I was absolutely entitled to not expect very much, let alone a revelation, out of Dead Rising. Capcom's marketing executives tricked everyone into apprehending a mindless bloodbath of a game, designed specifically for sweeping away the troubles of a tough day ; Microsoft's engineers may have been glad to finally have a strong showpiece for the processing power of their still-novel console, but that alone couldn't guarantee a game that would transcend the arcade-action mold. The reviewers of the time insisted that I understood how insanely fun it was to hack through hordes of undead with any object in sight, and although they bothered to point out the major flaws as well as the more peculiar touches of the gameplay, they failed to convince me that the game had something really special going for it. And lastly, while some may have been enticed by the prospect of taking part in a scenario inspired (if not downright stolen) from Dawn of the Dead, to me this felt more like pandering to a cult audience than actually renewing the spirit of a rich film. Imagine my surprise, then, when I realized the degree to which Dead Rising seemed to care about... people.
To be fair, it didn't take me very long to figure that I was embarking into something unique. Actually, a strange feeling struck me from the very opening of the game, and even further upon playing it a second time. Surveying the Willamette "riot" from the vantage point of a helicopter, through the lens of a photo camera, it occurred to me that the very first interactive segment of Dead Rising was not exactly about shocking the player with revolting scenes, but about allowing him a patient first glance at a phenomenon he or she would soon confront head-on: unsettling but not insistently so, kind of silly but still slightly human. A few minutes later, a short sequence in the Entrance Plaza evokes a feeling of reality through the body language of a few survivors trying to keep their grips on sanity. More than mere eye-candy, this attention to detail is in fact the perfect set-up for the brief and stirring outcome of the scene: straining to cross the hall back to safety upon intrusion of the zombies, the player witnesses, powerless, the slaughtering of these same survivors all around, announced in red, imposing lettering ("BRIAN REYNOLDS IS DEAD"). These small humanizing touches were the first to cue my change of attitude towards Dead Rising.
But how can a game sustain such an apparent interest for the human fragility of its characters? Sure, Dead Rising tells a pre-written story of collective survival, and a rather involving one at that, through a set of cutscenes of a remarkably humble and tonally unified quality (although still a little clumsy). But even if well-crafted cinematic storytelling is always appreciated, how can a game communicate meaning relevant to its subject through specific means of an algorithmic nature? Well, as it turns out, Dead Rising is amazing for the number of ways in which it manages to play with the concept of vulnerability, which add up into an astonishing experience of "survival horror". Together, the limited inventory space, the treacherous save system, the varying density of the zombie population, and (most importantly) the breakability of the improvised weapons, all combine to transform what could have a been a mindless killing spree into a tense and rather thoughtful exercise in resource management, risk calculation, and constant near-death experience. One could feel absolutely confident for an instant and completely helpless the next, all according to the specifics of his or her performance. This constant shifting of the player's comfort with the environment is a crucial component of the Dead Rising experience.
It goes further, however. As I mentioned earlier, Dead Rising relates a chronicle of collective survival, but what is so great about it is that it extends beyond the small group driving the plot forward to include wholly ordinary people pinned down by disaster, desperate for someone to apply a little common sense and get them through to someplace safe. The player is completely free to engage in escorting the numerous survivors scattered across the mall at different times of the three-day period, but the designers had the good idea of giving actual incentive to pursue these optional goals (through upgrades to the hero's abilities). But while obtaining such upgrades and killing time were the initial motivations I personally had for seeking out the poor civilians in need, it eventually became clear that this aspect of the game was much more interesting than it had any right to be, not least because of its sense of character: these are authentically distressed individuals, oftentimes holding on to a dear one, or lamenting a loss, or simply painfully alone. Carefully written dialogue snippets establish their pleas very effectively, and set up their distinct behaviour patterns.
To be fair, it didn't take me very long to figure that I was embarking into something unique. Actually, a strange feeling struck me from the very opening of the game, and even further upon playing it a second time. Surveying the Willamette "riot" from the vantage point of a helicopter, through the lens of a photo camera, it occurred to me that the very first interactive segment of Dead Rising was not exactly about shocking the player with revolting scenes, but about allowing him a patient first glance at a phenomenon he or she would soon confront head-on: unsettling but not insistently so, kind of silly but still slightly human. A few minutes later, a short sequence in the Entrance Plaza evokes a feeling of reality through the body language of a few survivors trying to keep their grips on sanity. More than mere eye-candy, this attention to detail is in fact the perfect set-up for the brief and stirring outcome of the scene: straining to cross the hall back to safety upon intrusion of the zombies, the player witnesses, powerless, the slaughtering of these same survivors all around, announced in red, imposing lettering ("BRIAN REYNOLDS IS DEAD"). These small humanizing touches were the first to cue my change of attitude towards Dead Rising.
But how can a game sustain such an apparent interest for the human fragility of its characters? Sure, Dead Rising tells a pre-written story of collective survival, and a rather involving one at that, through a set of cutscenes of a remarkably humble and tonally unified quality (although still a little clumsy). But even if well-crafted cinematic storytelling is always appreciated, how can a game communicate meaning relevant to its subject through specific means of an algorithmic nature? Well, as it turns out, Dead Rising is amazing for the number of ways in which it manages to play with the concept of vulnerability, which add up into an astonishing experience of "survival horror". Together, the limited inventory space, the treacherous save system, the varying density of the zombie population, and (most importantly) the breakability of the improvised weapons, all combine to transform what could have a been a mindless killing spree into a tense and rather thoughtful exercise in resource management, risk calculation, and constant near-death experience. One could feel absolutely confident for an instant and completely helpless the next, all according to the specifics of his or her performance. This constant shifting of the player's comfort with the environment is a crucial component of the Dead Rising experience.
It goes further, however. As I mentioned earlier, Dead Rising relates a chronicle of collective survival, but what is so great about it is that it extends beyond the small group driving the plot forward to include wholly ordinary people pinned down by disaster, desperate for someone to apply a little common sense and get them through to someplace safe. The player is completely free to engage in escorting the numerous survivors scattered across the mall at different times of the three-day period, but the designers had the good idea of giving actual incentive to pursue these optional goals (through upgrades to the hero's abilities). But while obtaining such upgrades and killing time were the initial motivations I personally had for seeking out the poor civilians in need, it eventually became clear that this aspect of the game was much more interesting than it had any right to be, not least because of its sense of character: these are authentically distressed individuals, oftentimes holding on to a dear one, or lamenting a loss, or simply painfully alone. Carefully written dialogue snippets establish their pleas very effectively, and set up their distinct behaviour patterns.
Needless to say, this leads to many interesting scenarios, as well as some heart-wrenching decisions. In short, the extreme unbalance produced by combining survivors of differing mobility and aggression levels tends to vary the rescue dynamics considerably: the single presence of a crippled or drunken character can severely hold back an otherwise competent group, while the apparent compulsion of others for getting into fights with the undead may lead to undesirable situations. But while it would be fair to fault the game for such irregularities, I actually came to embrace the unpredictable nature of the numerous escorts I undertook: the basic premise of Dead Rising appears specifically designed for chaos, and should prevent the very idea of an execution going according to plan. I suggested earlier that the core gameplay promoted vulnerability and sudden shifts in player comfort, and this is never more true than when escorting three or more survivors ; conversely, this makes the breaks for healing, saving or catching a breath seem much more deserved, and the decisions to abandon certain characters much more impactful, when it becomes clear that their presence is now hurting the group. Add this to the fact that it is practically impossible, at least on a standard play-through, to even attempt every escort, and you've got yourself a game experience uncommonly centered on conjuring feelings of inadequacy and failure.
Of course, no one thinks of drama and interesting game design when a computer-controlled, friendly character gets stuck into a doorway or piece of furniture. No one likes it when the hand-holding mechanic breaks up, or when the patrolling psychopaths haunting the central area ressuscitate without notice. But to a certain extent, Dead Rising is all about accepting and working around the flaws of the programming, and discovering the awkward beauty of its emergent outcomes. I remember a breathless run through the Entrance Plaza, reuniting two desperate women, getting a crabby fellow to part from his beloved antique shop, and beating the crap out of a trio of snipers pinning down a clueless shopper. I remember working my way for at least an hour with a group on the verge of death, and gradually understanding that I would never make it... not by going that way, in the least. I remember an epic rush through the park with six healthy young people, and getting them all through ; I equally remember attempting the same with a drunk, a limping girl and a granny, and failing in laughable fashion. Each of these scenarios played out in alternately frustrating and delightful manners, fleshed out with small details in character design that few development teams would have even bothered with. Each of these somehow felt real, mostly fair and deserved, and made me care deeply about the people involved.
I could go on and on about the sense of a community amidst chaos that Dead Rising manages to convey against all odds ; about the exquisite freedom of the player to set his own challenges, especially in the "final", solitary stages of the main game ; about the intense pleasure I experienced with the game's "overtime" phase, and the colossal sense of achievement upon completion. I could also yammer on about the game's shortcomings and oddities: the miserable design of its boss fights, small issues in maneuverability (aiming, mostly), an interesting but ultimately disposable photography pastime, some needlessly sexualized or stereotyped character models... But that would detract from the thing I take away the most from my experience with the game, which is the strength of its emergent drama and its sensible treatment of the human experience. With each passing scenario, as preposterous as they increasingly became, Dead Rising managed to make me feel good about helping people out of a stupendous mess, and treating them as proper human beings to the best of my capacity. It elicited plentiful sentiments of aggression, as promised by every material surrounding the game, but those destructive thoughts were evened out by a corresponding amount of true desperation, and ended up feeling as enthralling as the real thing would probably be. As flawed as it is, Dead Rising struck me as an amazing achievement, and a serious model for future games involving hands-on management of procedural mayhem. Until I play Left 4 Dead, I guess...
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