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How I Spoiled Recettear for Myself — And Why Ignorance Is Sometimes Awesome

@raddevon

This post has not been edited by the GamesBeat staff. Opinions by GamesBeat community writers do not necessarily reflect those of the staff.

Recettear

Games are like the Wizard of Oz — far more impressive when a thick curtain of mystery and wonder hides the inner workings (or the short man, as the case may be). Recent indie darling Recettear: An Item Shop's Tale reminded me of this sad fact just as I began my third attempt at repaying my family's debt to the usury fairy.
 
But wait, some context: In Recettear, you manage an item shop to earn money used to repay the gargantuan debt left behind by your father. If you make all the payments, you win the game. If you miss one, you restart with your current level and inventory intact. No one wins on the first try. At least, no one wins on the first try without help.
 
By the third go 'round, I was ready to put the game to bed. It's enjoyable, but I can only take so much of the Groundhog Day-ness of it. With about 20 hours logged and two attempts blown, I resorted to searching out strategies online. I found some excellent information…and by "excellent," I mean "thorough"…and by "thorough," I mean "terrible."
 

The game has been available for a matter of weeks. This is the only fact you need in order to understand that the Internet has already discovered every quirk, every eccentricity, and every bit of minutiae anyone could ever glean from it without combing through the source code line-by-line. The Internet is working on that as we speak.

Said strategies told me exactly how to make customers happy with the precise selling prices necessary to gain their trust. Then, they told me when and how to take advantage of this newfound trust to gain maximum profits. That sounds familiar. Gain their trust, then take full advantage when they express gratitude. Hmm. I felt like I was back in sales training at Comcast. This is not a good thing.

Up to this point the game felt really dynamic. The shoppers obviously had different thresholds for how much markup they could tolerate, but I had yet to discover exactly what those were. I had noticed the little hearts, which indicated the shopper was very happy with the price, but I didn't really even know how (or if) this affected the game. It was the simpler time in the relationship before you discovered that she pees in the shower and likes erotic fan-fiction based on The Simpsons. I was enjoying the process of slowly uncovering the game's mysteries.

Armed with more than enough information to complete the game on my next attempt…I never did. Now that I knew how simplistic the game's wants and desires were, it was really more joke than game. It was immature, like a baby — a simple little bundle of wants and needs without the tools to properly convey them. Sadly, my love affair with Recettear had ended.

 
High-level Recettear

The game's designers are not to blame — I accept full responsibility for ruining the game for myself. Every mechanic has to have limits. The game is working inside a box made by its developer, and aside from the odd patch or update, that box doesn't really change once the game ships. Even the most sophisticated systems with multiple logic branches and if/then statements nested deeply enough to accommodate the largest of fowl still has limits. (Get it? You see, I'm using "nested" as a pun here, and that's what a bird…nevermind.)

Every game has these limitations. We live every day in a world of almost infinite possibility; we want our games to capture as much of that possibility as they can…and they do. Sadly, that isn’t much.

Each choice and branching decision we can make in a game involves a developer sitting in front of a computer saying to himself, “Maybe we should let the player do this cool thing!” He codes for a while, and — presto! — we have a facsimile of a tiny choice we might make in real life available to the character, our connection to the virtual world.

And when we hit those game-world boundaries — the little things we try that didn’t quite work as we had hoped — it's always a let down.

Some games are worse than others. Perhaps they show you an obstacle that should be easy to jump over, but they didn’t give you a jump button. You see buildings, but you can't enter and explore them. Some games shine their light elsewhere and are less concerned with possibilities.

I was never bothered by my inability to jump in Mass Effect. OK, that’s not entirely true, but since the game was focused on conversation and narrative, it wasn’t really a big deal. Now, when I wasn’t able to say exactly what I wanted to say in conversation…that was another issue entirely.

In games like Recettear, where much of the focus is on one or two key mechanics, the limitations are front-and-center. Haggling in life is dynamic, interesting, and, if you have the proper disposition, fun! I can make an offer and explain why, playing to their sympathies. They may refuse but later call me up and say they decided to accept. The motives of both parties are complicated as are their criteria for an acceptable offer.

On the surface, Recettear appears to have captured many of these traits. As I said, I played through more than 20 hours and was enthralled. Of course, in the back of my mind I always realize there are limitations. They don’t have an army of dudes (and dudettes) sitting around haggling with me on the back-end.

Part of me just wants to forget. I know a computer program has more limitations than life, but I want to get lost in the simulation. My only hope is that the simulation is deep enough that I never actually butt heads with the limits. Ignorance is sometimes awesome.

Once those limits are apparent — revealed to you either through gameplay or more nefarious sources (i.e. the Internet) — the game loses something. In a title like Recettear, where a big piece of the fun is in haggling with shoppers and trying to figure out what makes them tick, losing that sense of mystery is damning. The game is about that discovery. I hope, for your sake, you acquire that knowledge through play. If so, you have wrung from the game what the designers intended. Take the information when it's handed to you on a silver platter, and — trust me on this — you're only hurting yourself.

 
 
[My article was drastically improved by Bryan Harper. Our bromance blossomed so beautifully, we plan to continue our editing partnership even after this writing challenge!  -Devon]
 
In the case of machines we come to rely on, there are definite advantages to knowing as much as possible. In the case of video games, it usually helps me to have much of the inner workings hidden behind a thick curtain of mystery and wonder. I was reminded of this sad fact soon after beginning my third attempt repaying my father's loan in recent indie darling Recettear.
 
In order for you, dear reader, to understand fully, I need to tell you a bit about the game — give you some much-needed context. In Recettear, you manage an item shop to earn money used to repay the gargantuan debt left behind by your father. If you make all the payments, you win the game. If you miss one, you restart the game with your current level and inventory intact. No one wins on the first try. At least, no one wins on the first try without help.
 
By the third go 'round, I was ready to put the game to bed. It's enjoyable, but I can only take so much of the Groundhog Day-ness of it (read: not a Dead Rising fan). With about 20 hours logged and two attempts blown, I resorted to searching out strategies online. I found some excellent information… and by "excellent," I mean "thorough"… and by "thorough," I mean "terrible."
 
The game has been available for a matter of weeks. This is the only fact you need in order to understand that the Internet has already discovered every quirk, every eccentricity, and every bit of minutiae anyone could ever glean from it without combing through the source code line-by-line. The Internet is working on that as we speak.
 
Said strategies told me exactly how to make customers happy with the precise selling prices necessary to gain their trust. Then, they told me when and how to take advantage of this newfound trust to gain maximum profits. That sounds familiar. Gain their trust, then take full advantage when they express gratitude. Hmm. I felt like I was back in sales training at Comcast. This is not a good thing.
 
Up to this point, the game felt really dynamic. The shoppers obviously had different thresholds for how much markup they could tolerate, but I had yet to discover exactly what those were. I had noticed the little hearts which indicated the shopper was very happy with the price, but I didn't really even know how (or if) this affected the game. It was the simpler time in the relationship before you discovered she pees in the shower and likes erotic fan-fiction based on The Simpsons. I was enjoying the process of slowly uncovering the game's mysteries.
 
This new information armed me with more than enough to complete the game on my next attempt… but I never did. Now that I knew how simplistic the game's wants and desires were, it was really more joke than game. It was immature like a baby — a simple little bundle of wants and needs without the tools to properly convey them. Sadly, my love affair with Recettear had ended.
 
The game's designers are not to blame for this. I accept full responsibility for ruining the game for myself. Every mechanic has to have limits. The game is working inside a box made by its developer. Aside from the odd patch or update, that box doesn't really change once the game ships. Even the most sophisticated systems with multiple logic branches and if/then statements nested deeply enough to accommodate the largest of fowl still has limits. (Get it? You see, I'm using "nested" as a pun here, and that's what a bird… nevermind.)
 
Every game has these limitations. We human beings live every day in a world of almost infinite possibility. We want our games to capture as much of that possibility as they can… and they do. Sadly, that isn’t much. 
 
Each choice and branching decision we can make in a game is a developer sitting in front of a computer saying to himself, “Maybe we should let the player do this cool thing!” He codes for a while, and — presto! — we have a facsimile of a tiny choice we might make in real life available to the character, our connection to the virtual world.
 
Games are sold based on what they have rather than what they don’t. Being proper enthusiasts, we gorge ourselves on all the information leading up to release. We bring home the new game excited about the possibilities. To return to the box metaphor, once we have this box inside our home, it’s hard not to see the box’s dimensions, regardless of how sexy the box is.
 
The walls of the box are little disappointments, little things we try that didn’t quite work as we had hoped; they are options we would have had in life (if life were like the world of the game) that we now discover are missing.
 
Some games are worse than others. Perhaps they show you an obstacle that would be easy to jump over, but they didn’t give you a jump button. They show you buildings which are meant to be real, but you cannot enter and explore. Some games shine their light elsewhere and are less concerned with possibilities.
 
I was never bothered by my inability to jump in Mass Effect. OK, that’s not entirely true… there were probably times that was a little annoying, but since the game is focused on conversation and narrative, it wasn’t really a big deal. Now, when I wasn’t able to say exactly what I wanted to say in conversation… that is another issue entirely.
 
In games like Recettear where much of the focus is on one or two mechanics meant to compose the fun of the game, the limitations are front-and-center. Haggling in life is dynamic, interesting, and, if you have the proper disposition, fun! I can make an offer and explain why, playing to their sympathies. They may refuse but later call me up and say they decided to accept. The motives of both parties are complicated as are their criteria for an acceptable offer.
 
On the surface, Recettear appears to have captured many of these traits. As I said, I played through more than 20 hours and was enthralled. Of course, in the back of my mind I always realize there are limitations. They don’t have an army of dudes (and dudettes) sitting around haggling with me on the back-end.
 
Part of me just wants to forget. I know a computer program has more limitations than life, but I want to get lost in the simulation. My only hope is that the simulation is deep enough that I never actually butt heads with the limits. Ignorance is sometimes awesome.
 
Once those limits are apparent, having been revealed to you either through play of the game or from above (i.e. the Internet), the game loses something. In a game like Recettear where a big piece of the fun is in haggling with shoppers and trying to figure out what makes them tick, losing that sense of mystique is damning. The game is about that discovery. I hope, for your sake, you acquire that omniscience through play. If so, you have gotten from the game what the designers intended. Take the information when its handed to you on a silver platter, and — trust me on this — you're only hurting yourself.
The
automobile is a mystery to me. I know what one is and I have a very basic understanding of how one works (the emphasis here is on the word "very"), but my understanding is not nearly nuanced enough to begin to fix one or to figure out why it might be broken. In general, I get around this by doing heavy research before buying a car to be sure I get the most reliable one available. Unfortunately, even the most reliable cars inevitably break and need fixing — fixing I can't begin to deliver. It's at this point I usually lament my lack of knowledge and start digging into my savings account making out the check to my friendly and trustworthy (albeit overpriced) mechanic.
 
In the case of machines we come to rely on, there are definite advantages to knowing as much as possible. In the case of video games, it usually helps me to have much of the inner workings hidden behind a thick curtain of mystery and wonder. I was reminded of this sad fact soon after beginning my third attempt repaying my father's loan in recent indie darling Recettear.
 
In order for you, dear reader, to understand fully, I need to tell you a bit about the game — give you some much-needed context. In Recettear, you manage an item shop to earn money used to repay the gargantuan debt left behind by your father. If you make all the payments, you win the game. If you miss one, you restart the game with your current level and inventory intact. No one wins on the first try. At least, no one wins on the first try without help.
 
By the third go 'round, I was ready to put the game to bed. It's enjoyable, but I can only take so much of the Groundhog Day-ness of it (read: not a Dead Rising fan). With about 20 hours logged and two attempts blown, I resorted to searching out strategies online. I found some excellent information… and by "excellent," I mean "thorough"… and by "thorough," I mean "terrible."
 
The game has been available for a matter of weeks. This is the only fact you need in order to understand that the Internet has already discovered every quirk, every eccentricity, and every bit of minutiae anyone could ever glean from it without combing through the source code line-by-line. The Internet is working on that as we speak.
 
Said strategies told me exactly how to make customers happy with the precise selling prices necessary to gain their trust. Then, they told me when and how to take advantage of this newfound trust to gain maximum profits. That sounds familiar. Gain their trust, then take full advantage when they express gratitude. Hmm. I felt like I was back in sales training at Comcast. This is not a good thing.
 
Up to this point, the game felt really dynamic. The shoppers obviously had different thresholds for how much markup they could tolerate, but I had yet to discover exactly what those were. I had noticed the little hearts which indicated the shopper was very happy with the price, but I didn't really even know how (or if) this affected the game. It was the simpler time in the relationship before you discovered she pees in the shower and likes erotic fan-fiction based on The Simpsons. I was enjoying the process of slowly uncovering the game's mysteries.
 
This new information armed me with more than enough to complete the game on my next attempt… but I never did. Now that I knew how simplistic the game's wants and desires were, it was really more joke than game. It was immature like a baby — a simple little bundle of wants and needs without the tools to properly convey them. Sadly, my love affair with Recettear had ended.
 
The game's designers are not to blame for this. I accept full responsibility for ruining the game for myself. Every mechanic has to have limits. The game is working inside a box made by its developer. Aside from the odd patch or update, that box doesn't really change once the game ships. Even the most sophisticated systems with multiple logic branches and if/then statements nested deeply enough to accommodate the largest of fowl still has limits. (Get it? You see, I'm using "nested" as a pun here, and that's what a bird… nevermind.)
 
Every game has these limitations. We human beings live every day in a world of almost infinite possibility. We want our games to capture as much of that possibility as they can… and they do. Sadly, that isn’t much. 
 
Each choice and branching decision we can make in a game is a developer sitting in front of a computer saying to himself, “Maybe we should let the player do this cool thing!” He codes for a while, and — presto! — we have a facsimile of a tiny choice we might make in real life available to the character, our connection to the virtual world.
 
Games are sold based on what they have rather than what they don’t. Being proper enthusiasts, we gorge ourselves on all the information leading up to release. We bring home the new game excited about the possibilities. To return to the box metaphor, once we have this box inside our home, it’s hard not to see the box’s dimensions, regardless of how sexy the box is.
 
The walls of the box are little disappointments, little things we try that didn’t quite work as we had hoped; they are options we would have had in life (if life were like the world of the game) that we now discover are missing.
 
Some games are worse than others. Perhaps they show you an obstacle that would be easy to jump over, but they didn’t give you a jump button. They show you buildings which are meant to be real, but you cannot enter and explore. Some games shine their light elsewhere and are less concerned with possibilities.
 
I was never bothered by my inability to jump in Mass Effect. OK, that’s not entirely true… there were probably times that was a little annoying, but since the game is focused on conversation and narrative, it wasn’t really a big deal. Now, when I wasn’t able to say exactly what I wanted to say in conversation… that is another issue entirely.
 
In games like Recettear where much of the focus is on one or two mechanics meant to compose the fun of the game, the limitations are front-and-center. Haggling in life is dynamic, interesting, and, if you have the proper disposition, fun! I can make an offer and explain why, playing to their sympathies. They may refuse but later call me up and say they decided to accept. The motives of both parties are complicated as are their criteria for an acceptable offer.
 
On the surface, Recettear appears to have captured many of these traits. As I said, I played through more than 20 hours and was enthralled. Of course, in the back of my mind I always realize there are limitations. They don’t have an army of dudes (and dudettes) sitting around haggling with me on the back-end.
 
Part of me just wants to forget. I know a computer program has more limitations than life, but I want to get lost in the simulation. My only hope is that the simulation is deep enough that I never actually butt heads with the limits. Ignorance is sometimes awesome.
 
Once those limits are apparent, having been revealed to you either through play of the game or from above (i.e. the Internet), the game loses something. In a game like Recettear where a big piece of the fun is in haggling with shoppers and trying to figure out what makes them tick, losing that sense of mystique is damning. The game is about that discovery. I hope, for your sake, you acquire that omniscience through play. If so, you have gotten from the game what the designers intended. Take the information when its handed to you on a silver platter, and — trust me on this — you're only hurting yourself.
The automobile is a mystery to me. I know what one is and I have a very basic understanding of how one works (the emphasis here is on the word "very"), but my understanding is not nearly nuanced enough to begin to fix one or to figure out why it might be broken. In general, I get around this by doing heavy research before buying a car to be sure I get the most reliable one available. Unfortunately, even the most reliable cars inevitably break and need fixing — fixing I can't begin to deliver. It's at this point I usually lament my lack of knowledge and start digging into my savings account making out the check to my friendly and trustworthy (albeit overpriced) mechanic.
 
In the case of machines we come to rely on, there are definite advantages to knowing as much as possible. In the case of video games, it usually helps me to have much of the inner workings hidden behind a thick curtain of mystery and wonder. I was reminded of this sad fact soon after beginning my third attempt repaying my father's loan in recent indie darling Recettear.
 
In order for you, dear reader, to understand fully, I need to tell you a bit about the game — give you some much-needed context. In Recettear, you manage an item shop to earn money used to repay the gargantuan debt left behind by your father. If you make all the payments, you win the game. If you miss one, you restart the game with your current level and inventory intact. No one wins on the first try. At least, no one wins on the first try without help.
 
By the third go 'round, I was ready to put the game to bed. It's enjoyable, but I can only take so much of the Groundhog Day-ness of it (read: not a Dead Rising fan). With about 20 hours logged and two attempts blown, I resorted to searching out strategies online. I found some excellent information… and by "excellent," I mean "thorough"… and by "thorough," I mean "terrible."
 
The game has been available for a matter of weeks. This is the only fact you need in order to understand that the Internet has already discovered every quirk, every eccentricity, and every bit of minutiae anyone could ever glean from it without combing through the source code line-by-line. The Internet is working on that as we speak.
 
Said strategies told me exactly how to make customers happy with the precise selling prices necessary to gain their trust. Then, they told me when and how to take advantage of this newfound trust to gain maximum profits. That sounds familiar. Gain their trust, then take full advantage when they express gratitude. Hmm. I felt like I was back in sales training at Comcast. This is not a good thing.
 
Up to this point, the game felt really dynamic. The shoppers obviously had different thresholds for how much markup they could tolerate, but I had yet to discover exactly what those were. I had noticed the little hearts which indicated the shopper was very happy with the price, but I didn't really even know how (or if) this affected the game. It was the simpler time in the relationship before you discovered she pees in the shower and likes erotic fan-fiction based on The Simpsons. I was enjoying the process of slowly uncovering the game's mysteries.
 
This new information armed me with more than enough to complete the game on my next attempt… but I never did. Now that I knew how simplistic the game's wants and desires were, it was really more joke than game. It was immature like a baby — a simple little bundle of wants and needs without the tools to properly convey them. Sadly, my love affair with Recettear had ended.
 
The game's designers are not to blame for this. I accept full responsibility for ruining the game for myself. Every mechanic has to have limits. The game is working inside a box made by its developer. Aside from the odd patch or update, that box doesn't really change once the game ships. Even the most sophisticated systems with multiple logic branches and if/then statements nested deeply enough to accommodate the largest of fowl still has limits. (Get it? You see, I'm using "nested" as a pun here, and that's what a bird… nevermind.)
 
Every game has these limitations. We human beings live every day in a world of almost infinite possibility. We want our games to capture as much of that possibility as they can… and they do. Sadly, that isn’t much. 
 
Each choice and branching decision we can make in a game is a developer sitting in front of a computer saying to himself, “Maybe we should let the player do this cool thing!” He codes for a while, and — presto! — we have a facsimile of a tiny choice we might make in real life available to the character, our connection to the virtual world.
 
Games are sold based on what they have rather than what they don’t. Being proper enthusiasts, we gorge ourselves on all the information leading up to release. We bring home the new game excited about the possibilities. To return to the box metaphor, once we have this box inside our home, it’s hard not to see the box’s dimensions, regardless of how sexy the box is.
 
The walls of the box are little disappointments, little things we try that didn’t quite work as we had hoped; they are options we would have had in life (if life were like the world of the game) that we now discover are missing.
 
Some games are worse than others. Perhaps they show you an obstacle that would be easy to jump over, but they didn’t give you a jump button. They show you buildings which are meant to be real, but you cannot enter and explore. Some games shine their light elsewhere and are less concerned with possibilities.
 
I was never bothered by my inability to jump in Mass Effect. OK, that’s not entirely true… there were probably times that was a little annoying, but since the game is focused on conversation and narrative, it wasn’t really a big deal. Now, when I wasn’t able to say exactly what I wanted to say in conversation… that is another issue entirely.
 
In games like Recettear where much of the focus is on one or two mechanics meant to compose the fun of the game, the limitations are front-and-center. Haggling in life is dynamic, interesting, and, if you have the proper disposition, fun! I can make an offer and explain why, playing to their sympathies. They may refuse but later call me up and say they decided to accept. The motives of both parties are complicated as are their criteria for an acceptable offer.
 
On the surface, Recettear appears to have captured many of these traits. As I said, I played through more than 20 hours and was enthralled. Of course, in the back of my mind I always realize there are limitations. They don’t have an army of dudes (and dudettes) sitting around haggling with me on the back-end.
 
Part of me just wants to forget. I know a computer program has more limitations than life, but I want to get lost in the simulation. My only hope is that the simulation is deep enough that I never actually butt heads with the limits. Ignorance is sometimes awesome.
 
Once those limits are apparent, having been revealed to you either through play of the game or from above (i.e. the Internet), the game loses something. In a game like Recettear where a big piece of the fun is in haggling with shoppers and trying to figure out what makes them tick, losing that sense of mystique is damning. The game is about that discovery. I hope, for your sake, you acquire that omniscience through play. If so, you have gotten from the game what the designers intended. Take the information when its handed to you on a silver platter, and — trust me on this — you're only hurting yourself.

[Bryan's edits in yellow]

 

The automobile is a mystery to me. I know what one is and I have a very basic understanding of how one works (the emphasis here is on the word "very"), but my understanding is not nearly nuanced enough to begin to fix one or to figure out why it might be broken.(Nuanced refers to a gradual accumulation; I’m not sure this adjective fits well in this context.  Maybe replace with something more straight-forward, such as “compiled” or maybe even “polished” to give more of a sense that you’re speaking of the final result of your knowledge) In general, I get around this by doing heavy research before buying a car to be sure I get the most reliable one available. Unfortunately, even the most reliable cars inevitably break and need fixing — fixing I can't begin to deliver. It's at this point I usually lament my lack of knowledge and start digging into my savings account making out the check to my friendly and trustworthy (albeit overpriced) mechanic. (Ha!)

In the case of machines we come to rely on, there are definite advantages to knowing as much as possible. In the case of video games, it usually helps to have much of the inner workings hidden behind a thick curtain of mystery and wonder. (Personal reflection; might want to change to “In the case of video games, it usually helps me”)I was reminded of this sad fact soon after beginning my third attempt repaying my father's loan in recent indie darling Recettear.

In order for you, dear reader, to understand fully, I need to tell you a bit about the game — give you some much-needed context. In Recettear, you manage an item shop to earn money used to repay the gargantuan debt left behind by your father. If you make all the payments, you win the game. If you miss one, you restart the game with your current level and inventory intact. No one wins on the first try. At least, no one wins on the first try without help.

By the third go 'round, I was ready to put the game to bed. It's enjoyable, but I can only take so much of the Groundhog Dayness of it (read: not a Dead Rising fan) (Try “Groundhog Day-ness”). With about 20 hours logged and two attempts blown, I resorted to searching out strategies online. I found some excellent information… and by "excellent," I mean "thorough"… and by "thorough," I mean "terrible."

The game has been available for a matter of weeks. This is the only fact you need in order to understand that the Internet has already discovered every quirk, every eccentricity, and every bit of minutiae anyone could ever glean from it without combing through the source code line-by-line. (That’s a six-dollar word!) The Internet is working on that as we speak.

Said strategies told me exactly how to make customers happy with the precise selling prices necessary to gain their trust. Then, they told me when and how to take advantage of this newfound trust to gain maximum profits. Gain their trust then take full advantage when they express gratitude. (Looks fragmented, but I see where you’re coming from; try “Then, they told me when and how to take advantage of this newfound trust to gain maximum profits: Gain their trust, then take full advantage when they express gratitude.”) Hmm. I felt like I was back in sales training at Comcast. This is not a good thing.

Up to this point, the game felt really dynamic. The shoppers obviously had different thresholds for how much markup they could tolerate, but I had yet to discover exactly what those were. I had noticed the little hearts which indicated the shopper was very happy with the price, but I didn't really even know how (or if) this affected the game. It was the simpler time in the relationship before you discovered she pees in the shower and likes erotic Simpsons fan-fiction (haha.  And it looks weird, but if you’re quoting the show’s title, make it a full “The Simpsons” so there’s no question). I was enjoying the process of slowly uncovering the game's mysteries.

This new-found information armed me with more than enough to complete the game on my next attempt… but I never did. Now that I knew how simplistic were the game's wants and desires, it was really more joke than game (Bit of a brain twister; try “Now that I knew how simplistic the game’s wants and desires were”). It was immature like a baby — a simple little bundle of wants and needs without the tools to properly convey them. Sadly, my love affair with Recettear had ended.

The game's designers are not to blame for this. I accept full responsibility for ruining the game for myself. Every mechanic has to have limits. The game is working inside a box made by its developer. Aside from the odd patch or update, that box doesn't really change once the game ships. Even the most sophisticated systems with multiple logic branches and if/then statements nested deeply enough to accommodate the largest of fowl still has limits. (Get it? You see, I'm using "nested" as a pun here, and that's what a bird… nevermind.) (/facepalm)

Every game has these limitations. We human beings live every day in a world of almost infinite possibility. We want our games to capture as much of that possibility as they can… and they do. Sadly, that isn’t much.

Each choice and branching decision we can make in a game is a developer sitting in front of a computer saying to himself, “Maybe we should let the player do this cool thing!” He codes for a while, and — presto! — we have a facsimile of a tiny choice we might make in real life available to the character who is our connection to the virtual world (Try a comma.  “…available to the character, our connection to the virtual world”.  Breaks up the sentence oh-so-slightly).

Games are sold based on what they have rather than what they don’t. Being proper enthusiasts, we gorge ourselves on all the information leading up to release. We bring home the new game excited about the possibilities. To return to the box metaphor, once we have this box inside our home, its hard not to see its sides of it regardless of how sexy the box is. (Try “…once we have this box inside our home, it’s hard not to see the box’s dimensions, regardless of how sexy the box is”.  Also, make sure regardless, you’re saying “it’s”.  I see what you were trying to convey, but the wording’s kinda confusing)

The walls of the box are little disappointments, little things we tried that didn’t quite work as we had hoped. An option we would have had in life (if life were like the world of the game) that we now discover is missing. (Try a semicolon in-between sentence one and two, and drop the caps.  Bad fragment is bad!)

Some games are worse than others. Perhaps they show you an obstacle that would be easy to jump over, but they didn’t give you a jump button. They show you buildings which are meant to be real but that you cannot enter and explore (try “They show you buildings which are meant to be real, but you cannot enter and explore.”) Some games shine their light elsewhere and are less concerned with possibilities.

I was never bothered by my inability to jump in Mass Effect. OK, that’s not entirely true.(This would be a good spot for an elipse) There were probably times that was a little annoying, but since the game is focused on conversation and narrative, it wasn’t really a big deal. Now, when I wasn’t able to say exactly what I wanted to say in conversation… that is another issue entirely. (Agreed!)

In games like Recettear where much of the focus is on one or two mechanics meant to compose the fun of the game, the limitations are front-and-center. Haggling in life is dynamic, interesting, and, if you have the proper disposition, fun! I can make an offer and explain why, play to their sympathies. (Try “playing” instead of “play”. Reads better as a descriptive action) They may refuse but later call me up and say they decided to accept. The motives of both parties are complicated as are their criteria for an acceptable offer.

On the surface, Recettear appears to have captured many of these traits. As I said, I played through more than 20 hours and was enthralled. Of course, in the back of my mind I always realize there are limitations. They don’t have an army of dudes (and dudettes) sitting around haggling with me on the back-end.

Part of me just wants to forget. I know a computer program has more limitations than life, but I want to get lost in the simulation. My only hope is that the simulation is deep enough that I never actually butt heads with the limits. Ignorance is sometimes awesome.

Once those limits are apparent having been revealed to you either through play of the game or from above (i.e. the Internet), the game loses something (Try a comma after apparent). In a game like Recettear where a big piece of the fun is in haggling with shoppers and trying to figure out what makes them tick, losing that sense of mystique is damning. The game is about that discovery. I hope, for your sake, you acquire that omniscience through play. If so, you have gotten from the game what the designers intended. Take the information when its handed to you on a silver platter, and — trust me on this — you're only hurting yourself.

(Very good article!)

 

[Demian's edits in green]

 

The automobile is a mystery to me. I know what one is and I have a very basic understanding of how one works (the emphasis here is on the word "very"), but my understanding is not nearly nuanced enough to begin to fix one or to figure out why it might be broken. In general, I get around this by doing heavy research before buying a car to be sure I get the most reliable one available. Unfortunately, even the most reliable cars inevitably break and need fixing — fixing I can't begin to deliver. It's at this point I usually lament my lack of knowledge and start digging into my savings account making out the check to my friendly and trustworthy (albeit overpriced) mechanic.

(Sorry, but I've got to ax that whole intro. You need to grab readers right away or you risk losing them. The car comparison you're making here is just too ornate for short form Internet writing. )

Old second paragraph:

In the case of machines we come to rely on, there are (always try to avoid 'there are' constructions…they sound passive) definite advantages to knowing as much as possible. In the case of videogames (our style is video games), it usually helps me to have much of the inner workings hidden behind a thick curtain of mystery and wonder. I was reminded of this sad fact soon after beginning my third attempt repaying my father's loan in recent indie darling Recettear. (We italicize all other types of media, but not games. It's just our style)

New intro:

Games are like the Wizard of Oz — far more impressive when a thick curtain of mystery and wonder hides the inner workings (or the short man, as the case may be). Recent indie darling Recettear: An Item Shop's Tale reminded me of this sad fact just as I began my third attempt at repaying my family's debt to the usury fairy.

In order for you, dear reader (never been a fan of the 'dear reader' construction. Rephrased this sentence to ' But wait, some context:'), to understand fully, I need to tell you a bit about the game — give you some much-needed context. In Recettear, you manage an item shop to earn money used to repay the gargantuan debt left behind by your father. If you make all the payments, you win the game. If you miss one, you restart the game (the game/the game repetition) with your current level and inventory intact. No one wins on the first try. At least, no one wins on the first try without help.

By the third go 'round, I was ready to put the game to bed. It's enjoyable, but I can only take so much of the Groundhog Day-ness of it (read: not a Dead Rising fan)(cutting this…don't really need it). With about 20 hours logged and two attempts blown, I resorted to searching out strategies online. I found some excellent information… (no space after an ellipses, unless it ends a sentence and is four periods) and by "excellent," I mean "thorough"… and by "thorough," I mean "terrible."

The game has been available for a matter of weeks. This is the only fact you need in order to understand that the Internet has already discovered every quirk, every eccentricity, and every bit of minutiae anyone could ever glean from it without combing through the source code line-by-line. The Internet is working on that as we speak.

Said strategies told me exactly how to make customers happy with the precise selling prices necessary to gain their trust. Then, they told me when and how to take advantage of this newfound trust to gain maximum profits. That sounds familiar. Gain their trust, then take full advantage when they express gratitude. Hmm. I felt like I was back in sales training at Comcast. This is not a good thing.

Up to this point, the game felt really dynamic. The shoppers obviously had different thresholds for how much markup they could tolerate, but I had yet to discover exactly what those were. I had noticed the little hearts (comma needed here) which indicated the shopper was very happy with the price, but I didn't really even know how (or if) this affected the game. It was the simpler time in the relationship before you discovered (that) she pees in the shower and likes erotic fan-fiction based on The Simpsons. I was enjoying the process of slowly uncovering the game's mysteries.

This new information armed me with more than enough (enough what?) to complete the game on my next attempt… but I never did. Now that I knew how simplistic the game's wants and desires were, it was really more joke than game. It was immature like a baby — a simple little bundle of wants and needs without the tools to properly convey them. Sadly, my love affair with Recettear had ended.


The game's designers are not to blame for this. (I'm ending this at 'blame' and putting in an em dash) I accept full responsibility for ruining the game for myself. Every mechanic has to have limits. The game is working inside a box made by its developer (I'm joining these sentences for rhythm reasons). Aside from the odd patch or update, that box doesn't really change once the game ships. Even the most sophisticated systems with multiple logic branches and if/then statements nested deeply enough to accommodate the largest of fowl still has limits. (Get it? You see, I'm using "nested" as a pun here, and that's what a bird… nevermind.)

Every game has these limitations. We human beings live every day in a world of almost infinite possibility. (changing to a semicolon) We want our games to capture as much of that possibility as they can… and they do. Sadly, that isn’t much.

Each choice and branching decision we can make in a game is (changing to 'involves') a developer sitting in front of a computer saying to himself, “Maybe we should let the player do this cool thing!” He codes for a while, and — presto! — we have a facsimile of a tiny choice we might make in real life available to the character, our connection to the virtual world.

Games are sold based on what they have rather than what they don’t. Being proper enthusiasts, we gorge ourselves on all the information leading up to release. We bring home the new game excited about the possibilities. To return to the box metaphor, once we have this box inside our home, it’s hard not to see the box’s dimensions, regardless of how sexy the box is. (kind of getting off track here…I cut this para)

The walls of the box are little disappointments, little things we try that didn’t quite work as we had hoped; they are options we would have had in life (if life were like the world of the game) that we now discover are missing. (Tweaked this in general)

Some games are worse than others. Perhaps they show you an obstacle that would be easy to jump over, but they didn’t give you a jump button. They show you buildings which are meant to be real, but you cannot enter and explore (tweaked this a bit). Some games shine their light elsewhere and are less concerned with possibilities.

I was never bothered by my inability to jump in Mass Effect. OK, that’s not entirely true… there were probably times that was a little annoying (cut part of this sentence), but since the game is focused on conversation and narrative, it wasn’t really a big deal. Now, when I wasn’t able to say exactly what I wanted to say in conversation… that is another issue entirely.

In games like Recettear (comma) where much of the focus is on one or two mechanics meant to compose the fun of the game (trimmed this a bit), the limitations are front-and-center. Haggling in life is dynamic, interesting, and, if you have the proper disposition, fun! I can make an offer and explain why, playing to their sympathies. They may refuse but later call me up and say they decided to accept. The motives of both parties are complicated as are their criteria for an acceptable offer.

On the surface, Recettear appears to have captured many of these traits. As I said, I played through more than 20 hours and was enthralled. Of course, in the back of my mind I always realize there are limitations. They don’t have an army of dudes (and dudettes) sitting around haggling with me on the back-end.

Part of me just wants to forget. I know a computer program has more limitations than life, but I want to get lost in the simulation. My only hope is that the simulation is deep enough that I never actually butt heads with the limits. Ignorance is sometimes awesome.

Once those limits are apparent, having been revealed (having been revealed is passive and awkward. I tweaked) to you either through play of the game or from above (i.e. the Internet), the game loses something. In a game ('title' to avoid game repetition) like Recettear where a big piece of the fun is in haggling with shoppers and trying to figure out what makes them tick, losing that sense of mystique (sense of mystery, yes, sense of mystique, I don't think that works) is damning. The game is about that discovery. I hope, for your sake, you acquire that omniscience (I don't know that omniscience is the right word for this) through play. If so, you have gotten from the game what the designers intended. Take the information when its (it's) handed to you on a silver platter, and — trust me on this — you're only hurting yourself.