Retrospective Review: S.T.A.L.K.E.R. Shadow of Chernobyl
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S.T.A.L.K.E.R. Shadow of Chernobyl is a Ukrainian post-apocalyptic open-world shooter taking place in the Chernobyl nuclear exclusion zone in 2012 following a nonspecific “second” Chernobyl disaster that altered the very fabric of reality in the zone.
I was originally interested in this game following its release due to its rave playerbase following lauding the open-world elements, realism, and style. Unfortunately I never got around to buying a copy, and it seemed the game was in danger of terminal “maybe some day” aspirations. This changed when I won a contest for a free copy via Steam; one can imagine how much I’d be looking forward to playing a very dark and unique shooter.
If I had only known…
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The game starts out with you, the protagonist, being unceremoniously hauled into a shop in the middle of the Zone after falling out of an exploding truck full of corpses and suffering a case of laser-guided amnesia. Herein we meet Sidorovich for the first time, an overweight middle-aged man wolfing down a hunk of chicken with all of the sense of decorum of a starving badger. You’d better start liking him, however, as you’re basically going to be reporting back to him every five minutes for the first part of the game, and it seems he’s absolutely the only person in the Zone that was actually born with a personality. So you’d better get used to him bitching at you every time you accidentally open the trade window with him and don’t actually sell anything.
After a few failingly inspirational words about life in the Zone, Sidorovich hands you a pistol that clearly pre-dates car seatbelts and turns you loose into the Cordon, a “lighter” part of the outer borders of the Zone. The first things you’ll notice is a group of inept gun-wielding Stalkers sleeping anywhere but the houses that they’re camping right next to, and the distant voice of a generally bored/angry Ukrainian military officer talking about how much his job sucks over a loudspeaker. Armed with barely enough ammo for an Amish drive-by, the generic Arc words “Find Strelok. Kill Strelok.”, and some advice to find information by helping a bunch of random Stalkers raid a bandit hideout, you’ll end up, well… getting shot within five minutes, if you somehow manage to avoid walking into the painfully obvious anomalies that’ll rip your skeleton out of your arse, the oddly carnivorous giant boars, or the clearly epileptic packs of neurotic blind dogs running everywhere.
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Once you actually get around to fighting bandits, you’ll find your weapons are about as accurate as the keyboard you’ll undoubtedly be throwing across the room; if you manage to actually hit an enemy at spitting distance with the crap weapons you have and only burn through one magazine in the process, you’ve done very well. This is something that I found to be consistently aggravating, as the game has been praised for its realistic bullet physics. Apparently, reality means that everything about using a gun is impossible, that every bullet has a three-digit minute of arc, and Imperial Storm Troopers would actually be some of the best marksmen in the world. This is even more annoying when you realise that your enemies are managing to cave your head in with a sawn-off shotgun whilst side strafing and firing from the hip when you’re helplessly crouching to aim and praying that your bullets won’t fly off into oblivion.
At one point I found myself desperately attempting to rush enemies with my knife out in a desperate bid to hit
something for once. Aside from making it easier to get blown apart, the knife is somehow even less accurate in its effective range than the damned guns! Somehow your enemies seem to rely on some kind of d20-system reflex check to not get slashed with a knife even though you’re close enough to start counting the
![Fuzzy Bunny](http://runevillage.com/ThePub/images/smiles/bunny.gif)
’s nose hairs.
This is the very first combat situation in the game. It is a hellish, nerve-wracking experience that’ll have you sobbing at the sheer futility of trying to survive.