Games With Grey

Continuing the trend defining The Lost and Damned and the base GTA IV, The Ballad of Gay Tony is fascinated with place, its evocation. Atmosphere and immersion are palpable, and Liberty City remains a monumental achievement in world design, brimming with believability and clever, astute attention to detail; the game world is transportive indeed, placing the player in a highly creative space, one bearing clear external influences – see dazzling New York City – though one which executes many calculated departures from reality; Liberty City is not a replication of NYC, but is instead an interpretation. The level designers at Rockstar, being interpreters rather than simple adapters, thus occupy an empowered position; unburdened by the constraints which inevitably exist when forced to recreate, on a 1:1 scale, an actual location, they wield their empowerment deftly and effectively, all for the audience’s benefit. Reflecting their growth and consequent insight, The Ballad of Gay Tony again embraces the hyperfocusedness which saw dramatic emphasis in the earlier Lost and Damned. Much of that expansion’s narrative transpired in the fictional State of Alderney, deriving heavy inspiration from New Jersey. The area itself still excels creatively – Rockstar are visionaries – but environmentally and artistically, Alderney does not neatly conform to my perceptions of New York City itself. David, the narrator in James Baldwin’s Giovanni’s Room, said something to the effect of, “for me New York City is Manhattan.” I feel the same. I realize the city is a collection of boroughs, each with their own distinct perceptions and identities, but Manhattan exists as the cultural anchor, enchanting with its architecture and with its indefinable grandeur. Reflecting this, I was bound to delight in The Ballad of Gay Tony, for much of its narrative unravels in the borough of Algonquin, Rockstar’s direct interpretation of Manhattan.

And Algonquin truly is a sight to behold, boasting an abundance of towering skyscrapers, extending upwards towards the heavens, a reminder of humankind’s ingeniousness and aptitude for creation and innovation. Humans themselves will die and wither, many leaving behind no real contributions. But these buildings, these achievements, will endure, their majesticness only supplemented by additional displays of majesticness in an unending sequence of growth. Cityscapes broadly are loci of progress, and Liberty City – Algonquin – is no different. But progress does not equate to purity, and The Ballad of Gay Tony fixates on this fact. The narrative’s central characters may drive exotic and expensive cars, may reside in a penthouse rather than a hovel, though access to lavishness corrupts just as unending hardships corrupt, distort, and demoralize. And so the player character, Luis Lopez, follows in Niko Bellic and Johnny Klebitz’s footsteps, repeatedly committing criminal acts – though of a far greater magnitude. For this expansion fixates on excess, on the day to day actions of a thug at heart situated in a fortunate position completely unattainable to most other thugs, no matter their persistence or skill sets. Oftentimes, financial stability and a more fulfilling existence require luck. Luis Lopez is a lucky individual – and a cursed one.

For Luis’s overall fate is intimately connected to the titular Gay Tony, an entrepreneur of sorts who owns and operates two nightclubs in Algonquin, one primarily catering to a straight clientele, the other largely intended for gay men, a not insignificant fact. This bar’s very existence illustrates the progress defining the 21st century, the openness and relative inclusiveness of metropolises like New York City, a place which clashes culturally with isolated, rural America. But this inclusiveness is far from all encompassing. Tony Prince’s homosexuality is repeatedly mentioned in the narrative, almost always in a derogatory fashion, illuminating bigotry’s perseverance. This bigotry directly informs how almost all secondary characters perceive Luis himself. Close minded, figures like the obnoxious Mori Kibbutz and the villainous Ray Bulgarin assume that, because Luis associates with Tony and ever acts on his behalf, Luis himself must be homosexual – and in their conception lesser. I commend Rockstar for tackling homosexuality in the narrative and so prominently featuring a gay character in Tony Prince. Indeed, he anchors the narrative, and possesses a surprising degree of complexity, a complexity which not only engrossed me but also left me curious. How could Tony Prince, this great man who in his own words “ran the 1980’s and was the 1990’s,” have fallen so far? And he has fallen far, being in debt all over town, being prone to club mismanagement, being susceptible to general erraticness. Erraticness is a character flaw – one Tony clearly suppressed or overcame on his path to success and influence – and so clearly Gay Tony is a flawed character. Characters with failings are inherently believable characters, for they are relatable characters, all humans possessing failings to some extent. I can’t personally understand Tony’s erraticness, but my hyper awareness of his humanity only made me want to help him all the more. 

And he desperately needs help, his recent behavior suggesting an incompetence which his earlier achievements would seemingly discount. If he were stupid and unambitious by nature, he never would have left behind Dukes and forged a miniature empire of sorts. This incompetence, then, stems largely from external influences – namely, a recurrence of personal drug abuse and the near constant presence of fellow drug abusers, whose destructive behavior and actions prompt Tony’s own behavior and judgment processes to spiral downwards. Luis Lopez acts as the voice of reason, respectful of Tony and grateful to him, though still clinging to assertiveness, unafraid of exercising harshness where it is needed, realizing that sternness sometimes has its advantages. The Luis Lopez / Tony Prince relationship is easily the narrative’s finest achievement, both characters featuring rather robust characterizations. Luis himself is subject to prejudice, owing to his Dominican heritage, one which attracts ire and dismissal just as Tony’s homosexuality won him oppression. The pair, then, are united in their minority status, and this shared existence offers each insight into the other’s existence. A Hispanic man will not face the same sufferings that a gay man will face, certainly, though both individuals will endure pains the standard white heterosexual male cannot fathom. 

Rockstar spent ample time developing Luis’s backstory and Dominican status, featuring his mother in a number of early cutscenes, and including a pair of childhood companions, Armando and Henrique, as fixtures in the narrative. Regarding Luis’s mother, I was reminded of Tony Montana’s relationship with his own mother in Scarface. In both of these works, the sons strive to supply the mother with wealth, to extend their monetary successes as a way of repayment for the sacrifices all mothers must inevitably make. Differences exist, however. Tony Montana’s mother stubbornly refuses her son’s assistance, seeing his money as inherently dirty, obtained through crudely orchestrated murders, the selling of cocaine. But Luis’s mother happily clutches at the wad of dollar bills her son regularly extends to her – though consistently chastising him for his dark deeds, his lifestyle and the way he supports himself. Such chastisement is understandable – it is the mother’s role to direct the child, even when fully grown. But the willingness with which she takes the money, despite its dirtiness, illustrates the poverty of her own existence, the natural desire for better affairs, a desire only amplified in a highly capitalistic society like Liberty City.  

This desire, this pervasive impulse, naturally extends to Armando and Henrique, who lack the guiding influence of a benefactor like Gay Tony. Given this lack, they still primarily rely upon drug deals for their livelihood, engaging in petty crimes, pushing this product and that. By their own admission, the pair are incompetent and ill-equipped for any other work, Henrique especially. Indeed, his stupidity becomes a joke for the writers, excessively so; it becomes his defining attribute, essentially his only attribute. Armando isn’t much better, essentially being devoid of a personality. Still, their presence is vital, in that it develops Luis as a character. Many individuals upon achieving success and stability would shun past poverty, the persons associated with said poverty. These shallow individuals would ignore Armando and Henrique, everything that they represent. Luis does not ignore them, but regularly engages with them, almost as though he were proud of his past, realizing that Armando and Henrique made him him. Rockstar uses the pair as tools, illustrating the rift between high society and low society, and how some persons – like Luis Lopez – do not let affluence distort their principles. Armando repeatedly reminds Luis of his humble roots – oftentimes in a very indelicate fashion. In their discourse, the former essentially calls the latter a poser, an insult perhaps stemming from misplaced if understandable jealousy. Luis is a gangster at heart, Armando feels, and a certain type of gangster, one defined by simplicity. For Armando, in associating with Gay Tony, Luis is losing part of his identity and morphing into something foreign and incomprehensible, not realizing malleability and adaptability are two of humankind’s greatest advantages. 

Luis Lopez exercises this adaptability, honed no doubt by a lengthy prison sentence served before the narrative’s opening, with great regularity in The Ballad. And yet, the narrative seems to stall for hours on end, embracing tangent after tangent, superfluous character after superfluous character, again reflecting Rockstar’s fascination with place and the people who inhabit that place, a fascination which cripples the narrative just as it enriches the world and the world building. And so the narrative emphasizes characters completely ancillary to the core narrative, to Tony Prince himself (whose own story is frequently and tragically rather directionless, only finding purpose in the narrative’s latter portions). See most obviously Yusuf Amir and Mori Kibbutz, brother to cowardly Brucie Kibbutz, who returns from the base game. Yusuf is a stereotype, being the prototypical wealthy Arabic who devours American popular culture and bases his perceptions of the diverse land entirely on that consumed media. He sees Liberty City and its people not as they truly are, but as the television and music he consumed in his native country presented them to be. Even while living amongst these people, Yusuf’s distorted perceptions undergo not an eradication but a reinforcement. A clear disconnect exists, and he regularly wields the N-word in his exchanges with Luis. Rockstar, talented writers, are clever here, and Yusuf’s usage of the word belies no malice but instead illustrates the disconnect which defines him. But Yusuf is ridiculously wealthy, coming from a prestigious Middle Eastern family with aims for expansion in Liberty City. Ridiculous wealth, its accompanying advantages, is ever dangerous and distorting. This danger is only exacerbated when paired with obliviousness and stunted worldliness, both existing in abundance for Yusuf. He accordingly finds himself in many bizarre and bombastic situations, and he relies upon Luis in those situations.  

Yusuf’s missions illustrate the marked rift separating The Ballad of Gay Tony from The Lost and Damned and Niko’s narrative in IV. Rather than cruising about the dreary Alderney streets on a heavily customized chopper, flanked by fellow bikers belonging to the Lost MC, all wielding sawed-off shotguns to gun down rival motorcycle gangs, in working for Yusuf the player will, for instance, control Luis as he speedboats out to an isolated yacht with the intention of stealing an armored chopper sequestered on said yacht. But the object’s acquisition alone is not enough: the player must also use the helicopter’s ample armaments to destroy the yacht and all those partying aboard it. This is not a senseless slaughter, fortunately, as the revelers were human traffickers, terrible individuals who attained exorbitant wealth by committing the most reprehensible deeds. A clear point must be made, however. Yusuf Amir is not some moralizer, did not target the yacht and the chopper specifically because he wished to silence these traffickers and disrupt their trade; the theft did not have altruistic motivations, even if society indirectly benefited from Luis’s actions. Instead, Yusuf simply desired the armored chopper because it was an armored chopper, something coveted, something valorized in his television shows. Yusuf has developed an inflated notion of the vehicle and everything it represents. Tellingly, Yusuf wishes to give the chopper as a gift to his taciturn father, wrongly believing that a material object (admittedly a very costly and impressive one) can win a father’s affections easier than personal diligence and sincerity.  

But Yusuf is a likable fellow, and the writers exploit his othered status to show how outsiders perceive America and how vast American cultural institutions truly are. Like Roman Bellic, his writing and disposition straddle the line between endearing and obnoxious, but ultimately his endearing attributes triumph. Yusuf’s presence, even if it feels like a giant, protracted deviation from Tony’s story, is ever welcome, and his missions only escalate in their bombasticness, as his desires intensify. And so in one mission, Luis will steal a tank of sorts, one being transported by helicopter. Here, the player must first wield a sophisticated sniper rifle (one of the newly added weapons) to shoot the four hinges supporting the tank, while Yusuf himself pilots a helicopter, doing his best to provide a stable platform for Luis’s shots. Once this act is completed, the player will control Luis as he leaps from the helicopter, skydives, then deploys the parachute (another new addition) to achieve safe landing. Feet securely planted on the Liberty City asphalt, Luis enters the tank and proceeds to go on a rampage, using the attached weaponry to eviscerate pursuing police and NOOSE forces, determined to maintain possession of their hardware. And rightfully so: the tank is not indestructible, but its endurance is considerable, and wielding its bulk and its lethality is a true power fantasy totally absent in the base game and in the earlier expansion. It is an intense and exciting mission, one which is like the antithesis to the groundedness defining Niko’s story, Johnny’s story. Here, Rockstar went in a different direction, and this tonal shift is commendable.

Tonal shifts, while vital, are frequently alienating; it is sometimes dangerous to subvert audience expectation. Realizing this, Rockstar incorporates characters and narrative threads present in the earlier two installments transpiring in this version of Liberty City, a unifier in the fullest sense. Frustratingly, despite Gay Tony’s compelling characterization and the promise it conjures, his narrative goes nowhere until that incorporation occurs. Rockstar rests in a perilous position – missions like intimidating a harassing celebrity blogger are integral to The Ballad’s identity, absolutely, and the omission of such content would hamper the game’s uniqueness, even as it would benefit its cohesion and direction. For better or worse, the writers do pursue uniqueness – hence the blogger’s inclusion. The actions of the Celebrinator (as he proudly calls himself) suggest the constant and oftentimes undue scrutiny placed upon Tony, suggest that attaining renown causes considerable personal and societal complications in addition to advantages, but it is difficult to care about this manifestation of Tony’s struggle or the commentary the writers strove to advance, even as Luis intimidates the scum by throwing him from a helicopter, allowing him to fall for a fair distance, before clutching at him and saving him with a deployed parachute. For this subplot evokes no real pathos or emotional heft, a problem which persists throughout the narrative’s entirety. I cared for Tony, wished his affairs would stabilize and that he would also achieve stability and a lasting happiness, but I never felt rousing emotion, neither sadness nor hatred, whereas both sensations were stimulated in the earlier two installments. Consider Ashley and her relationship to Johnny in The Lost and Damned. A desperate junkie, she exploits Johnny repeatedly, and while he clearly desires distance and makes overtures to actually achieve it, given their personalities and the nature of their existences, it is clear that, no matter his exertions, she will continue to exploit him and he will continue to endure it, the very definition of tragedy. I felt an almost constant sadness while controlling Johnny, and that is a true achievement, even if sadness is an unpleasant emotion. Similarly, I empathized with Niko, felt the rage he felt as I learned of the barbarities his enemies in Europe committed before their arrival in Liberty City. I felt new rage as he was subject to exploitation and betrayal, the victim of a cruel world. I certainly felt no sadness in The Ballad of Gay Tony, and the rage felt was of diminished intensity, even as Rockstar included a clearly defined villain – Ray Bulgarin – in addition to the abstract villain, capitalism.

While Ray Bulgarin’s emergence supplies the narrative with focus, his emergence is far too delayed. Most narratives benefit from antagonists introduced early on, and developed frequently. The Ballad of Gay Tony does not follow this logic, and the narrative suffers in consequence. In its opening portions, in Ray Bulgarin’s initial absence, no clear antagonist or figurehead exists. If any enemy is present, it is Gay Tony himself. Or, more accurately, certain facets of his personality and the decisions those attributes lead him to make; unintentional self-sabotage is frequent. Consider the narrative thread which revolves around the diamond trade, a thread which becomes integral to Tony’s tale, deftly used to weave together the lives of Luis, Niko, and Johnny. Obtaining a prized set of diamonds becomes Gay Tony’s guiding motivation. If the collection of precious stones, valued at 2 million dollars, can be obtained and then promptly sold, seemingly all problems will dissolve. Sufficient capital will be on hand to resolve the cash crunch. While the transaction is disastrous from the start, owing to Luis’s efforts eventually he and Tony obtain the stones. But with the pervasive self-sabotage, Tony exchanges the stones – and a more secure future – for one Gracie, kidnapped by Niko and his Irish companion Packie. Tony’s decision suggests that, in many ways, he is guided by his heart rather than his mind. The decision made me love him all the more. But it only worsens his fate and exacerbates Ray Bulgarin’s rage, as he feels the diamonds were rightfully his. In immersing himself in this diamond deal – and associating with Ray Bulgarin – Gay Tony essentially dooms himself. The promise of profit and a way out of present turmoil is certainly reassuring – and the diamonds represent that way out – but Tony is blinded by his desperation. Ray Bulgarin exploits Tony’s repeated lapses in judgment, his increasing dependence on drugs, and Luis knows Bulgarin’s death is the only way out. Tony must ultimately help himself, conquer his demons, but he would never be afforded the chance to wage this warfare as long as Bulgarin continued to breathe, to seethe and feel cheated.  

Bulgarin and his characterization are oddities. On the one hand, he shows his wickedness, his sadistic nature. Frustration having reached its zenith, in his act of betrayal he leads Luis to the severed head of a diamond smuggler, one who participated in the earlier sale and theft of the coveted stones. Clearly Bulgarin is a dangerous man. On the other hand, his words and exchanges with Luis – the pair work together for a time, Luis acting autonomously and covertly for once, believing the transactions beneficial to Tony in the end – are almost comedic and diminish his threatening nature. The most frightful of villains inspire unquestioned terror or revulsion within the player. Ray Bulgarin does not prompt either of these emotions, and in exaggerating his spectacle and his characterization, Rockstar actually undercut his villainy. Still: the severed head incident and the attacks upon Luis’s life reinforce notions of his madness. Acting on the insight, now fully cemented, that Ray Bulgarin must die – and immediately – the narrative concludes in a masterful fashion, continuing the trend of bombasticness seen all throughout The Ballad, as Luis eventually executes Ray aboard his own private airplane, the coward seeking to flee Liberty City, determined to orchestrate further attacks on Luis and Tony no doubt, though from the total safety of a distant land. Getting to the plane is an ordeal of itself, though the way forward is smoothed with Yusuf’s surprise assistance, the good-natured fellow emerging to show his loyalty and appreciation for Luis. And so Yusuf sweeps downwards from the skies in his armored chopper, firing its rockets and its miniguns at Bulgarin’s henchmen as Luis advances forward, finally reaching the plane. It is a very cinematic moment, one which is immediately eclipsed by the grandeur of the execution proper, and then the spectacle which succeeds that – Luis leaps from the plane, falling, falling, before pulling his chute and arriving to converse with and reassure Tony, who seems determined to steady the ship, invigorated by Luis’s actions and everything they represent – total loyalty, Luis’s sincere affection for the man. The overwhelming optimism is striking, and again illustrates Rockstar’s fierce desire to instill in the expansion its own distinct identity. 

This is an expansion, however, and not an entirely new game, meaning The Ballad inherits the (fortunately sound and engaging) core gameplay mechanics underpinning GTA IV.  Expectantly, then, Luis’s tale is overflowing with supplements rather than total innovations. Overhauls are absent, and in this regard the expansion is somewhat less ambitious than The Lost and Damned, which sought to refine the motorbike and motorcycle handling, making that subset of vehicles far more forgiving to control, logical and necessary when considering the vast majority of the narrative transpires aboard a bike, members of the Lost MC crowded about Johnny in an orderly formation indicative of the group’s discipline and their respect for motorcycles and the motorcycle culture. While no such substantial changes to the driving are featured, in The Ballad, the player can take full advantage of the complex and unique driving mechanics already thriving in GTA IV, as Luis has ready access to the fastest and most maneuverable vehicles immediately. I spent almost the narrative’s entirety in a sports or performance car, vehicles which amplify the game’s overall enjoyability and more exhilarating attributes. GTA IV’s earlier portions, largely revolving around poverty and Niko Bellic’s initial grappling with life in Liberty City and Roman’s overinflated image of his own life there, contribute greatly to tone and to narrative, but from a sheer gameplay perspective the true joys attached to the driving are barred there, as the player can only access rundown vehicles or vehicles which favor absolute practicality and thrift at the expense of speed and performance. Questions of progression necessarily arise here. Niko’s journey reflects the American dream, as rundown vehicles are begrudgingly accepted, accepted as a temporary stopgap on the way to better vehicles and a better existence. In Niko’s narrative, better vehicles are indeed obtained in time, and something approaching happiness is also obtained in time. Luis’s tale, conversely, begins with these successes and luxuries, making gameplay – driving in particular – enjoyable from the start. 

This instantaneous access to the fine life has the potential to diminish the excitement accompanying a new object acquisition. Sports cars are desirable objects indeed, but their desirability decreases somewhat when their usage becomes normalized. In this regard, the magic felt when leaving behind Roman’s taxicab for, say, the Infernus vehicle is absent in The Ballad of Gay Tony. Rockstar could have replicated Niko’s journey in miniature, choosing to emphasize a Luis newly released from prison, newly hired by Tony Prince, striving for a better life, but to do so would be to compromise their vision, their desire to capture decadence, a decadence present in places like New York City, their great inspiration, even if experienced only by the minority. In efforts to fulfill this vision, they seize those magical sensations by going bigger and bigger – see the inclusion of Yusuf, their method of introducing bombasticness. See also the parachute, a very compelling – magical – inclusion, one which opens up considerable opportunities in exploration while contributing to the game’s exaggerated tone. Its implementation is handled expertly. Rockstar could have used the parachute in a halfhearted fashion, featuring it in a mission or two and primarily relegating its presence and usage to optional activities. These optional activities certainly have their place: fifteen distinct base jumping challenges are completable, some seeing Luis leap from a helicopter, parachute through checkpoints and land on an objective marker, while others merely involve landing on a checkpoint, some stationary, others mobile. But parachutes and skydiving are integrated into the narrative, too, becoming a vital gameplay mechanic rather than a simple, lazy afterthought, something included so that The Ballad could satisfy the demands placed upon expansions. The final mission’s culmination illustrates this centrality, and the staggering height Ray Bulgarin’s plane was flying at allows ample contemplation as Luis cuts downward through the skies, first totally unaided, then supported by that game-altering parachute. Fitting, energetic popular music plays – magic, so often coveted, is found. But tellingly, this magic is not totally connected to triumph over dangerous and violent Ray Bulgarin, but more so to the situation’s overall audacity, an audacity which the game courts at every turn, realizing that in audacity comes uniqueness, a splintering away from Grand Theft Auto IV – and to an even greater extent the oppressively bleak The Lost and Damned. In audacity comes identity.  

Ever animated by this knowledge, the developers not only placed Luis in audacious situations, but provided him with weapons which enable success in dramatically adversarial conditions. One such tool are sticky bombs, which not only stick to surfaces, but which also feature remote detonation; their explosion is determined by a simple button press, empowering the player greatly. This empowerment is particularly felt in the driving sequences, and the sticky bombs are a perfect complement to the vehicular combat, heavily emphasized. In the base game and in The Lost and Damned, the player is not helpless in vehicles, capable of shooting handguns and submachine guns, or dropping grenades or, in Johnny’s case, pipe bombs, improvised devices indicative of his rough lifestyle. But exploiting these explosives’ true potentialities while driving is difficult, as the player must consider the timing of detonation, while simultaneously maneuvering the vehicle, manipulating the camera, and so on. Combat while driving is an inherently taxing endeavor, no matter the intuitiveness. The sticky bombs, with their manual detonation, greatly amplify this intuitiveness, increasing enjoyability and fueling the player’s power fantasy. Guns like an LMG with a 200 round magazine serve a similar role. This weapon’s lethality is a clear indicator of why automatic weapons are so reviled, and why opposition exists as to the civilian ownership of automatic guns. Here, Luis can gun down countless foes, spewing bullets at a blindingly fast rate, placing very little concern upon reloads; the magazine feels unending, especially when compared to the guns that Niko or Johnny employ, even in the late state stages of their respective narratives. An automatic shotgun with a twenty round box magazine, however, is arguably the most devastating new weapon of all, capable of eviscerating opposition. In addition to firing traditional shells, explosive shells are also purchasable, objects which transform the gun into an efficient vehicle destroyer. This one gun, when paired with these explosive shells, directly enables the developers to throw helicopter after helicopter after the player in set piece missions, whereas its absence would signal player frustration and hinder Rockstar. Wisely realizing that as stakes escalate players must have tools to counter that escalation, they throw all of these new objects at the player – and at a swift rate. Objects like the automatic shotgun are not confined to the end game, meaning the player can experiment with them – and delight in them – for numerous riveting hours. In The Ballad of Gay Tony, gameplay excitement comes early and never diminishes. Conversely, in the base game it can be countless hours of playtime before true gameplay energy emerges, and even when it does it is of a weaker intensity than that seen here; gameplay is the expansion’s truest success. 

This is a Grand Theft Auto game, meaning optional side content ever has its place, much of which conforms to the game’s intense tone. The parachute is exploited in multiple ways. The base jumping missions have been mentioned, but the parachute is also used in a sequence of triathlon races, which commence with a helicopter leap, then involve parachuting onto a boat, before concluding in a luxury sports car, as Luis races against other adrenaline junkies. These missions, while involved and enjoyable, are mere diversions, and never really gripped me in a profound fashion. The rewards for their successful completion are rather paltry sums of cash, and I mostly avoided them outside of some basic experimentation. Beyond these triathlons, other activities are included, all of which serve to immerse the player within Luis’s world. Reflecting this, the player can visit an indoor driving range, playing a simplified version of golf, generally considered a more elevated sport, one clashing with the brute physicality of games like football or basketball, demanding exercises of strength and athleticism. Also, Luis can manage Tony’s clubs, a simplistic activity which involves patrolling the premises, keeping an alert eye for disturbances, and intervening if and when said disturbances transpire. Unexciting from a gameplay perspective, this activity’s inclusion furthers the narrative. For Luis was likely confined to such a role almost entirely at one point, before becoming Tony’s confidant, companion, and fixer; his ascension to this presently-occupied role was certainly gradual. Filling this position, satisfying Tony’s capricious whims, brings its consequent stresses of course, and the inclusion of dancing minigames suggest that dancing and graceful motion are one means for Luis to expel those daily stresses. Luis can also release this stress – and potentially earn money and something approaching prestige – by competing in cage fighting matches, essentially hand-to-hand combat encounters. As these encounters progress, difficulty expectantly escalates, with some enemies advancing into the ring armed with knives or baseball bats, becoming tangible threats. Victory is elusive, and the rather clunky melee controls dissuaded me from investing considerable time in this mode. Rarely dramatically meaningful, these activities instead serve a world-building function, with the base jumping and triathlon missions reestablishing for the player Luis’s elevation relative to Johnny or Niko, the brutishness of the cage fighting illustrating their enduring links. 

But the included drug wars represent the most robust optional content. Randomized to an extent, these missions, undertaken with and orchestrated by Armando and Henrique, have various permutations, some involving vehicle acquisition, others illicit substance acquisition, still others involving the disruption of an ongoing drug deal between two rival factions, their own business successes seemingly interfering with the drug empire that Armando and Henrique aspire towards. If nothing else, these missions serve as an opportunity for experimentation, providing the player with chances to exploit the plethora of new guns and accompanying tactics which the expansion introduces. The rewards are substantial, both immediate and long term. On the immediate level, the player receives a sum of money, a not insignificant amount. More broadly, the player is working towards larger rewards – namely guns. When a predetermined number of drug wars are completed, a new weapon spawns in Luis’s apartment in far northern Algonquin, which can be collected whenever the space is visited. These guns can be obtained through an alternative channel – Armando sells an infinite quantity of them directly from his vehicle, and he can be called at any time – meaning drug war completion is not connected to these weapons’ accessibility. Still: this decision makes their attainment far more streamlined, and this weapon spawning is a practical reward, complementing the intrinsic reward accompanying success in a particularly grueling war and the personal satisfaction felt alongside the knowledge that Luis is bettering Armando and Henrique, asserting his loyalty to them. The pair essentially vanish from the core narrative after the opening hours, and while Armando will periodically call the player and arrange an outing, these missions are the primary means of their character development, as they discourse with Luis on the way to the job, and while retreating away with the stolen vehicle or substances. But their dialogue here is very limited and thus prone to repetition; after maybe fifteen or so drug wars, their lines have all but been exhausted.  

The Ballad of Gay Tony’s masterful tonal deviations were certainly a risk for Rockstar North, and I commend them for departing from the unflinching bleakness existing in GTA IV and dominating in The Lost and Damned. Here, bleakness is totally absent – though maturity is not. This is still very complex content, content which raises many vital questions about expansions broadly, their place in the industry, and about the challenges well-established developers face. In breaking from their earlier bleakness, Rockstar did exercise boldness. This is unquestionable. But this boldness is not as intense as might appear. For The Ballad of Gay Tony does not represent something entirely new, does not represent some grand experiment or innovation, but instead represents a return to roots. In many ways, the expansion hearkens back to San Andreas, which featured such exaggerated elements as a jetpack and emphasized character like The Truth, a conspiracy theorist and all-around bizarre figure, embodiment of Rockstar’s comedic aspirations. In The Ballad, they do temper that audaciousness somewhat, showing the commitment to realism present in the base game, though still they are simply revisiting and revising. This is inevitable. As a developer grows more and more popular, as they innovate and innovate, experiment and experiment, develop more and more games, they do hone their craft, but originality must reach a ceiling. This is not to suggest that the well of creativity inevitably runs completely dry and that game developers – and by extension all artists – should quit their work once they have completed some arbitrary number of creations. Inexperienced artists can and do create great innovations, benefitting from their inexperience. But mature artists, those who have a mastery of their discipline, often create truly stirring works, intimately informed by their experiences. In The Ballad of Gay Tony, Dan Houser – and in many ways, I consider him the face of Rockstar Games before his departure, as I am a writer first and foremost and value excellent writing and characters, which he routinely produces, though making occasional missteps – shows his maturity. In The Ballad of Gay Tony, Dan Houser shows the wisdom of experience, wisdom he and his team would expand upon further with the Red Dead Redemption games, with masterful protagonists like John Marston and Arthur Morgan. This expansion shows his competence – and the impressive talents of the entire team. Liberty City’s magic has still not been replicated, and the atmosphere and world design represent a true triumph of open world game design. 

Despite this competence, and despite the expansion’s repeated successes and consistently thrilling nature, I will never respect it to the same degree that I respect Grand Theft Auto IV, which not only introduced this spectacular and immersive game world, but which also took considerable risks. There, the developers weren’t returning to something explored elsewhere, as they do here. Instead, Rockstar North were doing something entirely new and entirely innovative, exploring new tones and new ideas, embracing maturity and thoughtfulness on a higher scale. Most importantly, they leveraged the power of new hardware to fulfill their creative vision, much as they did with Red Dead Redemption 2 and are primed to do with Grand Theft Auto VI. The immediate followup, GTA V, is a bit of an anomaly, initially developed for the same hardware as this title, and I have avoided the game out of principle for the longest, feeling Rockstar’s decision to devote resources exclusively towards the online component while neglecting single player DLC reflected abhorrent greed, the incessant chasing of profit. Given how they handled that game, I believe it is safe to say that beautiful content like The Ballad of Gay Tony and everything it represents will not return to the series, a tragic admission, but one which points towards changing industry trends, how promises of profit can corrupt and influence art. Developing content like this takes heart and it takes effort. Embracing the season pass, pushing microtransactions and shark cards, is a comparatively trivial endeavor, but one which can bring massive pecuniary gains. In pursuing wealth, the studio has betrayed its principles. This greed’s existence, which extends far beyond Rockstar, heightens my appreciation for content like Shadow of the Erdtree and Phantom Liberty, impactful and impressive works which show the enduring worth of single player expansions. In this regard, From Software and CD Projekt RED are the true inheritors of The Ballad of Gay Tony’s legacy. While the ship has sailed for Rockstar’s approach to single player DLC, this expansion represents a valuable contribution to the industry, taking a game world already brimming with life and injecting it with further vigor, heart, and sincerity.