Heavy Rain is really the thing at this point, right? Let's get up on some of that. I know Gabe craves that shit. I'd be playing Heavy Rain too, if it were actually possible for me to do so. I'm not entirely convinced it is.
After trying three shops for the game upon our return, I finally tracked one down with copies to spare. I came home to an empty house, family out for the weekend, with nothing to do but play it. I want to stress the extent to which this is something that never happens. I dumped an entire day into the game. Well, not the whole day. I also got pretty drunk. Like I said, the day possessed an uncommon configuration.
When I came back the next day to continue my progress, I navigated the menu incorrectly and deleted my save. It even came up with a dialogue that was like, are you sure you want to do this? I assumed it was talking about something else, I guess. I couldn't imagine that it would be so easy to destroy your progress, and having done so, why I couldn't just resume from the last chapter I'd reached. I thought I had selected Continue, but I had not. I really don't understand it. I mean, this ain't my first time to the rodeo. I know how to navigate a Goddamned menu. Presumably.
By the time I had resolved myself to rebuild seven hours worth of play, the vast preponderance of the world's PlayStation 3 hardware couldn't play that game anyhow. There's Sunday gone. Monday evening, after satisfying his curiosity re: damselflies, I tucked in my heir and went downstairs to care for my virtual sons.
(When there was an Olive Garden close enough for us to frequent, Gabriel and I did so with great enthusiasm. We were drawn there by its Tuscan authenticity, and also the fact that you could at that time secure an infinite amount of food for four dollars. That struck us as a solid rate of exchange.
Gabriel likes that - when they bring out the check - it is heaped with Andes Mints. He likes to imply, just above the threshold of audible speech, that he will make it "worth their while" if they should bring more than the customary one mint per person. Understand that this is even more ridiculous than it seems: I don't even like Andes Mints. He's already up one mint simply because I'm there.
While he is eating the mint - the first mint at any rate, the first of many - he is folding the tiny foil wrapper into semblance of its previous shape. When it has assumed some facsimile of mintfulness, he will then offer it to you. It's not worth refusing it, it's really not, because the offer will be repeated until you play out your role in his twisted pageant. Unfolding the wrapper, you will discover that no mint is present.
"You dumb fucker," he'll say, unwrapping another mint. "God, you're stupid."
Opening that empty wrapper is what it's like playing through the parts of Heavy Rain you've done before. Virtually drying yourself off with a virtual towel virtually is not an act which endures repetition.)
I put in just enough time to get to the end of the demo, at which point the game hard-locked the system. It's something people often wonder, and now, I've got conclusive proof: A videogame can make you cry.