There are a plethora of games out there people have been practically raised on. Metal Gear, Super Mario, Sonic, Halo, Resident Evil, etc. These games have done well in standing the test of time, but isn't it time to throw in the towel and lay them to rest? They're not bad games and some would argue that they're the greatest games ever, which is all the more reason to finally lay them to rest. But, letting go is a lot harder to do when you love something and harder when it's profitable.
When people ask "What do you want the next X to be like?" at the release of X, I'm reminded of the phrase "It is better to be thought a fool and remain silent than to open ones mouth and remove all doubt". I envision the 'what next' question as something different than its literal posture: "Degradation anyone?", and would normally believe that the person posing the question has assumed the title is worth continuing when there's not indication that it's worth the cheap cellophane it was wrapped in. Sadly, the trend is for companies to push title after title in a series and generate a buzz about what's coming next immediately as though they couldn't care less about the reception. Force feed the masses a choice of A or B ; B being nothing and they'll take A every time. At least this is how it looks.
Titles in which there's rich story content have a limit they can be taken before it becomes chintzy and cheap, and shouldn't be pushed to a point that they're no longer valuable to the audience. From a business standpoint, early franchise retirement is probably the second dumbest thing that can be done to them next to never moving forward and making them, but it begs the question: "What is 'early'?" It varies, obviously, but in general closing it down before the story can be practically finished would be the concept. For example, Halo 3 was necessary but Halo: Reach is not. Metal Gear Solid 4 was desperately needed but Metal Gear: Rising is not. Unfortunately Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 3 will be necessary, but CoD: Black Ops is not.
Milking an IP for everything that can be had is the point of having an IP franchise and investing in it repeatedly; it's the 'safe bet' in a throw away society such as ours. If a game is something that people look upon as art (which many argue that it is), then why would it be okay to degrade it so much that it becomes mass produced garbage?
Because we're scared; terrified that when it's gone we'll never have anything like it again. We believe that once the story is over the title has no worth or value. Heavy Rain is over, is it without value? The original line of Metal Gear is over, has it no value?
I'm going to relay two very true personal stories, and I promise that despite how they'll sound, they have a related point:
When I was around 4 years old my grandmother passed away. I don't remember all of the details but I remember being in her hospital room during her passing because my mother facilitated it. See, my grandmother was terminally ill, riddled with cancer and most every joint was arthritic, and unbeknown to me at the time, despite her DNR order the hospital staff resuscitated her. Upon her reawakening I remember my grandmother being in intense pain, and crying out. I had been waiting outside of the room, playing with a toy of some kind so the ensuing commotion of her revival made me curious and I pushed the door open to see her attempting to sit up, attached to machines and writhing in pain. My father, who had immediately noticed me, quickly rushed to the door, smiled at me and said "it's okay, we need you to stay outside, okay son?" I nodded and went back to playing.
A short time later I was admitted to the room. My mother, speaking in a soft soothing tone, was talking to her about me and how I was growing up and how dad was promoted at work and how her husband, my grandfather was content. It seemed like eons had passed before a nurse walked in the door followed by a doctor and my grandmother sprang to life, asking profusely for pain medication. When the doctors refused, my parents stepped out of the room with the nurse and walked to the end of the corridor for a short time and then came back to sit down next to her. My mother looked at me and began to tear up before saying "We're going to leave soon Shawn, tell grandma good-bye". I didn't think much of it, it was the ritual we went through every other week. This time was different. My mother grabbed her mother's hand and slowly reached over, turned one of many little black knobs on a machine that was attached to several hoses running into my grandmothers nose and wept harder than I can ever recall. Before long the funny noises from the machine got softer and slower and within the hour my grandmother had passed away and the drone of a monotonous beep was the only sound other than my mother crying.
It would be years before I inquired about what had transpired that day and when I did my mother calmly explained in a blunt way, "I killed her". Initially my reactive thought was "You bitch! How could you kill your own mother?" And, that's pretty much exactly what I said to her. Then, in the same calm tone my mother said "And for her to live would be for the sake of whom? Would you let me suffer for the sake of yourself of grant me passage from pain? Was it really a selfish act to let her go as she wished? Know this boy," an uneasy tension in her voice began to show, "I stood by as they revived her, knowing that she didn't want it and now I live knowing I brought pain to the person I loved most. Letting her go before I was ready was the kindest act I could have done for her and my final act as a respectful daughter". The moral reversal bitch smack across the face was deserved and a part of me was looking to stir a truthful answer so was expected, but it still stung.
My grandfather, he was a good man before he died. He'd driven the landing craft during D-Day in WWII and was a Naval Sea Bee (Iron Work). He made 17 trips to and from the main troop ships and watched many good men, some of which were good friends, die. After the war he had survived his first wife who succumbed to death by way of burning alive in a fire on their farm and was forced to give up their 7 children to an orphanage. He later remarried and had only one child, my mother. He continued life an an iron worker in a local union and was part of many reconstruction projects that afforded him some spectacular stores, including being one of few people that has touched the toes of the "Statue of Freedom" while it still sat atop the Capitol Building in Washington, DC. He had been a proud man and took help from no one; stubborn, cocky, crude and quick tempered, but also compassionate and wise - the only man I knew physically stronger than my own father (by his own reluctant admittance).
Around the age of 8 my grandfather passed on. He'd gotten up in years, was stricken with Alzheimer's and in all honesty did little more than stare blankly at a wall or aimless wander around the house looking for something he allegedly lost but never really had. As a young child he was my best friend and lived two doors down the street from us. Often times while my parents went to work, my grandparents would keep me entertained through the day. I remember one sunny summer afternoon, my grandfather carried me to his garden at the edge of their small property to pick Cherry Tomatoes. He so loved his home grown Cherry Tomatoes and it was something we did together every day, so by default I too loved them.
Over time my grandfather began to "forget" things, like putting pants on before driving to the store and eventually we were forced to take him to a retirement home. My parents couldn't afford to take care of him; not in a financial way, in an emotional way and they lacked the required time and proper environment for him during those twilight years. I recall visiting him one day, sitting next to him a asking "Hey, Gran'dad how are you?". I bawled so hard when he responded, "Who in the hell are you people? Get away from me!" My mother tried to hold his quivering hand and my father started off with "Robert, we're your family", before being cut short by a quick retraction of his hand and more agitated yelling. We got up and drove the 2 hours back home, never to visit him again.
I suppose I repressed that memory for a very long time because it is a painful one, or because I was so young and unsure I remembered it at all. The instance had come back up over two decades later when my father was telling me what he wanted when it was his time to pass away, and seeing opportunity for clarity, I took it knowing that I could very well be smacked once more. I challenged the morality of abandonment by asking if never visiting my grandfather was the right thing to do.
At first I didn't really understand the logic behind what I felt was abandonment of a man who earned anything but. I didn't understand it because I had never dealt with a situation where I had to choose between my parents and my child, and I hope to never have to. The reason we didn't visit is because doing so hurt everyone. My grandfather was no longer in control of his own mind - his sense of self had dissolved to a point he didn't know his own name, age, or location. He'd become a simple machine; a body going through programmed meaningless motions. Us being there startled and annoyed him, and having loved him we didn't wish disrupt what his mind had created as 'comfortable'. He was in a different world, one where he was alone but secure. Fighting with him to remember, even if it was for just a momentary a temporary spark of recognition, would have been fine with me at the time - I just wanted my friend back. Ultimately though, this would result in having to endure the same thing over and over for the benefit of ourselves. As I was a young child he was by best friend and watching dance between being a physically aggressive 5 year old and a forgetful 75 year old without warning was emotionally traumatic and confusing for me. He was all my mother had left outside of my father and I, but they made the decision to leave him in relative peace for what little time he had. Part of me regrets never being able to tell him I loved him one more time, but I now know that it wouldn't be for anyone but myself. He didn't know who I was so it would be a hollow statement to an empty room.
My memories of him are few but they are among my favorite and most comforting memories of my childhood. His image in my mind is nothing less than the strong and proud former iron worker that would carry me tight to his barrel chest to his garden and share his favorite snack: Cherry Tomatoes. Reaching down with his thick, chiseled hands and picking ever so gently, something as small and fragile as a Cherry Tomato from an equally frail vine, he'd lightly sprinkle a tiny amount of salt on each one before and placing it to my mouth. Sometimes I can still taste them when a soft summer breeze blows across my face decades older. And I'm reminded of him.
I used to wonder if we'd visited him during his period of decline would those good memories become tarnished and give way to something sour and disliked or worse, unimportant. I have my answer now though, and I'm holding what I have, thankful that they are unchanged by the tragedy that befell him in the elderly state I wasn't there to witness.
What makes the death painful to the audience is not the death itself but the remembrance or the presumed value of life preceding; the unwillingness to let go of things loved and cherished is what people cling to. Perhaps the other part of what makes death painful is that choice in the matter does not exist. In games, the audience enjoys being able to choose what the character does, where they go and create reasons for why things happen when there aren't any given. In death, this is impossible and becomes a terrifying prospect.
Reading this, most people would feel a sense of empathy, if not at least sympathy towards these accounts. They're not tragic in any way but we're taught, or at some point gain the belief that, death is abnormally tragic when in fact it's quite normal. People die. It's expected to be dysphoric, but the grand finally of all life of every kind is an eternal still.
There is a similar fear in Hollywood and in the games industry that main characters must be able to say some prolific last words, portray a sort of metaphor, or be accompanied by a kind of fanfare at their time of death if they are to die; the hero must always die a heroes death, always be tragic and that when all else fails provide someone else to carry the story forward to lessen the predicted disappointment. Keep everyone happy all the time, and if anyone has ever paid attention to Aesop and his famed fables, they'd have learned that you cannot keep all of the people happy all of the time. But, exactly how many movies like The Land Before Time, and All Dogs Go To Heaven or seasons of SNL and South Park must an audience suffer before things wind down and the creators realize it's over.
Games, like movies and books, have an author, someone who's job it is to write the events in a story format and to keep the audience entertained beyond systematic buttons and mechanical levers; they give those buttons and levers a reason for interaction and characters impact and purpose. Games writers are in many ways similar to a playwright. And, most playwrights will respect Shakespeare whether they like his style, fully appreciate his contributions, or understand what he's written. The same goes for audiences - so it becomes strange then when such an iconic playwright can end the life of their protagonist in what is considered the most influential work of dramatic literature with two simple words and others cannot.
In Act V, Scene III of King Lear, Shakespeare writes: “He Dies”; the simplest words with the humblest presentation ends the life of the central protagonist who spanned a great many events beforehand. Lear doesn’t continue on in a Pomp and Circumstance parade of words detailing a central wisdom of events during an elongated death, he doesn’t generate a huge commotion, nor is there dramatic closure exposing hidden meaning. The entire play culminates at the death of King Lear. The death of Lear has monumental impact to the entire play. It saddens both the late King's fictional companions and audiences alike, but they live on to experience a different story altogether.
Let us turn now to the wonderment of not how, but why these franchises need to simply die off:
