I played Need for Speed: The Run this past weekend, after looking forward to it for ages. My first attempt at completing the main section of the game took less than three hours. Five, if you include loading times.
If you don’t know, “The Run” is a race across America, featuring a couple of hundred racers. Split into ten stages which are further split into a few events apiece, the contest as a whole is immediately limited by the fact that you can never progress any faster or slower than the game allows you to. Starting in 250th position, one stage challenges you to pass ten cars by the time you’ve driven five miles. Any less and you’ve failed, causing you to have to restart. Any more than that and…well, that’s never going to happen, since there aren’t any more cars to pass. If you pass ten cars, there’s nothing but open road ahead until you complete the event.
So, that’s a great concept instantly crippled in order to extend the potential gameplay time. To three hours.
However, I soldiered on. In every race, I had the feeling that something was wrong with the game’s AI. Sometimes, I’d force a rival car to drive head-on into a civilian car and then get overtaken by that same rival at the very next corner, no more than five seconds later. Another time, I’d force an opponent into a head-on crash, and watch as the time between us increased as it should and I would close in on the remaining cars I had to pass. It didn’t make any sense.
Then I reached the final level, and it all clicked into place. Without giving anything away, the final level is designed to be an action-packed race to the finish, between you and the current race leader. You speed through the New York streets and back alleys, avoiding traffic and trying to keep up with your rival. It’s exhilarating stuff. Then, halfway through the event a cutscene kicks in and no matter what happens, you’re brought back to being neck and neck with your opponent. It doesn’t matter if you’re ten seconds ahead or a twenty behind, you’re now on level pegging – meaning that the first half of the race is an absolute waste of time.
After the cutscene, I crashed and burned a few times, so on my third attempt at completing the stage I drove more conservatively. This time, I cleared the section after the cutscene, and was heading toward the finish line. A tricky set of turns loomed into view, I slowed down again, and then ended up facing a wall somehow. Parked up, I noticed as for every fifteen seconds I was stationary, my opponent was only pulling away by one. How does that work?
I wondered if the same thing applied to earlier stages of the game, so I headed back and tested the theory. Lo and behold, they’re identical. On most – not all, I grant you – levels, you can come to a full stop for ten seconds, and still win the event, as the developers have made it so that poor little you can’t be beaten TOO badly. That’s if you lose at all, of course. Everything is geared towards close finishes. If you’re ahead with half a mile to go, the opposition speeds up. If you’re behind with half a mile to go, they slow down. There’s something oddly unsettling about being in a car that’s just overtaken ten other racers, belting away down a straight piece of road at top speed with nitrous burn billowing out of the exhaust, knowing that someone in an identical car is eating away at your lead. There’s nothing you can do here, other than to attempt to block the opponent – and that’s what the game wants you to do, to make things more…exciting.
What’s exciting about it?
What’s exciting about knowing that no matter how well or badly I play for 90% of the race, the outcome is going to be pretty much the same?
In short, I’m not excited when I can’t do anything about my opponents being better than me, or when a game gives me so much assistance that I don’t even need to really concentrate.
If I’m playing against another player who’s vastly better than I am at a game, I can practice. I might know that I’ll never be good enough to beat him, but I’ll have a damn good go at it. The challenge and the excitement comes from my skill – or lack of it – and it seems that more and more often when I spend £40 on a game, my skill doesn’t really even come into it. Back in the 16-bit days (cue the “rose-tinted spectacles” music, would you?) you used to be able to buy a game and be uncertain that you’d finish it. Maybe that final level would be too hard. Maybe you don’t have the hand/eye coordination to defeat that final boss. Maybe, just maybe, you’d have to put some work in, become better at the game, and seeing those credits roll would be your reward.
Those were the days.
