tisdag 27 februari 2007
lördag 24 februari 2007
lördag 17 februari 2007
fredag 16 februari 2007
Nu ska man väl kanske inte bara bli så upphetsad av att spela spel, men eftersom jag gillar spel som har lite mer djup och som "kräver" sammarbete gillar jag Armed Assault, "ArmA".
Det här är ett citat från en review:
Battles are usually fought at long-range, with your nearest target often little more than a dot on the horizon. This is something that will no doubt bore frag-loving Counter- Strike nuts to within an inch of their lives, but will delight hardcore combat aficionados more than a weekend spent in a muddy ditch with only an assault rifle and a box of trench rations for company. And if realism is your thing, you're going to absolutely go mad over the unforgiving damage system that'll have you reaching for the reload key after just a couple of close encounters with enemy lead. And that's on the easier of the two difficulty settings...
från Computer and Videogames site
Själv har jag testat demot, och jag tycker att det ger mer än BF 2 t ex.Synd bara att det inte är lika massivt som WWII Online, men det kan väl inte förvänta sig när det är den skala som det är.
Grafiken är grym och ger mersmak, spelsättet är för mig mycket tilltalande och känns mycket realistiskt.
Och det här är vad dom skriver på Eurogamer:
7.30AM. A secluded clearing a few clicks inland of South Sahrani's coastal highway. A man heavily laden with weaponry moves from the zebra-stripe shadows of the spruce forest to a beat-up pick-up truck parked in the centre of the clearing. He gets in and drives away.
7.37AM. The truck sits abandoned in the middle of the highway. The driver is a hundred yards down the road crouched on the verge fiddling with a small canvas satchel. As the rumble and squeak of approaching traffic grows louder he finishes his work and jogs up a nearby hill towards a small stand of pines.
7.40AM. For the man under the pine trees the world is now ten yards of tarmac framed by the steel circle of an M136 AT weapon sight. Grass waves languidly in the lower half of the circle. For a few moments a turquoise dragonfly hovers in the centre. As the nimble insect departs the squat sluggish mass of a BMP-2 infantry fighting vehicle takes its place.
7.41AM. Hungry flames, swirling smoke, unseen death. The BMP-2 burns merrily on the melting blacktop. When the pair of lorries behind it lurch to a stop, the man sets-off the satchel charges. KA. BOOM.
7.45AM. Troops from the third lorry are working their way up the hill towards the pines. The man tracks one through the green-tinted scope of his M4 Aimpoint assault rifle and fells him with him two shots to the chest. A crouching machinegunner gets three rounds.
7.53AM. The crackle of small-arms fire has died away and the hum of the insects and the glitter of birdsong has returned. The man walks down the hill, surveying the grim carnage as he goes. He takes a Dragunov sniper rifle from the bloody hands of one corpse and examines it. He's still holding the weapon when the sound of an approaching reconnaissance jeep reaches his ears. 'Handy,' thinks the man.
8.12AM. With the aid of the requisitioned ride the man reaches the rendezvous point in good time. Before the Black Hawk arrives to carry him off to the land of soft mattresses, hot showers, and cold beers he has time to read four pages of All Quiet On The Western Front and pick a glossy yellow buttercup for his lapel.