An “X” Rated Rumble.
Project Cars
Aside from Space invaders, Pacman, Donkey Kong and Asteroids a half decent driving game was one of the earliest dangers to any peanut popper whose casual coinage had eluded the infamous penny falls, though in the technologically charged 2010s, this prolific genre had reached something of a plateau.
The reasons were simple. No matter how forcefully any passionate petrol-head might claim f1 and Nascar to be light years apart, or cite Le Mans as the toughest test of a racer’s craft and courage, every form of track based motorsport is governed by the same basic principals and the demand for authentic simulations places strictures on artists and programmers where designers of RPG’s and prime person pillage fests are encouraged to be radical.
Cars - Dual R9 Fury X Vs. Dual Titan X.
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The Need for Speed and Gran Tourisms franchises yielded a handful of welcome exceptions, though the latter was console bound while both frequently abandoned convention by virtue of sumptuous and entirely fictitious street circuits.
In 1992, Micoprose’s legendary Formula 1 Grand Prix tempted me to pilot a cluster of crude polygons around what could be politely described as a Picasso inspired paraphrase of Silverstone’s sweeping chicanes, but such was the attention to physical realism, technical detail and playability that I and every other armchair qualifier worth their rubber was content to forsake aesthetic appeal and spend the next two decades watching surfaces sprout textures, billboards become legible, windscreens more reflective, grandstands fill up with discernible spectators and pit crews develop working limbs.
Thus it was that virtual racing’s slow and steady evolution habitually favoured refinement over invention and here, some 23 years after Geoff Crammond’s masterpiece, we examine what was claimed to be a flawless fusion of every fundamental that separated a figurative also-ran from a proverbial pole-sitter, say hello to Project Cars.
Though the game possessed no integral facility to assess performance, it did allow every tactile twitch of your tires to be faithfully preserved for subsequent bragging rights or in my case, palpable humiliation. As a non-driver my technique leaves more to be desired than that of a smashed sloth on segue and is further undermined by an aversion to patient learning.
Rev up, lights turn green, hit the gas, wheels spin and squeal as the entire field sails past into a dusty horizon. Stab the throttle again. Stutter off the grid. Pedal to the metal and gain on the pack with alarming speed before realising you’ve reached the first hairpin. Collide with three cars as you attempt to use them as steering aids. Falter clumsily over a kerb, receive a random penalty you’re too incensed to register. Swear. Re-join the track in last place. Accelerate once more. Approach the next corner. Assume its as tight as the first, lift right off only to discover its virtually straight. Loose more ground. Curse again. Abandon caution and floor it.
Catch two back-markers at an ugly left hander. Snatch at the breaks. Power slide into a fourth car, cut another corner, endure a second penalty. Tear across the start line and begin a fresh lap convinced you’ll improve. Instantly forget about the opening chicane and perform a graceful 360 into the barriers, accompanied by a third and utterly futile penalty.
I must apologize for such a lamentable basis by which to asses heavenly hardware. At least its accurate.