The answer to all of
life’s problems rest within Street
Fighter. I still stand by that
vaguely ridiculous claim, but with a slight adjustment: all fighting games have the answer to life’s problems.
Street Fighter II, when it was released, created a revolution in
the gaming world…heck, in the world in general.
It was a devourer of quarters and a bringer of new challengers to
cabinets everywhere, from the dedicated arcades of old to diversions inside the
occasional Long John Silver’s. One on
one combat had never been so well-defined in the history of games (and it
tended to prove a safer alternative to backyard wrestling); you select your
alter ego and fight with all your skill and wit to claim glory. Granted there was a bit of violence outside
the game; according to my brother Rich, doing nothing but throwing your
opponent would give a kid enough of a reason to start wailing on his opponent
in real life. Whatever the case, Street Fighter II opened the floodgates
on the competitive spirit, as well as the potential fighting games had to bring
it out in kids who would sooner beat Gunstar
Heroes than become a black belt.
Basically, children and nerds (yo) could become ultimate warriors.
Flash forward to
2012. The fighting game renaissance has
shown no signs of slowing down. This
year alone will see the release of Tekken
Tag Tournament 2, Skullgirls, BlazBlue Continuum Shift Extend, Soulcalibur 5, Dead
or Alive 5, maybe Virtua Fighter 5
Showdown, the PlayStation Vita version of Ultimate Marvel vs. Capcom 3, and of course Street Fighter X Tekken.
It’s a staggering amount of fighters to be released, on top of the
fighters that are already out there; I’d wager that come June or July, there’ll
be announcements of new fighting games in the works (a new Darkstalkers, most likely, although I’d love to see a new Rival Schools). In a world where Japanese games are either on
the wane or automatically shunned by entitled American audiences raised on Call of Duty and conditioned to hate
anything even remotely anime-esque, the fighter endures as a means to express
skill and creativity -- both by its developers, and in its players.
History’s repeated
itself -- but hopefully, we won’t have a repeat of last time. See, Street
Fighter II was a big money-maker for Capcom, so naturally they had to go
and ruin a good thing. They released
updated versions on a regular basis, introducing new characters and tweaked
game mechanics -- and making the simple name all the more complicated. What was originally Street Fighter II eventually became Hyper Street Fighter II: The Anniversary Edition. Pro tip: if you have a game with The Anniversary Edition in its title,
then you’ve released too many damn
versions of the same game. Since
this was before games could be patched online or DLC could be added, this of
course meant kids (i.e. parents) shuffling back and forth between Toys R Us to
pick up the latest version for home consoles.
And while that was happening, competitors tried to release their own
fighting games to jump on the bandwagon.
Some endured (King of Fighters);
others…didn’t. Oversaturation of the
market, working in tandem with a franchise that was like a snake shedding its
skin every other day -- factors like these probably led to the fighting game
genre going on hiatus in the late nineties/early 2000s.
And then you look to the
present and you see the same thing going on.
There’s a crapton of fighters available for sale right now, with more on
the way. The advent of patches available
through your console of choice and downloadable content means that sometimes
you don’t even have to leave the house to put money into a company’s pockets. Capcom’s up to its old tricks, of course;
what was originally Street Fighter 4
eventually became -- deep breath -- Super
Street Fighter 4 Arcade Edition ver. 2012.
(To say nothing of the fact that Super
Street Fighter II Turbo: HD Remix has been available for download for a few
years now.) Marvel vs. Capcom 3 is now Ultimate
Marvel vs. Capcom 3, a galling move considering that an announcement of the
update came about FIVE MONTHS after the original was released, and the update
itself came four months later. I can’t
even imagine how many more pennies Capcom got out of gamers by offering
costumes and characters (some of which were on the disk to begin with). It’s almost hilarious what had happened;
Capcom originally said that, while they’d offer customization options, you’d
never see poster boy Ryu in a funny hat.
Nowadays, you can not only see Ryu in a goofy bandanna, but his best bud
Ken in a cowboy hat, Cammy dressed like Catwoman, and T. Hawk in a costume Rich
asserts is incredibly racist.
What does this
mean? Are we going to see an end to
fighters, and resurgence ten years from now?
Well, if fighters go down, then I can think of a few other genres
COUGHshootersCOUGHCOUGH that would go down too.
Fighters do more than just evoke nostalgia or give losers a chance to
become winners.
I’ve learned that for
myself.
“My fight money!”
Balrog wailed as he crashed to the ground, his boxing gloved-hands devoid of
motion. It’s a sight I’ve seen hundreds
of times before -- a beaten enemy, followed by a blaring proclamation of
victory from the game. As my eyes
shifted to the left, I took note of Rich bristling with pride. Once more, his high-flying play with C. Viper
had seen him through a fight, against a foe who couldn’t defend against his
blazing offense.
But this time, there’s
something slightly different. Rather
than bash the skull of some scrub playing online in Super Street Fighter 4, he’s playing locally. We’d carted the Xbox 360 and two arcade
sticks over to a friend’s house, and had to kill some time before we could have
a WrestleMania viewing party. Our lack
of four working pads meant we had to use an arcade stick as a substitute -- and
the mention of said stick gave Rich an excuse to show off his skills. Or maybe “bully” fits better. There’s little more explanation for his
actions, considering that his opponent was Rory -- someone who I assume hadn’t
played a Street Fighter game in
years, much less the latest version.
I had to give Rory some
credit, though; he’d chosen to face off with Rich on his terms, and tried to go
toe-to-toe with an arcade stick in his lap.
He got in a few punches, but that was about it. Countless contenders had tried to close that
gap in the past and failed; in spite of his honest longing for a fight, he
couldn’t compete against Rich’s offense.
But that wouldn’t stop a new challenger from stepping in.
“So cocky!” Vicente blurted, suddenly coming
from the kitchen to the den of his house.
“I’m not being cocky,”
said Rich, though the smirk on his face said otherwise. “I’m just too good, that’s all.” Humility had never been one of his higher
priorities.
Vicente -- hot-blooded
as always, and eager to shut Rich down -- grabbed a standard Xbox pad. “I’ll play,” he said, taking a seat on the
couch. They went back to the character
select screen, and he moved the cursor about in search of a fighter that could
shut Rich -- and his mouth -- down.
I rested my chin in my
hand and continued to watch quietly.
We’d been playing video games with Vicente for almost two decades, to
the point where we consider each other brothers. And with that bond came an understanding of
each others’ styles. Rich had grown
reliant on a mach-speed offense that could turn an enemy into gravy in
seconds. A predatory offense, like a
tiger. To some extent, Vicente was -- is -- the same way, with a few minor
differences. Rich’s offense comes from
blinding speed; he tends not to leave a single gap in his attacks, and given
the chance can practically come at you from three directions at once. Vicente’s offense puts emphasis on one thing
above all else: raw physical power. His
character choice tends toward big, heavy guys who, while generally sluggish,
hit like trucks. If Rich is a tiger,
then Vicente’s a bull -- you don’t want to be in the way when he charges at
you.
If I’d tried to be his
coach (and violated my neutrality), I would have told him to choose T. Hawk,
the seven-foot-six Mexican grappler. But
I kept my mouth shut and watched…though in retrospect, I probably raised an
eyebrow when he chose Guile.
Guile, huh? I wonder… But I cut my pondering short as the fight
started. Guile was a character from the
nineties with only two special moves and a host of normal attacks that Vicente
had yet to memorize. Rich’s C. Viper --
by virtue of being one of the latest-generation characters -- not only had a
host of special moves, but also super jumps, jump cancels, and “seismo cancels.” Rich had the tools, and the knowledge, to
overwhelm any opponent who dared to even throw a punch. And just like Rory, Vicente managed to land a
punch or two before getting burned alive.
“You’re cheating! Stop the cheating!” Vicente yelled as Rich
spun about the screen. Affectionate
claims, of course (at least, I hoped they were); to a normal person, seeing a
character move like that would have looked like cheating. But in spite of that, Rich took the first
round without much difficulty.
“You don’t know any of
your special moves, do you?” Rich asked.
Whether it was a quick taunt or a lust for a stronger opponent, he
actually sounded like he wanted to help…smug tone aside. As the second round started, he held off on
his assault. “Hold back for two seconds,
then press forward and one of the punch buttons.”
Even from halfway
across the room, I could feel the heat radiating from Vicente -- partly because
Rich had to tell him how to play, and partly because Rich had just given him a
weapon to crush him with. So he held back
for two seconds, and then…threw a regular punch at the air.
“No, you have to press
forward and punch at the same time.”
Vicente held back for
another moment, and then…threw a boomerang of energy. Of course, Rich just jumped right over
it. And he jumped over every other
projectile Vicente threw that match -- a match that didn’t last too long.
“Mmmmm, how’d you like
that?” Rich asked, now in full-blown bragging mode. “Tastes great, doesn’t it?”
Vicente grumbled, threw
up his hands, and stood up. “Such a cheater!” he proclaimed. “And so cocky!”
“What? If I win, I have a right to show off, don’t
I?” I hoped that we wouldn’t have to
endure one of his famous jigs. “Don’t
worry. It’s all right. You just lost to someone better than you,
that’s a-”
I shifted in my
seat. “I guess I’ll play a round against
you.”
That shut him up. And good thing, too; I’d reached my
“incessant yammering quota” ages ago. I
don’t know why I volunteered; maybe it was out of some desperate need to avenge
my fallen friends. Maybe it was just to
put Rich in his place -- even if I stood no greater a chance than Vicente or
Rory. Or maybe I was just bored. Whatever the case, I grabbed the pad that
Vicente had discarded (taken good care of, considering that he could have flung
it onto his hardwood floor). I didn’t
even bother going back to the character select screen. As if he’d read my mind -- or perhaps, knew
me well -- Vicente had chosen the character that I trusted the most. So we hit rematch. And sure enough, the battle began.
I knew better than to
go rushing into a fight. Rich’s years of
experience would make quick work of me, given the chance. If I wanted to win, I had to focus on
surviving -- I’d slow down the match to my pace, rather than let him kick the
battle to a feverish tempo. He’s used to
that pace. I’m not. The faster I move and the more heated I get
the more likely I am to make a mistake and throw the match. So I’ll take it slow. Step by step.
And most importantly, I’ll survive the only way I can: by enduring my
brother’s attacks…and countering anything that comes my way.
A crouching hard punch
to knock Viper out of the air. A Rolling
Sobat to put some distance between us.
An EX Sonic Boom to knock Viper out of a Seismo. An air grab to fling any offenders to the
opposite corner. Sonic Boom after Sonic
Boom to control space, and keep Rich from getting too comfortable -- and bait
him into jumping into my fist. A Target
Combo to get in a few quick hits while he’s struggling to get in. A Sonic Hurricane to tear him up while he’s
trying to get up -- an Ultra Combo that clinches one round. And in another round, a Flash Kick -- a move
that Rich neglected to tell Vicente about -- to stop him dead in his tracks,
and punish him for daring to touch me.
It’s enough to net me a
victory, thankful that Rich didn’t get a chance to melt the health off
Guile. I sat there quietly, with a
slight smile on my face. Rich looks at
the screen in silence for a moment; as a groan started to rumble in his throat,
I braced myself for the usual attack.
“Fighting Guile is so BORING,” he said with a shake of his head. “All you do is sit there and turtle.”
I didn’t bother
fighting back. Instead, I let Vicente’s
cheers do the talking for me.
“Ohhhhhhhhh, looks like somebody lost!” he yelled. We went for a high five, drawing more ire
from dear old big brother. “Guess
somebody’s not as good as they thought they were, huh?”
He didn’t bother
fighting back, either. “Let’s play Marvel,” he blurted. And what little pride I felt in winning
rocketed away.
The only reason I’d won
in Street Fighter 4 was because I’d
been able to stave off Rich’s offense.
In the time since the original version’s release, I’d learned a lot
about the game. Namely, that I sucked at
it; I didn’t have the reflexes to link combos together, nor did I have the
creativity to make my own stylish offense.
Worse yet, I didn’t have the time for the practice I sorely needed. Between classes, homework, writing, my
penchant for napping (thanks to having the constitution of an eighty-year-old),
and the fact that Rich owned the Xbox for most of the day, I could only get in
small amounts of practice. Compounded
with the fact that I needed several online guides and YouTube videos to get
inspiration while training, and compounding that with the fact that I’d played
online against human opponents -- people with actual thought and attack
patterns, rather than CPU dummies -- about six times in three years, I was
crippled. The only real practice I got
was against Rich in the middle of our sessions.
To put it simply, it’s like preparing for a final exam by taking a final
exam after skimming through your doodle-filled notebook one day looking for
that awesome griffin drawing you made.
The only time I’ve ever felt comfortable fighting -- the only time I
show any semblance of a threat -- is when I’m on the defensive. In order to win, you have to be the last man
standing; you’ll be the last man standing if your enemy can’t attack you without
retaliation, or just can’t break your guard.
I’ll (grudgingly) go on the offensive if I need to, but survival is my
top priority, not showing off fancy combos.
And Guile is the
perfect character for the job. While I
once used him to go on the attack -- flailing about like a wild beast, I
imagine -- now I’m content with using him the way he was meant to be used. An ironclad defense that repels all
attackers…a solidarity that would put even the Great Wall to shame.
But the switch to Marvel vs. Capcom would leave me without
Guile. In a game where you could blink
and suddenly have a sword chopping you down by the shins, I knew my defense
wouldn’t last. Worse yet, the game had
barely been out for a week; I didn’t have a basic combo, a basic defense, basic
assists, or even a basic team.
Little wonder, then, that I got steamrolled.
*
You know, I don’t say
this often enough, but I probably should.
Anyone who says video games are worthless (or any other negative term,
such as “corruptive” or “murder-simulator”) can go eat a combo platter of cockroaches
and jellyfish tentacles. Also shit.
I’ll be the first to
admit that they have their issues. There’s
probably a negative correlation between the number of gameplay hours and the
amount of studying/housework that gets done.
It can -- note that I said CAN, not WILL -- expose players to violence
before they’re ready, desensitizing children just because they want to play
with guns. They can take normal,
well-adjusted members of society into freaks who prefer to spout random
references to games nobody’s played.
Shake shake, indeed.
But in spite of all
that negativity from outsiders -- people who “just don’t get it” -- those who
are well-versed in the gaming universe find plenty of merit in them. If I ever become a great, famous writer, the
first thing I plan to do is give thanks to the video games that continuously
set my imagination into a tizzy. I’ve
managed to form a friendship or two just by bringing up games in a
conversation. Ignoring the fact that
developers are taking the medium to Hollywood-level productions (for better or
worse), there are researchers and tech experts who look at games and hardware
and see glowing potential. With the
advent of the Wii and the sudden rise of mobile gaming, more people than ever
are looking at games and saying, “Hey, this is pretty snazzy.” And a certain microcosm of fans -- a certain
niche, yet rabid base -- no doubt sees this generation as a godsend.
The fighting game
community is here to stay, so long as fighting games keep coming. Arguably, they’ll keep going even if there’s
another genre collapse; these are the people who subsisted on meager offerings
during the drought of the 2000s. When
gamers moved on and arcades throughout the states closed down, they gathered
wherever cabinets lay, and organized tournaments to see who could come out on
top. They’d scrape up whatever games
they could on consoles and play their hearts out, hoping that they could force
their opponent to respect their skills.
And now they’re mobilizing, striving for greater heights, and hoping to
go farther than any other community out there.
Tournaments are streamed online.
Websites host tips, strategies, and fan-related material. Partnerships and sponsorships are formed,
giving tournament players access and input to new fighters and providing them
with top-line options. Every year,
Evolution -- better known as EVO -- grows larger, bringing hundreds if not
thousands of fighting fans together in Las Vegas to throw down. New names and legends are born with incredible
regularity. Upsets, as common as the
ticking of a clock. The sheer amount of
hype, seeing your favorite characters and your favorite players going at it, is
almost intoxicating. The chants, the
screams, the howls and the laughter -- they’re as indispensible to the
community as a pixilated fireball. And
with rumblings of breaking into e-sports, we may be looking at a regime that
takes over the world…of video games.
Fighting spirit is more
than just the stuff of kung-fu movies and anime. Men and women the world over bring the heat,
and blaze their way across the screen.
Skill and wit come together to turn basic combat moves into expressions
of art. People who would never be able
to somersault and cut the sky in half in real life can do it with just a couple
of button presses in-game.
And what does all that
mean for me and Rich?
I can only offer a
theory when it comes to Rich. Being my
senior, he remembers the days of playing in arcades a lot better than I
do. I suspect he has memories of good
times -- of facing off with real opponents, and crushing them underfoot. But the dearth of arcades led to him being
starved for a challenge; compound that with a mostly-empty “scene” where we
live, and it’s hard to find anyone worthy of respect. So maybe he plays online in hopes of reliving
the glory days. Maybe he’s out for
blood, and the thought of victory is enough to help him endure an onslaught of
Shoryukids. And maybe he challenges me
so often because he wants to fight at optimum conditions. No lagging connections, no idiots sputtering
into their microphones; just someone sitting a few feet away, so he can taunt
to his heart’s content. Or maybe just
that whole “worthy opponent” thing.
And as for me? Well, I have three words for you.
Phoenix. Wright.
Tasty.
I can’t do a tenth of
what goes down in this video -- but just seeing it makes me want to try. See, Phoenix Wright is one of my favorite
video game characters ever. Seeing him
in glorious 3D for the first time made my heart swell with emotion. Seeing him step onto the battlefield with
evidence in hand makes me think “All right, let’s do this buddy.” I told myself when he was first announced
that even if he was objectively a terrible character in-game -- a bum at the
bottom of the tier list -- I’d still play him, even if it was just to fulfill
some misplaced sense of loyalty. I stand
by that loyalty, and I’ve seen plenty of losses because I didn’t stick with
Captain America or Ryu. And even though
it was worth it, Phoenix Wright -- no, every character I’ve ever played in a
fighting game, spurred on by Mr. Wright -- reminded me of a clear fact.
I want to win.
I play to win. Anytime, anywhere. Games, virtual or real. Even outside of games, I do what I can to
claim victory. But you can’t win unless
you’re willing to work for it. You have
to train, and prepare, and learn, and lose, and get beaten down, and slip up,
and make sloppy moves, and get humiliated, and make a lucky break, and go all
in, and fight your very hardest to survive, and take victory if you dare. Fighting games, to me -- maybe on a
subconscious level for everyone -- aren’t just about two-to-six dudes going at
it. They’re a test to see what you can
do. What you can learn. “Dare to believe you can survive,” they
say. “Triumph or die,” they say. Valid quotes.
They want to see your heat. So do
your opponents. So do you.
So that’s where I stand. Am I good at fighting games? Sort of.
I’m better than I was, at least -- wiser thanks to being a punching
bag. I can hold my own; I can put up a
solid defense, but I find myself at least trying to do some strong combos every
now and then. That’s why I’ve got a tab
linked to EventHubs loaded up as I type this, with another tab holding a
fully-loaded Phoenix Wright combo video.
That’s why I’ll spend a morning every now and then practicing my combos,
training my thumbs to recreate the attacks that’ll lead me to victory. I want to fight, win, and feel that heat for
myself. To learn more, and know that I
can succeed if I put everything I’ve got on the line.
I don’t know if I’ll
lose. I don’t know if I’ll win. But I’ll give it a good, honest try for the
sake of proving the power of my characters.
The power in me. And who
knows? Maybe a turnabout will happen.
*
“I’ve got all I need!”
The music stops. The screen darkens. The “Objection!” speech bubble that hovers
on-screen vibrates excitedly as it makes contact with the blue-coated
Vergil. In that moment of peace, I
remember the fear I felt as my health bar dwindled; I’d already lost Hulk, and
I didn’t want to take on Rich’s entire team with just Ryu. But in that same moment of peace, I feel a
wave of relief, and a swell of courage.
I did the
impossible. I got three pieces of
evidence, switched to Courtroom Mode, and managed to land the slow-to-start
Bridge to the Turnabout on an unblocking opponent. And now, as he thrusts his hands onto his
hips, Phoenix Wright smiles and begins to shine with a golden glow. His theme song kicks in -- a sign that
someone’s about to get destroyed in his game series. The lawyer who, in Ultimate Marvel, could barely touch an opponent can suddenly shoot
a finger the size of an SUV from his hand, blasting foes for huge damage. One press sends Vergil flying into the
wall. Another, bouncing helplessly off
the ground. A third, sailing through the
air. While the half-demon might have
slashed at me without impunity before, Wright’s retaliation tears through his
well-below-average health. It’s only a
matter of time before he goes down.
I tag in Ryu to have
Wright recover some of his health. Ryu
-- Mr. Street Fighter himself -- manages to put up an offense, and I blast Rich’s
assist before he can apply the pressure.
But I’m not done just yet, and neither is he. As we go at it, hoping to get the
game-winning opening, we charge at one another.
One split-second, one button pressed beforehand, is what clinches it. My Ryu clips Viper’s shin with a low attack,
and goes into an aerial combo. I can see
victory coming; I switch to Wright in midair, and blast Viper back down to the
ground.
I have her. I smile to myself. And then, finally, I enter the command. A dragon punch motion and two attacks is all
I need.
The screen turns jet
black -- and then, there’s a close-up on Wright’s face. As the background shifts to a psychedelic
blue vortex, Wright slams his hands on a desk.
It’s a tribute to his home series, of course, but here…
“The one who actually committed the crime…is YOU!”
Viper reels in shock,
holding her hands in front of her face.
As she does, her health bar starts to melt away.
“No alibis, no justice,
no dreams, no HOPE!” Phoenix yells, punctuating his words with a slap of the
desk. The evidence I collected in the
match appears in front of Viper, and depletes the last of her health. But it’s not over. “It’s time to pay for your crime! Take this!”
And with that final cry
-- and a point of his finger -- Viper explodes.
Hyper Combo K.O.
Rich can only stare in
shock, knowing that he lost to one of the worst characters in the game. “…Why does that attack have to last so long?”
he asks, his voice hushed. That’s about
all he can say; no accusations of cheapness, no cries of randomness,
nothing. I turned the match around, and
all the skill he’d mustered couldn’t save him this time.
I didn’t bother
answering him, of course. Because before
I could even think about gloating -- maybe saying something along the lines of “LAWYERED”,
we’ve both mashed the rematch option.
And just like that, we’re going at it again. I have to gather evidence and hold off his
attack, getting combos in whenever I can.
He has to rush me down, hungry for my team’s blood.
But that’s fine. If he wants a fight, I’ll give him one. Because in the end, I’m just as hungry for a
win.
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