City Of Heroes

Why isn’t City of Heroes more fun? It’s a multiplayer superhero game, and yet somehow it’s boring. This is coming from a girl who regularly meets up with a dozen friends for an Abberrant game (for non-gamers, that means we roll dice and pretend to save the world from supervillians).

CoH has it’s great points, namely the character creation. Players can create all kinds of power combinations. And you aren’t likely to run into someone who looks just like you — all kinds of superhero costumes, from fedoras to circuitry to typical tights, are available, in more colors than Liquitex. Unfortunately, capes are a graphics nightmare, and aren’t available.

And the innocent bystanders are goofy and fun, scripted to run screaming and then come back and thank you for saving their lives.

It’s the “missions” that aren’t any fun. After the tutorial mission, you’re sent to a contact who tells you to kill X of the gang Y and return to the contact, who then tells you to kill the boss of gang Y, and so forth. Lather, rinse, repeat. There are no puzzles to solve, just increasingly difficult bad guys to fight. Of course, your superhero is leveling up, too, so there’s no actual difference, just the bragging rights of having made it through Perez Park.

And CoH is massively multi-player. Which means, for the uninitated, that your superheroes team is made up of other players. Mine is usually a conglomerate of friends, housemates, my boyfriend and his friends, but players can also pick up a team in-game quite easily. But you can’t actually talk to your team. CoH has multiple communication channels, familiar to most MUD players. You know what I mean, one channel for talking to your friends, one for your team, a local channel for all the characters standing near by, a private message system, and a broadcast channel so you can tell everyone on that server that SuperBoy596 sux!!1! Yeah. But the mostly-combat game is too fast paced for much chatter, and besides, you need your keyboard for directional control instead of messaging.

But it’s ok, since CoH isn’t actually a social MUD. There is no superhero mansion, no secret lair. Call me boring, but what’s a MUD without an in-character bar? Your characters have all kinds of cute movement scripts (like reading a newspaper, flexing and a chance to play rock, paper, scissors) but after showing your teammates what Mr. Lightning looks like doing yoga, there’s no place to use them.
One of the traditional problems with a MUD is that new characters can be killed or abused by higher lever characters. Not so with City of Heroes. A determined or horribly unlucky newbie can wander into a battle designed for higher levels, but in general there are enough low-level missions to keep you busy. And there is no PvP combat at all, although this will change with the upcoming City of Villians. The advantage of this that your fireballs and bullets will never accidentally hit a player character. The disadvantage is that your fireballs and bullets will never hit a player character, even if they’re standing in the middle of an area of effect attack. (Wait, am I complaining about realism in a superhero game?)

The sidekick option lets your low-level character go on missions with the supreme being that your even dorkier friend made when you were in class. You get an power advantage while you’re palling around with your mentor, but when he logs off or gets too far away, you return to your former state, as useless as Robin without Batman.
There’s no money in the game, and no “stuff”. I grew up on Sierra games, where Roberta Williams taught me to take everything that’s not nailed down. Plus, I like shopping! If I could get jewelry or new superhero clothes at the end of a mission, I’d be happy. (there’s a rumor of capes as a prize for reaching level 20, but I haven’t seen any yet) I realize that a fashion-focused girl isn’t exactly the target audience, but surely other players would like the option to switch between street clothes and tights? One possibility is that the developers of CoH wanted to avoid having in game items that can be traded for real world money. Think I’m making it up? Have a look on eBay for EverCrack items.

Don’t get me completely wrong, sometimes it’s fun to dress in tights and stand next to a villian spawn point. Maybe my expectations were too high, but City of Heroes just didn’t live up to my imagination. Maybe it’s a girl thing, being a superhero’s fun and all, but I’d like to shop, change my clothes, talk to other players, and go have a drink in the non-existant superheroes’ bar. On the plus side, you’ll be probably be bored of CoH before the monthly fee mounts too high.

Edit: Jan.16, 2005 As I’m playing with my blog, Stick is sitting behind me playing CoH and loving it. Capes and a change of clothing have been incorporated, but I still think I’d rather play EQII.

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Move-In Day in Southwest

Last night Stick and I had a really big fight and I left angry.

This morning I got up really early and went to Stick’s dorm to apologize and as I got onto campus, I ran into him on his way to my house to apologize, so we stopped in the middle of the road with the windows rolled down saying “I’m sorry! I don’t want to fight with you!” at each other until the people behind us started honking ’cause they wanted to move into the dorms or something.

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Stivison On The Future

The Sims 2 is coming out next month! September 17th, if you’re not already counting down. The Sims is a real tough act to follow. It’s the best-selling PC game ever, because it is hugely popular with a wide audience, regardless of sex or age or even previous gaming experience.

Which is not to say that everyone plays The Sims the same way. I like playing with a dollhouse (made easier by all the downloadable Sim decor!), while my roommate Andy likes to amass huge fortunes, and my boyfriend Stick climbs the career ladder. My girl friend Kristin used to make Sim soap operas. In a dorky dating moment, Stick and I made a Sim couple. We took turns playing, and after a couple hours of bickering about money, were happy as the Stick-Sim became a general and the Meg-Sim sold her paintings. Like I said, many different playing styles are available…

From what I’ve seen, I think Sims 2 has a pretty good chance of topping The Sims as the best-sellng game ever. In the original game, Sims could have babies but the babies would never grow up. In the new game, the babies are going to look like a combination of their parents! And they’re going to be babies, toddlers, children and then teenagers! Along the way, your sims will have milestone experiences like their first kiss, first day of school, first love, first car crash (ok, I made that one up). Personally, I can’t wait to start planning my Sims’ weddings. It’ll give me soething to talk about with my engaged girlfriend, and I can indulge my white-dress fantasy without terrifying my menfolks.

Maxis has already released the Sims Body Shop, a downloadable program to make your own Sims. When I get bored of the dozens of new heads and bodies and clothes in The Sims 2, I’ll just make my own.

And you can make movies of your Sims! I loved the photo-album option in the original sims (and, yes, I downloaded a bride’s gown and a tuxedo to make “wedding photos”), I can’t wait to try making movies! It’ll be just a like a reality show — heavily edited by the director.

The only reason that the Sims2 might not beat it’s predecessor is financial. The Sims 2 comes with pretty heavy price tag — $49.95. This is not a huge obstacle, everyone in my house found $50 for City of Heroes. It’s no more than I paid to pre-order Rome: Total War. (No one tell Stick, ok?) And it’s not a shot in the dark, it’s fifty bucks for what seems like a sure thing, The Sims only better. But it is kind of steep for the casual gamer.

And the system requirements. The EA sims 2 sites says you need a T&L-capable video card (Tramsforam and Lighting) with at least 32 MB of video RAM, and a 800 MHz processor or better, 256 MB RAM, and at least 3.5 GB of hard drive space.(http://thesims2.ea.com/about_system_specs.php). To translate that from geeklish to English, you need a really good PC to run The Sims 2. Serious gamers will update their system or buy a new PC for a new game, but casual gamers won’t. I worry that the casual gamer will either not buy The Sims 2 because it won’t run, or will buy it and be frustrated with the choppy framerate.

The Sims Online, which I received as a herald of futuristic sim-societies to come, was frustrating for that very reason. I needed to upgrade my PC to play it (fortunately Grant had already set me up with an acceptable connection speed) and once I did, I found that all the other players were horny preteens. There are few things more unpleasant that cybersex between those who cannot spell “tongue”. The upcoming Sims2 is single-player, unless you want to make your own cooperative mode Stick and I did, so fans of the Sims Online may be frustrated. (I think they can find an AOL chatroom and talk about Hilary Duff, but that’s just me)

The bottom line? With less than three weeks to go, The Sims 2 looks like the most fun you can have without taking over the world.

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Pre-Season

I have come to the conclusion that I am too stupid to watch football. I can tell you the Julian-Claudian linage from Appius the Blind to Nero. I can debate post-colonial theory. I am lethal at AoE and Civ2. I can even drive a car! But I can’t actually follow a football game.

So I asked Stick to explain. Stick loves football, which is why we ended up with a table facing a TV at Theodore’s. I’m asking partly to be a good girlfriend, Stick has listened to enough of my interests to warrant a few hours of my attention. Anyway, I love strategy games and there’s got to be some strategy to football.

Stick gave forth in such unbridled excitement, I wondered if he’d been waiting months to tell me why the Packers are Satan-spawn and Randy Moss is a demi-god. He told me the names of the positions and drew little Xs and Os on the bar’s napkins, prompting me to ask if Os are bad guys or good guys. (Apparently it’s offence and defence. Who knew?) What are the rules for tackles? Why don’t they just fight like real men — hockey players, for example? Why’d they stop playing again? And why is “kickoff” a noun instead of a transitive verb? I couldn’t really follow Stick’s explanations, but I assumed it was the noise and distractions of the bar that kept me from really understanding what was going on. Football’s for dummies, and I’m a smart girl. I should have no problem with this.

This morning, with a head unclouded by Bayou Punch and Swamp Water, I asked my housemate Grant, former high-school football star, to explain a play to me. Of course, when he drew it, he used Xs, Os, and little squares and trianges. Cheater.

“And this O is the fall-back?” I asked.

“Fullback”

“Right. And the three triangles are the defensive lineup?”

“The triangles and the squares. It’s a three-four” (Note to self: that’s the name of the play, not the sides in the polygons)

“And what’s the 34 over here?”

Grant, like Stick, made a heroic effort to explain it to me. But I had so many questions! Why isn’t there a three-fourths-back? If this is pre-season, is there post-season football too? How are they all so big? Did they eat their veggies like mom said, or are they on steroids? And what’s the deal with face-painting? (At least hockey fans do it so they know who to punch when the brawl breaks out.) Grant explained in detail. “Encroachment is when contact is made in the neutral zone… Are you following?”

“Hey, I know what the neutral zone is! It’s what separates the Federation from the Klingons!”

It’s confirmed, I’m just not smart enough for football.

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Infatuation and rotten movies

Stick and I went to see The Village yesterday. I got the tickets, which is truly a rarity. Stick has this bizarre, old-fashioned notion that he needs to pay for me, which is sweet, but this time I ran a secret mission to the ticket box while he went to the ATM. This proves that the desire to pay is clearly some twisted macho thing (on my part, that is, not his).

At this point, I ran into my old roommates, Star and Sky, who’ve seen me through more than one case of Meg infatuation. The symtoms are clear to the observer, a dumb grin and the conviction that This Time I Mean It. After the hellos, I put my foot in my mouth with the seemingly innocuous “Sky, how’s your fiancĂ©?”

“He left me,”

Thankfully, befoe I could further embarrass myself, Stick came back from this ATM mission with smoothies! (See, girls? This Time Is Different!)

The teenaged guy checking tickets gives us a weird no-eye-contact mumble that means the movie theater is a Smoothie-Free Zone.

“Why are people who work in the movie theater so grumpy?” Stick asked. “I know why, ’cause they’re not with Meg!”

So we’re back in the lobby, with nothing to do by give ourselves brainfreeze by trying to chug a smoothie in under seven minutes. Don’t try this at home, kids. We’re professionals; Stick, who as a phone guy, regularly consumed his body mass in Slurpees, and me, a collectors of smoothies and smoothie guys’ phone numbers.

Stick also lets me put all the salt I want on our popcorn. (See why I like this boy?)

So we’re sneaking into the movie after the lights have gone down. We’re going to sit in the way back, the least disturbing place for those who were planning to speculate throughout the movie on the ending.

Then I walked into the handrail. I didn’t know that when you bash your leg into a solid object while carrying popcorn, the popcorn flies in the air and sprays the surrounding area. If it were an Olympic event, I’d have gotten a gold. Who knew that a small popcorn could cover such a big area?

That’s why people who work in movie theaters are REALLY so grumpy. Because klutzes like me pour their popcorn on the floor.

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Tragically Unhip

“You can tell a lot about a person from their car” Stick told me.

“Really?”

“Yeah, your car is a reflection of your personality.”

“No way, I notice clothes way more. A car’s just a way to get from point A to point B,”

“Clothes just keep you warm. And to keep boys from staring at you!” He reminds me. To give this a little perspective, we are in the parking lot outside his dorm. He’s the one in jeans, a t-shirt for some band, and sneakers, unlocking his Cougar. It’s the color of Liquitex French Ultramarine when he parks in the sun, and Winsor Purple in the shade. I’m wearing an ankle-length batik skirt, beaded sandals, enough jewelry to chime when I walk, and my beloved Volvo (Squeaky) is the color of a twenty-year-old station wagaon.

“Yeah, whatever. Love you! Bye!” is my characteristicallly mature response.

A few days later, I’m on my way back from a girls’ night clothing swap, on my way to see Stick when I realize I need petrol. In Massachussetts you have to pump your own gas, and I am constantly running out of gas in short skirts or heels. Sometimes I forget there’s a gas gage for a couple days and I’d probably end up standed on the side of the road somewhere, but then Grant bitches about gas prices and I remember again. Sometimes I forget I have a car, too, but usually only for a few hours. By the time I’m actually at the bus stop to go home, I remember. Quit laughing.

Anyway, the fellow at the next pump starts talking to me, and I’d like to think that he’s interested in my amazing good looks, but he’s letting me know where I can get a great paint-on rust inhibitor for the Volvo. I get to Stick’s and the girl on security lets me in. Visitors are supposed to be signed into the building, but recently I’ve been going over there so much that we just chat about her son or my classes for a few moments and then I go on.

“I recognized you”, she says. “Go on up.”

“It’s the car, isn’t it?” I ask. “You looked out and saw my ugly shoebox car!”

“Oh, no, hon, I heard the car long before I saw you. By the way, I love your dress,”

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Thank you, drive thru.

The concept of a drive-thru is awesome to a new driver. It’s like an obstacle course, a real-life Grand Turismo where at the end I win french fries. Actually, the concept of a drive-thru is pretty disturbing. So you pull up in your gas-guzzling car, because it would kill you to park and WALK in. You’d have to turn off your engine, get out, use your legs to walk in, and finally, make eye contact with the semi-literate taking your order.

First, the menu. Did you know the Atkins fad made it to McDonalds? There are new salads. They’re part of Value Meals because although bread and rice and pasta are evil, soda’s just fine.

Second, the ordering. I’m shouting into a metal box, and some kid is making minimum wage to listen to static on his headset and punch in what he thinks I might have ordered. My high-school boyfriend worked (briefly) in a Burger King where all the mildly competant employees fought to keep away from the drive-thru, leaving only the very new or very stoned to wear the headset.

Then you drive up to the window and hand over assorted bills and receive your food with an amount of change that has no bearing on the amount of money you’ve paid or the price of your meal.

If you’ve done this successfully, you’re sitting in your car with a bag of yummy fast food. Ok, I know what’s in McDonalds and Burger King meals hardly qualifies as food. I read Fast Food Nation and saw Supersize Me. But you know what? I’ll eat their fries anyway. Mmm, salt.

That’s another thing: Salt packets. No, not the fact that no one ever puts enough salt on fries for me (that’s a whole other rant), I’m wondering how many car accidents have been caused by someone looking down for a moment to fish the salf packet out of their McDonald’s bag, or unwrap a burger, or push their plastic straw into the plastic lid on their cup of soda. To be fair, not everyone is as bad a driver as I am. Some people have mastered the art of cellphone chatting, soda drinking or radio-station changing while driving. Stick claims to be able to shave and do the crossword (although not at the same time — I think) behind the wheel. So those with driving skills get, not french fries at the end of the obstacle course, but the big prize. The chance to fulfill our worst American stereotypes, eating greasy food without getting out of our gas-guzzling cars, getting fatter and lazier as our cars spill dirty smoke.

You might not want to stop by the Meg house for dinner anytime soon. I’m going to be cooking a lot of veggies and rice pilaf for the boys. And did I tell you they got me a Nascar game?

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Nascar & Superheroes

I should have known when we started passing more and more Nascar-stickered pick-ups. Actually, I should have known by the look on Stick’s face when he asked if I was ready to leave for the race. It was similar to the look on mine when asking “Stick, do you want to come to Jersey to pick up my car?” (Oh yeah, my Nascar adventure is a lot funnier if you remember how much I hate cars and driving. Bear in mine that I only got my license a year ago, and my car a week ago. I’d rather walk, bus or fly than drive, and I don’t know a tire from a transmissorator)

When Stick parked the car and we got out, swarms of people surrounded us, some of which were hot guys without their shirts! And some of which were tatooed grandfathers without shirts. Ick. Some groups were loosely connected family units, I felt like a tribal anthropologist, eavesdropping to see who was called “Mom.” And some father/daughter bonding that I realized later were mostly May-December couples.

These people wore American flag shirts, not Abie Hoffmann-style American flag turned into a shirt. I mean t-shirts silk-screened with the stars and stripes and an ubiquitous tie-dyed flag shirt, everywhere I looked I saw our nation’s icon pulling across dozens of sweaty beerbellies. They carried coolers, cushions and sweatshirts with the names of drivers and drivers’ sponsors. And I actually saw someone eating berk jerky!

I was missing a Crusaders game for this, and Stick had just gotten City of Heroes. Crusaders is an Aberrent tabletop game I play with about a dozen friends, we meet up to roll dice and pretend to save the world. CoH is the new MMORPG, so the point is basically the same. Periodically, we would look at each other and say “We could have been playing superheroes right now.” In my head, I was already writing an Abberrent one-shot, Rescue Thetis From The Rednecks. Poor Thetis, my superhero alter-ego, is stuck in a crowd of shirtless, sweaty rednecks, and she has to stay dormed or the rednecks will lynch her…

I was dormed, you know. I’d decided against my beaded sandals and batik skirt, but even in my innocuous-seeming tanktop and jeans, I looked wrong. Too much jewelry, not enough makeup. I felt even more wrong, where do these people come from? I leaned over to Stick, and whispered “I feel like Margeret Mead in Samoa”

“You don’t have to whisper,” he told me “No one here knows who that is,”

Once the cars start moving, whispering is out of the question. So we shouted back and forth with his family, discussing such topics as American Idol, the medical history of most of Agawam, and (my favorite) when Stick and I are going to have kids. I suppose I’m in no position to complain, dinner-table talk in the Stivison house often involves either a Biblical archeology debate or a litany of the stupid things I did as a kid.

Every surface is covered in ads for Budweiser and KFC, Trimspa and Stacker 2. Really good cyberpunk gives me a frightening vision of the future, but as I watch cars slam into the Nextel ads amid cheers and applause, I wonder if it’s entirely fiction.

Did I mention that car races aren’t like horse races? It’s 200 times around the track, not 4 or 5. I kind of like that, no way you can get lost on a circular track. Sometimes the cars get a flat or need gas or, in my extremely technical vocabulary, start making the CHchCHchCHchCHchCHch noise. Then they have to pull over and get fixed.

If a driver does something wrong, I’m a little hazy on exactly what you need to do wrong, maybe it’s passing on the right or something, they get a stop-and-go penalty. That means they have to parallel park. I love this park, to punish professional drivers, the judges make them parallel park.

And each direction I look, I see more and more people in the tie-dyed flag shirt.

“I bet that shirt’s not even made in America.” my union-ist boyfriend Stick hisses. We find where it’s being sold, and check the label. Sure enough, our American-flar t-shirts and made in El Salvador.

“Well, that’s over,” I announced to my household that night, dropping my bag and throwing myself headfirst on the couch.

“The Nascar thingy, or you and Stick?” Eric asked, looking up from his game of Civ3.

“Good question. I think just the race. He’s not going to make me do this again, is he?”

My housemate Grant came in later, asking how I liked the race. He started using secret code words like “stock car” and “closed track” and “America’s fastest growing sport”, so I left. I got in my beater station wagon and drove back to Stick’s.

“Hi, hon. Can we play pretend superheroes now?” So we watched Unbreakable and made Thetis for City of Heroes.

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Driving To Sterling

Last night I drove to Sterling to see Eric and my second family. Did you catch that? I drove. This is a major accomplishment, since I am a terrified of driving. But I haven’t seen my Eric in quite a while, so I took the risk.

“Are you staying in tonight?” I asked my housemate Chris during a brief stop at Castle Von Hoffmann before I drove out to the original Hoffmann home.

“Yeah.”

“Oh good. So when I call and say I broke down somewhere on the way to Sterling, you can come get me.” Chris is awesome, so he agreed.

On the way back, I got on Route 2 going the wrong way, and took a shortcut through Groton. For those not from Massachusetts, that’s a bit like Columbus’ shortcut to India.

“After that, you must have had fun on 202,” Grant said when I told him about my late-night automobile adventures.

“Are you kidding?” I told him, “I can do 202 in my sleep. Besides, it was so late that there were none of those pesky other cars around,”

“Right.” said Grant. On some occasions, I can read what’s going on in his head. This time, it was How did this girl get a license?

I was thrilled with my accomplishment last night. I mean, how often do I get to know what Grant’s really thinking?

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Hot Sex

One night Grant and I were at the liquor store, and there was a couple in line ahead of us. They nervously asked the guy at the till if the store had a drink called a Hot Sex.

The cashier shouted to the stockboy “Hey, Steve, there’s a couple here who needs hot sex, and I thought you could help them,”

The stockboy replied “What’s wrong, can’t you find hot sex on your own?”

The poor couple was blushing now, so the cashier continued with “Have you tried hot sex before? Has your girlfriend? Did you like it?”

The employees all proceded to harass them until they left. “Have a nice night, kids! Enjoy your hot sex!” It was great.

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