I have a terrible memory. Blame it on whatever, but I struggle with remembering what I did last weekend, let alone 14 years ago. But there I am, clear as crystal, fifty-two dollars in a wrinkled wad of moist green. Hands stained from excited clenching. The store fluorescents bounced off the glass case catching my eye, and like a fly drawn to a porch light — I saw it. Crown jewel of the PlayStation section. I might not remember your birthday, but I'll always remember that glass case, and the copy of Final Fantasy VII waiting behind it. But before I bought it, I mastered sabotaging the Mako Reactor on the PlayStation Underground demo disc more times than I dare admit. And also rented it more times than I'd been fiscally responsible. My nostalgia makes Cloud Strife's epic a classic, and I'm willing to wager there's a whole lot of people who feel the same. But does an entire generation's ardent nostalgia make it timeless? Or does it only make it a prized generational possession, a pivotal moment in gaming history, a consumer artifact worthy of preservation because of what it used to be? And how does a person go about defining classic status in this dense, defensive culture of videogames without alienating himself from friends, colleagues and readers alike? Are there, or can there be, any videogame classics that define the form in an evergreen way?
"Of fucking course there can," read a text from a friend in response to my article query. "That depends on your interpretation of classic, which is inarguably subjective. Your logic is flawed and 160 characters doesn't do my response justice."
Ouch. But, of course, as my anecdote explained, classic is a subjective term. What may qualify as classic to one person may fall short to others. For purposes of clarity and structure, I'm using "classic" in the sense of timelessness, or, as defined: the highest established model, standard, or example within a certain form.
Back in 2000, I tried securing a loan of my own infatuation with FFVII into the bankrupt pleasure centers of my best buddy's gaming sensibilities. This, however, proved much more difficult than escaping the city of Midgar without a memory card. You see, his RPG experience started and ended with Final Fantasy IX: a better technical achievement by all accounts. The masterful FMV, artfully pre-rendered backgrounds and higher polygon-counts stand in stark contrast to FFVII's clunky visuals. In addition to updated graphics, FFIX introduced new gameplay elements to the series, such as the Active Time Event, Mognet, and individual character abilities which promoted a more balanced combat system. By these standards — and only three years worth of advancements — my friend found FFVII unplayable. Like any decent VII fan would, I berated him for his ignorance. It didn't occur to me at that moment I had failed to play previous Final Fantasy installments for the same reasons. Without the nostalgia, even a title as brilliant in 1997 as FFVII feels dated in as little as three years, if not sooner. Though true, does this make the game unplayable? No; but it shows even a masterpiece among videogames is fallible in the wake of time. Even if he played, enjoyed, and conquered the game, he could still make a legitimate case in favor of the game's antiquity by today's technological, design and gameplay standards.
In contrast, a song is composed of elements that do not so much advance as they do react to the previous generation. There isn't a leap in music theory that makes The Beatles feel antiquated. Cultural differences mostly enable a person to discern 1960s music from 1980s music. Though the ways we receive our music change, the way we hear it never does. There are only changes in convention and culture, and a true musical classic holds up against modern music in the sense that it was either composed well or played well.
"Stfu with your Beatles reference!" said my friend, feeling the weight of our friendship crumble. "You think a nine year old hears that shit and thinks it's revolutionary? They want Gaga and Eminem."
The essay hasn't even been written, let alone published, and my best friend already wants to murder me. But, yes, he's right: Nine year olds will, more often than not, prefer Gaga and Eminem to their parents' Beatles. Modern pop music, in this case, is the child's preference, as he has no context for the past. Just like my FFIX friend may come to like VII if he gave it the time of day, the Gaga fan may, too, find The Beatles enjoyable. But unlike the nine year old with his lack of a developed taste for music not programmed by radio or TV, the gamer can point to legitimate technological advancements in game design that make older games nearly unplayable by modern standards. This is where videogames — when looked at as a form of art — differ from music or literature.
For all their artistic aspirations, entertainment milestones and educational achievements, this criticism mottles videogame culture like a red dot on white cashmere. In spite of all that Mario, Zelda, Solid Snake, and Master Chief have done for videogames, there isn't much hope future generations will reflect on them and proclaim "this is a game that could very well been made today." They will be, or are already, outdated and outclassed in everyway, except for maybe in story or music score. This is not to say they will not be enjoyable any longer, but that they will be left behind in the technological dust, making it all the more unappealing to our children, and their children's children.
If this is the case, I don't anticipate the future of games journalism with bated breath. Cower as hipster games journos attempt to rationalize blocky and pixilated 32-bit characters as a deliberate aesthetic; incessant fog and baddies who pop up from the ground in The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time as thoughtful game design instead of technical limitation; guards who can only see five feet in front of them and basic stealth maneuvers of Metal Gear Solid as the pinnacle of game design. Consider it a challenge for these writers to pull false meaning from technical and design limitations, all without allowing an ounce of the pretentious air wafting through their colons to escape into the atmosphere.
Since the shift in the industry from raw graphical power to innovational ways of play, games have entered a new era. Today, motion controls are the big draw. Social and mobile games are accessible and addictive. Downloadable titles mix old-school with new-school under an independent freedom. We're experiencing an evolution of play, and one that makes the last generation of videogames even harder to appreciate. The games industry is in a fickle way, and innovation is critical toward establishing a level of familiarity among gamers.
"Nothing transcends generations," said my friend. "The discussion might, but its relevance and importance does not."
To this, I point to a truly timeless and irreplaceable piece of music, Beethoven's Ninth Symphony. As the most memorable of all his symphonies, the composition remains impressive even by today's standards. Instead of displaced by newer modes of music from later, more advanced generations, his masterful composition lives on as a testament to the power of music in both its technical and artistic merits. For this reason, Beethoven's Ninth Symphony is considered by many the greatest composition in the history of music. Game design, however, hasn't reached a point where it has nowhere else to go but right. Is there a game design in our generation that will outlive us? And if there isn't, then none of our generation's games can transcend history. There will be stories, ideas and mechanics that have proven pivotal to the evolution of games, but no overall game design will be touted as the finest example of game design in the face of an ever advancing form. Our generational games are a dying breed. Even many re-released classic are done a disservice at the hands of journalists who have either outgrown their nostalgia or have grown spoiled by the advancements of the industry.
Similarly, literature may vary from time period to time period, and the words may become displayed digitally instead of on paper. In spite of these changes, books can still be reread and enjoyed at the top of their form for centuries. A videogame popular in 1985, however, would be about as playable to a child born in 2011 as fighting with twigs would be to someone whose first fight was with light sabers. While Final Fantasy VII is a masterpiece, a cherished consumer artifact, and arguably the greatest videogame ever made, its visuals are outdated, its gameplay is antiquated, and its mechanics outclassed. It no more defines the games industry than a leaf defines the fashion industry.
Any hope for videogames to experience a graceful aging like music or literature lies in the fighting of a losing war against impermanence. Our beloved art form can no more produce timeless classics as automobile manufacturers can. Like an automobile, a videogame possesses a certain undeniable quality of build, style, and execution for the time it was created. They become prized not for what they still are, but for what they once were.
The Classic Car Club of America defines a classic car by three criteria: it must be distinctive, it must be built between 1925 and 1948, and it must have originally been high priced. Videogames, though, are far from cars. They are not machines built for physical transportation, but for emotional, spiritual, and sometimes logical transport. While games may serve to get us from point A to point B, technologically speaking, they are more than hunks of factory manufactured materials intermittently thrown in garbage dumps when the achievements and DLC dry up like an unused sponge.
Videogames educate, romanticize, invigorate, and, most importantly, entertain us. There's good chance a gamer who has ever whistled Saria's Song, fought atop Metal Gear, ran a loop-de-loop or watched Ryo's father fall at the hands of Lan-Di, will revisit each experience a few more times throughout the course of his life. We will fondly remember our childhood treasures and treat them as if they were brand new; but what will our children think about these games? Our generations' offspring are well on their way to shunning our masterpieces for such inarticulate reasons as "the graphics suck" and "you can't sprint."
As people age, they don't so much as accept their dilapidation as they do exit life kicking and screaming, much like how they came in. Who wants to feel old? Life, like a competently managed factory, functions with the icy effectiveness of sterile machinery. It gives no quarter, plea bargains or second chances. We have shelf lives to make room for better, faster, and more expendable people to produce even more expendable consumer merchandise. I belong to a generation of gamers who started school during the 8-bit years, graduated from bed wetting in the 16-bit era, discovered awkwardly pubescent situations with their 32-bit systems, and fell in puppy love somewhere between the 64 and 128-bit eras. These are the folks that are now, or soon to be, raising kids their own. A new generation whom may possibly never know what it was like to look on helplessly as Sephiroth impaled Aerith with his masamune blade. I hold little hope of my daughter ever exploring the city of Midgar and saving Planet from Sephiroth. Not after she's played the latest installment of Final Fantasy, in 3D, with full-body motion controls, while I sit on the porch playing the poorly rated Final Fantasy VII HD on my iPhone 15. Or maybe I'm already old.