I was born in the same year that Fallout 1 came out. I didn't play my first fallout game for until 12 years after the release of the original, and didn't play the Black Isle games until the 18th anniversary of Fallout 1 coming out. My gaming nostalgia isn't stirred by isometric, top-down RPGs - it's rekindled by PS2 platformers like Jak & Daxter: The Precursor Legacy, and Klonoa 2. Therefore, when I had my wildly positive opinion on Fallout 3 completely inverted last year, it wasn't because of an inherent emotional bias, forged back in the 'good old days', when high-definition and virtual-reality were far-off, even alien, concepts. However, when I realised that Fallout 1 and 2 had managed to completely destroy my appreciation for Bethesda's 2007 reboot, I could see why the 'nostalgia argument' has been so popular amongst their detractors. These two games are so strongly atmospheric, so wonderfully magical in their respective existences, that it is difficult not to feel like a child again when playing them.
I can only compare the experience of being introduced to the original Fallouts as similar to watching the original Star Wars trilogy. Not necessarily in the formulas of their stories (although I would argue that there are some clear base similarities), but more so in the palpable endlessness of their respective universes, only eluded to in passing dialogue, on the lips of bar patrons and mercenaries, in radio transmission transcriptions and computer terminal records. This is where the word 'magical' comes to mind; I can't think of any other games, or films, that have elicited that sort of emotional response from me. This is where I draw the comparison of playing the original Fallouts to that set of emotions which we call 'Nostalgia'. That warm, fuzzy feeling we get when thinking about something that is embedded so deeply into our subconscious as a perfect event or happening, that we can only look back in delight that we had the pleasure of experiencing it.
Of course, certain works of literature have, and continue to, provoke this set of emotions from me. In contrast to screen-based mediums, though, the beauty of the novel is that it requires the reader to use their imagination, to construct worlds and forge emotional ties with the fictional, due to lack of pictorial aid. For an art form founded on visuals to accomplish this feat is something altogether more spectacular. It is so easy for developers or directors to simply present us with a complete product, something which we find no need to engage with at a deeper level, because we are given their vision, and no means with which to expand upon it. This is where Fallout 1, and its sequel, differ.
To return to my comparison of the original Fallouts with the original Star Wars films, let me refer to the beginnings of each protagonist in the respective franchises, and why their humble beginnings reinforce the 'magical' atmosphere of the games. Luke Skywalker is a farmboy plucked from total obscurity to save the galaxy, seemingly by chance. The Vault Dweller of Fallout 1 is found in a very similar situation at the start; an everyman/woman picked at random by the Overseer of Vault 13 to venture out into the wasteland and find a replacement water chip for his now debilitated home. The player begins life as the Chosen One of Fallout 2 in a likewise position, to an extent, although he/she has the almost god-like status of being Arroyo's saviour after being 'chosen' in the Temple of Trials, in the game's opening salvo. However, the Chosen One is still thrust from mundanity into adventure. In the video game medium, it is important that the player feels connected to the character, much like the viewer does to Luke in Star Wars. Both iconic series achieve this by positioning their heroes in the same place as their heroes; not only are they naive outsiders to the world that they embark on discovering, but they also have countless questions, the same as the player does, about their surrounding world. 'Where can I find a water chip?', asks the Vault Dweller to a small-town security guard, whilst the player's eyes dart of his uniform, the local shops, the damaged roads. 'Where can I find a GECK?', asks the Chosen One, to a local town crier, before being racially abused for his 'tribal' ways, as the player is already considering what other racial rifts may be prominent in the society that they have been presented with. '[R2] mentioned something about Obi-Wan... I wonder if he meant Old Ben?' asks Luke Skywalker, as the viewer intently watches for the reactions of Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru, hoping for clues to R2's quest, and how Luke is tied into everything. Much like its use in Star Wars, the provocation of curiosity from the player in the original Fallouts serves the same purpose; to build worlds, and to inspire use of imagination.
In turn, this creates an organic, sprawling in-game universe, one that is consistently built upon, right up until - and even after - the Vault Dweller encounters The Master for the last time. By coaxing the player into actively participating in the creation of their Wasteland, Tim Fargo and his team spawned millions of unique universes, none of which were or will be totally alike. Each player has something to treasure, to remember. This is why defenders of the original series may seem so entrenched in what some mislabel as 'nostalgia'. They are not nostalgic, they are just so staunchly defensive of something that is theirs, and only theirs, that it becomes impossible to trade it in for someone else's vision, which is what Bethesda attempted to do in 2007, and in 2015.
My immediate response to the argument that 'Original Fallout players are just nostalgic, and can't move on from the past' would be 'yes'. We are blinded by nostalgia. Or, at least, I would admit to calling my feelings for Fallout 1 and 2 'nostalgic'. However, I finished Fallout 2 5 months ago, and Fallout 1 only 3 months before that. That is not long enough to develop truly nostalgic feelings, let alone about games that were released just after I was born. We seem nostalgic and perhaps blind to the arguments of detractors regarding the superiority of the originals not because we are wrapped up in a warm blanket of happy memories and the safety of the past, but because Bethesda's attempts at Fallout worldbuilding have totally failed the player, in the same way that Fallout 1 and 2 resolutely succeeded. In the lo-fi, isometrically presented desert sands of post-apocalypse California, any player can create their own Wasteland. The characters might have the same names, but in the mind of every person to have played the original Fallouts, you will find different interpretations and visions of every environment, every NPC, every possible thought process one could take, to decide how they would carve their legacy into Tim Fargo's marvellous post-apocalyptic fantasy. Just like we all have our own version of Luke Skywalker dearest to our hearts, so do we have unique Vault Dwellers and Chosen Ones. That is truly magical.
And if magic doesn't elicit the same emotions as nostalgia, then, what does?
