Genre: First Person Shooter
Year: 2002
Developed by: Digital Illusions CE
Published by: Electronic Arts
Platforms: PC, Mac
#101
Feeling Like: Ian Party? YAS
Battlefield 1942 arrived at the right time. We all had our own PCs at this point, along with our driver’s licenses. This meant the freedom to vanish from our homes and appear collectively at for a giant session of digital warfare was well within our grasp.
I don’t think I entertained a single moment of the campaign…was there a campaign? Regardless, the only time I engaged in solo play was when I was the first to load into the map. This wasn’t so much a game you play from start to finish, as a playground you inhabited for a period of frenzied fun. It took a lot of organizing, some network wizardry from Dobbo, temporary annexing of a good portion of 680 Oliver St, but it was well worth any hassle. The three LAN parties we had that featured Battlefield 1942 were among the most fun I’ve ever had playing a game.
It worked out perfectly. We ran an internet connection from upstairs to downstairs through a hole we drilled in the floor. I’m confident my parents never found out, but they sold the family house eight years ago, so I think the statute of Henry Getting Into Trouble has long passed.
We’d have a match, four on four, then reconvene in the basement. The roof was barely big enough to contain my taller friends height and it usually reeked of cat litter, but my parents were kind and generous – I don’t recall a single time they even hinted that it was time for the party to end.
And the sandbox was filled with toys! Every manner of vehicle was ours for the taking. The mad rush at the beginning to grab a pilot’s seat or a passenger’s spot in a vehicle, tank or airplane was usually accompanied by giddy laughter. Particularly if we spotted someone immediately nosedive their aerial transport directly into the ground. Zany slapstick that results in artificial death is hysterical.
I was terrible, but that was irrelevant. I can’t hit the broad side of a large barn, but the point was the party itself. Half the fun is the anticipation and set-up – at the time, it felt cumbersome and clunky. Everything takes far longer than you’d like. After all, more effort spent moving tables and ensuring a solid internet connection meant less opportunity for gaming. I tried my best to prepare each room to ensure a smooth transition, but there was always a hiccup or two. These LANs don’t happen without Dobbo’s expertise and warranted optimism from the group. Cables and Power Bars help too.
Ian was always present. He was a better shot than I was and very keen to adapt to any strategy necessary to win. Oftentimes we’d wondered where he’d wandered off to, only to be sniped in the head by him seconds later. There’s no possible way to get away with this without a manic cackle, as Ian often provided. I couldn’t imagine doing a writeup of this nature without his input.
(Ian)
I wasn’t excited, I was ecstatic. I had just returned after a successful venture to the Best Buy and in my hands held a box of “Battlefield 1942” that would allow me to fight, no pushback, the rapid authoritarian military expansion in Europe and Asia. My draft card and call to service came in the form of a plastic circle referred to as a “compact disc”. I submitted this disc to my station, a Dell mobile computational device called an “Inspiron”, and input the magic that runs a combination of Arabic numbers and Latin alphas they call a “key”. As the software comes to life, it tries to tide you over with the score that sounds like John Sousa had a collaboration with John Williams just coming off working on Raiders. On top of the hyper anticipation brought on by the music, dread starts to creep in, like waiting for the landing craft doors to open. I start to think, is my “Inspiron” up to the task? How about my ping, as lag has claimed far too many new recruits lives way before their time. Then I start to wonder if I’m ready? Has my Boot Camp of after school Goldeneye 007 and Halo prepared me for this World Wide Web war I was about to enter?
The Arena was held online, where hundreds enter testing their skills against each other with the fervor of an ancient berserker looking for his ticket to enter The Halls of Valhalla, to feast with the All Seer. I was skilled in fighting within the small Colosseums with such names as Xbox, Nintendo, PlayStation and the dreaded Local Land. My fear subsides as my confidence returns – this was an era where class and player roll outs were totally democratic. A true Marxist dream, there were no build trees, no advance purchase bonuses, pay to play, nor unlockable content. All players were even, all were equal.
Whether you had 200 hours or only 2 minutes of trigger time in the Battlefield, all the players were the same as anyone else. The separation of the wheat from the chaff came from you and the skills you bring to bear. It wasn’t that my skills were anything but average, but I knew with courage and vigor I would get to a level that would be rewarding. This was when gaming engagement was done by making an engaging product, instead of building in compulsory mechanics to trap player attention and make the “grind” as a model in itself. I snap to, coming to my senses as I hear the toaster oven ding. I am now looking at a log on the screen, my pizza pocket is ready, and so am I. Far too many hours and days later, I was a seasoned veteran. I knew how to change the fortunes of battle by tried and true strategies; timing and, importantly, patience. I was fearless, bold and cunning. I felt like a special forces partisan altering the course of history. By the end of the year the great World Wide Web moved to a new theater of conflict, but I reflect on this time as one of the prime moments of my gaming life. But then came the mods (cough cough desert combat), but that’s a story for another day…
(Ian’s writeup finished)
Far be it from me to finish on a more eloquent note. What is it about a Battlefield that makes men into poets?
The 500 