A particularly polarizing facet of Assassin’s Creed II (much like the original) lies with its control scheme. On foot traversal is easily the most important mechanic in the game, both in terms of context and Ezio’s move set, but assigning those typically simple functions to a bunch of buttons might not sit well with casual or impatient players; most people aren’t used to there being three distinct ways to move. Either walk fast by holding X, actually run by holding R1, or go full speed with a combination of X and R1 (which also, by the way, is used to ascend buildings in a similar manner of combinations). The latter puts most of your thumbs in play, which can be a considerable bitch if you’re doing a race and need to simultaneously align the camera toward your next checkpoint. The end result, at least in my case, was going double duty using the base of my right thumb to hit X while I moved Ezio with the top part on the right stick. The left stick was reserved for camera control, which is a pretty messed up gesture if you really think about it.
But at the heart of the matter, does an increase in input or mechanical complication create a more rewarding or immersive experience? Along the same lines, does that automatically render those games more rewarding than games with a more simple control scheme? I’ll admit that, even with the familiarity that comes with playing it for ten or so hours thus far, Ezio still gets out of control and does a ton of stuff I didn’t intend (why the game would allow me to vault off a tall building and commit suicide is a bit puzzling, “yeah I totally meant to do that!”). But at the same time, isn’t the player subject to similar faults in a simpler game, such as New Super Mario Bros? Not unlike Ezio, your fingers or error in timing are going to result in Mario eating shit a couple of times. In the case of Mario, or any well designed game, the responsibility lies with your ineptitude, rather than the controls we so often blame. Maybe it all harkens back to the basic design principle of trial and error; get it wrong until you get it right, and use then that knowledge to tread more carefully in the future. An unwillingness to adapt ourselves to controls may is irrelevant to complexity. The stubborn refusal of adaptability comes with age (just look at a self-checkout; older people refuse to even look at it while younger adults always want to give it a try), not with complex controls.
In this regard, I’m quite impressed with the way Assassin’s Creed II has handled platforming. Uncharted 2 was a great game and, from a presentation standpoint, was leaps and bounds ahead of almost anything else in interactive entertainment, but its platforming, at times, almost felt too easy. Different colored bricks all but spelled out where you needed to go and, despite a few instances when I didn’t know I had to climb a street sign, I was rarely at loss for progression. Just point Drake toward the next grapple point and watch him go. Assassin’s Creed II make’s the same process considerably more challenging by clouding your destination a bit more. The tomb in Florence, one of six puzzle dungeons you have to raid, demonstrates the difference quite well. You need to look in 360 degrees to determine your next destination, and some non-lethal trial and error comes into play as well. Momentum is never lost, and Ezio jumps on walls, swinging chandeliers, and otherwise impossible structures all while granting a sensation of remarkable accomplishment. Back to Mario, when I reach the top of the tomb and claimed my prize it felt just like acceding the summit of Tick Tock Clock. While a learning curve is required, complex control, just like its simplified cousins, can result in an incredibly rewarding experience, provided it’s been constructed and play tested with the utmost care and precision.
