It provides a useful overview of the battle but no effective way of issuing orders: On the upside, it's possible to take direct control of any ship in the fleet at any time, which opens up more advanced tactics, like sending a wingman to intercept a distant or fleeing target, then taking direct control of him once he's close.
And if you do, this probably isn't the game for you. Completing primary missions earns nothing but a pass to the next job—it's the bare minimum you can do in service to your Emperor, after all, and there ain't no participation medals in this gig—so if you want a better ship and trust me, you do , you're going to have to be hot on the stick. You either get it right, or you do it again.
Completed missions can be replayed at any time, at higher or lower difficulties or to complete missed objectives, and in fact House of the Dying Sun encourages it. They've had years to prepare. All of this is tied together with an impressive attention to detail. Maneuvering jets are visible out of the cockpit, as are intermittent flashes of sparks when your ship gets beat up.
Primary weapons sound heavy and muffled when fired—again, very Battlestar-like—and the radio chatter has a wonderful sheen of believability: The action is hot, but you and your fellow pilots are pros, calm and cool under fire.
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I really liked this about the original Homeworld, too. It all makes me wish it was possible to slow things down somehow, or that there was some kind of free-flight mode, so I could do some capital ship fly-bys, check out a few fighter formations, and just drink in the simple, stunning starscapes.
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I know this isn't Dear Esther in space, but there's so much to see, and no time to see it. The learning curve is potentially an issue, and I wouldn't be surprised if fairly significant balance changes are made between now and release.
A space shooter that drops the simulation in favor of challenging, intense action.
Early missions are relatively simple to complete even at the highest difficulty, but around the middle of the game, it starts getting tough. Enemies become more plentiful and dangerous, and mission complexity goes up as well: Instead of just wasting some guys, you're wasting guys, scanning freighters, disabling a ship, holding off the enemy until its occupant is captured—all while facing steady waves of reinforcements. It's possible that dulled reflexes and fading eyesight mean I just can't manage the milieu like I did back in the day, but I think it's also fair to say that House of the Dying Sun maybe doesn't do quite as good a job as it could differentiating primary and second targets from the hordes of enemy shmoes who are dangerous but not necessarily vital to the mission.
On one job, I spent precious seconds chasing and destroying a group of ships that had split off from the main formation, only to realize after they were reduced to cosmic vapors that I was not supposed to blow them up, but to scan them. It scented of dust and history, and sex. It seemed scared and aware, his eyes moved away from the eye of the camera.
Father returned with this girl of say, sixteen, brown shiny skin, big white eyes, an impressive nose and an accent.
As A Dying Sun
She walked like she had batteries tucked somewhere in her. Her every word careful and calculated. I wanted to resent her for his but I remembered Eloho, Eloho who dared teach me how to shave the hair around my penis and in my armpit. Eloho who dared to tell me that she met you, once in the last months of her life. Eloho had said this so mechanically as if you had an illness that was sure to lead to death. Yet, something called out to me. I found your picture on a Sunday evening. Father had gone out to a drink with a musician client whom he managed.
You existed beneath a picture frame, rich black skin, your lonely eyes, deep with affection and nothingness. I could tell that this smile was sad. In the minutes I held you in my hands, I felt empty and drowning. Resolving to paint you into my idea of a mother, I left the room. The day Patty fell sick, I was about completing the drawing.
In the drawing, you were in a bar, with Father and I, and we drank from a single bottle. This was the perfect scene.
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Not the idea of a crazy person who talked to animals, who scared her husband enough to make him not want to tell their son anything about her. Getting out of his car to help a stranger push his, helping the choir mistress get a record deal, giving alms to the beggar along the bend of the street, ironing my shirt before I woke up.
Yet, Patty was never a recipient of these benevolences. In my arms, her breathing was strange, hurried and slow. Give her warm milk, Father had said.