Rated M for Mature: Wolfenstein's Strange but Satisfying Tone

Dat typeface.

Wolfenstein: The New Order came out to "generally favorable reviews" this past week, exceeding the expectations set forth by the series' 2009 bland iteration in Wolfenstein. Admittedly, Bethesda put out one hell of a marketing campaign for it, featuring a revised version of history where--spoiler alert!--the Nazis won World War II and the world comprised of public player executions on soccer fields and Nazified versions of '50s and '60s pop songs. Even from the trailers, the writing looked impressive, so it was hard for me not to be excited. Just a little excited.

So I marathoned it on my days off. I jumped into the combat boots of William "B.J." Blazkowicz, hero of the games since 1992's Wolfenstein 3D. We storm the castle of high-ranking Nazi butthole Deathshead, aiming to riddle him and his legions of jackboots full of Allied lead. But, of course, things go south quickly. Planes come down, men get killed, and we survivors get captured by Deathshead himself. Soon we are posed with a choice that changes the game significantly enough that it creates two separate timelines: do you choose to kill the wet-behind-the-ears rookie or the battle-hardened veteran? Deathshead leaves the decision up to you.

It seems like only yesterday that I was playing BioShock Infinite, a game peppered with significant choices that it almost feels less like a shooter and more like a role playing game. Then you start blasting dudes and it feels like a shooter again. Given BioShock Infinite's origins, playing with player choice is not only expected, but almost required. It's not a BioShock game if the idea of player agency isn't toyed with. Wolfenstein, however, is certainly also a series about choice but with more immediate consequences, such as which gun to maim which Nazi.

But it's more than that this time around. Picking between my two comrades, I can't decide who to let die. As a player, I've had about an hour by this point to get to know these characters. The rookie pleads for his life. The veteran resigns to death. The Nazi tells me that if I don't pick one of them, we'll all just die. I pick the rookie. He pleads, asks if I'll get him out of there. The game fades out.

I feel immediate pangs of remorse right after I make the timeline altering choice. My conscience sings in cliches: the rookie had so much to live for, the veteran knew what he signed up for. I answered back with cold logic: the veteran was experienced and necessary to the mission. But the mission is a failure, we attempt to escape, and Blazkowicz ends up in a head injury and a vegetative state for fourteen years. Such is Wolfenstein.

The game is unrelenting in its depiction of a Nazi-controlled Europe. Most World War II shooters don't show the full extent of Nazi persecution. In a given Medal of Honor game, it was almost as if the only crime the Nazis committed was not having enough bullets in them. Developers depended on the history books to give you the explanation why the Nazis are the bad guys here. But Wolfenstein: The New Order is a post-World War II game. I don't only mean the setting of the game, but also the fact that it comes in after an era where much more of the shooter market was comprised of World War II games where the big objective was to thin Nazi ranks. The objective remains, but the narrative seems more daring this time around. We go to a labor camp in the game, evoking depictions of concentration camps in film and TV. Blazkowicz gets a numbered tattoo, echoing the very thing that so many came out of the war with on their arms.

While the thought of depicting a concentration camp in a video game can appear to trivialize the war, the game sets its stance on war early on: it's bad. Blazkowicz and the player bear witness to some awful scenes, often when they have no choice but to watch. Throughout the game, Blazkowicz whispers to himself in a way that sounds like a broken man, damaged by things he's seen. The player must see these things. Such things can't be whitewashed, or they almost assuredly trivialize this war.

But a video game can't run on such harrowing content alone. Given the almost B-movie backdrop of the game, Wolfenstein could run dangerously close to undiluted melodrama and undercut any weight the game might carry in its more serious moments. We've got to have the moments of humor because, let's face it, we're playing a game where a good portion of the enemies are giant robots whose scanning sounds like a guitar lick from a garage rock outfit. Wolfenstein can take itself seriously at times for some very human moments that we rarely get in video games. But in those other times, if it takes the player to a Nazi moon base, it's okay if a character says, "I'm on the motherf***ing moon."

Much Thanks to The_Eternal_Void for the Prompt

[The following was inspired by a post on the Writing Prompts subreddit.]

I understood Celeste's reservations regarding Vance's membership to the party. Her paladin training told her to be wary of those who wield godlike powers, and while I'd seen my share of horrific images in the camps, I hadn't seen anything quite like this. None of us were equipped nor trained to deal with matters of the arcane, especially those that fall under the purview of all things eldritch.

My eyes followed where she pointed: the greasy wizard whose robe conveniently disappeared--again--while green glowing ichor poured forth from his lips into a skull-goblet with ruby eyes. He sat atop a dead spider, leaning forward only slightly as if just catching his breath.

"Oh not again," he said between heaves. He wore a pained expression that seemed like he wanted us to believe he was in pain. But I could tell he wasn't. Though he squinted and gritted his teeth, all of the other muscles in his face were relaxed, at least as relaxed as they could be for a man vomiting otherworldly slop.

We picked him up in Hyde's Hollow in a tavern. It was rare to find a scholar outside of a library or university, so Celeste considered it a boon from her god that we found a man capable of reading ancient script in the very place that we sought shelter only days before we planned to arrive at Nettle's Tomb. In truth, he seemed normal enough. But then we left town. She's been cursing him for the last few hours.

The fact that he insisted on riding the spider instead of one of our hired horses should have been a sign.