G-pinions

I used to raise a tree branch high above my head when I was a child and let out the wholly untrue though surprisingly believable statement, "I have the power!" I wanted to be He-Man. I wanted to have a really cool super hero name and an evil nemesis lacking relevant organs. Most importantly, I wanted people to bow to me. It's not surprising two decades later I have the same ambitions. Since my power at work stems from little more than quiet rebellion, I have to exert my unquestioned strength in other facets of life. Namely, I play God Games.

My stomach drops a little hearing that term. Usually associated with Sid Meyer's Tycoon-themed crap, God Games have a bad rap for being boring non-games. But I look beyond that. Like a real God, I love staring down at mindless beings so willing to do as I command. Lemmings is the best God Game ever devised. It's beautiful poetry, a subtle parody of the dronish behavior running rampant in our society. Simply do what the guy in front of you does. You may get hurt, you may fall to your death or have your head popped cleanly off of your body, but it's not your fault. You're just following everyone else. If you're really lucky, if God happens to be in a good mood, you may even finish the level. It's an allegory on the same level as Pilgrim Progress. There's an all-powerful God and a narrative full of mindless believers. All that's missing is one rogue Lemming named Obstinate.

This ability to have hundreds and thousands of being respond to my every command without question has always appealed to me in an extremely personal way. Placing myself in the action, manually pulling the trigger or leaping over the toad, provides a visceral rush that gets the heart beating and the palms sweating. But sitting in a comfy throne and ordering others to do as I say, to place the burden of bridge building on that Lemming and hole digging on that one, well, that comes with a smugness that doing can't provide. Because with action, any time I fail it is my fault. When I order someone to do something and the results aren't satisfactory, it's their fault. What do you mean you can't survive that fall? Why did you turn around when you bumped your head? Why must I lead a group of buffoons?

Which leads me to Mario vs. Donkey Kong 2: March of the Minis. The prequel, Mario vs. Donkey Kong on the GBA, placed me in the role of hero. I was Mario and I had to jump the pits and flip the switches. I had to beat the clock. I had to save the princess. It was a fantastic experience, but doesn't Mario deserve a little break once in a while? Why must he risk his neck every other month? He's an old man! He's been squashing koopas before I was pretending to ride Battle-Cat. In MvDK2, Mario is a God. And not one of those fallible Greeks or mortal Norse. No, Mario leads and Mario can do no wrong.

MvDK2 plays kind of like Lemmings for slightly retarded though infinitely more dexterous kids. Whereas Lemmings gave you mental cramps from running mind/wind sprints, MvDK2 requires little bit of planning and a lot of delicate touches. The Lemmings, those cute little green bipedal beings, could do just about anything. They could whip out an umbrella to float gracefully to the ground. They could climb sheer walls. They could build, dig and burrow. They could even spontaneously combust. In fact, if they only realized the power they possessed, they could overthrow this bumbling, sadistic God who keeps popping off their heads. They could have simply stopped walking, had some tea, and invented trigonometry. But they were stupid, they needed their God, and they got killed following orders.

The miniature Marios you control in MvDK2 are not nearly as talented. They can walk, yes, and jump, but that's about it. They cannot turn into a paper airplane like Paper Mario. They can't swim. They can't even drive a kart. They are pretty worthless actually. You should see them smile when they figure out how to use a tool, though. Oh, it's so precious. Like a two year old with a chainsaw, they don't quite understand what they have, and they end up loosing some toes. Watch the little guys pick up a hammer and refuse to drop it. Toss it in the air and watch them clamber after it, anxious to swing it mindlessly again. Like an ape driving a car, they have no spatial reasoning. An ape will hit the breaks as soon as the light turns red, even if it's two blocks up the road. The mini Mario will swing that hammer even if all the enemies are dead. It's cute, but only because you feel sorry for them. God Mario will lead them to the end.

With only a few "moves" (is walking a move?) at your disposal, MvDK2 is much easier than Lemmings. Most levels can be completed by the second try. And once you figure the basic principles of the game, even getting gold medals can be ridiculously easy. Neither your brain nor your hand will be taxed in this offering, but it's still fun. It's still fun making Golden Mini Mario walk off the top of a tall platform to his shattering death. It's fun to see how many mini Marios you can fit into a monkey sack. But it's too simple to make me bow my head and speak in a hushed voice when it approaches. If there was just a way to pop off their heads, I would whole-heartedly recommend this to everyone.