It took about 90 minutes but I read through it at work. Might be the best, most detailed review I have ever read of anything. Proper analysis, not just review. I wish Bethesda designers would read it, but I doubt they ever will. They just won BAFTA so who cares about some stupid fansite :(
In terms of dungeon design, the most noteworthy feature are the humorously posed skeletons, teddy bears, and toy monkeys strewn about. Fallout 4 is very big on this type of “environmental storytelling”, and they seem to have put a lot of work into this stuff. True, almost every dungeon crawl still amounts to a pattern of “enter at door, shoot everything that moves, find treasure room, loot, leave.” Yes, trap variety feels worse than in Skyrim, with swinging blades and trapdoors replaced by lame ol’ mines and tripwires linked to explosives. And doing the same two lockpicking and hacking minigames again and again and again and again is really not fun at all. But look at these skeletons! They’ve been choking each other on top of a safe for over 210 years now! They must really hate each other! Why is this teddy bear reading a newspaper and holding a coffee mug? Bears don’t drink coffee! Hey, are those letter blocks spelling words? Why? How?!? I don’t understand! This is so awesome! And so on and so forth. These are instances where I have to accept that I’m not part of the mainstream target audience and simply move on; I only wish there had been a few decent puzzles in the game.
Oh yes, the C and I parts of SPECIAL are still in the game, and more than ever Bethesda seem to have no clue what to do with them. Fallout 4 is most assuredly not the kind of game where you frequently make meaningful decisions in dialogue, and hard stat checks are, as we all know, not Bethesda’s idea of good game design. So what do Charisma and Intelligence do in this game? Intelligence gives 3% bonus experience per level and reduces the number of possible solutions shown in the hacking minigame. And that’s it. That’s what being intelligent means in the sequel to Fallout 1 and 2. Why couldn’t they just remove the damn stat altogether?
The dialogue system reaches its absolute nadir in those moments when you do not have a choice at all, but the game wants to pretend that you do; unfortunately, these moments are quite common in Fallout 4. For example, at various points in the Brotherhood of Steel storyline, the Brotherhood’s fanatical leader Elder Maxson will give you an order to do some righteous murdering. He will make clear that you are a soldier in his army (indeed, you have to swear an oath to be admitted), that your life belongs to his Brotherhood now, and that even the slightest hint of disobedience will see you severely punished. You can then choose to accept his order, you can politely, but firmly refuse it, you can say “But that’s genocide! You’re mad! Absolutely mad!”, or you can instead make a totally unrelated humorous remark. All of these options will lead to the exact same result: you get the quest added to your log, and Maxson will give you a promotion if you complete it.
That entire passage about dialogue system is incredible.
And quest design…ah the quest design
Let’s look at a few examples of story quests. First, there’s “MacCready for Action”, which is the story of your companion Robert Joseph MacCready. MacCready’s a returning fan favourite from Fallout 3, where he served as the adorably obnoxious child mayor of Little Lamplight. He’s a fully grown man now, and after a few hours of passionate lockpicking he will reveal his tragic backstory to you: MacCready’s wife was ripped apart by feral ghouls a few years back, leaving him to care alone for a terminally ill son who is suffering from an unknown disease. MacCready has set out into the Commonwealth in search of a cure, and he needs somebody to help him follow the quest markers. Half an hour of pew-pew later, you hold an experimental cure for an unknown disease in your hands, and now you’re off to try and see if it will cure the kid! No, actually you aren’t, because the kid is lying comatose in a shack somewhere near Washington D.C., and that’s outside the game world. Well, then MacCready has to go and try to cure his kid himself! Goodbye Robert, hope you and your spawn find happiness! Ah, but no – MacCready is bound to you, his lord and mistress, and will not leave your side. Instead, he gives the cure to “a caravan master he trusts”, sends it off to his son, and then the quest is over and the story’s done.
And here’s my analysis: Jesus Christ, are you fucking kidding me? Why the hell wouldn’t the guy go home to his dying son? Is he mentally ill? Why can’t I order MacCready to go? His kid is dying! The cure may not work! It may kill him! He may already be dead! Why does the game build up such a strong thematic connection between the PC and MacCready (dead spouse, son in distress, now they’re scouring the Commonwealth for a solution), only to fuck it all up by saying “eh, that dude’s kid will be fine, he’s just suffering from an unknown fatal disease with an experimental cure and may very well be dead already. Your kid, on the other hand – quick, let’s have another emotional dialogue! Start quivering, girl!” This type of writing is not merely self-defeating, but it’s actually harmful to the game; until I played through this quest, I had no idea what utter hacks Bethesda’s quest writers were. After this uncomfortable episode, I never used MacCready in my party again; when the main quest was over, he was still hard at work tilling my fields.