I'm Done Playing: Jupiter Hell
In which a space marine asks: What is Art?
I’m Done Playing is a feature that attempts to solve two problems: (a) I play video games long after I’ve stopped enjoying them because I want to finish them, and (b) I don’t write as often as I’d like to.
If I’d rather write something about a video game than keep playing it, it’s probably about time for me to stop playing it. And, the sense of completion from writing a blog post is enough to allow my compulsive brain to set the game down.
You wake in the flaming ruins of your crashed escape pod. You’ve landed in the space station you used to call home–but something has gone wrong. Demons stalk the empty metal halls, former friends and crew members have gone insane with rage, and the security system is shooting at anything that moves. You’re the only sane human left, and it’s your job to shoot, stab, and explode your way out of this mess; stopping only when you’ve killed whatever monstrosity is at the decaying root.
I’m doing playing Jupiter Hell.
What is this game?
Jupiter Hell is a turn-based roguelike based on Doom. That really says all you need to know about it. You explore the space station from Doom, kill enemies with upgradable Doom weapons, protect yourself with looted armor, and level up with traits such as “Rip and Tear” and “Furious.”
How is it?
It’s great. There’s no way this mixture should work. Doom is all about action and movement, and Jupiter Hell is a turn-based roguelike. But it does. The weapons are all diverse and fun to use, there’s multiple ways to build your character, and the game hooks you like any good roguelike. There’s always a “one more run” feeling, even without much persistent progression.
How’s the story though? Does it successfully synthesize narrative and mechanical elements to create a statement that could only be made in a video game?
No. It’s cookie cutter and perfunctory, like the genre it’s based on. There’s some text logs with some ore-grade lore, and your guy makes a bunch of Duke-Nukem style comments, but that’s about it.
Seems like a missed opportunity.
Does it? Does every game have to have a great story along with great mechanics? Does everything have to be deep?
No, but the games that really made an impact on me were either social experiences, or games with great narratives. I played a hell of a lot of Binding of Isaac, but it did nothing to change who I am as a person. On the other hand, I still remember moments from “The Walking Dead” or playing Call of Duty online with friends in high school. And some of my favorite memories are playing games (mostly board games) that created those shared narratives while being mechanically engaging.
So your claim is a game needs to be multiplayer or have a good narrative to succeed?
Yes.
What about single player games that foster conversations among players? If I was playing Jupiter Hell and swapping tactics and builds with my friends?
Sure, that’d count. Are you doing that?
Sort of! This blog is largely read by people I know in real life, and if a video game spawns a blog post that sparks a conversation, doesn’t that fit the criteria?
Yes, but you could make that claim about any experience.
I agree. I think the natural endpoint of your argument is that experiences are valuable if they positively affect the individual or strengthen social bonds. The experience does not exist outside the experiencer–it has no inherent value. In this framework, an exceptionally large shit can have more worth than the Mona Lisa if a person can have a funny conversation with a friend about it.
I suppose that tracks. But the game still plays a role. One could conceivably have a good conversation about anything if the relationship between the two parties is strong enough, or if one of the interlocutors is a talented enough improviser. But in practice, given average conversationalists, the experience has a large impact on what someone takes from it, or how good of a conversation it sparks.
The question is: how much is the game bringing to the table?
You’re proposing a sort of synthesis then: experiences are “good” or “bad” based on their intrinsic ability to affect people or create bonds between others.
Yes.
That tracks. The reviewer’s job, then, should be to recommend things that are naturally suited to providing those sorts of experiences, or to deliver that sort of experience with a review. That makes sense–I’ve always wondered about the split between reviews that simply inform the reader about the work vs. reviews that create new meaning out of it, and this framework provides a more sensible way to think about it: informational reviews provide advertising to games that create good experiences, and commentary reviews aim to be those sorts of good experiences in and of themselves.
I think there’s an unfortunate corollary to that: we’re writing bad reviews. We don’t really make compelling cases for why people should play certain games, and recently we’ve barely been talking about the game at all–this is largely unrelated stream of consciousness conversations between two disembodied voices.
Yeah, but I’d rather do this. This conversation is more interesting than writing about the perk system in Jupiter Hell.
But how will people know if the game is worth playing?
Who cares? There’s no shortage of great video games on the market, and I’d rather write about what interests me. You’re making the assumption that these pieces are for the reader in some way–they’re just a way for me to write something every week. I’m delighted if someone reads it, and I hope they’re entertaining, but I can’t say I ever expected this to be informative. Hell, the initial rationale for them was purely self-serving.
We have fundamentally different views on what this series should be, then. I can’t believe you’ve roped me into this. We ought to be delivering expert game reviews to consumers, and I’m going to try my hardest to steer these columns in that direction.
Be my guest. You’ve already lost that battle this column.
Not yet. Say something insightful about Jupiter Hell, or I’m going to start writing sonnets about tree work.
You don’t have the willpower for that.
Watch me:
I climb a rope to see the highest height
The world expands around me with no end.
I check my saw and see it’s fastened tight
Up here strong limbs must make a worthy friend.
There never was a man just quite like me–
Okay! That’s enough! I can’t see you rhyme “me” with “tree” and keep my respect for you.
Let’s hear about Jupiter Hell, then.
Fine: Jupiter Hell does a great job of capturing the tactical nature of roguelike combat without having a great deal of special player or monster attributes. Instead of agonizing over what power to use, the player has tactical decisions to make: Should I fire out in the open in the hopes of taking out an enemy, or should I run for cover? Should I reload or swap to a worse weapon? Aim, or throw a grenade? With deadly combat, all of these choices feel meaningful, and keep repeated playthroughs interesting, since each different build offers different incentives to the player.
Was that so hard?
I suppose not.
Thank you. Now, does this game pass the Bechdel test?
Nope. This is a 90s meathead game story at its finest. It says nothing, and revels in its stupidity.
Let’s wrap up. Is Jupiter Hell worth playing?
Sure is. It’s a tightly designed roguelike that does a great job transferring the feel and tension of Doom to a roguelike. Fans of the Roguelike genre will definitely find something to enjoy here.