The Mass Effect Trilogy - Thoughts on the End of All Things

I finished playing 'Mass Effect 3' this weekend, wrapping up the trilogy and ending my spectacular 7 month affair with one of the greatest video game series I've ever played. Now I am feeling quite melancholy, blue, down in the dumps, even morose. I am, I've discovered, experiencing a well-documented phenomena known as 'post-Mass Effect depression'. According to the Internet it's a real thing; in fact when you type 'post-mass' into Google, the full phrase 'post-Mass Effect depression' autofills as one of the most oft-searched phrases in all of webdom.

To the doubters who spend a little too much time in the really real world who would cry 'what stuff!' and tell me and my millions-strong support group to grow up and get a life, I can only say 'don't knock it till you try it.' The Mass Effect trilogy constitutes three of the most immersive titles in modern gaming, a saga as sweeping as 'Lord of the Rings' or 'Star Wars' to hear some describe it. I'm inclined to agree. But unlike books or movies, which are static and unchanging except where people's opinions are concerned, games put us in the driver's seat and give us control over our own destiny, making our experiences in that universe infinitely more self-tailored and a good deal more intimate. I am not the first person to make this observation and Mass Effect is certainly not the first game or game series to elicit this sort of feeling in a player, but for my part it was as close to another life as I've experienced in the virtual world, one which to some degree I must relinquish forever now that my first playthrough is over and done. I will go back again; the trilogy is simply too big to experience everything it has to offer in one go, but I know (and I'm sure many will agree) that any subsequent run will be one of diminished grandeur and diluted wonder, an old pair of jeans compared to a brand new suit. Because no one ever forgets his or her first Commander Shepard.

I was a latecomer to the series. I only started it last year; it happened entirely by impulse. In the dead of a northeast New York winter I was fetal with cabin fever and craving some action, looking for a something to play that might distract me from the icy winds and three feet of snow outside my window. I perused the Playstation store until I found the first Mass Effect available for a $15 download. I shrugged, having heard of the title but never having pursued it, and decided to give it a go. I don't know how long I played that first night or when exactly I decided I was in love, but I do remember that first rush of excitement when I realized I was hooked. I had only planned to test the waters, to try out the game and see if I liked the mechanics, the look, the feel. But I spent some time crafting my Shepard, not thinking too much about it at first and planning to create a new profile if I decided I'd continue. But after the Eden Prime introductory mission I decided that I liked my Shepard – the face I'd given him, the attributes and backstory. To hell with starting over...I'd made my N7, now I was going to see him through. I never looked back; I took my Shepard from Virmire to the Battle of the Citadel, through a laundry list of side quests and a million upgrades, and when it was over I knew Mass Effect had another convert.

It wasn't the greatest game I'd ever played. The combat mechanics were antiquated for 2012 (R2 to shoot – ugh, and don't get me started on the frisbee grenades) and the graphics were no longer gold standard, but I saw past all that because I was so swept up in the story. Commander Shepard's journey isn't just one of combat and space fantasy but one of discovery, wonder, humor, camaraderie and as anyone familiar with the series would tell you, choice. Above all, Mass Effect is about choice. And therein lies the hook. At all times the series presents the player with innumerable choices that shape and color the story and the individual experience as you go. You can play as a faultless boy scout, a ruthless bastard or any shade of gray in-between. It has been said that no two Mass Effect experiences are exactly the same. I don't think I'll ever have enough time in my day or sufficient sleepless nights to prove that, but I doubt I could ever disprove it either.

The genius of Mass Effect where choice is concerned was in the consequences, something we're not used to dealing with in a game. We make a 'bad' choice and get a result we don't want, we reload the save file and try again. But Shepard's journey turned that convenience on its ear in two ways: (1) rarely if ever were you presented with choices that were explicitly 'good' or explicitly 'bad'. Instead you were presented with a pair (sometimes more) of equally gut-wrenching or alternately baffling options, none of them a game-ender, but all of them most certainly a game-changer in the most literal sense of the phrase. Whichever path you took was going to alter the game experience in ways big and small, from dialogue options to the presence or absence of supporting characters whose lives quite literally depended on your decision. Then, (2) just as you're reminding yourself that it's only a game, Mass Effect really calls your bluff by allowing you to import your save and profile into Mass Effect 2, forcing your Commander Shepard to live with his/her choices long after the first disc has been lovingly tucked back into its case. This was genius on the part of BioWare and ME's producers, as it launches the player balls-first into the sequel with a multitude of sins and salvations already on their heads, not to mention more than a few enemies still gunning for the galaxy's greatest soldier. Show me someone who saw ME1 through to the end and didn't buy Mass Effect 2 when it came out. Me? I started it the night after I finished the first.

ME2 was pure genius. It improved on every shooting/combat mechanic immeasurably, making the action truly thrilling for the first time. I would've been fine with another clumsy, keystroke-heavy offering if that's what I was given, but to be able to continue the Mass Effect saga with a newly tweaked, intuitive control scheme was enough to put me in nirvana. Some detractors groaned that ME2 sacrificed the more nuanced role-playing elements of the first in favor of a more macho, Schwarzeneggerian shoot-'em-up, but I protest on grounds that a huge quantity of 'pure' RPGs in the gaming world are unspeakably boring, not to mention populated by stilted protagonists who are little more than stereotypes and odious caricatures. Some folk can endure countless hours of such sluggish dreck in the name of 'purity'. I cannot. ME2 was all about character: the continuing evolution of Commander Shepard as well as the most narratively fertile cast of supporting roles I've ever seen in a game. Virtually the entire title is a scavenger hunt for 'the best people' in the galaxy to counter the steamrolling menace of the Collectors. These people, naturally, consist of outsiders, rebels, vigilantes, convicts, zealots, killers, and doctors of extremely questionable ethics. And it is one of the greatest joys in all the Mass Effect experience to get to know them, to learn their minds, win their loyalty and shed some pixelated blood beside them in defense of the galaxy. I finished ME2 with dread, knowing that I was already two-thirds done with my tenure, even as I vowed to go back one day and do it all again just for the Hell of it.

Mass Effect 3 was a tough one. Until I had started playing, the only thing I had known about the BioWare masterpiece was the controversy generated by ME3's end, an issue that received so much coverage I simply couldn't avoid it even if I was trying to remain spoiler-free. I'd glanced at the articles, I'd seen the memes, I'd even caught some extraneous fan-generated blowback from my fellow gaming geeks. Point is: I knew how it ended; I was prepared, and that helped quite a bit. I also had the presence of mind to purchase the 'Extended Cut' dlc ahead of time and load it up well before I actually reached Shepard's final, critical choice, so when the moment of catharsis came I was treated to several minutes of added scenes designed (ostensibly) to better flesh out the trilogy's endgame but in reality was cobbled together in answer to the tsunami of bad vibes created by the original ending. Unlike a lot of my peers, I was satisfied with the end (I'll speculate about the 'three choices' in some other post). I found it poetic, elegant, thought-provoking and most importantly, unpatronizing; a savvy commentary on self-reflection and those weird gray areas we spent the last three games exploring. I will be unpopular among many for this stance.  If you're sore about it, we can talk.  Just be ready for a brawl.

It was painful to switch off my console that night. Though he was still alive in a few dozen save files spanning a trio of disks, my first Commander Shepard's story was over.  Never again would anything he said or did be said or done for the first time, a virginal experience, fresh and unspoiled. But here's a testament to the saga's real strength: afterwards I didn't linger over the last battle, or the eye-popping end movies, or the possibilities of a second (inevitable) playthrough. Rather, I replayed in my head the last conversations Shepard has with his squadmates, a battle-forged team that long ago became more than just subordinates following orders. I thought about the writing team at BioWare and how good of them it was to consider the feelings of the players for whom that team had become just another room full of good friends; friends we were bitterly sad to see go and didn't want to let down. Seeing that made the final decision a little easier, and in the end I managed to smile, full of the knowledge that I wouldn't have had it any other way.

That's the power of good writing (something in which I'm not just a little bit invested). And it is the power of good gaming, too. Farewell, Commander Shepard. I'll see you again soon.

'Iron Man 3'

For all our fixation these days on 'arcs' and the apparent prerequisite that all trilogies have them, it is amazing how often the average three-peat saga comes close to missing that all-important endcap, the protagonist's moment of cathartic, Shakespearean introspection that drives home the point of the Whole Damn Thing. I thought 'The Dark Knight Rises' was a little thin on closing Bruce Wayne's emotional circle, and don't get me started on the Star Wars prequels. 'Iron Man 3' is a far from perfect film; in fact, at times it stumbles badly and teeters on the brink of non-sensical, but it saves itself by delivering a satisfying closure to the character of Tony Stark and reminding us why we cared about him in the first place. It is the film's greatest strength. It's just too bad it takes as long as it does to get there.

'IM3' finds Stark in familiar territory, which is what the genius inventor craves more than anything after his near-death experience over the skies of New York following the events of 'The Avengers'. Stark is beset by sleeplessness and panic attacks and refuses to discuss the world-shaking events of the year previous, as it seems to have driven home (like none of his OTHER near-death experiences) that he is very mortal and very vulnerable, despite the legion of super-powered exoskeletons at his command. Downey Jr.'s Stark is at his manic twitchiest, a hyperactive man-child who can only find focus when his nose is buried in circuit boards but is otherwise a floundering mess and a social reprobate to boot. Through pure nervous compulsion he has fashioned some forty more Iron Man models, each one a little different and each, we suspect, somehow inadequate, insufficient to the task of saving the world when next it decides to combust around him. Seeing his Terra Cotta array of mechanized suits we are not at all impressed by his technological prowess, only saddened by what is clearly a desperate outlet for his growing anxiety.

The shit hits the fan in a relatively predictable fashion: a villain appears, a domestic terrorist calling himself 'The Mandarin', who has been blowing up American interests all over the world, hacking a pirated signal into the global communications network, and boasting his ability to sow terror with impunity and promising escalation. What follows is a by-the-books first act that does a clunky job of thrusting Stark back in the superheroing business, as the Mandarin's newest attack lands his longtime bodyguard and friend Happy Hogan in a coma, prompting Stark to vow retribution on national television and call the Mandarin out for a one-on-one showdown.

The problem is that up until the terror hits home, Stark shows little interest in the Mandarin, his motivations, or his near-supernatural means of delivering undetectable bombs to American targets without leaving behind any forensic evidence. He discovers from old friend and fellow-iron suited adventurer James Rhodes (the always excellent, frequently underused Don Cheadle) that while three bombs have been traced to Mandarin publicly, he is, in fact, responsible for no fewer than nine around the world. Tony, whose own technology is so advanced it borders on science-silly, is clearly the best man to find and stop the Mandarin, yet he does nothing about it until the madman accepts his challenge and blows up his Malibu mansion while the world watches.

Bereft of all but his half-functioning prototype armor and with his genius computer JARVIS on the fritz, Tony is propelled by a very unlikely plot hook to rural Tennessee, where he begins a decidedly low-tech investigation into the source of Mandarin's weapons. Here the film slows to a crawl, which is both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand it gives us a chance to see a multitude of Tony moments, seeing Stark off his guard, out of his element, and more exposed than ever. Downey Jr. shines in these moments and almost but doesn't quite make up for the contrived and fiendishly tired device of the world-weary-beyond-his-years-pre-teen who helps him out. On the other hand we've seen very little Iron Man action at this point, and as someone who paid good money for a superhero flick, one can't help but hear echos of the grumbling heard during 'The Dark Knight Rises' when very little was seen of Batman for the first half of the film. By way of compensating, the guys (and some gals) are at least treated to some more Pepper Potts, played by Gwyneth Paltrow, who, yes, does not age from film to film and looks more beautiful with every frame of celluloid that graces her perfect skin. Kudos for involving her more in the plot this time around, and even giving her a few minutes in the Iron Man armor.

Well into the film but long before we get to anything resembling a climax, 'IM3' descends into stock action, stock betrayals, and stock improbable escapes, each one more bewildering than the one that preceded it. Most confusing is the motivation of the film's true antagonist (the ever-intense Guy Pearce playing a character so forgettable his name stops being important the second you learn it) the progenitor of A.I.M., a high-tech terror organization (which, in the Marvel comics, was always a third-string annoyance to whichever hero they happened to be pestering at the time). Here, however, Pearce's character has used more gobbilty-gook technology to fashion an army of super-soldiers who can breathe fire, melt steel, ignore pain and endure a seemingly limitless amount of punishment before being vanquished. Why he is doing this and what his ultimate goal for unleashing these invincible warriors is not something the film ever really bothers to explain; it could be simple revenge against Tony Stark, who drunkenly spurned him in a flashback, or to genuinely spread anarchy around the world (like we'd notice more) or corner the market on the miracle regenerative powers of his technology. But if the latter is the case, why on Earth would he need to kill people just to sell his limb-regrowing tech? Wouldn't he make trillions legally by pioneering legitimate advances in the field of medicine? And how does cell-regrowth lead to the ability to turn one's body into a super-furnace that can disable and destroy Iron Man suits like they were brittle pistachio shells? At some point the audience is simply forced to file it under 'evil for evil's sake' or else risk tearing an Incredible Hulk-sized hole in the struggling plot.

Just when Act Two starts to feel tailor-made for a bathroom break, it is saved by two things: Stark's ludicrous but extremely fun infiltration of the Mandarin's Miami headquarters sans armor and the not-so-secret (thanks, Internet) revelation of the 'true' nature of the Mandarin himself, as played out by the incomparable Ben Kingsley. Much and more has been said of Sir Ben's inhuman acting abilities and without giving anything away I can confirm that even in this brief role he justifies all the praise, effortlessly outpacing every other thespian on screen in a manner you have to see to believe. Suffice to say if you are lucky enough to reach his pivotal scene without having the 'surprise' ruined, you're in for a treat.

The inevitable final showdown is done competently enough but at no point does it truly thrill. Again, thanks to TMI trailers and endless promotional clips even casual viewers know what to expect going in: a balls-to-the-wall fight between the bad guys, who display so much raw power one wonders why they ever bothered hiding their true intentions, and Stark, who manages to bring so much eleventh-hour heroics to the table you can't help scratching your head as to why he was ever worried in the first place. At times the action descends into the absurd, with Tony – NOT as Iron Man – performing completely improvised feats of strength and agility that would rival Seal Team Six, much less a pampered billionaire with a heart condition. Cheadle is great here, though his stingy screen time leaves us craving more.

When the mano-a-mano fight does finally happen, it looks exactly like every other superhero slam-fest: see 'X-Men' 1,2, and 3; any 'Hulk' movie; any 'Spider-Man'; 'Thor' and, I strongly suspect, the upcoming 'Man of Steel'. Finish up with a series of last-second script patches, including a hilariously WTF subplot involving high treason from the Vice President of the United States for the dumbest reason imaginable, and you've got a picture.

But it begins and ends with Tony Stark, and here I'm glad at least that the filmmakers remembered who the real hero was. For the 'Iron Man' trilogy is about nothing if it's not about dependency: what we need – or what we THINK we need – to get by in life. As a pre-Iron Man cad, Tony drinks too much even though we're never told why, save a pallid hint (and cursory nod to the comic books) that maybe it's just in his nature. After he suits up he stops the booze but substitutes one addiction for another, becoming dependent on Iron Man to define who he is. In 'IM3' he comes full circle, realizing Iron Man was never really so much a suit of armor as it was a state of mind; a fun, showy substitute for real friends, real love, real life. It is a reasonably satisfying, if formulaic, end to the character's much ballyhooed 'arc'.

Of course, we already know Tony Stark is not even close to hanging up the repulsors. There's 'Avengers 2' to think about, and however many more stand-alone 'Iron Man's Downey Jr. has left in him. And yes, you will have to hold your bladder a little longer and stay for the end credits to get a hint of what's to come.

This time, however, it is definitely NOT Scarlett Johansson and Captain America chowing on fast food.