I Was Lucky Enough to Forget

Forgetting a game is a phenomenal gift. I was recently given L.A. Noire for PS4- a game I haven’t touched since it's original release in 2011. I played through it with my dad back then and loved every second of Cole Phelps’ escapades as he rose through the ranks of a 1947 LAPD. Even before the game came out I remember being astounded by the technology Rockstar had put into play when creating the title. The facial tracking and animation was (and might still be) the best there had been in a game, especially at the time. The painstaking lengths the development team went through to recreate a post World War Two Los Angeles absolutely paid off, as I truly felt immersed in the world they had brought back to life.

My dad, an LA native, excitedly called out each street as we passed them in our Chrysler New Yorker. The old-era Hollywood feel of the time was captured perfectly, and the gritty world surrounding the drama of the title was excellently crafted. The tale of Phelps’ tumultuous tenure at the department was paired with Rockstar’s depiction of the world like a fine wine and cheese platter.

But if I love the game as much as I clearly do why would I want to forget it? Why on Earth would I be happy to forget about the dozens of cases across the various departments that we helped the straightedge detective solve? The answer is an incredibly simple one: Because I get to experience it all over again. The fun had over those hours spent busting perps and capping bank robbers will never be lost on me, but I'm thankful the details of each case were.

L.A. Noire’s interrogation mechanics are top notch, and allow you as detective Cole Phelps to navigate each testimony thoroughly. Trying to deduce who’s lying based on the shifting of their eyes or the tone of their voice is brilliantly fun, challenging, and individually rewarding as correct responses can net you even more clues to help crack the case. It should be thoroughly apparent by now why forgetting the details of the game is after all these years has been so thoroughly satisfying. Not only can I replay the game to its fullest- making plenty of errors any other first-time player would- but I get to experience it in an enhanced version. The stunning graphics the re-release offer on the newest generation of consoles only adds to the sweetness of the multilayered sleuth cake.

And I know what you might be thinking about the plot, and of course I remember the general happenings of the game, the story is simply too memorable to forget. But I insist that it doesn't affect my perception of the game in my second go-around, nor does it detract from my experience in the slightest. It's almost like watching one of your favorite movies again; You watch with the same intensity at the very same plot you have several times over, and yet you hang your hopes on the protagonist somehow changing how things go. You know what they'll do and what fate will befall them, but there's still a small part of you that hopes they won't open that door, or won't trust that shifty backstabber they end up befriending. At least that's how these things play out for me. Every time I watch Tokyo Drift I hope Han makes it out of that final chase alive, and as his car flips and ignites I can't help but feel the same gut-wrenching sadness I did the first time around.

This is how attached I still am to every aspect of what L.A. Noire offers me each time the disk spins up. The fact that I remember the big picture stuff doesn't affect my unbridled enjoyment at all, especially considering the fact that the small details are lost to the recesses of my mind. While I know Phelps’ general trajectory and ultimate fate I still take immense pleasure in rediscovering the tiny nuances that make each case special. In the end, those are the things that matter most to me, and they allow me to take the utmost pleasure in playing it all over again. I know I said it already, but I'm truly elated that I forgot some of L.A. Noire.