Why Shooters Suck: The Bad Guys

I love first-person shooters.

Halo, Battlefield 3, Crysis. I can't help myself. One of the reasons I like video games so much is perfectly articulated by this commercial. As a kid, my number one favorite thing to do with my friends was grab a toy gun and run around concocting elaborate stories where we fought the bad guys. These things would always spiral out of control and would end up making no sense, with at least one betrayal.

The good news is, shooters have evolved to the point where if I were to go back in time and show them to me as a 10 year old, I'd crap my pants because that's exactly what I just ran around imagining outside. The bad news is, re-read the previous sentence.

First person shooters are fun and one of the most popular genres of video games. They are also, more often than not, really dumb. Halo and Call of Duty multiplayer are frequently used as shorthand for "home to frat dudes and prepubescent racists/homophobes". Why this is can be examined by looking at the plot of the accompanying single player games.

Take Call of Duty. COD 4's story was fairly realistic, and felt like a tightly-paced, carefully constructed action movie. The sequel, Modern Warfare 2, felt a lot more like the first summer blockbuster made by an independent director. It had a bunch of extravagant set pieces and amped up the ridiculous by a factor of 10. There were plenty of plotholes and leaps of logic that could take months to wrap your head around, delivered in such a rapid-fire fashion that at times it was a chore to keep up. But at the end of the day, it was a solid game, an expansion on its predecessor with a plot that still managed to remain compelling, and tied back to the original theme of destructive cycles of revenge.

Then the series went full on Michael Bay with Modern Warfare 3. The plot makes absolutely no sense in many different directions at once. New characters are introduced just to be killed off. The "shocking moment" isn't even that jarring given how blatantly it relies on the shock factor, in stark contrast to its counterparts in the previous two games, which at least offered something to discuss beyond the event itself.

And this is just the marquee example. Pick just about any major shooter franchise these days and you'll find a poorly-written, stupid plot with barely defined goals, no discernibly unique characters, and no reason to care. Why is this?

Notice how I'm mostly focusing on military shooters here. For some reason, these "realistic" warfare simulators are all the rage, mostly I suspect due to Call of Duty. The idea seems to be that people don't want to deal with the moral weight that comes with playing as a soldier who's simply fighting other soldiers, not an army of faceless henchmen. These guys are just doing their job, same as you, but kills in these games are celebrated and then you move on.

I'm not saying shooters need to be turned into somber morality plays about the nature of war. There's definitely a place for popcorn fun in this world, and shooters are very good at providing that fun. That's why multiplayer has exploded. But the result is a bunch of games with token story modes that are obviously phoned in. The plot of most of them can be summed up as: You're a soldier, kill those bad guys or they'll kill you/America, you did it, good job.

But who are those bad guys? In most cases, they're simply the opposition. No more, no less. No examination of their motives, no reason to care. The worst offender in this respect is the campaign in Battlefield 3. (Spoilers ahead) After completing the game, the player knows practically nothing about the antagonist, Solomon. Apparently he wants "revenge", but we're never told for what. Also, he's a CIA undercover agent who uses people for his own ends. That is literally all we know about him by the time it falls to us to bash his brains out in the middle of Times Square. We don't even know what nationality he is. Probably Russian, because those GRU operatives were talking about him like they knew who he was, but he's allied with the Iranians and works for the CIA...

The ending for Battlefield 3 is intense, but after you prevent Solomon from nuking New York, there's a tiny denoument with the other main playable character, and then credits. This makes the campaign as a whole completely forgettable. Why not finish off with a bit where Solomon's motives are revealed? Give us some insight into the man we just brained. In a lot of stories, the most compelling character is the villain. The audience is supposed to hate them and root for their downfall, but if the audience isn't let in on the methods behind their madness, they just end up as boring. The Helghast in the Killzone games win the prize for reversing this state of affairs, as they end up being portrayed as more sympathetic than the forgettable "heroes".

I'm returning, one last time, to the Modern Warfare series, because it has the single most wasted opportunity in FPS bad guys. We first meet Vladimir Makarov early in Modern Warfare 2, where we learn he "trades blood for money", and then we help him massacre an airport terminal's worth of civilians in order to provoke a war between the US and Russia. Then he disappears from the game for the most part, and waits in the wings to be the Big Bad in MW3.

He wasn't the most well-defined character to begin with, but he had serious potential. One of the most iconic images of that game for me was him storming an airport wearing a flak jacket over his well-trimmed, custom fit suit. This is a product of the New Russia: a man who realizes that anything can be bought. He's an odd concoction, a mix of ultranationalist sentiments and cold, hard business, who's willing to murder scores of his own countrymen in order to make Russia strong and let her defeat her enemies in open combat.

There are hints of this in the third game which only strengthen my notions of what he could have been. A flashback late in the game gives us a taste of his development as a character. He's still immaculately dressed almost all the time, famously stepping out of a chopper in a fur coat to abduct the Russian president before executing the player with a bullet to the head.

What's missing from Vladimir is a sense of who he really is, stripped away beneath what seem like layers of deceit. When you track him down in the last level, he's holed up in a hotel on the Arabian Peninsula, which offers a very interesting implication. Here's a man who just orchestrated World War 3, ostensibly on behalf of his beloved motherland, and lost. And what does he do? Orchestrate one last, desperate strike? Perhaps another terrorist attack? A final show of force? No. He goes to a swanky penthouse club in Dubai with his entourage, and you have to go after him in order to finally deliver some well-deserved justice.

The fact that you have to go get him is revealing about his character, but only tangentially. Where was the picture of Makarov as pragmatic sociopath? One willing to sell out his cause for personal gain? Rather than painting him as just another deceitful Russian eager to shake things up because he's Russian, why not more overtly reveal his real motive as one of profit? The Call of Duty: Modern Warfare games always seem to be just on the verge of commenting on the ludicrous nature of modern day conflicts. Of wars fought by people with no uniform or flag willing to kill innocents, or wars fought for the money they'll generate. Of the ridiculousness of even fighting these wars when, looming over all of them, is the specter of a mushroom cloud that can instantly nullify these conflicts.

Makarov in the games comes across as a bad guy who's evil because he needs to be in order for the games to happen. He's an enigma, but not intentionally. We don't know his intentions because it doesn't seem like the developers know what they are either. The result is a plot that leaves many people scratching their heads, wondering why any of the characters are doing what they're doing. What could have been an interesting story about a man's nationalist sentiments being co-opted and warped by the profit motive that seems to drive so much of the world today, and which could in particular be applied to modern day Russia, is instead simply a befuddling mess of a story driven by a man who's apparently evil because he's just too Russian for his own good.

Quick counter-example (And yes, more spoilers ahead): Crysis 2. The main bad guys are aliens, and their motives are inscrutable, but in a way that's understandable. They are, after all, mostly squid and completely alien, plus they've apparently been here for quite a long time already. The human antagonists, though, are what really shine. Because they aren't really villains. The PMC in charge of Manhattan is led by a guy who hates the suit you're wearing for both personal and ideological reasons. He doesn't favor the aliens, he just opposes you, and with a fairly reasonable rationale. Even the betrayal very late in the game isn't something from completely out of left field, present for the sake of simply having a twist.

Crysis 2 is a game where it on the surface doesn't make much sense to have humans as villains, because there's already a very real threat from the aliens. What, are these guys for the extinction of the human race? Because that's not a very smart career move. But at the end of the day, the humans you fight don't come across as too cartoonishly evil (Hargreave's voice-acting aside), because they have discernible motives for wanting you out of the way.

The key word there is "cartoonish", which is the main problem with most FPS bad guys. They're evil because they're terrorists/North Koreans/Russians/they have to be. Which is to say, nothing we need to think too hard about.

DREAMWAR! Part Four: The Tunnel

“This train is bound for the Citadel of Order! Next stop, Clockfields and all points beyond!” bellowed the conductor.

“Excuse me my good man, but is there a phone onboard? I need to contact someone,” asked the Major. The conductor nodded and led him off, down the aisle. They walked right past Todd, who was sitting on one of the benches, wheezing and trying very hard not to go insane.

His thought process went something like: I’m dreaming THEREFORE I can’t really die here BUT usually when I realize I’m dreaming I just wake up AND not only is this dream more vivid than any other I’ve ever had, but I feel awake right now PLUS I don’t have any sensation coming from my actual body.

“Hey.” Todd’s head jerked up to see Rebecca standing in front of him. “How you holding up?” she asked.

“Well, I’m either completely insane or just in a coma.” He reflected for a moment. “Look, this is my dream, right? Shouldn’t I be able to control it? Or better yet, stop it?”

“What are you asking me for?” said Rebecca. “I’m just a projection from your subconscious of that cute barista from the Starbucks on 5^th. Technically, I don't know anymore than you do.”

“Then what about that president guy? He seemed to know what was going on.”

“Well, yeah, because he’s President of the Superego. He’s a Facet.” All that got was a blank stare from Todd. “Of your personality. And I’m just a projection. Y’see?” Todd continued staring blankly.

“All right,” said Hartswell, striding back down the car towards them. “It’s official. We’ve lost the Capital. The president made it out, but all Alliance forces are being relocated to the Citadel.”

“Okay,” said Todd. “And the guys attacking-“

“The Empire of Id.” Offered Rebecca.

“Yes, them. What happens if they win?”

“Well, that all depends on you, doesn’t it, lad?” said the major.

“Why does everyone keep saying that?” Before either of them could answer, the echo of an explosion reached the train, followed by a bright light erupting from down the tunnel. A growing rumble soon followed, which grew and grew until it finally shook the train loose of the rails. There was a massive sound of grinding steel and Todd was thrown up in the air as the entire train buckled. Finally, everything went dark.

When Todd came to, it was to Hartswell shaking him awake and making sure he was okay. The train was now a mess. A few emergency lights were on, with a few more flickering in a desperate attempt to survive. Rebecca was also staggering to her feet, and the conductor had somehow made his way into the car.

“We’re off the rails,” he said, staggering back towards them. “All passengers should make their way into the tunnel to find an emergency ex-“ Todd very nearly shrieked as a bunch of spindly, furry legs broke through a window, grabbed the conductor, and ripped him from the train.

“Move! Into the tunnel!” barked Hartswell, and Todd complied practically without even thinking about it, his body moving on autopilot. He got to his feet and made for the closest door, which was left half ajar after the impact. After he made it through the gap and plopped his feet down onto the cement floor of the tunnel, he immediately regretted his steadfast and unblinking obedience.

Past the pool of light emanating from the interior of the train, the tunnel was pitch black. This wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for the constant skittering noise that pervaded the darkness. The rustling sound of dozens of multi-legged things climbing around reached Todd’s ears and froze him in place. This was the one. The one that had shocked him back to consciousness on so many nights since he was a kid. The one he still couldn’t think about. Paralyzed, Todd could only stare in horror as one after another, batches of eyes began to light up

The piercing sound of a rifle firing next to Todd’s ears broke his paralysis. The monstrosities screeched and recoiled as Rebecca pumped burst after burst into the mass in front of them.

“Hartswell, grab Todd and get him to the tunnel entrance! I’ll keep them off you!”

“Right! Let’s go son, no sense in sticking around.” Todd nodded at Hartswell, and as he followed he turned to see how Rebecca was doing. A vision of what she was shooting at also entered his field of vision, and Todd instantly decided that Rebecca could probably handle…them.

A short way down the tunnel was a door under a red light. Rather than a sturdy maintenance door, it was a mahogany beauty such as you might find on the door of a Victorian mansion, but right now, the three of them weren’t too picky. With Rebecca’s rifle still hammering away a staccato rhythm, with the major offering spurts of accompaniment from his pistol, the three of them made their way to the door and inside. Rebecca was the last through, and after a final pull of the trigger, she slammed the door shut. A furious scrabbling could be heard from the other side, but the door seemed sturdy enough to hold.

“Dammit, those weren’t just projections,” wheezed Rebecca as the three of them caught their breath.

“Too right,” concurred the major. “If they’re able to deploy full-bore nightmares, then we’re in more dire straits than I first thought. We’ve got to move. They’re probably cutting a swathe right to the Citadel as we speak.” Hartswell moved down the small passage they were in, his back to the wall, then peeked around the corner. He motioned for Todd and Rebecca to follow.

“Hang on, I was unconscious,” said Todd as the two of them rounded the corner and came across a set of stairs. “Just back there, I lost consciousness in my dream and had to be woken up. What does that mean? Can-can I die here?”

“Only one way to find out,” replied Rebecca glumly. They climbed the stairs and found them to emerge directly onto a sidewalk. The spires and edifices of the Capital were nowhere to be seen, having been replaced with squat suburban houses. They were all gray and all repetitions of the same two models, stretching off in both directions to the horizon. A loud clunking noise sounded behind Todd, and he turned to find himself dwarfed by a stack of metal shelves stretching off far above him into the clouds, with pairs of each house sitting on each shelf, along with a lawn and shrubbery. Giant gears visible in the shelving units would turn and an entire shelf would be deposited onto a row of bare plots that reached infinity in either direction. Then the shelving unit would move backwards, exposing more bare plots ready for endless copies of the same two houses.

“Suburbia,” said Rebecca. “Damn it. We’re still way too far from the Citadel to make it on foot. Can we get transport?”

“Maybe,” said Hartswell. “If we can get in contact with some of the transports leaving the capital, they might be able to pick us up now.”

“Hey, I think I see some coming this way! Let’s flag ‘em down!” Rebecca and Hartswell turned to look where Todd was pointing. They looked at each other, then back at Todd.

“Todd, do you really think we seem the type to use gigantic winged beetles and flying pirate ships as transports?”

“What are you talking about?” Todd held a hand up to shield his eyes and squinted. “They aren’t- Oh.” Todd’s hand dropped to his side. “Shit.”

DREAMWAR! Part Three: Battle of the Capitol

There was a frantic banging at the door. The knights reached for their swords, but the President raised a hand to calm them and nodded to the major. Hartswell opened the door to reveal Rebecca, the barista from the Starbucks on 5^th Street, but instead of the usual cap and apron, she was wearing army fatigues.

“The Empire’s reached the capital! They’re all headed for this building!”

“Well, that’s it, then,” said the President, rising to his feet. “We have to split up. I’ll take my helicopter, draw them away. Hartswell, Rebecca, get Todd to the trains and get him to Citadel. He’s the only hope we have now at turning the tide.” Hartswell nodded, and saluted as the President exited the room and walked down the hall to the elevator, the knights clanking behind him.

“Wait,” said Todd. “What’s really going on here? This is just a dream, right?”

“No time for that, lad,” said Hartswell. “You’ve got to go. Rebecca, let’s take the stairs.”

“But I don’t get it,” said Todd, suddenly finding himself hurtling down increasingly steep flights of steps in a narrow stairwell. “If I know I’m dreaming, shouldn’t I wake up now? Or can’t I change any of this? Because I really like that one where I’m fighting a dragon with Urkel-“

“Quiet,” whispered Rebecca, halting on a landing. She peered over the railing. “They’re coming up.” The sound of heavy boots slamming on stone echoed up the stairwell. Rebecca readied her assault rifle and aimed it down the stairwell, holding her breath. Soon enough, the boots stopped far below them, followed by the bang of a door slamming open and the unmistakable sound of blaster fire.

“They’re clearing each floor,” said Rebecca.

“Then we’ll move now, before they come back into the stairwell,” said Hartswell. “We can’t attract any attention.” The three of them rushed down the stairs, managing to evade the patrol. Todd tried his best not to look in the open door where the enemies were busy clearing the floor, but he couldn’t help himself. Once he caught a glimpse, it was all he could do not to stare transfixed.

The first thing he recognized were the distinctive black trenchcoats and the gasmasks with glowing yellow eyes that marked their wearers as Helghast soldiers. The second thing he noticed was what they were doing to the inhabitants of the floor. The bodies on the ground were clutching weapons, but the people running in terror from the man wielding the flamethrower definitely weren’t soldiers. The worst part was that it wasn’t really a flamethrower. Though the tanks on the man’s back and the nozzle resembled the weapon, what it fired was a stream of spiders, hundreds of them, which quickly set to work on devouring anyone they touched. Todd stood and watched as this grisly work was carried out, and he still couldn’t bring himself to move as the soldiers turned and their piercing yellow gazes fell squarely on him.

“Todd!” Rebecca’s shout brought him back to his senses, but it was too late. The soldiers had seen him. The spiderthrower operator turned and leveled his weapon as he trudged back down the hallway. Todd took off, practically leaping off the landing and down the stairs. He passed Rebecca, who leveled her rifle and shot the first soldier to poke his head out of the doorway, but the two who followed him opened up with their blasters as soon as they stepped into the stairwell, forcing Rebecca to move.

She, the major, and Todd were now running at a dead sprint, and the more steps they took, the more stairs seemed to separate them from the ground floor. The stomping of the boots seemed to get louder and louder, and Todd was getting tired.

“They’re gaining,” he wheezed. The major looked over the railing.

“We’ll have to jump,” he declared. Rebecca nodded. Todd didn’t.

“Jump? Are you crazy? That must be five stories!”

“Does it look like you can make it?”

“What?”

“Does it look like you can make it?” the Major asked again.

“Well…well, yeah, I guess.”

“Then focus on that!” And with that, both the Major and Rebecca vaulted over the railing and plummeted down the center of the stairwell. Todd paused and tried to look over to see if they’d landed, but the laser that singed his hair prompted him to throw caution to the wind. He hurled himself over the edge and braced for a hard landing. When he hit the floor, though, rather than a sickening crack, he merely felt a slight twinge, like a dulled version of when he stepped off the curb yesterday at an odd angle and twisted his foot. The major and Rebecca were waiting for him at the door, the latter holding an extra MA5B rifle.

“Good show,” said the major. “Now buck up. We’ll have to cross the terminal to the train platforms on the lower level. You any good with a rifle?”

“I’ve never fired one before.”

“But…” offered Rebecca.

“…I think I know how?” finished Todd. Rebecca nodded and threw him the rifle.

“They’ve breached the main entrance,” she said. “We’ll have to fight our way out. Stick behind us and do exactly as we say. No questions. Got it?” Todd nodded hesitantly, then said, “Wait-“

“Good enough. Let’s get moving.” Rebecca opened the door and led the way, the three of them keeping their heads low as they sprinted for the cover of the escalators. The hall itself was filled with a cacophony of machine gun fire and lasers, along with the occasional odd squawking. More Helghast soldiers were pushing forward from the entrance, and the Superego soldiers (clad in the uniform of the Rebels from the opening of A New Hope, along with a few more WWI British infantrymen) were doing their best to hold them off.

At last, the trio made it to the escalator, where more Alliance soldiers had taken shelter. Hartswell made his way to the one in charge.

“Sergeant, what’s the situation?”

“We’re losing ground fast, major,” he replied in a vaguely southern accent. “We can’t hold this building much longer, and we aren’t getting any reinforcements. Everyone else is either helping the civilians evacuate or dead.”

“Listen carefully, sergeant. This man here is Todd Phillips.” The sergeant’s mouth dropped open as he looked at Todd.

“The Todd Phillips?”

“The one and only, sergeant,” said Hartswell. “And right now, he has a train to catch. Can you give us an opening to the stairs down to the platform?”

“Hell, for you, Mr. Phillips, we’ll throw in the red carpet free of charge.”

“Good lad. Wait for my signal, then give them hell,” said Hartswell, then he turned to Rebecca and Todd. “As soon as I sound the vuvuzela, we’ll break for the stairs. There should be a train waiting, but it can’t stay long. Todd, even if either Rebecca or I go down, you must board that train, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” he replied, almost automatically. Hartswell nodded his approval, gave a general good luck to all assembled, then unslung the vuvuzela from his back.

“Ready, sergeant?” The soldier finished up the transmission he was giving on the radio, then gave an “affirmative”. Hartswell reared up and inflated his cheeks. As soon as the “BRRZZZZZZ” reached his ears, Todd sprung into action, following Rebecca in a dead sprint as all along the mall the Alliance soldiers opened up as one. They brought down a few Helghast, and the rest took shelter as Todd made it to the broken escalator down to the trains. He took them as quickly as he could, miraculously not slipping on anything, and made it to the bottom.

“All aboard!” shouted a man in a conductor’s uniform. He was leaning out the side of a New York subway car that apparently ran on the Z line. Aside from him, Todd, Rebecca, and Hartswell, the platform was deserted. Todd ran for the train, and just as the announcement about standing clear of the doors rang out, a blaster fired from behind him. He ducked instinctively, and the conductor on the train lifted up a revolver and returned fire. The three of them managed to squeeze onboard just as the doors shut, and as another volley of blaster fire slammed into the side of the car. The sound receded as the train rumbled off into the tunnel, and Todd was finally able to catch his breath.

DREAMWAR! Part Two: A Curious Metropolis

After the impression of travel, Todd found himself riding down a street of a magnificent city. Every building towered high above his head, and the cab crossed multiple bridges spanning rail lines and canals. “Mish-mash” wouldn’t even begin to cover the range of architectural styles on display. Towering glass spires would be situated directly next to neoclassical edifices whose pillars rose high into the clouds.

The most curious thing about the city, though, was the people who inhabited it. As Todd saw them out the window of the cab, they came across as almost completely nondescript. Even though he was looking right at them, Todd couldn’t come up with any way to describe any of the pedestrians. The best he could do was “Has hair” or “Is wearing clothes”.

At last, Mr. Pendleton (Physics 101: The Music of the Spheres) brought the cab into a grand plaza. After wheeling around the obelisk in its center, Todd and the officer stepped out of the cab to find themselves at the foot of the Cleveland Tower City Center, its high-rise edifice stretching up above him.

Todd followed the officer as he trotted up the steps. Inside the building he found the mall he’d last visited a few years ago, but the shops were all closed except for the food court and a mattress store. The mall itself was also almost entirely deserted, except for a few staff members in the restaurants and store and a few people milling about. One of them was Mr. Wen, who lived across the hall from Todd, and he was about to ask him what he was doing here when the officer urged him on.

“No time for gawking, lad. We’ve got to get you to the President.” The two of them strode quickly across the central hall, and in just a few seconds Todd found himself on the other side of the mall and at the entrance to one of the neighboring hotels.

“Hang on,” he had the presence of mind to ask before any more time could be skipped. “Where am I? What exactly is going on?”

“Simply put, my boy, we’re in the Capital, and there’s a war on.”

“War between who?”

“He’ll explain.” Todd was going to say he wanted the answers now, but then he realized the elevator they were suddenly in had arrived at the top floor. The doors opened and he found himself in a hallway with thick blue carpet and golden wallpaper, decorated with busts of himself. He had no time to dwell on this, though, as the officer strode purposefully towards a door at the far end of the hall, and he was compelled to follow. He knocked, and the door opened.

Inside was a pair of knights in shining armor. They were standing on either side of a chair in front of a giant picture window displaying the streets of the Capital. In the chair itself was a man who looked very much like Danny Glover in a suit.

“Mr. President,” said the officer, standing at attention and snapping off a salute after closing the door behind him. “We’ve found him.”

“Well done, Major Hartswell,” said the man, using the voice of Todd’s grandfather rather than that of Danny Glover. This was Todd’s first real hint. “Now, I’m sure you’re wondering what exactly is going on, Mr. Phillips. I’ll put it as simply as I can. I’m the President of Alliance of the Superego, and we need your help.”

“Alliance of the what? Look, I don’t know about any of that, and I have a doctor’s appointment in an hour, so if we could just-“ It was at that point Todd received his second hint, and the only other one he’d need. He glanced at the clock next to the double bed opposite the President to see how much time he had left before his appointment, then looked again. The digital clock read 19:82. He looked out the window behind the President and saw a clock tower situated directly behind him on which both hands were spinning erratically. It finally dawned on Todd.

“I’m dreaming, aren’t I?” The President nodded.

“That you are, my boy. And I’m afraid this is a particularly important one. As of two hours ago, the Alliance has found itself at war with the Empire of Id. We’ve tried multiple times to get ahold of one of their officials with the big red phone, but there’s been no response, and their embassy is abandoned. We’ve maintained a tenuous peace with them for years, but there was never any indication they were planning to attack. We’ve been able to keep each other in check for quite some time. But now hostilities have broken out, and no one wants to admit it, but we’re losing. Somehow, they’ve found something that’s let them turn the tide.”

“And where do I come in?”

“You’re the Champion of Ego, Todd. If there’s anyone who can decide the outcome of this conflict, it’s you.”

Todd was about to ask what exactly that meant when the air raid siren sounded.

DREAMWAR! Part One

When Todd Phillips fell asleep on the night of April 14^th, there was nothing to indicate he would soon find himself embroiled in war, locked in a monumental battle for his very existence. The night was calm, the street outside his apartment was quiet, and there was no noise except for the occasional creaking of the building.

In fact, to everyone else in New York, and indeed most of the rest of the world, no massive war took place. This is largely due to the fact that the current geopolitical situation between the great powers of the world is a lot more stable than Hollywood action movies and best-selling first person shooters would have you believe. Also, we’ve yet to make contact with any vast armadas of belligerent aliens looking to stir up trouble.

And, of course, the war was taking place entirely in Todd Phillips’ subconscious. That might also have something to do with it.

The second he fell asleep, Todd found himself in one of the most vivid dreams he had ever experienced. He was standing in the middle of a green field, and in the distance a red caldera rose out of the ground. Before he could take in any more of his surroundings, the ground rumbled. He turned to see a legion of horsemen on white steeds, clad in plate armor and riding under the banner of a blue cross on white. As they rode towards him, there was a boom from the caldera, followed by a puff of smoke and the whistling of a shell.

The riders passed right by Todd, who stood there feeling like a rock in a stream, and continued across the field. The bombs hit the ground and detonated on the vanguard of the advancing force, covering them in a sticky purple substance. The horses whinnied in fear and tried to turn and flee, but both they and the knights commanding them found themselves unable to move. The shells had had the desired effect.

A cacophonous blare resounded from the caldera, which soon resolved itself into what Todd recognized as a few notes from the bridge of a Muse song. This was met by movement at the foot of the rock base. Though at first only specks could be seen, the shapes moved impossibly fast, and in mere seconds it seemed as though the aggressors were practically upon the knights. It was one of the most bizarre and frightening sights Todd had ever seen. A horde of malevolent shadows, some of them bearing faces but most of them only possessing toothy grins, sat astride gigantic wiener dogs that propelled them to the trapped knights. When they closed the distance, they drew sickeningly curved blades and showed no mercy, the massive canines eating whatever their rider’s swords missed. It was at about this point Todd decided to try and leave.

He found himself faced with either being trampled underfoot by the advancing reinforcements thundering to the aid of their ensnared comrades or facing down the dogriders. Neither of these was an attractive prospect, but Todd reasoned that the men on horses hadn’t tried to kill him so far and had already avoided him once, so they seemed the safer bet. As he ran at their ranks, he found that once again they moved to accommodate him. He couldn’t really tell where he was headed, but at the moment he was willing to settle for simply “away”.

Soon enough, he found himself tumbling head over heels into a ditch. Raising his head out of the mud with a perhaps-too-cartoonish “squelch”, he found himself not in a mere ditch, but rather a trench. Infantry swarmed around him, wearing the uniforms of the British soldiers in that World War One documentary Todd had watched out of boredom sometime in the last week. Their equipment wasn’t quite period accurate, though, judging by the M16s they were using and the iPhones hanging from their belts. As Todd got to his feet, someone finally noticed him.

“Oy, ‘oo’re you?” asked the soldier who approached him. “Some koinda special agint or summat?” Todd deciphered the horrible Cockney accent as best he could.

“Todd,” he said. “I’m not an agent or anything, and I don’t know anything about any summit.”

“Well, ye don’t look loike any soldjah oi’ve evah seen. Whatchoo dewin all the way out heah?”

Todd made it halfway through “ I don’t know” when a man wearing an officer’s cap and brandishing a vuvuzela strode over.

“What’s all this, then?”

“Says ‘is name’s Todd, sah,” said the soldier. “Not an agint or anyfing. Dunno why ‘e’s out ‘ere, really.”

“Todd? Todd Phillips?” asked the officer, turning to him. Todd nodded, and the officer’s eyes bugged out of his face.

“Private Jenkins,” he ordered, pointing at the man with one hand while using his other one to settle his eyes back in his sockets. “Send a text to command at once. This man is a VIP who is to be escorted to the capital at once. Understood?”

“Yes sah!” Jenkins unclipped the iPhone from his belt and was in the middle of sending the text when silence suddenly reigned. The officer jerked his head around and swore under his breath.

“Let’s go, lad. Gotta get you to a car. If they’ve stopped fighting over there, it can only mean one thing.” Right on cue, the cry pierced the air, flowing down the trench from soldier to soldier.

“BANANAMEN!”

Todd vaulted over the other edge of the trench while the soldiers on the opposite side opened up with their rifles. But Todd turned and saw it wouldn’t be anywhere near enough. A swarm of smiling banana people wearing striped pajamas had reached the trench and were beating the soldiers there to a pulp, in some cases tearing them to pieces with their bare hands. Todd’s heart nearly stopped, and he would’ve stayed there frozen if the officer hadn’t been there to urge him on. He had always hated that show as a kid. The officer ushered him into a waiting taxi commandeered by his freshman year physics teacher, and together they sped off down the road.

"Comedy"

So I was re-reading this article on Cracked.com when it occurred to me: some of the most insightful criticism and commentary I've read in the past few years (practically since I've discovered the site) has come from there. A comedy website that also boasts such articles as "7 Physical Mutations that Helped Famous Careers" and "The 6 Stupidest Video Game Commercials".

Now, I'd like to think I'm fairly well read. I keep up with the news as best I can, and I don't rely on Cracked for all of my information and commentary on current events. But the most memorable articles I've read, and most of the ones I've found online that have profoundly affected my thought process and worldview have come from Cracked.com. One of my all time favorites has to be "7 Reasons the 21st Century is Making You Miserable" by David Wong.

Another thing that's very apparent from these types of pieces that show up on the site (usually written by one of the columnists) is that they actually aren't all that funny. They'll have a few chuckles maybe but they're more profound than humorous. If anything, the jokes are there to justify their existence on a comedy site, but you won't remember them. You'll remember the intellectual points the columnists would point out.

The crazy part? That's a perfect way to write these kinds of pieces. Rather than urge them to excise the humor and turn these columns into "serious" works, I (for what it's worth) applaud them for taking this approach to intellectual and philosophical debates.

Another great example is The Daily Show. One of the images that has for a long time been etched into my mind was a political cartoon that appeared in the Columbus Dispatch many years ago. I can't find it online, but I can describe it perfectly. Like most every political cartoon, it is distinctly unfunny, more intent on eliciting a knowing chuckle from supporters than actual laughs. It consisted entirely of a man in a suit looking at a younger man in a black turtleneck who says, essentially, "Well, I get all my news from the Daily Show." That was it. No, seriously. Hah hah?

Upon further examination, it's possible to glimpse why this cartoon was made. The idea was to get readers to shake their heads at those crazy kids, watching a comedy show and thinking that it was news. The main flaw in this argument (and one which has surely been pointed out before, but here we go anyway) is assuming that the Daily Show wants to serve as a news outlet. It doesn't. It's half an hour long, and doesn't try to relate what happened that day, as that would be pointless and dumb. What it instead does is examine the news media itself. For every joke on the Daily Show about some gaffe a politician makes on camera, there are ten about how major networks will spend 10 minutes discussing real issues and then 50 about the gaffe, reactions to the gaffe, what people on twitter have to say about it, etc. As Jon Stewart said, the trouble isn't that they're trying to inject comedy into news, the problem is that the news is becoming far too much like a satire of itself.

The overarching theme here is that this comedy website and a comedy news show have become, for me, two of the most consistently insightful and intellectually stimulating media outlets available. And they're able to be this not just because so many things about modern life are inherently ridiculous (though to be sure, they are), but also because they're supposed to be comedic. And for really great comedy, nothing can be sacred. So maybe they can get away with this because, as the argument goes, they're allowed to make fun of everything. It's expected of them to lampoon things that "serious" commentators and news outlets are supposed to treat with somber tones or not even mention for fear of provoking controversy. Look at that Gladstone piece about atheists and believers at the top of this piece again, then imagine CNN or Fox News trying to discuss the issue. Then imagine watching the shoutfest that would more likely than not ensue and being able to come away from it with something resembling a new outlook, or even a single new insight.

I'm not saying this is the way things should be, and I definitely haven't shut out "serious" sources of information entirely. What I am saying is that in the modern era, comedy is proving to elicit more of a response from my generation in particular to the issues of the day than mainstream news outlets. And this isn't borne out of cynicism either. These articles and the Daily Show's segments have an undercurrent of wanting to keep people honest. Of telling people that it's not only okay to laugh at ridiculous politicians and viewpoints, but it's kind of necessary. Because once you strip away the veneer of inviolability that surrounds some of these things, it's a lot easier to effect meaningful change.

Taken 2: Electric Boogaloo

Here is the current summary of the imdb.com entry for what will be "Taken 2":

"In Istanbul, retired CIA operative Bryan Mills and his wife are taken hostage by the father of a kidnapper Mills killed while rescuing his daughter."

At what point does the premise of the movie fall apart?

WRONG. The correct answer is when the phrase "Taken 2" is mentioned.

If you've seen the first film, you should understand why even the idea of there being a sequel to the first movie is an earth-shatteringly ridiculous idea. If you haven't seen "Taken" go do that right now. It lasts about as long as eating a pizza and is at least ten times more satisfying. Go. Right now. I'll wait.

See, I was right. And now it's clear to you too: There can't be a Taken 2 because in the first movie Liam Neeson murdered everyone in Paris even remotely connected to human trafficking.

Seriously, it takes him pretty much 48 hours to end the trade in human lives in Paris, and naturally he did it single-handedly. He was only really in mortal danger like once, maybe twice, and he just shrugged it off each time.

Of course, this movie takes place in Istanbul, and they haven't just kidnapped his daughter again. Instead, one of the fathers of the thousand people Neeson killed in the first movie wants revenge, and he takes it by assassinating his wife in front of his eyes, so he too can feel the pain of having someone he loves snatched away from- Oh wait, that isn't what happens at all. He takes both of them hostage.

This is easily the dumbest thing he could have done.

For starters, our villain clearly has no survival instincts. Clearly he should know how dangerous this guy is, because he must know about the scores of other men Neeson killed along with his son. If this guy is a crime lord worth his salt then once he's taken out his rage over his son's murder on his Bouncing Bobo doll, he'd realize that in addition to his son, he also killed everyone in Paris involved in the slave trade in like two days completely by himself (I really can't emphasize that enough).

And he wants to keep that guy hostage? Not kill him, just keep him captive and maybe torture him a bit? And you want to keep his wife too? So now, in addition to his fiery determination to protect a loved one (and we've already seen what he can do with that(Everyone in Paris)), you'll also have made him angry with all that torture. I don't care if you've got the police in your pocket and a bunch of ex-special forces guys on your payroll. The bad guys in the first movie had both, and that still didn't help.

Short of a long-range thermonuclear strike, there won't be any way for the bad guy to salvage this situation once the ball gets rolling. Here's my prediction for how the movie will play out.

Taken 2: You Are Going to Die

LIAM NEESON and HIS WIFE are brought at gunpoint before the BAD GUY, who proceeds to gloat.

BAD GUY: Liam Neeson, you killed my son years ago in Paris. Now I will make you-

LIAM NEESON kills the guards, leaps out a window hand in hand with HIS WIFE and takes HER to the airport, then goes on an 80 minute long killing spree consisting of EVERYONE who's ever said "Hello" to the BAD GUY. Finally LIAM NEESON makes his way to the BAD GUY'S mansion and confronts him in HIS OFFICE.

BAD GUY: (Fear urination)

LIAM NEESON kills the BAD GUY, then looks somber.

THE END