A trifecta of travesties, and a potential trend, has recently emerged that may bring a staple of video gaming crumbling to its very knees. I’m referring, of course, to the slow disappearance of the instruction booklet. That grand institution is suffering a gradual but inevitable demise under the guise of progress.
For me this tragedy began back in September when I opened Gears of War 3 only to discover a vacuous space where an instruction booklet should have been. There must be some kind of mistake, I thought, brow furrowed, perplexed. But it was true — I had to be strong and face it. And that sad moment was destined to be repeated twice in the weeks to come.
My relief at seeing a booklet accompanying Batman: Arkham City was tragically short-lived. It wasn’t an instruction booklet at all. It was a full-colour, multi-page merchandising catalogue. Admittedly, the calendar advertised was nifty, the wall posters were sweet, and the batarang controller was pure Dark Knight bliss. Still, a sneaking suspicion splintered in my mind: I was seeing the end of a grand tradition in video gaming.
And then came Modern Warfare 3 with its starved seven pages of black and white banality. No back-story or character history. No weapon load-outs or stats to get you going. No full colour screenshot showing the heads-up display (HUD) in all its glory. In fact, the single screen-shot and the fragmented background contained within were a joke. Why even bother creating such a scandalously shabby product? Where’s the love and pride that once resounded throughout a finely crafted instruction booklet?
Some may insouciantly call this progress in its finest form, a trimming of the fat of fantasy for a greener, more efficient future. But, my brothers and sisters, with every step forward, we must ask ourselves what is being lost in the name of progress? With that thought in mind, gather ‘round all you young grasshoppers and I shall tell you a tale that will dazzle and amaze.
You see, back in my day, we had these fancy things called instruction booklets. They came with all the games you bought. In the car, you’d rip open the game’s plastic covering with tremulous hands, hear the satisfying crack as you opened the case, and there it would be: your new game, waiting in shiny goodness, beckoning to be played. And though you were stuck in the car, taunted by that long drive home, something was always there to tide you over: the instruction booklet. Nurtured nepenthe in booklet form.
To this day, I have the same excitement about reading the instruction booklet, be it in the car, or in the only other place a family man can enjoy simpering solitude unabated: the bathroom. The instruction booklet allows me to familiarize myself with the background, characters and style of play the game has to offer. For a gamer with a child, it allows me to prepare for the quenching taste of M-rated mayhem while waiting for my wee one to bounce off to bed.
Cognitively, I can understand why this is happening. Websites, walkthroughs, and wikis have made the instruction booklet seem rather superfluous. Game publishers, I’m sure, see the resources needed to produce them — from graphic artists, to writers, to printers — as a waste of money, especially in the wake of advertising campaigns that span into the hundreds of millions. Still, something should be said for tradition.
It could be a move towards environmentally greener pastures, or simply vacuous bottom-lining in its most blatant form. Regardless, soon instruction booklets will be relegated to the past and you too may find yourself telling their tale to your own young ones. Aglow with the jovial warmth of nostalgic recollection, you’ll reminisce about the days that you, your game, and your instruction booklet thrived as one.
When he’s not teaching junior high school, St. Albert Catholic High School alumnus Derek Mitchell can be found attached to a video game console.
