Micro Machines V3 Small is beautiful, maintains Charlie Brooker. Then why don't we see all-dwarve beauty contests? Never mind. Here's an old Micro Machines review.. EARS ARE FUNNY Some things in this world are just intrinsically wrong, aren't they? Take ears for example. How ugly are they? They look like leftover pieces of biological tissue which our Creator shoved on at the last moment in a fit of "waste not, want not" do-goodery. If they weren't so bloody useful they'd get sliced off at birth, along with the umbilical cord. Okay, so we'd have to keep our sunglasses on with sellotape or staples, but at least we wouldn't have to put up with those unsightly mangles of flesh poking out from either side of our head. And what about that new logo for Wall's ice cream? Pardon us, but what, precisely, was wrong with the old one? Its replacement looks a bit too continental for its own good: like one of those unfamiliar trademarks you see adorning beachside cafés on a cheap package holiday. It's just not right. That's how unsettling shabby design can be. But what about the other side? What about all those elements upon which the Gods of Design decided to smile? Turds, for instance. They're beautiful. They're so beautiful, no-one can bear to flush them away without turning round for a quick look first. Check out those tapered ends! Not only are they aesthetically charming, they also perform an important practical function: preventing your buttocks from clapping together each time you drop one off. Make no mistake, the turd is a design masterpiece. So is the Great White shark. And so is the London Underground map. And so is Micro Machines. Ahh, yes. Micro Machines. Now there goes a lesson in sturdy design. And here comes its latest incarnation - Micro Machines V3. MINI CARS A GO GO Well, it weren't broke, so they didn't fix it. The single most important thing to realise about Micro Machines V3 is that in the gameplay stakes, it's virtually identical to its predecessors. Utterly simple, in other words. Even the most technophobic newcomer will feel right at home in minutes. This is computer gaming at its most lucidly intuitive and instantly engaging. Just pick a character and you're off. There are only three buttons to worry about (well, okay, four if you're going to ponce around with the optional power-ups) and only one aim in mind: to be in front of everybody else. You won't need to look in the manual at all, unless you're an imbecile. Oh, and, er, unless you want to know which key is which. Still, you get the point. The real-world Micro Machines are, of course, a range of incredibly tiny toy vehicles and figurines, so detailed they're almost good enough to eat. Indeed, they look like they'd be distressingly efficient at kick-starting a harrowing chain of events, at the end of which lies an urgent and bloody kitchen-table tracheotomy for your curious, orally fixated three-year-old nephew. Micro Machines almost unfathomably wee, and Codemasters have made much of this in the design of the 48 racing tracks themselves, all of which take place in everyday domestic environments rendered strange and exotic by virtue of the motorised protagonist's diminutive size. Thus a circuit set within the confines of an apparently normal school room becomes a knuckle-whitening rally which weaves its way over, around, and through a selection of mundane objects, which suddenly double as outstandingly realised obstacles: the cavernous gap between desks is bridged with a precariously narrow ruler, an unassuming calculator becomes a suicidally ambitious ramp. The genius of the design team - and we kid you not, there is genius at work here - lies in the fact that not a single object on or near the track seems at all out of place. It's all perfectly scaled and minutely observed. Combined with the pick-up-and-play nature of the control system, it's this sublime course design that makes up the bulk of the game's almost unstoppable appeal. KISS MY ANGLE There's more. Thanks to the march of technology, there's a whole new angle to consider. Now it's immaculately presented in three dimensions instead of two, thanks to the advent of those now-obligatory accelerator cards. Inevitably, much has been made of this spatial promotion, and many of the later courses seem to veer up and down as much as they do from side to side. The action used to be viewed straight down from a set height; now a floating camera pans and zooms to frame the action perfectly, on the fly. And unlike many old-skool games which suffer in the transition to three dimensions (witness the revamped Frogger or the Nintendo 64 version of Bomberman), here Codemasters have managed to leave that delicately balanced gameplay resolutely intact. A deceptively skilful achievement. So, any pitfalls? Well, it's a decidedly average experience when played on your own. The computer opponents (even the 'stupid' ones) simply don't make enough mistakes. They rarely spin off the track or collide with the obstacles and as such each race becomes an attempt to perfect your own technique rather than a laugh-a-minute Gumball Rally in miniature. Micro Machines is first and foremost a multiplayer game. You don't need a network to get the most out of it, since four players can participate simultaneously on a single PC (eight on a network), but you do need some friends. So go and make some. Other gripes? Well, the inclusion of power-ups hasn't made any significant change to the gameplay (although the "giant hammer" power-up is undeniably cool), and some may find they actually get in the way - but you can switch them off if you want. All in all though, it's a blast. Unadulterated entertainment, shoved right into your head and face. With a great big virtual glove. Oh, and incidentally, it looks miles better than the Playstation version. Get in. SCORE - 90% Crystal clear, razor sharp... and with two players or more, it's brilliant. Boxout CARS IN YOUR EYES The incredible range of vehicles on display in Micro Machines V3 makes the annual Earl's Court Motor Show look like a Rambler's Association car park. There are 32 vehicles in all - more than is strictly necessary, really - and they all exhibit their own characteristics. Many are available from the very start, but you'll need to "earn" the more exotic examples by honing your racing skills to the max. Finish first in a race and you'll be granted a "bonus car", each with its own custom course. Our favourites are the souped-up buggies (which almost tip onto their sides round sharp corners), the Formula One racing cars (as you'd expect, they're incredibly fast), and the pun-tastic "Conemasters" IceCream Vans (complete with nostalgia-inducing jingle). Duff vehicles (in our opinion ) include the utterly frustrating powerboats (whose turning circle resembles the path of Jupiter's solar orbit), and those sodding bloody tanks (too slow, and the ability to continually blow one another up can simply become annoying). SHINY HAPPY PEOPLE Like its predecessors, Micro Machines V3 has gone down the Gene Roddenberry route to self-conscious ethnic diversity: every other playable character represents a minority group of some description, usually in the most cheerfully simplistic manner possible. And "cheerfully" really is the watchword here: the entire cast manages to be so insufferably pleasant and easy-going, you can't help wanting to phone them up individually and claim that their immediate family has just been torn apart by a pack of slavering hounds, just to wipe those smug smiles off their smug faces. Some might say there's nothing with Codemasters trying to inject a bit of Disneyesque merriment into what is, essentially, a "family" game, but here at Zone we think it would've been far cooler to replace the happy-clappy line-up with an embittered gang of foul-mouthed borderline psychotics, prone to vomiting out of the windows, inexplicably beating themselves in the eye with hammers, and committing suicide at the end of each race. And it should've been packaged in a grimy iron box and re-titled Honk If You Hate Jesus: The Game of Nihilistic Racetrack Despair instead. But for some mad reason that hasn't happened. THE MICRO CONSPIRACY Micro Machines is the exception which proves the rule. And which rule might that be? Why, the rule that states that anything offered for mass consumption featuring the word "Micro" in its title is guaranteed to be irredeemable rubbish, of course. Don't believe us? Then look at the evidence... Micro Live! Mediocre early eighties computer "edutainment" show presented by the creepily enthusiastic Fred Harris, proud owner of some of the vilest pullovers ever to grace our screens. Every episode was little more than a vaguely sinister extended advertisement for the BBC Model B home computer system. Micronauts Tiny sci-fi figurines which somehow managed to be both disappointingly limited in use (i.e. they didn't 'do' anything), and flabbergastingly expensive at the same time. Unless you had the whole set, they looked rubbish... and if you did have the whole set, you were probably so rich you didn't bother playing with them, since you also owned ten jetpacks and a full-scale Death Star. Chiz chiz. Micro Chips Not those trifling computer-related thingies -- we're talking about McCain's miracle foodstuff here. In the olden days, if you wanted an overpriced fistful of unappetizing, soggy chips, you had to seek out the worst chippy in town. Now a comparable dish can be prepared and endured, in minutes, in your own kitchen, thanks to the wonder of our next microtravesty... Microwave Ovens Even in this day and age, does anyone really trust these? After all, they sort of cook food by "magic", don't they? They've even got an illogical Achilles heel, like all decent supernatural phenomena. Werewolves fear the silver bullet and vampires gasp at the sign of the cross: the dreaded microwave oven can be destroyed by a simple plate with a metallic rim. Thanks to these boxy aberrations of nature, all manner of edibles can now be heated beyond belief in a manner that defies both natural logic and lucid description at a stroke. Ninety eight percent of the time, the results border on the inedible - but hey, it's quick, right?

Go back to the Archivechidgetchidgeychidegeychidgeohchidgeyooochidgeyooh© CCB