in content. There were absolutely NO changes from the origonal version i sent him, or corrections to make.
now, the "rewrite" of this is due monday, and the professor will be out of reach until then. and he gave me absolutely nothing to revise. so, do i just leave it as it is, and send it back to him? or do i somehow try to find changes in a paper that's already the recepiant of an A? Granted, it's not perfect by any sstretch of the imagination: nothing written really is, there could always be room for improvement. But do i tinker with it, and possibly scre it up, or do i leave it as is, even though that doesn't seem right?
help?
Randomized pixels of light dance across the screen, some blue, some brown, others red, yellow, green, purple, pink, or orange. They bunch together to form shapes.
Fiddling with the black plastic four-way directional on the left side of the rectangle, the “D-Pad”, the cluster of pixels clumps together and changes position on the screen. Teeny tiny dots, changing color at the whim of an arrow, move as the controller speaks. It is connected by a long, black throat of wires to the 7-pronged voice box, and it orates every command that one puts in.
Right. Left. Up. Down. Jump.
Inside, is a tangle of green and brown and copper, receptors hooked up to every point on the directional pad, and all four of the buttons, which come together to travel through the throat. Each piece of plastic serves its purpose, and is executed equally inside the great machine known as the NES.
To the eyes of the gamer, each control means a different thing: The sharp, black 4-way D-pad on the left houses the thumb of the left hand, while the other fingers await jealously in the back. The striped black and gray center, with two soft buttons and red text: “Start” and “Select”: where the thumbs met, seldomly, but at critical times, to discuss things of important matters, standing as two bosses at the water cooler and formulating strategies to help save the day. On the right, under the vigilant eye of the “Nintendo” signature lays the red, shiny buttons, curved slightly inward from the surface. The two red buttons, known only as “A” and “B”, which take up so little space, but do so much, can launch nukes, hit a home run, or throw ketchup-flavored jellybeans to a giant blob. The box is a sharp, gray rectangle, slightly smaller than an eyeglass case, but large enough for two hands to rest comfortably, to grasp it, and to explore the depths of the world within without fatigue.
The separation between Bushnell’s Atari joysticks and this gray box are endless. The controller, the brainchild of one Gunpei Yokoi, symbolizes the change from the old guard of the Atari joysticks to the new era of home video gaming. It is small, compact, and sharp, a visual confection conceived in the mid-80s that is so prevalent in the automobiles and artistic styles of the postmodern era. It’s a callback to the days where Nintendo stood as the top tiger in the electronics world, where their fearless team of lawyers pursued and won every single copyright case thought possible, defeating universal studios and making a Donkey out of King Kong. The days where they completely rebuilt a decimated video game industry, luring back investors who were scared away during the collapse of Christmas, 1983, when a flood of new and underdeveloped game systems confused the new prospective home video game market, and competition simultaneously wiped it out.
A playing card manufacturer based out of Kyoto-turned-international computer game giant, braving soviet Russia through the collapse of the USSR, and emerging with a falling-blocks game that workers across the United States and Japan, and their children, fell for, with a nod to the classical strains of “sugarplum faerie”. The company that bullied and pushed its way to the top of the late-80’s corporate world, crushing competitors like Little Goombas.
This controller symbolizes an extension of power, a challenge to the gamer to take control of his or her own destiny. It provides an escape from a hard day of school, or work, putting the gamer into the game itself, rather than tarry about as a mere observer. The interaction with the characters and background give the gamer control: any one of several choices could lead to a different path. For a few moments, the gamer loses his identity, and assumes the role of the character. The controller speaks, and the game listens.
The pixels change again, and yet again, as two thumbs converge in sync with each other, the two greatest teammates in the world, bar none. Are they saving the princess? Are they defeating Spain in the World cup? Slaying vampires? Are they sorting falling blocks, pills, or ninjas? The controller doesn’t have any memory of the high score you got on Double Dragon 14 years ago, or the first time you ran through Bowser’s legs and discovered that the princess was in another castle. It just sits there, ready to be touched, explored, and become an extension of a person. It becomes the key to unlock a world where clouds are always white and puffy, where the sky is always the same shade of Cyan, and where mushrooms always make you grow taller.
What you decide to do with your controller is up to you. The power is in your hands.
###
Okay, so, this was my final paper for Feature Writing this semester. For my final assignment, we were supposed to take our last paper, and revise it according to the professor's corrections, which is what we usually do in wiriting intensive classes.
There's only one slight problem though. I got this back, and the professor had graded it an A/A. A in grammar/syntax, and A in content. There were absolutely NO changes from the origonal version i sent him, or corrections to make.
now, the "rewrite" of this is due monday, and the professor will be out of reach until then. and he gave me absolutely nothing to revise. so, do i just leave it as it is, and send it back to him? or do i somehow try to find changes in a paper that's already the recepiant of an A? Granted, it's not perfect by any sstretch of the imagination: nothing written really is, there could always be room for improvement. But do i tinker with it, and possibly scre it up, or do i leave it as is, even though that doesn't seem right?
help?