Can there really be a best of anything? As consumers of media, we love to rank things. Top ten lists. Top 100 charts. The greatest albums of all time. 50 films you can’t miss. It often feels like these lists are so obvious as to be redundant, or else intentionally snub a well-known title to get readers frothing at the mouth, driving web traffic. And then there are those examples that stand alone. Works which, even though they have flaws (or possibly because of them), they have become the single standard to which all others are measured against. The Porsche 911, The Seven Samurai, The Beatles. And, in the world of video games, the venerable and unparalleled Deus Ex.

For those of you who have played Deus Ex, you are now likely nodding your head in agreement (or frothing at the mouth; it’s okay, I could use the traffic). For those of you who have never heard of the title (do his what now?), allow me to lay down a little bit of video game history before snap kicking you into the near future of the franchise.

To lay the groundwork, let’s start in 1993. Yes, 22 years ago, wait, what? 22 years? Holy shit, I’m getting old. Ahem. 22 years ago, the gaming industry was rocked to its core by id Software and their back to back blitz of Wolfenstein 3D and Doom. What followed was a ceaseless chain of copy cats, sequels, and lazy rip-offs, effectively turning the majority of the ‘90s into one giant ball made up of the same game hiding under different masks. Now the Doom franchise is excellent, and the original and immediate sequel stand as great points in gaming history, but they were limited in scope. It’s also about this time that the media began to latch on to the sensationalist violence present in such games, so, thanks for that.

So why doesn’t Doom stand on the same level as Deus Ex? I already told you: the game was limited in scope. The gameplay, levels, weapons and graphics were tremendous, but the game was essentially a series of mazes for your mouse of a player to run through. The narrative was basically nonexistent, and there was really only one play style and one way to beat the game. In this way it was no different than Donkey Kong or even Centipede. Then, in 1997, producer Warren Spector met the cash of John Romero (cash from Doom, I might add), joining the new company Ion Storm. It was a marriage made in heaven.

Just kidding. Video games are hard, and what became Deus Ex went through over three years of challenging design, which was an incredibly long development cycle in ‘90s video gaming. The problem that led to so many delays in production was the nature of the game itself. What was being created was a title that defied attempts to classify it. While the game is played in first person, it’s not a shooter, as you can actually beat it without ever drawing your gun. It’s not a puzzle game, because your character plays through levels in a non-linear fashion, capable of navigating through the puzzles and narrative through multiple means. Okay, narrative. So it’s an RPG? Well, yes, your character does earn skill points to put towards abilities, but then there’s also an entirely separate augmentation tree that you can modify and upgrade and… you know what? It’s complicated.

Okay, so it’s a non-linear puzzle RPG shooter with a heavy emphasis on storytelling and dialogue. I’m calling it an NLPRPGSHESD. No, I’m not. I’m calling it Deus Ex, and for anyone that played it, it was something they had never before seen in their lives. And the timing, delayed as it was, could not have been better. With the 1999 release of The Matrix, America’s mainstream discovery of anime, and the resulting spillage into other franchises, the world was ripe and ready for Deus Ex to storm in, unleashing it’s cyberpunk, it’s always night time, black helicopters, Illuminati-laden plot.

The game is, as I’ve stated, not perfect in every way. Part of what leads to this imperfection is the fact that problems can be approached from multiple angles, some of which the creators never could have anticipated. The game drives human ingenuity, letting people express themselves through their own style of gameplay and strategy. More than that, the game stretches to tell a story, and a deep on at that. Without spoiling too much, I can safely say that your nanoaugmented secret agent will travel the globe unraveling conspiracy theories of various secret organizations, corporate superpowers, corrupt governments organizations, organized crime, and various power players each with their own hidden agenda. All of this set to one of the best soundtracks of all time, on that I still listen to when writing my own cyberpunk fiction.

The game was able to transcend the medium in which it was created, becoming a sum greater than its parts. Like the lasting influence of Kurosawa’s Seven Samurai, Deus Ex is a pinnacle moment, where all elements aligned perfectly to create something that will last throughout time, being played again and again even as newer, shinier things come out and scream for attention.

The franchise itself was aware of the fact, and after a lukewarm sophomore effort in Deus Ex: Invisible War, Eidos Montréal brought the style and substance of the game back full force with Deus Ex: Human Revolution, a snappy, sexy, slick prequel that oozes style in every frame. In fact, the game is almost a bit too involved in the original, closely paralleling the original in settings and plot choices. Credit where it’s due, the graphical abilities of modern computing were not ignored, creating a much more enticing vision of the near future, and the storyline is superb, playing to multiple cyberpunk themes while still managing to be original. I would be remiss if I didn’t point out that the soundtrack is even better than that of the original, artfully capturing the mood of the dystopian world.

And now Eidos Montréal is preparing to lay down another impactful hit, with Deus Ex: Mankind Divided in development and hopefully releasing at the end of 2015. Time will tell if it lives up to the standard the franchise set, but one thing is for certain: the original source material has already passed into time, becoming an unobtainable reference point that all lovers of good storytelling can turn to for either admiration and inspiration, a genre-bending beacon that will live on long after the world it imagines has passed us by.


A.C. Harrison is the author of "Jupiter Symphony,” a post-apocalyptic cyberpunk thrill ride that only wishes it had the soundtrack of DX:HR.
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June 18, 2011

            Throughout the course of my trip to Japan, I have been fortunate to have visited some of the most historically important and cherished sites of the nation. Each locale expressed a different facet of Japanese culture and life, while simultaneously letting our group step through different chapters of history. As with any culture, Japanese society is incredibly complex and multifaceted. The different experiences at these places helped to illustrate just a few of the many pieces that compose what it means to be Japanese, while also helping to illustrate what makes us Americans. The lasting impact of these episodes has helped to coalesce in my mind the understanding that Hiroshima’s memory of August 6, 1945, is not something easily sorted and compartmentalized, but rather a collection of experiences that are interconnected in ways that both argue for private remembrance and public remonstrance for the events that occurred on that fateful day.

            Before one can understand and interpret the impact of the atomic bomb on Hiroshima, it is necessary to first comprehend what it is exactly that is important to Japanese society and why nuclear weapons are so uniquely capable of threatening those same values. American history is only a small speck in time when considering Japan’s past. Because the overturning of British rule happened only a historically short time ago, American culture is still very much about independence in thought, action, and lifestyle. This extends to family units, which exist in isolation, a point that is exacerbated by the fact that many American citizens are composed of those that were willing to break ties with their home country to move and start a new life. Japan, by contrast, was built with an ear towards Confucian ideals and Shinto rice farming culture, which push for unity, social harmony, hierarchy, and especially the belief in continuing the unbroken chain of life with the extension of familial generations both forward and backwards in time. With the addition of Buddhism and the complicated Japanese system of handling the dying and the dead, the point is reinforced that in Japan the actions of the living have a direct impact on the deceased.

            To continue the metaphor, if Japanese life is viewed as a chain leading into the infinite past and infinite future, then the atomic bomb is the industrial cutting wheel aimed at the weakest link. Nuclear weapons do not kill a soldier on the field and leave the family to grieve at home. While a rifle round will terminate its flight in a backstop, the effects of nuclear fallout and radiation sickness continue to smash links in the chain moving forward in time. Although Miyajima indeed “echoes the impermanence of all things,” the truth is that the Taira are remembered there and even after the Gempei war, the relatives of the deceased were able to recover the remains of their fallen and exhibit ritual behaviors to honor those individuals. The annihilation of the Taira was complete, but there were still those who remained to remember them. By contrast, the complete annihilation of Hiroshima shatters entire family units and leaves behind a scenario with no place, no way, and no one to give proper service and respect to the dead, as an entire block of society was ripped from existence. It is with this important point that Masuji Ibuse’s Black Rain steps forward to render a systematic way of coping with the atomic bomb, helping to both offer and to explain the human need to justify the facts of existence and the desire to maintain some form of normalcy and ritual life in the face of overwhelming destruction. An excellent point in the novel that aids in illustrating this need to cope is the ongoing requirement for the character Shigematsu to conduct funeral rights at the behest of his manager, who advises him, “We can’t just simply cremate them. You can’t just say, ‘why, he’s dead!’ and whisk him off and burn him and have done with it. It’s a bit hard on the deceased, surely, unless he gets at least something more than that. Personally, now, I don’t believe in the immortality of the soul, but I do believe one should dispose of the dead with respect” (Ibuse 131). This story perfectly frames the Japanese relationship between the living and the dead, despite the extraordinary circumstances. It is an absolute necessity in Japan for the relatives of the dead to offer their respect, a function that is not possible for those family units wiped out in Hiroshima. Similar to the recitation of the Heike Monogatari, Ibuse gives voice to real people through a fictional framework, not unlike a work of historical fiction, for lack of a better descriptor. By helping to share the stories of the survivors and victims of the atomic bombing, Ibuse helps to fulfill the role of storyteller in order to preserve the event and the site, since the real site is no longer in existence.

            The elimination of Hiroshima exacerbates the role of storytellers as well as the functions offered by Peace Park, which is essentially one large venue for various interest groups to leverage for their own purposes. A major contrast between Peace Park and sites such as Izumo and Miyajima is that the Shinto shrines and Buddhist temples there have clearly defined places in society and are comprised of specific sects that people can identify. Peace Park, now being under control of the Japanese government, is an amalgamation of interest groups, and despite the claim that it does not have religious purposes, too many shrines, monuments, and memorials fly in the face of such a statement. It is the closest the people can come to having a site of worship, but this is in direct conflict with the public stance the government assumes. This case of private worship versus public broadcast is the defining trait of Peace Park and the aftershocks of the atomic bomb. Through Black Rain, Ibuse helps bridge the gap between these two sides in order to relay the importance of the Hiroshima event. Ibuse takes what is normally viewed scientifically and historically and puts a human face on it; the fictional framework is really just scaffolding used to show the importance of the various storytellers held within. Without these stories and locations, there will remain no one to take care of the muenbotoke—the unconnected dead.

          Stories such as Black Rain and storytellers such as the hibakusha are key links in spreading the memory of Hiroshima, as we cannot know the stories of the deceased directly. They are living places for memory, since the original site is no more. They are the vessels that carry the social importance of Hiroshima’s story, who toll the bell of humanities new ability to self-destruct. Ibuse’s novel is especially useful at relating the sheer destructive scope of the bomb, the awesome atomic maelstrom, by contrasting it with the ridiculously mundane events that continued to occur as people fought to maintain their normative behaviors and environments. This is often wryly illustrated through the tasks Shigematsu is assigned by his manager, with the episode of Shigematsu being tasked with sourcing coal for his company through official channels as an excellent example. The humorous insanity of the situation is demonstrated as Shigematsu spends two days trying to follow procedures, and ends up speaking to an acquaintance named Mr. Tashiro on his way to find the Coal Control Corporation offices. In trying to get ahold of those in charge, Tashiro comments, “But you know,…it puzzles me why an important place like a control corporation still hasn’t put up a notice saying where it’s moved to. There must be some explanation for it, don’t you think?” (Ibuse 165). Shigematsu is forced to relay to Tashiro that “the worst may have happened,” though Tashiro still doesn’t understand until Shigematsu explicitly states that “the whole corporation was wiped out,” illustrating that the world is gone, but what is there to do? So you people keep doing what you did before, the only thing that can do under the circumstances. An individual cannot counteract a weapon such as the atomic bomb. It is beyond mortal comprehension. In regarding corporations, sites such as the Mazda factory argue that Hiroshima is a fully recovered city that has rejoined the global stage and is capable of striding forward into a bright future, but the story of August 6 still remains.

            Denial of this memory has a very strong attraction, especially for those who were not there and have no ties to Hiroshima as it was before 8:15 am. Though not attempting to take anything away from the astounding commercial and political recovery of Hiroshima, the human toll is still there below the surface, though people are not always willing to see it. In the end of Black Rain it becomes clear that Shigematsu and his wife Shigeko share a denial of Yasuko’s condition. No amount of posturing or reasoning will take away the simple fact that she is a victim of the atomic bomb and she will either be shunned from society because of her condition, or die fighting her sickness. This sudden acquiescence to the truth can be seen through Ibuse’s method of spending over 200 pages relating the diary entries of Shigeko, Shigematsu, and others, which argue the good health of Yasuko, to suddenly coming to a screeching halt with Shigematsu suddenly stating that “Yasuko has begun to show symptoms of radiation sickness. Everything has fallen through. By now, it is neither possible nor necessary to go on pretending” (Ibuse 219). He continues to explain that Yasuko sent a letter to her potential suitor explaining her symptoms, and telling Shigematsu of her deteriorating sight and the ringing in her ears. Shigematsu hauntingly closes the chapter: “When she first told me about it, in the living room, there was a moment when the living room vanished and I saw a great, mushroom-shaped cloud rising into a blue sky. I saw it quite distinctly” (Ibuse 219). In the case of Hiroshima, things such as the Mazda factory and events such as Toukasan, which would indicate recovery and progress, only serve to highlight what once was and what is missing. Toukasan is an especially furtive source for this when compared to other matsuri; the lack of floats, costumes, and ancient traditions all stem from the fact that Hiroshima lost those things in the bombing and is now a city of immigrants who repopulated the region. Toukasan is an attempt at normal life, but as akin to Shigematsu’s fish project, it can only shroud reality for so long before things come to the surface.

            Connecting these seemingly disjointed sites and using them to construct a frame around Hiroshima as it exists today, the memory of the atomic bombing can be more clearly recognized. Like black holes in the cosmos, it is the lack of escaping light, the absence of everyday events that are taken for granted, that allows viewers to color in the details of Hiroshima’s history. This consciousness is overwhelming in its scope and complexity, and incredibly difficult to articulate. At the risk of sounding pretentious, I am moved to humbly apologize for the inability to portray the latticework of Hiroshima, and know that because this cultural construct is being experienced from countless steps removed, it cannot ever be completely comprehended. The tragic realization is that the closest link that exists are the hibakusha, who are bound by the laws of mortality. Shigematsu states, “In olden times, people used to say that in an area ravaged by war it took a century to repair the moral damage done to the inhabitants; and it began to seem as though they might have been right” (Ibuse 149).  Like Yasuko waiting for the other shoe to drop, knowing her aunt and uncle are in denial, like the hibakusha of real life who spent, and still spend, every day after the bombing wondering if the next morning would bring the first signs of radiation sickness, like the parents of children and grandchildren hoping and praying that they have healthy offspring, like relatives hoping their son or daughter can find happiness in marriage, the specter of the atomic bomb hangs over those who survived, and that is the immortal story of Hiroshima. While Izumo and its kami are eternal, once the last hibakusha is gone from the earth, so too does the last direct link to the events of the atomic bombing. This focal point is the reason why it is absolutely essential that the memory of Hiroshima be carried on by authors such as Ibuse, by the descendants of survivors, and by those of us who choose to travel to the complete opposite end to the globe to listen and learn the reality of the situation, complex though it may be. Our continuation forms a new chain of understanding to take up the one shattered by the atomic bomb. Though the remembrance of those that perished is a private, personal affair, the story that is to be carried forward is a public one. Although these two sides may not ever be able to mesh, the brave actions of the hibakusha make it clear that the story of Hiroshima is one that has to be told to future generations.


A.C. Harrison