Where I talk about Fallout 3.
I’ve restarted Fallout 3 five times. I get a couple of hours into the game and start to get paranoid that I might’ve missed something I can never go back for. So I restart. And my instincts prove true. I am always one fork richer.
When I play a video game I scour every dark nook, every hidden cranny, for anything that could give me an advantage. If your video game is a garage sale, I am the person there at 5 a.m. on a Saturday offering four cents for something that costs a nickel. It’s for this reason that it is not wise for me to play a role-playing game when I have, say, anything at all to do ever.
Fallout 3 begins with your time in a socially, chronologically, and literally sealed Vault coming to a violent end, as your father has decided to ditch the Vault for reasons unknown and now, of course, the security staff is blaming you for bringing disharmony to their paradise.
You’re meant to snatch a gun or a baseball bat and follow swiftly behind your father; his footsteps your precursor, his plans a mystery. Guards were firing on me as I attempted to leave. Irradiated roaches that had infested the place were nipping at my heels. Despite the clear and present danger, I was shuffling along like a walker with an old lady at the wheel, taking bullets and insect bites in turn while I lumbered along overburdened by a wealth of forks, plates, drinking glasses, pencils, clipboards, and anything I had run across that wasn’t specifically programmed by a man with a Computer Science degree to not be taken.
My character is some sort of office supply thieving mummy. He casually slips a wrench into his pocket as he shambles towards the Vault’s exit, taking the time to stop and brain a security guard with a baseball bat if they get too close. Nice outfit that guard has on. Shall I take it? Yes, please.
I ended up leaving the Vault with about ten pairs of clothing I had looted from the dead, quite a few #2 pencils, five or six batons with my blood still fresh on them, 12 shot glasses, 11 drinking glasses, five plates, 4 forks, some bobby pins, a couple of 10mm pistols, a baseball hat, glove, and bat, and a healthy sense of accomplishment.
Why bother restarting the game so many times for junk that would barely get me any money, given that Fallout is a world where any given person would prefer a lone assault rifle to an entire set of kitchen equipment?* I don’t know. It probably has something to do with low self-esteem or father issues.
So there I go, encumbered by everything except my own dignity, inching forward like a pre-2000′s zombie. No danger of me running away from a giant leopard or some kind of murderous robot. I can see a shop in the distance, maybe a half a mile away. See you there in six hours.
* Yes, the game world is remakably similar to most Southern states.
October 30th, 2008 at 12:40 pm
Clearly Rockstar West needs to develop a zombie infested FPS with a dash of My Sims set in an Ikea. Where you kill, level up your character, and collect as many various plastic utensils, meatballs, and Swedish drapes as possible. I can see Curt playing this in an endless loop, like an MC Escher painting.
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November 1st, 2008 at 5:19 pm
I’ve been a hoarding, shambling mummy since starting this game many gameplay hours ago. I’ve almost forgotten what it is like to move unencumbered. And yet, on reaching a trader, I still can’t bring myself to sell much at all. “Maybe I’ll need it later!” or “This fork is worth more than that many caps; maybe someone else will give me a better deal.” are thoughts than run though my head.
So eventually I hang on to my gear like a laden mule and shamble off again, you know, just in case.
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November 4th, 2008 at 9:00 am
Nodmonkey, the forks aren’t worth it. Boxes of detergent are what the cool kids are hoarding.
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