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Zero Parades Hands-On Preview: A Complex Spy RPG Hiding in One Giant Shadow

Hershel Wilk awakes in a small, dirty apartment in the city of Portofiro. Why she’s here, she does not know. Her mission objectives were supposed to be provided by her partner, codename “Pseudopod”, but he’s unresponsive – he just sits there in his underwear, staring at nothing, his senses on lockdown. In his pockets are an invoice for socks and a lipstick-printed business card that simply reads “All you need is miracle.”

It’s not just Hershel who needs a miracle. Developer ZA/UM needs one, too. Zero Parades: For Dead Spies is an espionage RPG that follows the playbook of the studio’s previous game, Disco Elysium, incredibly closely, right down to opening on a confused protagonist in a run-down room. It’s another high-concept, combatless, dialogue-driven game about following threads and investigating leads. But capturing lightning twice is no easy feat, and simply repeating Disco Elysium’s triumphs is no guaranteed road to success. Thankfully, there are fresh ideas here that expand and evolve ZA/UM’s formula, making for what appears to be, on the surface, a more traditionally accomplished video game, but potentially at the cost of crafting a less interesting artistic creation.

I recently spent around six hours with Zero Parades, playing through the entire upcoming Steam Next Fest demo, plus a significant amount beyond it. That meant exploring a wide section of Portofiro, a vibrant hub of criss-crossing cultures, painted in shades of Central America and Southern Europe. It’s made up of six districts, stretching from docklands, through a central marketplace and winding back alleys, and up to a hillside housing project. While perhaps small by traditional RPG standards, this is a much larger playspace than we saw in Disco Elysium, and that’s not just reflected in your step count.

The city is alive. Rather than a decaying echo of times gone by like Revachol was, Portofiro is active. Every street is home to an oddball with their own strange perspective and, often, their own weird problem in need of solving. In the “Bootleg Bazaar” you’ll find two children transfixed by Sixty-Six Wolves, a cartoon that seems suspiciously like foreign propaganda. A few stalls down there’s Petre, a “Format Fetishist” obsessed with a type of vinyl record that wipes itself clean after a single play. Further up the road, you’ll bump into Kurt, a man so consumed by the need to follow imported fashion trends that he’s landed himself in crippling debt. Each is a window into a place where personal obsessions are the tools through which sinister powers manipulate the world.

I will, of course, need to play Zero Parades to completion to judge if its writing around this and other topics can match the unbelievably lofty heights of its celebrated predecessor. And I understand if you’re skeptical – ZA/UM’s controversial firing of key Disco Elysium creatives in 2022 has left many fans wary of both the studio’s management and the current team’s ability to craft something as meaningful. Based on my experience of this demo, though, I feel positive about the writing’s quality, with the odd caveat.

The skills, for instance, which once again form the pieces of your fractured psyche and comment on your choices and the world around you, lack defined voices and feel largely interchangeable (with the exception of Statehood, which bellows your home country’s party line in all-caps). But when it comes to the city’s collection of strangers, it appears the current writing team has successfully penned a cast possessed of a similar blend of literary prose, otherworldly Lynchian vibes, and off-kilter political humour. And, as I cross-referenced their tales with those of others, I began to paint a picture of this deeply troubled world, where techno-fascist superpowers, communist republics, and investment banks battle for power, using secret police forces as knives and pop culture as rifles.

Portofiro begins to feel like a Venn diagram of multiple overlapping quests, much like the cities of Baldur’s Gate and Athkatla.

Finding my place among all that initially felt overwhelming. As a spy, it’s my job to be a disruptor, to exploit those tensions for the gain of my home state. But, as previously mentioned, Hershel has no idea what her mission is. You simply need to talk and talk and talk until you find the threads relevant to your objectives, and there is no shortage of people to pull them from. But soon I began to see the connections. A representative of EMTERR, the world’s super bank, could be the starting point for solving Kurt the fashionista’s financial woes. A group of grizzled veterans impatiently waiting for their turn to dial into the “Miracle” sex line suddenly makes that business card I discovered make sense. And the suicidal Dr. Gonza’s medical know-how could diagnose Pseudopod’s condition… but first I’ll have to bring him the teeth of a medical board “narc” to halt his hanging attempt. As you collect these leads, Portofiro begins to feel like a Venn diagram of multiple overlapping quests, much like the cities of Baldur’s Gate and Athkatla did in BioWare’s seminal Infinity Engine RPGs.

While Disco Elysium certainly shared some DNA with the classics, it held many traditional RPG ideas at arm’s length. Zero Parades is less shy about being a video game. That feeling starts with the increased size and scope of its city, but is cemented in its more wholehearted embrace of regular skill checks and, importantly, building a gameplay system around failing them. You have a trio of pseudo health bars – Fatigue, Anxiety, and Delirium – which fill when you stumble through conversations and interactions in their respective field. For example, elongating an early phone call by asking all of the wrong questions will cause your anxiety levels to soar. Fail too often, or keep digging down into a dark memory hole that you shouldn’t, and you’ll take a permanent penalty to one of your stats.

There are interesting mechanical wrinkles to this system. Skill checks typically involve rolling two dice, but you can choose to "exert" yourself, adding an extra die to increase your chances at the cost of damaging one of those pressure bars. It’s vital to learn how to manage your stressors, then, to keep the bars balanced. Smoking, for instance, will reduce your anxiety, which in turn gives you another opportunity to exert yourself.

Another example of this more crunchy, systemic approach can be found in “Dramatic Encounters”, which turn moments of peril into a series of turn-based decisions, creating a sense of life-or-death drama in a game devoid of combat. It’s essentially Disco Elysium’s late-game tribunal sequence transformed into a defined mechanic. The example in my demo saw me attempt to evade an enemy agent through a busy marketplace, and the branching decisions offered classic spy fiction options: Do I pause to analyse, or act on gut feeling? Try to flee, or hide in plain sight? A skill check on my “Nerve” stat – a test of how cool I can stay under pressure – succeeds, and I walk straight past my hunter, confidently blending into the crowd.

While this example is fairly low stakes, at every junction I nonetheless held my breath as I picked my next move, anxiously waiting to see if my choice paid off. I’m very interested to see how this approach will be applied to other spycraft staples – perhaps tailing, deploying bugs, or even straight-up assassination – as success here will likely be the thing that helps Zero Parades feel distinct from its predecessor and truly cement it as an espionage RPG, rather than Disco Elysium with a 00 license in its wallet.

This project is more recognisably a video game than the parameter-defying art experiment that was Disco Elysium.

Zero Parade’s most interesting push into more traditional video game territory, though, is how it uses the city’s physical space to structure its branching quests. My final few hours were spent completing tasks that await beyond the Steam Next Fest demo, and the majority of that time saw me searching for a hidden jail, inside of which awaited a prisoner with vital information. The way you find this jail is determined by a number of different factors; there’s your personal method of investigation, of course, but your character’s stat build and your own ability to interpret the world’s clues also come into play. From what I can tell, this results in at least two completely different routes to the jail: breaking into a subterranean tunnel, or via poetry. Yes, poetry.

It was that second, more artistic path that I took. After quizzing a reluctant boatman who clearly knew about the jail but refused to talk, I was able to use my “Blueprints” skill to track his involuntary eye movements and approximate the prison’s location. Poking around the region he kept gazing at led me to the offices of a poetry magazine, the Noscorrentes Review, which featured a suspicious locked gate that only contributing writers were permitted to pass through. So, how do you convince a pretentious editor that you’re a genuine, publish-worthy poet? Well, dumpster diving through the publication’s trash will secure you a poem, but it’s in the garbage for a reason. And so the only option is to literally write a verse yourself, digging deep into your own soul to increase the chance modifiers on your “Poetics” skill check. The task provides an insight into Hershel’s painful past, but also – most importantly – creates a composition worthy of the magazine’s pages. The editor lets me past the locked gate, and there, in the basement of the Noscorrentes Review, is the secret jail. It’s real. And it’s a path to even more trouble… but I won’t spoil that here.

This branching path, effectively creating two entirely separate questlines that take place in entirely separate locations, reminds me more of RPGs like The Witcher and Baldur’s Gate than it does the almost immersive theatre approach of Disco Elysium. That’s not to say that Zero Parades is a traditional role-playing game. Far from it. But it’s clear that ZA/UM’s attempt to build on its established formula has taken it down a path that makes this project more recognisably a video game than the parameter-defying art experiment that was Disco Elysium. It’s a feeling only reinforced by the espionage genre and the more global approach to its story. There are factions, and one of them is an evil empire! That’s video game stuff.

Although on the surface they run the risk of appearing as less experimental design decisions, I don’t think these are poor choices. In fact, they are what I think make Zero Parades interesting. I left the studio feeling as if I’d just played a fascinating RPG with a strongly defined, richly realised setting, spearheaded by a protagonist who could navigate that world’s obstacles in a myriad of compelling ways. And yet, despite this, Zero Parades still feels beholden to Disco Elysium, as if its ambitions are caged by the reluctance, or refusal, to stray too far from the safety of beloved ideas. Elements like the sentient skills feel like they are template, rather than tradition. In many ways, it feels willing to risk being an imitation in the hope of capturing lightning twice. I doubt that was a risk worth taking, and yet I still think the odd chimera of old and new that ZA/UM has produced may prove to have merit in its own right.

Matt Purslow is IGN's Executive Editor of Features.

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Why Do Gamers Invert Their Controls?

In terms of sheer numbers, inverters vs. non-inverters is the biggest schism in the games community. Whenever the subject comes up, it always leads to some petty argument about how you tilt your head when you look around in real life vs. "No, up means up, you loser, your head is not a tiny aeroplane."

Look, maybe my head is a tiny aeroplane, and my brain is the pilot. And that's before we get to the fact that inverters are at a massive disadvantage in these matters because “invert” rhymes with “pervert”.

For one of these groups, it is merely a fact of life: whether nature or nurture, to those of us afflicted with the scourge of invertism – a stigma I have lived with for most of my life – pushing forward on a stick to look down comes just as naturally as walking or breathing.

There’s a lot of misconceptions about inverters, perpetuated by people on either side of the divide. That people who invert are outliers, that it’s some kind of "skill issue", that it doesn’t make sense to invert Y if you aren’t also going to invert X. That it’s easy to switch with a bit of practice. That it all depends on what your first game system was. But, according to researchers Jennifer Corbett and Jaap Munneke, who surveyed a big sample of gamers and subjected them to cognitive 3D spatial awareness testing, whether or not you played flight simulators as a child has absolutely no bearing whatsoever on your Y-axis praxis.

Though this study has gone some way to disproving these commonly held myths, it stops short of providing any real answers about why some people invert, and why others do not. Largely, I suspect, because that’s rather like trying to explain the briefs or boxers divide. There’s an unknowable number of factors to consider re: why someone would have a preference, and it doesn’t matter anyway because… well, it’s just underwear. It only matters to the individual concerned. It’s not like one day they’re going to stop making boxers.

Except, as the study sort of says if you actually read it, it’s not just a personal preference. Well, it is, but it’s one that’s massively dictated by how your brain happens to be wired and how it handles spatial awareness. Although with practice and perseverance, some people have found that they can unlearn their default and switch over - usually this is from inverting to not inverting - it’s kind of half-way between a personal preference and an accessibility issue. It’s a bit of both. And understanding it may well be crucial for important things beyond the realm of gaming, such as telesurgery or drone operation. All kinds of applications where the operator’s spatial awareness is being distorted by a non-standard field of view, the lack of a third dimension, input lag, frame drops, and more besides.

I dunno. I’m guessing. I’m not trying to get a research grant, so I’m not that invested in whether or not that’s a convincing pitch for how serious this issue is. What’s incredible about the study’s findings is that, and I’m quoting the researchers from an article in The Guardian here, “None of the reasons people gave us [for inverting controls] had anything to do with whether they actually inverted”. So, all of us are barking down the wrong tree, and it actually has more to do with how you process 3D space at a deep cognitive level.

This absolutely tracks with my own, limited, tiny sample size research. I took a poll of IGN Entertainment staff recently and found that, firstly, of the 35 people who responded to my survey, only seven of us are inverters. And of those seven, beyond the inverting, there wasn’t a single unifying factor apart from the fact that we’re all over 30. But most people at the company are over 30, so that hardly feels like a significant marker.

The one thing that seems to make you more likely to invert is whether or not you’re old enough to have been an active gamer in the late '90s or early 2000s.

I asked people to check which control scheme or device they first used, and it was a mix of control pad and joystick. Interestingly, no inverters mentioned mouse and keyboard, which may be significant: very few people seem to invert when using mouse look, which makes sense. I don’t, despite being a hard-wired inverter when it comes to anything with a stick. Essentially your crosshair just becomes a mouse pointer when you’re in the middle of a gunfight.

Some non-inverters did say that they sometimes invert for vehicle controls. But Eurogamer’s Alex Donaldson said anyone who inverts in FPS games is a pervert. It’s just a big mixture of anecdotes and scant few unifying factors in either group. The one thing that seems to make you more likely to invert is age – whether or not you’re old enough to have been an active gamer in the late '90s or early 2000s, and that certainly makes a lot of sense because that would roughly cover the heyday of the PS2 and Nintendo 64 which, as noted by some of my colleagues, had a lot of popular games where the camera was inverted by default. As IGN’s deputy guides editor Casey DeFreitas writes:

"I played way too many hours of both The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time and Pokemon Snap on the Nintendo 64, and both of those games REQUIRED inverted vertical controls! You couldn't change it. I got used to it and then when I tried games that were default non-inverted, my aim was awful. I refuse to publish gameplay of mine if I can't invert the controls and have to aim, it looks like a baby grabbed the controller."

Lots of really big games from that time – huge, genre-defining games – shipped with inverted look. Goldeneye 007, another N64 classic and a pioneering first person shooter on consoles, had an inverted camera. GTA 3, the original PS2 release, notoriously came configured for inverted look without any way to change it. And people just had to deal with it because otherwise there’d be no GTA for them.

Many would count Timesplitters on the PS2 as their first encounter with modern twin stick controls, and this shipped with inverted Y by default without any way to change it, forcing a lot of people to just get on with it. Now, I think that’s an important part of the story here: the fact that back in the day, configuration options in console games, being able to tailor an experience to your own preferences and brain wiring, simply wasn’t a thing you could rely on. Most of the time you just had to accept whatever the developers shipped it with.

There was also no general consensus as to how 3D controls should work on a gamepad. It was the wild West. Conventions we take for granted now – left stick for movement and strafing, right stick for looking and turning – simply hadn’t been established, and it’s a bit difficult to pin down exactly when they were because these things tend to change slowly, like an abandoned chocolate bar melting on a dashboard.

Timesplitters certainly didn’t invent the modern control scheme – other console FPSes had it as an option years before it. Even Goldeneye 007 had a twin stick mode utilising two of the N64’s ridiculous controllers. Alien Resurrection on the PS1 had it, and interestingly copped a lot of flak from critics at the time who considered it unwieldy and unplayably difficult.

See, like all major technological and cultural innovations, it turns out a lot of people were stumbling around in the ball park of what became the accepted solution. Many people credit Halo: Combat Evolved with popularising the very concept of First Person Shooters on console (not inventing, but perfecting it), with its innovative sticky aiming that made the twin stick controls we still use today feel good and natural in the hands. And also pioneering the ingenious, diegetic method of determining the player’s inversion preference via the use of a tutorial that instructs you to look at specific lights and then simply asking you if the way the camera moved felt right or not, automatically inverting the controls if it didn't. It meant that both types of gamers were catered for in the most natural way possible. The rest is history.

Halo eliminating any configuration friction and simply working in whichever way was natural for the individual player probably went a long way toward establishing non-inverted camera controls as society’s default. Instinctively, for the majority of people, many playing these games for the first time in their formative years, up means up. This intuitive piece of Halo’s tutorial wasn’t just a cute way of bypassing menus, it was solving an accessibility problem that was widespread at the time because there were no standards, no hard conventions, about how these things were expected to work... largely because gaming is an industry where a bunch of nerds and computer science poindexters are making entertainment products for normal people who own Sony Bravia TVs and sleep in a big bed with their partner.

In the years since, platform holders have mandated the option of inverting Y alongside other toggles, and it’s basically not an issue any more unless you enjoy arguing about stupid shit with strangers on the internet. I can’t remember being negatively affected by my invertism since Beyond Good and Evil HD came out about 400,000 years ago. In fact, with every new generation, it becomes more of a standard practice to cater for as many preferences, impairments, or even disabilities as possible, with many huge mainstream games now including extensive options for fine-tuning everything from camera controls to high-contrast overlays for the severely colourblind.

I suspect it’s more or less impossible to determine exactly why some people invert and some people don’t. What I do know is that inverting is wildly misunderstood by non inverters, while the reverse isn’t the case at all. I’m not remotely confused as to why Up means Up. On paper, that’s perfectly intuitive. Up means down, patently, is not. And in microcosm, it’s a perfect, low-key example of why diversity matters in game development: you can’t just cater to what is considered “normal”, otherwise you risk alienating huge swathes of your potential audience. And that’s a hard, dispassionate business case for just having some consideration for people who aren’t necessarily the default character in life.

In the business, we call that subtext.

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Should the God of War Trilogy Remake Bring Back the Sex Minigames?

Last week, after years of hopeful speculation, Sony's Santa Monica Studio announced it will be remaking the original God of War trilogy. T.C. Carson, the original voice actor behind Kratos, stepped in front of the camera to reveal that the project is in the “very early” stages of development, and that we’ll have to wait a little longer for any of our questions to be answered. And there are a lot of questions.

Will this be a graphical facelift à la Bluepoint’s Demon’s Souls, or are we revisiting Greece with the Norse duology's controls and overhauled game design? If the latter, will Kratos have a companion accompanying him to Pandora’s Temple and the Isle of Fates? Will there be a blacksmith NPC popping up in expected places to provide armor and weapon upgrades? Will we be able to jump and fly, like in the original games? And what about those sex minigames?

That last one almost sounds like a joke, but fans who’ve brought them up seem to be deadly serious. “You better not edit out Aphrodite,” one of the top comments on the announcement video posted to the official PlayStation YouTube channel warns, referring to the particularly graphic minigame from God of War 3. “Do not censor original material,” reads one of the – as of the time I’m writing this article – 256 replies to that comment. “Dont ruin it.”

Fan fixation with these minigames makes sense, and not just because of the franchise’s initial target demographic. They are, for better or worse, as much a part of the Greek saga as the Blades of Chaos, appearing in every mainline title except for Ascension. Even the two handheld games, Chains of Olympus and Ghost of Sparta, have their own versions of them: one in Attica, while fighting off the Persians, the other at a brothel back in Sparta.

They’re also a product of their time, one when both gamers and game developers were overwhelmingly male, little if any thought was given to the way women were represented, and hack and slashers generally relished in all things lewd and bloody and pubescent. But times have since changed, and changed profoundly at that. Once taken for granted, today the minigames stand out like a sore thumb. They are perhaps the only aspect of the Greek saga I could envision its developers regret adding in, and hence it’s unclear whether they will return alongside the togas, sandals, and cyclopes.

Personally, I’d be surprised if they did. Santa Monica Studio seemed to have soured on the minigames as early as 2013, when the team working on Ascension decided not to include one – maybe in response to backlash, maybe out of post-orgasm clarity after visiting Aphrodite. In that game, Kratos’ obligatory trip to the bordello plays out in a cutscene, and the women there turn out to be an illusion created by one of the Furies.

The minigames help convey Kratos' downward spiral into sadism and nihilism.

At the same time – and, please, hear me out here – I do think there’s a place for them in the Greek games, at least in concept. More than a crude joke, I always found that they contributed to the saga’s story and themes. In the first God of War, the sex minigame – like that part where you burn the caged soldier to progress through Pandora’s Temple, or condemn the ship captain to his death after taking his key – adds a welcome sense of moral ambiguity. It demonstrates that Kratos is not a conventional hero, and suggests there’s more to his quest to kill Aries than the desire to avenge his family. If visions of his dear, dead wife haunt him so, how could he lie with other women? At least, that’s what went through my head when I encountered the minigame for the first time.

Both God of War 2 and the trilogy’s final entry make clear what the first game only insinuated: that Kratos’ vengeance is not a crusade for justice, but an excuse to kill and destroy for the sake of killing and destroying. In both games, the minigames help convey his downward spiral into sadism and nihilism. In God of War 3, for example, you enter Aphrodite’s chambers right after killing her husband, Hephaestus; a tragic, ultimately well-intentioned character who, up until this point, acted as your only ally, Athena and her ulterior motives notwithstanding. At every turn, the developers stress that Kratos cares for nothing except the gratification of his own, basest desires. At this point, lust and bloodshed are the only things he lives for, and that won’t change until he meets Faye and fathers Atreus.

The horniness of the Greek saga also feels somewhat appropriate when considering its source material. The ancient myths woven into Kratos’ world are full of sex, as is the Greco-Roman visual culture that inspired Santa Monica Studio’s talented concept artists. The goddess of love and beauty is not the only one with her nipples out: Kratos, Zeus, Hades – everyone, man and monster, is bare-legged and bare-chested, their bodily features every bit as sculpted as the marble statues at the MET.

Most importantly, perhaps, the minigames help bring home the Greek games’ meta-commentary – a commentary present throughout the trilogy but most pronounced in its concluding chapter, where Kratos is at his ugliest, meanest, and most pathetic, and the franchise’s cinematic endorphin rushes pivot from tasteful indulgence into nauseating overindulgence. Where impaling Aries was uncomplicatedly epic and triumphant, Kratos’ actions in God of War 3 hit differently. Brutalizing Poseidon’s and Hercules’ faces, ripping off Hades’ mask, cutting off Hermes’ legs, snapping Hera’s neck, beating Zeus until the screen becomes completely covered in blood – each “victory” leaves the player feeling a little uneasy, ashamed, hollow. Boss battles in the first God of War and its sequel made you feel like David taking down big, mean Goliath; no matter how brutal the finishing moves, your opponents had it coming. In God of War 3, you’re more like a playground bully, kicking another student when they’re down.

The minigame with Aphrodite also veers into garish over-indulgence, but to a slightly different effect. Instead of making you feel like a bully, you just feel like an idiot. I certainly did when, playing with a childhood friend, we just sat next to each other in awkward silence, going through the motions to get all the red orbs while keeping an ear out for my mom walking up and down the hallway. Very manly indeed.

Some might think that the Norse games walked back on the Greek saga’s abundance of sex and nudity because the gaming industry decided to chase inclusivity, and Barlog and his team tried to stay on the good side of a culture that considered the minigames offensive and misogynistic. This is not the case. First and foremost, the Norse saga walked back on these things because they play no part in this leg of Kratos’ story. Once again, his wife has died. But this time, he channels his grief into something more constructive: rather than destroying the world, he tries to be a better parent to his son.

For the remakes to succeed, they have to communicate – as effectively, if not more effectively, than the original trilogy – how Kratos ends up at the personal low-point from which the Norse games set off. If the sex minigames are in any way included, this is the purpose they should serve. If they’re removed on account of being tasteless – not unthinkable, as that was kind of their point – no matter. Surely, Santa Monica Studio can think of other, more respectful ways to convey Kratos’ downward spiral, and for players to go down that spiral along with him.

Tim Brinkhof is a freelance writer specializing in art and history. After studying journalism at NYU, he has gone on to write for Vox, Vulture, Slate, Polygon, GQ, Esquire and more.

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