The Will to Resist

DUKE NUKEM FOREVER: CAPITAL AAAAA-SSSS!

Or: The Gaming Archaeology Department Called. They'd Like Their Shovel Back.

HAIL TO THE MOTHERFUCKING KING, BABY!

Oh, sweet merciful Christ on a pixelated bicycle.

What's this? What's that I see? Something's happening with Duke Nukem Forever?

The game that spent fourteen goddamn years in development? The game that went through more developmental changes than a teenager going through puberty? The game that became such a legendary development disaster that people started using its name as a measurement of time?

THAT Duke Nukem Forever?

Apparently, its Steam page has been updated with footage and screenshots from older development builds. Specifically, material associated with the infamous 2006 version.

And naturally, people are getting curious.

What did the game look like before it became the final 2011 release? What was different? What was cut? What mechanics survived the development meat grinder? What exactly were the developers trying to accomplish?

Could this be an opportunity to revisit a fascinating chapter of gaming history?

Could we get an honest look at a project that became practically synonymous with development hell?

Could we finally see more of the game that spent so long being developed that some of its original audience probably developed mortgages, back problems, and children before it arrived?

TIME EXTENSION HAS ENTERED THE CHAT.

And the conversation gets interesting.

In an article by Kris Moyse, Duke Nukem Forever Steam Page Updates, Sparking Rumours of 'Old Build' Release, Time Extension reports on the Steam page changes and the possibility that older development material might eventually become available.

That's genuinely interesting news.

But then we get a reminder that Duke Nukem Forever was, quoting the linked Metacritic description, "Capital A Ass."

And the article proceeds to describe the final release as derivative, outdated, burdened with tired edgy humor, abhorrent loading times, and bugs.

OH, WELL, FUCK ME SIDEWAYS WITH A LOADING SCREEN!

SOMEBODY CALL THE PRESIDENT! THE GAMING ARCHAEOLOGY DEPARTMENT HAS DISCOVERED A POTENTIAL HISTORICAL ARTIFACT, AND WE'RE ALREADY HOLDING A FUNERAL FOR THE RETAIL RELEASE!

Let's get something straight.

The criticism isn't that Moyse or Time Extension aren't allowed to dislike Duke Nukem Forever.

Of course they are.

The question is whether the quality of the finished product should overshadow the historical significance of the material potentially being recovered.

And that's where I start scratching my head.

CHAPTER ONE: THE GAME WASN'T GOOD. WE GET IT.

Let's establish something before somebody accuses me of polishing Duke's chrome-plated testicles.

Duke Nukem Forever, released in 2011, was a deeply flawed game.

There. Happy?

The combat could feel dated.

The pacing could be atrocious.

The loading times could make you question whether your console was secretly attempting to contact another dimension.

The humor could be juvenile, repetitive, and about as subtle as a brick through a maternity ward window.

And yes, the finished product didn't live up to the enormous expectations surrounding it.

Nobody needs to pretend otherwise.

But here's a question:

WHAT THE HELL DOES THE QUALITY OF THE FINAL RELEASE HAVE TO DO WITH THE HISTORICAL VALUE OF ITS PREVIOUS DEVELOPMENT BUILDS?

That's like finding an abandoned prototype automobile and dismissing it because the production model had terrible fuel economy.

Congratulations, Sherlock. You've identified a mechanical disappointment. Now put down the magnifying glass and look at the fucking prototype!

An unfinished game isn't a finished game.

A prototype isn't a commercial release.

And a development build isn't obligated to entertain you like a polished retail product.

These are different things.

Different purposes. Different contexts. Different standards.

CHAPTER TWO: FOURTEEN YEARS IN THE DEVELOPMENT CESSPOOL

Let's talk about the elephant in the room.

Duke Nukem Forever didn't just have a difficult development.

It practically established permanent residency in Development Hell.

The game was announced in 1997. It went through years of development at 3D Realms, changing technology, changing direction, and changing expectations before Gearbox Software eventually brought the project to completion.

Fourteen years.

FOURTEEN FUCKING YEARS.

You could start development on Duke Nukem Forever, get married, have a child, watch that child graduate high school, and then discover that Duke was STILL waiting for somebody to finish rendering a goddamn shotgun.

And that's precisely why the old builds are interesting.

They represent snapshots of a project that evolved over an extraordinary period.

They aren't merely old versions of a shooter.

They're evidence of creative decisions, abandoned ideas, technological transitions, and the complicated relationship between ambition and execution.

What was originally envisioned?

What changed?

What was removed?

What did the developers learn?

What did they abandon?

Those are worthwhile questions.

And they don't disappear just because the final product disappointed people.

CHAPTER THREE: THE PRESERVATION POLICE HAVE ARRIVED

Here's where things get particularly ridiculous.

Gaming preservation isn't supposed to be a fucking popularity contest.

We preserve things because they're historically significant, culturally interesting, technically unusual, or representative of a particular moment in the medium's development.

Sometimes they're masterpieces.

Sometimes they're disasters.

Sometimes they're weird experiments that make you wonder whether somebody accidentally spilled an entire bottle of whiskey into the design document.

And sometimes they're unfinished games.

That's the point!

If we only preserved games that received universal acclaim, we'd be throwing away enormous portions of gaming history.

We wouldn't understand the failures that influenced later successes.

We wouldn't understand how development practices changed.

We wouldn't understand why certain ideas disappeared.

We'd have a sanitized museum filled with trophies and absolutely no understanding of how the industry actually got there.

That's not preservation.

That's a fucking showroom.

And I don't know about you, but I'd rather visit a gaming museum that explains the history of the medium than one that only displays its greatest hits.

CHAPTER FOUR: CREDIT WHERE CREDIT IS DUE

Now, let's be fair.

Kris Moyse and Time Extension deserve credit for reporting the Steam page changes and drawing attention to the possibility of older development material resurfacing.

That's interesting news.

It's exactly the sort of thing gaming preservation enthusiasts should be paying attention to.

The article also correctly makes clear that a potential release is speculation, not confirmation.

That's important.

And the phrase "Capital A Ass" deserves a little clarification. Moyse links that description to Metacritic rather than presenting it as an original quotation of his own.

Fair enough.

But the article then adds its own criticism of the finished game.

And that's where I'd like to raise a different point.

We KNOW the 2011 release disappointed people.

We KNOW it had problems.

We KNOW it became one of gaming's most notorious examples of development hell.

WE WERE THERE, DAMMIT!

SOME OF US HAVE THE LOADING-SCREEN SCARS!

But there's a difference between reviewing a game and reporting on the potential recovery of its development history.

One asks whether the finished product was good.

The other asks what happened, why it happened, and what we can learn from it.

Both conversations have value.

Neither needs to murder the other in a parking lot.

CHAPTER FIVE: THE CAPITAL AAAAA-SSSS INCIDENT

And now, the phrase itself.

"Capital A Ass."

I can practically hear the Angry Video Game Nerd-style delivery.

CAPITAL AAAAA-SSSS!

It's theatrical. It's exaggerated. It's funny.

And honestly? I have no objection to that kind of humor.

Gaming criticism doesn't need to be a funeral service conducted by a man wearing a tweed jacket and holding a clipboard.

You can be entertaining.

You can be sarcastic.

You can be vulgar.

You can even call a game a gigantic steaming pile of donkey ass.

But when you're discussing the possibility of recovering an abandoned development build, perhaps spend a little more time talking about the fucking build.

Because here's the kicker:

A GAME CAN BE SHIT AND STILL BE IMPORTANT.

Read that again.

A game can be shit and still be important.

A prototype can be broken and still be valuable.

An abandoned project can be unsuccessful and still deserve preservation.

And a development disaster can teach us more about the industry than ten commercially successful releases combined.

These ideas aren't mutually exclusive.

You don't have to love Duke Nukem Forever to be interested in Duke Nukem Forever.

You don't have to defend the final game to appreciate the work that went into its earlier versions.

And you certainly don't need to pretend that everything recovered from its development will be wonderful.

Sometimes historical discoveries are messy.

Sometimes they're incomplete.

Sometimes they're disappointing.

THAT'S WHY WE CALL THEM HISTORICAL ARTIFACTS AND NOT FUCKING GAME OF THE YEAR EDITIONS!

FINAL BOSS: THE RIGHT TO REMEMBER THE FAILURES

Here's what I want out of this.

I want the old development builds preserved.

I want people to examine them.

I want comparisons between the different versions.

I want documentation of the mechanics, environments, weapons, characters, and design decisions that changed throughout development.

I want people to be able to look at the 2006 build and understand what Duke Nukem Forever might have been before the final release.

And if somebody eventually makes that material publicly accessible?

Fantastic.

I'll happily watch somebody spend three hours exploring an unfinished level, discovering broken collision detection, shooting an alien that hasn't learned how to walk properly, and accidentally falling through the fucking floor.

Why?

Because that's fascinating!

Not necessarily entertaining in the conventional sense.

Not necessarily good.

But fascinating.

And sometimes that's enough.

Gaming history isn't a museum of perfection.

It's a record of human creativity, ambition, mistakes, compromises, accidents, failures, and occasionally some spectacularly questionable decisions involving exploding toilets.

So, Time Extension, here's my position:

Keep the criticism.

Keep the jokes.

Keep the colorful descriptions of Duke's shortcomings.

But don't let the punchline swallow the story.

You can call the finished game Capital AAAAA-SSSS all day long.

Just remember that the development history is still worth digging through.

BECAUSE PRESERVATION ISN'T ABOUT REWARDING GOOD GAMES. IT'S ABOUT MAKING SURE GAMING HISTORY DOESN'T DISAPPEAR JUST BECAUSE SOMEBODY DIDN'T LIKE THE FUCKING END RESULT.

HAIL TO THE KING, BABY!

And for the love of all things pixelated, somebody get the preservation department a shovel.

The editorial department has apparently mistaken the excavation site for a septic tank.

Jerry "The Ankle-Biter" Silverhand

Department of Gaming Archaeology, Unlicensed Historical Excavations, and Excessive Profanity.

Official motto: We preserve the shit. We don't have to pretend it smells like roses.

SOURCES & FURTHER READING