For those of you still a bit hazy about what’s involved, here’s the bit where you need to pay attention. Battlefield's single-player campaign 'Aint all thaayt’. Single-Player HunĪs you may well have guessed. So before we all cream ourselves in happy unison, let’s take each part separately (multiplayer and single-player), dissect them like lab animals and then sew them back up again before making a final judgment? Sound fair to you? Good.
What they’ve played is the massively diverse, exciting and instantly playable multiplayer games. A campaign riddled with more holes than a Kan-Kanning soldier in no-man's land. Those who make that claim haven’t played the single-player campaign yet. But is it really? For starters, let me venture a guess here. 'The best team-based war sim in history,’ some have claimed with bolshy gusto. There’s been a huge fanfare over Battlefield 1942, and a massive amount of excitement has been generated during the past few months - much of it resonating off the girly-pink walls of the office. However, this is a game (obviously) and I’m a games reviewer (what do you mean debatable?), so regardless of the moral tug of war that walks solemnly hand in hand with something like this, I suppose we’d better see how it plays. But a team-based WWII sim laced with shots of smooth arcadeyness, one in which you respawn every time your body is separated from your limbs feels a little, well, wrong. Six-headed alien invaders from the planet Kthragrok I can handle, and fictitious battles against terrorist factions aren’t a problem. It’s always hard reviewing games based on events as horrendous as WWII. And this one is no exception, though it does have a fair old go. And because no game, no matter how much it tries will ever replicate the true horrors of war. Why? Because this is a computer game, that’s why. And I know I’ll die a hundred times more before the day is out. But I'm still alive, fighting the fight, taking it to the enemy. Turns normal, civil, peace-loving people into rabid dogs of war. Instead, my one meeting with Shultz ended in him performing a crude form of surgery on my intestines with a rusty standardissue German army knife. Perhaps we’d sit in the late afternoon sun over a couple of Bavarian beers, him slapping his lederhosened leg in hilarity as I regaled him with a barrage of anecdotes about 'ze braykeeng of ze vind'. Maybe we would even have been friends - me a jolly backpacker looking for tales to tell the boys back home (Porky, Dorky, Spot, Capper, Mapper, Dick and Spud - great guys), him a rosy-faced local of a town I’d be passing through. Had this not been 1942, and had we not been fighting in one of the bloodiest conflicts in mankind’s history, then perhaps things would have been different.
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Rudolph Shultz to give him his full name, a porky butcher’s shop owner from the south side of Berlin. This morning I was killed by a man called Shultz.
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