Indie Game: The Movie

[h1]10/10[/h1]      这部片子算是我真正走近独立游戏的契机，也影响了我人生中的一些选择，对我意义很大。因此这份评测想了很久，拖了很久，写了很多，删了很多，写着写着变成我和这部片子的故事了。:p但又因为现在没什么拿得出手的成果，说什么都像是在矫情，所以改来改去都不满意（现在这篇其实也是矫情就是了XD）。      但昨天没事干的时候我又回听了一遍[url=https://www.bilibili.com/video/BV1uW411b7W9/?share_source=copy_web&vd_source=e5dace117b3c6dfef870b6aa6f5e4487]关于游戏的信仰-Jonathan blow的创作哲学【GADIO】丨机核[/url]，听里面讲到彩蛋的事的时候突然想到这茬了，就过来多少写一些，算是给以后有机会补全这篇评测的自己留个彩蛋。      这部影片里我最喜欢的一个片段是E胖在《Super Meat Boy》大卖之后说的一段话 [quote=E胖] 一想到我能做出一个对小朋友具有如此影响力的东西，甚至让他们觉得：“嘿，我知道这款游戏是两个人做的。说不定我自己也能做点东西？” 这很酷，这真的很酷。[/quote]      这种意志的传承真的很coooooooool！“也许我也能做点东西？”，也许能，也许不能，也许我还在路上。好了，矫情的话就说到这里，毕竟这只是个彩蛋，彩蛋还是精简点好。[strike]而且再说下去我就又想删掉这些了[/strike]      最后剧透一下(现)完整评测的开头和结尾，同时也算是给未来也许能写完这篇评测甚至续写一段的我提个醒，如果这份草稿丢了也不至于忘了曾经写过什么——这份评测的开头是“这是一部影响了我人生轨迹的纪录片。”，这份评测的结尾是“我还年轻，我还年轻。”

this is the best film i've ever watched, no joke. it connected with me, an autistic 16-year-old who's dream has always been to be a game developer on such a personal level. it shows you the struggles, the climb, and the rise. It enbodies what it's like to be an indie developer with pride, scars and thought, it's just beautiful. This film is a celebration of indie games. It's messy, it's emotional, it's REAL. It doesnt try to play it safe but rather encapture you, the viewer inside the developer's journey. It's the pinnacle of cinema outside in. 10/10. I finally got around to watch it.

An unintentionally fascinating documentary. It's so interesting to look back at a time where the idea of indie games was seen as something new and exciting. The unintentional part is that they managed to pick 4 devs and 3 out of the 4 end up making themselves look terrible in the doc. It's one of those funny cases where they kind of just pointed the camera at them and let them talk and that showed their true character in a very unflattering way. It does make some parts of this kind of hard to watch as it is pretentious artists complaining about how misunderstood they are, but at the same time it's a very interesting look into the minds and lives of some troubled artists, it's not surprising that only a single one of them is still making games today. However, the sections with Edmund McMillen are the most genuinely great parts of the doc. He is the only one who really comes off as genuine and hearing him talk about his passion for game making and the emotion he puts into his work is the best part. If you go into this expecting a real look into what being an indie dev is like then you probably will come away disappointed, but if you come into it expecting a strange look into the minds of strange artists at a pivotal time in gaming then you can find a lot of interesting stuff here.

Just as good as it was when it released.

One of the few movies left on Steam that's still viewable. It was alright and an interesting dive into indie dev mindsets from this age.

This movie has somehow made white people less likable.

Don't bother.

[h1]On Vulnerability and Video Games—What a Review Cannot Measure[/h1] I was on the beach; it was either dawn or dusk, as though time itself had finally managed to coalesce. The air carried that rare breath we so desperately lack after everything we have done — after a long day, an explosion of emotions, of unexpected resonances. At last, one can breathe a little more easily through this day, just one more day. When I listened to Edmund McMillen speaking to us, addressing us with such earnestness, he seemed thrilled by the reviews from gaming magazines. It brought back memories of my university years, even my postgraduate studies. I achieved good marks. Yet does obtaining a 10, or an A+, truly tell me who I am? Do I know what I know? Am I genuinely capable of claiming, through a grade alone, that I have mastered something? At first, I did not fully understand McMillen’s words. When such marks fail to define who I am, then perhaps what I have achieved carries no greater weight than my resonance with others: the willingness to share knowledge, or the hope that, should I create something, it might endure in some fragile guise of eternity. And yet, along this journey, there is something a grade — or a handful of likes — simply cannot bestow, and cannot reveal. I sat there listening to what each developer had endured through time. I have not yet inhabited all of their works, but I listened carefully. Jonathan Blow remarks that the video game is a commercial product, or something close to that. But then, how does Braid distinguish itself from everything else? From those works that appear to be mere commodities? Even without having inhabited it, I can already discern Braid from Super Meat Boy. A walk through the city brings tranquillity. It soothes something inward. The mist that rolled in during the convention carried a coldness that settled deep within me, yet it also brought an opacity that prevented me from seeing beyond this place itself. This city, with its timid amber lights illuminating the streets. This sea, expressing everything it carries, everything it leaves upon the shore. As I contemplated that stillness, it seemed to me that the calm these developers reach finds its true culmination when their work — not merely a commercial product — achieves something far greater than success. It becomes openness. Refuge. An expansion within those of us who look upon it. What a review cannot measure is the thing that continues to resonate within us, that which continues to connect us. Even here, in this place where one can hear the beating of sincere yet shadowed hearts: fear, despair, joy, exhaustion, hunger, and above all, joy for the other. A joy that is not merely a smile. No. It also makes me vibrate alongside them, laughing with them, as though inhabiting their works gave me the breath to laugh at my own mistakes as well; or to feel moved, deeply stirred somewhere within the soul. It feels like being at home with my sister. We hold the controller and begin to inhabit that space together. We grow angry, we laugh, we weep — and surely the developer too, if they realised their work was truly habitable and cherished, would laugh as well. I agree with McMillen and Tommy Refenes: words are not the only means of expression. If something can express what is so intimate, so painful, so exhilarating, so full of laughter and tears, then why should we hesitate to call it art? I think back to my dance classes, and to how seldom people truly supported me. Yet there will always be someone nearby who remains present; witnesses who marvel at the work itself. At the very least, I feel grateful that each developer has found some connection with others, whether face-to-face or from afar, as in the case of Jonathan Blow. That is another thing a technical review — useful for corrections, perhaps, but never transcendental, never intimate — will never be capable of holding. It is overwhelming. Like McMillen’s wife, gentle and devoted, helping him immensely. Or Phil Fish, who often seemed alone, though perhaps without realising how many people truly surrounded him. Even when comments rain down in grey and black drops full of malice, there will always remain some kind of umbrella to protect us: one’s dignity before the other, just as the other already exists within us. The convention itself feels like one such sanctuary. I should like to inhabit Phil Fish’s Fez. To feel the fresh air there, and marvel at every shifting dimension that reveals itself. The perspective through which we see the world does not always need to remain flat, nor uniform. Where does the ivy lead me, growing upon the wall beneath that diaphanous blue sky? And what is time — and my relationship to others — within Braid? Even if they claim to be alone, the mere fact that there are witnesses watching this documentary renders their struggles comprehensible. They must believe this remains true not only for small games, but even for colossal ones, though that is something we seldom witness openly. Granted, I cannot speak to them face-to-face. Yet through this journey across the city — through the mist, the convention halls, the streets, the shoreline — I was invited, however briefly, into their rooms, allowed to look with a discreet and respectful gaze at what dwells there. And so I can be present. I can say that when a developer pours themselves into their work, rather than merely receiving a score, and when I feel what they have achieved — the joy and profound emotion it awakens in me for them — what they truly reveal is vulnerability. Video games express vulnerability. They express the accumulated weight of emotion contained within the act of creation itself. And though I may not be a skilled reviewer, I still make my attempt: not to imprison the work within technical terminology, but to understand what a video game truly is — and whether I have managed to understand even the vulnerability of the game itself. Phil Fish, I tell you, it is not that they reject your work, but rather that some of us ask ourselves if we are worthy of understanding what lies within it.

A masterpiece. I watch this once a year for inspiration. Beautifully shot with a fantastic OST. Invaluable insights into the development of some of the best indie games ever made.

旧游补评3 游玩时期：2018&26 这是一部非常鼓舞人心的纪录片，推荐给任何人。 [spoiler]看完后也推荐了解一下这几位制作人这些年的经历。 [/spoiler]