You’re reading The Blue Casket, one of the most extensive catalogues of ‘game diaries’ and AARs on the web. Unfortunately, I’m back in education again for just one last year, which means TBC is going offline for a considerable period of time. I may bring it back online again sometime in 2010, but for now please browse the archives and read some of the excellent stuff that everyone linked to on this site has written.

Thanks for stopping by,

Mike

I just went and bought Star Wars – Jedi Knight – Jedi Outcast off of Steam. I’m so glad the LucasArts back catalogue is being added, it really bodes well for the future of Steam. Anyway, I’m off to play that and I’m leaving you with a Star Wars offering for this Sunday too. It’s TIE Fighter! Pyow! Swoosh! Whee! etc. I should point out it’s entirely done from memory, in MS Paint. And is therefore hilarious.

The Blue Casket is going on holiday for a week, starting tomorrow! We’ll see you back soon.

Let’s Play – TIE Fighter

It started with an accident and ended with mass murder.

One momentary loss of concentration and the nuclear bomb I intended on disarming was primed, and there was no way of undoing my mistake.

I’m a hero, I’m always a hero. But now I found myself travelling down a different path.

I did everything I could for the town’s residents; ran their errands, found scrap for them, carried out their research – anything to distract me from the gravity of my error.

But it didn’t work, and as I toiled to complete their thankless tasks resentment grew within me.

The chirpy store owner, so endearing at first, had begun to grate. The humble engineer, working tirelessly to provide the town with irradiated water, became pathetic; helpless without my wasteland handouts. My wasteland handouts.

It started with a single gun shot, and tumbled quickly, irrevocably into a massacre.

As the engineer fell, crumpling in slow motion before me, more followed. Soon, heads rolled lazily down steps and chunks of my old friends lay scattered around me. Until, finally, there was no-one left.

Looting their homes provided a rich bounty, but if the bulk of their possessions weighed down on me, the weight of my actions did not.

Until I saw him.

Turning to exit the last house I noticed a small boy sat in a dark corner, his head in his hands. It was the Sheriff’s son, silently grieving the loss of his Father.

I wanted to end it for him, not out of malice or bloodlust, but to bring the poor boy peace. But something wouldn’t let me. I just couldn’t do it.

Later, as I gazed from the balcony of a rich man’s tower, with the Sheriff’s hat perched on my head and a gigantic explosion filling the skyline, I thought of that boy and smiled. Perhaps, just this time, flicking the switch was the right thing to do.

It’s been said many times that you can’t take a bad screenshot in EVE Online, and this Flickr group certainly supports the idea. As we end our week of gaming photography/screenshotting, we dive into space and take a spin around the beautiful space epic MMO. Next week, normal service returns!

EVE Online @ Flickr

Flickr has a nice Videogame Photography group, with a wide variety of games showing up including Far Cry, Oblivion and GTA. It’s mostly in Spanish, but the photos are what you’re there for. If you’ve just joined us, this week is The Blue Casket’s Snapshots week, celebrating gaming photography.

Videogame Photography @ Flickr

World of Warcraft is exceedingly beautiful. Koinup’s users show this off adeptly, particularly Morgana Le Fay, whose screenshots are taken and edited with extreme care, producing some truly stunning views. If you’ve played WoW before, I suspect you’ll be surprised at how choice of shot and filter has changed the famous MMO world.

Morgana Le Fay @ Koinup

Pentadact, otherwise known as the handsome and intelligent Mister Tom Francis of PC Gamer semi-fame, is great at capturing little moments in games, particularly TF2.  His catalogue of screens over on Flickr are a joy to shuffle through, as is his blog. Tom also wrote the GalCiv diaries, which you may remember from earlier.

Pentadact @ Flickr

Welcome to our Snapshots week, where we’ll be featuring some really quite good galleries of gaming photography. Since many readers of The Runner only go there for the images, we thought we’d start the week with his Flickr account. It’s got full-size photos of a lot of his blog shots, as well as some not posted, and the game looks stunning. Wallpaper-worthy stuff there.

The Runner @ Flickr

Today, we’ve got a whole Let’s Play of the superb roguelike-but-not platformer that is Spelunky. Part One is above, and you can find the rest at the link below. Then go download the final version of Spelunky from Spelunky World and get playing yourself!

Let’s Play Spelunky (via Penny Arcade)

I’m the son of a senator, Senator Bill Young of Georgia. I won’t lie, I had it easy. Growing up, I mean. Well, everything: schools, friends, money, girls, a kickass dad with some really scary friends. I’ve taken the easy road through life, but now I’m here, standing in an office wearing a crisp uniform and saluting. With my hand, I mean. And at an officer, not a high school cheerleader. That other thing in the hotel room the Atlanta Herald made up. Anyway, and so I’m doing that and he says to me:

“Congratulations, pilot. Welcome to the Air Force.”

This is my story.

Soon, I’m outta the office and on my way to Ramstein Air Base, fighter central for the European continent. As we take off from Randolph, I plaster my hands against the window and smear my nose on the glass in one last look at what I called home for training. I’ll miss the place like hell. I can only hope that Ramstein has a ping-pong table too.

As the Hercules’ tyres skids on the runway tarmac and we come to a standstill, I heave my duffel over my shoulder and swagger down the ramp and into Europe, my suitcase’s small wheels bouncing down the loading ramp. As I pass by the hangars, I hear the sound of socket wrenches furiously twisting, the reckless clanging of steel, the ding of hammers and the shrill buzz of drills. I ignore all that: the clean-cut chisel-jawed guys in flight suits, cigarettes dangling from their mouths; the pairs of legs on creepers protruding from under machinery waiting for strangers to walk up so they can ask them for a tool; the hot blonde intelligence officers and shrinks teasing around in their heels and skirts pretending to be professional; I head straight for the dorms, leaving the potential for character development to the other greenhorns. I’m a pilot.

I drop off my luggage, and as I’m checking the welcome basket a siren starts to wail, and an authoritative voice on a loudspeaker tells me to haul ass to the briefing room, on the double. I burst out of the dorm and head with great purpose down the hall, darting past doorways and skidding round corners until I find a suitable visitor’s map on a wall. Now, with sketchy knowledge on where I should be heading, I jog at a more even pace in what I think is the right direction until I reach a smoky room with drawn blinds and a lot of guys with sharp hairdos and cocky stares sitting at desks in front of a projector. I settle down and glance at the image in front.

Boy, talk about trying to scare the new guys. Pranksters.

As the serious-looking colonel next to the picture explains the situation, an intercom crackles.

“Sir, we’ve got incoming MiGs!”

The colonel swivels back to the assembly and barks. Men jump out of their chairs, sending them clattering. These guys are really jumpy, no doubt. I slide out from under my desk and follow my peers to get suited up, and then to the runway, where several of the Air Force’s latest $100m tin can, the F-29 Retaliator, are already being prepared.

I lower myself into a cockpit and wave away the attendant trying to strap me in. Flicking switches, I adjust my rear-view mirror.

Looking pretty good… wait a minute. WAIT A MINUTE.

Is that a MiG?! HOLY SHIT. They could have said they were being serious! Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck, okay, okay. Get this thing in the air and fly around a bit looking mean and let someone else get shot down. Dad wouldn’t let you die.

In case I hadn’t got the message, an instrument begins to beep alarmingly and flash ‘SCRAMBLE’ repeatedly. Blink. I suddenly feel alive. I act with professionalism, thrust the canopy shut and look dead ahead down the runway and past the control tower, into the horizon.

“Let’s roll!” I cry, jamming the throttle wide open.