On THAT Speech.

Last week the House of Commons held a lengthy, eleven and a half hour debate on whether or not the United Kingdom should extend it's air strikes against the organisation variously known as (or translated as) Islamic State, ISIS, ISIL and Daesh.  By all accounts it started slowly, with the Labour party in particular focussing unhelpfully on David Cameron's equally unhelpful comment to the 1922 committee the day before, describing Labour leader Jeremy Corbyn and others who would vote against such strikes as terrorist sympathisers.  It took a long time to get into the real debate about the practical and moral implications of the decision being made and it seemed like opinion was swaying one way and another for many MPs.  You most likely know all this.

Then, towards the end of the debate, Shadow Foreign Secretary Hilary Benn, son of the famous left-wing politician Tony Benn, made his speech.  At around fourteen minutes in length it did not seek to run over the allotted time, but managed to fit quite a lot of content in nonetheless.  Supposedly Benn had been writing it during the debate and did not think it was up to much himself, but his principles demanded he make in nonetheless.  The result was rapturous applause from much of the Commons and,  most notably, the final swaying of opinion towards voting in favour of air strikes for many who had been undecided, or, at the very lest, uncertain.  It was lauded in tweets and in news articles for its clear, yet simple rhetoric, its compassionate opening and emotive conclusion.  People were even commenting - within minutes - that Benn was now the clear candidate to replace Corbyn as Labour leader.

It went the other way too of course.  Many hard-left supporters were decrying Benn as a traitor and much abuse was subsequently heaped upon him and upon the 65 other Labour MPs who voted for the strikes.  This was hardly fair and references made to his father birling in his grave were particularly underhanded (not least because it seems like Tony Benn would have been very proud, even in disagreement), but at the same time I can understand their anger - indeed, before I had heard the speech I felt some of it myself - for here was a man changing minds and being hailed as some kind of political apotheosis upon the basis of just one speech, and, most notably, primarily on the quality of the speech itself, not, necessarily, the argument being made

Here's that speech in full:

There is no denying, even from the position of one who disagreed (and continues to disagree) with the motion of which it was in favour, that this is a good speech.  Benn hits all the right notes, from emphasising his friendship and  respect for Jeremy Corbyn at the beginning, through making a clear moral case for some kind of action, to even including arelatively short, but powerful argument in favour of that action being the extension of British air strikes into Syria.  There is much that he says that I can agree with and it is clear that he is making his speech out genuine principled belief that this truly is the right thing to do.  Part of the problem for me is that the argument he makes, and which persuaded many, is disproportionate in its components, and in the impact they are intended to have.

The strongest and lengthiest part of his argument is the moral case for action against ISIS (my preferred acronym, incidentally, since they all essentially mean the same thing and this is by far the easiest to remember, although it does make them sound a little too much like Bond villains).  There is no doubt that when he makes this argument, both in the main body of his speech and in his highly emotive conclusion, the vast majority of the house must have been in agreement with him, even if they knew he was leading them towards points of contention.  It is, of course, completely right that we should do something to act against terror and against those who cause so much suffering and death.  It is absolutely right to listen to UN Security Council resolution 2249 (paragraph five of which Benn quotes) and take all necessary measures against the Islamic State, but it is important to note that this is not necessarily an argument in favour of extended air strikes, or even for continuing the strikes we are already making in Iraq.

Benn does address this, of course.  At about 7:40 in the video above he switches from making a moral case for action to making a specific case for extended air strikes.  This continues only for another four and a half minutes and includes within it numerous points in agreement with those who propose alternative measures to the air strikes.  He even makes it clear that there are many reasons why other MPs may still choose to oppose the strikes, a step which, whilst conciliatory, actually undermines his argument quite a bit.  The points he makes in favour of the strikes are good ones, but left out of the context of the many arguments against strikes, are not necessarily convincing.  They certainly do no answer concerns of increasing radicalisation, or the fact that western intervention in the Middle East over the last fourteen years (if not much longer) is a major reason for the rise of ISIS in the first place, nor do they address legitimate concerns that, far from increasing national security, increased bombing of ISIS targets may well increase the threat of terror against our nation.

Of course it's quite natural that Benn would leave these things out - they do not work in favour of his argument and it's possible he himself does not consider them strong enough arguments in opposition, but their absence, in the context of his speech makes his argument seem stronger than many believe it to be.

But the real coup de grace is yet to come.  The final two minutes of the speech, addressed to the Labour party and evoking the fight against fascism in the early twentieth century, is the point where I lose all sympathy for Mr. Benn's arguments and begin to wonder if we need to react much more strongly against rhetoric in modern debate.

You see Benn's concluding remarks are designed to stir up emotions: pride in the Labour party's achievements and principles, hatred towards fascism, guilt for inaction, and many others besides.  By dredging up comparisons to the fights against Franco, Mussolini and, of course, Hitler, Benn is aiming to stir up a kind of self-righteous and patriotic pride which is the inevitable consequence of harking back to that era.  Never mind that, once again, it is only an argument in favour of action, not for the specific action for which Benn is calling on his colleagues to vote.  Never mind that, whether it is right to call them fascists or not, comparisons of ISIS to the right-wing movements of Europe in the early 20th century - and similarly the kinds of action which are needed to be taken against them - are completely inappropriate.

That Benn reaches this point, at the end of his speech, at the end of the debate, is actually vaguely amusing.  It's reminiscent of that which is known as Godwin's law, stating that "as an online discussion grows longer, the probability of a comparison involving Nazis or Hitler approaches 1".  A corollary of this law also states that the first person to make such a comparison automatically loses the argument.  I think there are good reasons for adopting such a corollary and Benn's use of such a comparison last Wednesday evening demonstrates it as well as any I could cite.  The issue is that such a comparison fails to appeal to reason - it appeals to emotion, to patriotism and to the threat of being accused of fascism yourself.

There is a difference, of course, between an online discussion, where the Nazi comparison is usually the last resort of a deeply frustrated and angry individual and, more often than not is a direct insult to their opponent, and Benn's speech, which is calm, carefully worded and well thought out.  I fear the impact, however, is much the same and that the insult of the online discussion forum is still implied in Benn's words.  He does not say so outright, perhaps would not even believe he had implied it, but within his comparison is the accusation that those Labour MPs who would vote against the strikes would not be 'doing their bit' against fascism, that they would be allowing 'the Nazis' to get away with it, that - despite his opening argument against Cameron's direct statement to the same effect - they were somehow on the wrong side.

And yet, as I have already said, this speech was praised for all the things I have just discussed.  That's because it was was a collection of very well-chosen words, delivered just as skilfully, and in the world of debate - indeed in its long history, since the time of the ancient Greeks - how an argument is made matters more than whether or not it is a good argument, or even correct when put under scrutiny.  It is the same in the Houses of Parliament as it is in our newspapers, blogs (this one included), debating societies, and even our daily conversations an arguments with each other.

Of course some of this is just natural human behaviour.  Words are powerful.  If you've read any of my blogs before you'll know how much I believe in the power of words to make real, important change.  We can be swayed by words very easily if we're not thinking critically about what we're hearing and I know I am just as guilty as the rest of humanity when it comes to taking a speech or a text at face value rather than spending the time to question it and decide whether there is any truth contained behind the careful turns of phrase.  If we're really to have a nation which engages politically, and political class which represents us and the issues of the world with full truthfulness and integrity, then I think it's time we started to react against rhetoric in our debates.  We need to train our citizens to be more critical, to engage with arguments at all levels and to make sure that, no matter how impressed they are by the works of great word-smiths, they do not let it sway them into making decisions for the wrong reasons, or not backed up by sufficient evidence.

And the next time you hear someone make a Nazi comparison - don't applaud them until your sure it fits.

Further Reading:

Were you carried away by Hilary Benn's 'electrifying' speech?  This is political theatre, not democracy. - Rachel Shabi, The Independent.

Daniel: The Practicalites of Living in the World.

This was a talk I wrote for a service at a sheltered housing complex on Sunday 8th November.  The passage it's all about is Daniel chapter one.  Daniel is probably my favourite book in the Bible.

Christians seem to love metaphors about ships.  I’ve heard a few in my time, but these are the two that particularly stand out for me.  Firstly, ‘A ship should be in the water, but the water should not be in the ship’, which is a metaphor for how Christians need to be active in the world and yet not influenced or corrupted by it.  The second is similar: ‘A ship in the harbour is safe, but ships aren’t built to stay there’, a metaphor for how Christians often like to stay in their comfort zones, or church bubbles, rather than step out into the world and be seen doing the things Christ has sent us to do.  These are good images - they help to clarify an issue God’s people have had to face since Abraham was first asked to leave his home and head for Canaan; they put the problem into terms we can easily understand and remember.  They do not, however, make the problem any easier.

Not only did Daniel and his friends face this problem, it defines most of what we know about them and their deeds from the Bible.  These were handsome and talented young men with good prospects and good connections whose entire lives had just been ravaged by the storms of death, destruction and exile.  The harbour of their youth had been pillaged and burned and their ships blown out to sea against their will.  They were in genuinely terrible circumstances - circumstances that might be hard to understand or even imagine for those of us who have lived quiet lives in the relative safety of western civilisation.

But though they were captured by an enemy who had destroyed their nation, robbed its wealth and humiliated their religion, they were themselves still considered valuable - valuable to that enemy and valuable to God.  God had given them many talents and skills, knowledge and wisdom, as well as health and good looks, and they were desirable as part of the elite servants of the court of King Nebuchadnezzar.  It’s clear from the way the passage is worded that this is what God intends - he wants his people to serve amongst those who are not his people, to use the gifts, talents and abilities that he has developed within them for the good of those around them, regardless of who those people might be and where they stand with the Almighty - and to do so very well.

It is a challenge for our daily lives now.  How does God want me to serve those who do not know him today?  Which groups of people, hostile to the gospel, do I need to be part of?  How can I use the talents he has given me to make the world a better place for everyone in it?  How can I do that so that God is glorified?  It is something we need to ask ourselves all the time, wherever we might be, for there are always ways we can serve others, no matter what our circumstances.  If we ask God to show us what those ways are, he will do so and he will make sure we are equipped for the task.

So, Daniel, Hananiah, Mishael and Azariah are taken out the frying pan of their recent trauma and put straight into… well, into a pretty cushy training regime, at least, as much as such things could be.  They were to be treated well, given further education and allowed to eat the royal food.  What a privilege!

For many people this would come as a great relief and if life had looked like it was going to be hard living among this heathen nation, they might now choose to see it as an opportunity for personal gain.  After all, the God they served had sent them there, why not just follow these new, Babylonian ways and enjoy their lifestyle instead?

And, at first, it seems like Daniel and his friends have accepted this.  They are given new names - Babylonian names and, despite the fact that their God-fearing Hebrew names had now been replaced by names which honoured the Babylonian gods, there is no evidence in the rest of the book of Daniel to suggest that they argued about this or demanded to be referred to by anything other than their new names.  Daniel continues to be referred to as Daniel, although it’s still pointed out later in the book that he was also known as Belteshazzar, but his friends are actually better known by most Christians as Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego, names which, in all likelihood, honour the Babylonian gods Aku, Merodach and Nebo.  How could they have accepted such a defilement?

And, yet, they cannot have simply decided to accept their new lives as Babylonians, with all the idolatry that that entailed, for we see that there was problem for Daniel.  The exact reasons for his concern are not stated in the passage, but it was clear that eating the King’s food was not appropriate for Jews.  The meat was almost certainly not kosher and it may well have been offered to Babylonian idols beforehand.  Here Daniel draws a line.  How the people around him choose to identify him is one thing, and a thing he might not have had much say in, but what he took into his own body - what, essentially, forms part of his real, personal identity that he could control and he was not going to defile himself according to the Babylonian ways.

And it was a risky course of action to take.  Turning down luxuries offered by the King was hardly the most polite thing to do in an already perilously delicate situation.  Yes, these young men were valuable, but they were still captives and almost certainly thought of as property.  To turn down the offered food could easily be considered an insult and if they had damaged their health in any way by doing so then it would have been like damaging one of the King’s prized possessions.  To make matters worse, as the story unfolds we see that the other young men may well have been restricted to the same diet - young men without Daniel’s particular principles who were probably enjoying all the King’s meat.  It was a path with the potential to make many enemies and, though the passage doesn’t state it in chapter one, it’s clear that Daniel’s god-honouring ways earned him more than his fair share of resentment through the years.

And yet, despite the risks, choosing this course shows great shrewdness on Daniel’s part, especially as we see how things unfold and God’s hand is seen in the favour of the official.  Daniel knows when to pick his battles.  When faced with a world which was opposed to his God, he knew when to let the world think it was winning and when to take a stand for what was right, whatever the consequences of that might eventually be.  We might not think we would be able to make such judgement calls, but Daniel’s wisdom didn’t develop on his own, it was a gift from God and we too can ask God to give us the wisdom to work out our, sometimes messy, lives in the midst of a complicated world which refuses to recognise him.

Which brings us to the final point of this passage.  As we see Daniel and his friends carted off to Babylon amidst the most terrible of circumstances, as we see them chosen to serve the king, educated, treated well, given heathen names, as we see them defy their captors and prove the goodness of God, so too do we see the true hero of Daniel chapter one - God - doing all the real legwork in the story.  There is no doubt for the writer of this passage that God is in charge, that the horrible situation Daniel and his friends had to endure was ultimately God’s doing - in his great work to punish his people and bring them back to worshipping him, but so too was their skill and knowledge, the favour of those around them and, in the end, the triumph of their faithful response over the idolatry of the world they had been put in.  God is always in charge, and no matter how tough the situation we are facing at any given time, we can be assured that God knows what he is doing, he has it all in hand and he will work out his purposes, according to his will, for his glory.

Daniel and his friends go on to glorify God in many ways, bringing the thoughts and eyes of the most powerful men in the world at the time right to the base of his throne, that in all things God’s sovereignty might not be challenged.  That challenges us: challenges us to serve in a world where God is rejected, hated even, with the love that Jesus Christ commanded, challenges us to have wisdom and discernment to discover just where the line is that we must not cross, the line that separates a faithful, godly life from the idolatrous world.  But it is also a comfort to us, for we know that, with God in charge, he will give us everything we need to face those challenges and that, in the end, he will be glorified, even through our lives.

A Fekete Duna

A week ago I was still in Hungary, enjoying the weather in my favourite city, Budapest, and feeling the high of a week spent serving God with the teenagers of the Tivadar English Bible Camp.  My mind was full of contrasts, however.

Hungary is a land with a rich and complex history and one which, even now, seems to struggle with the weight of it all.  There is a lot of prejudice and resentment from the events of the last century, mirrored, I'm sure, in many of the neighbouring countries, where borders were drawn up on a map in Versaille and people's lives were changed, ostensibly for their better.  Now, in the second decade of the 21st Century, it is clear that much of that has failed and only worsened tensions between ethnic groups, but I doubt that things would be any better at all if the borders had not been moved.  It seems to me that the problem with Eastern and Central Europe, and indeed the rest of the world, is not this group, or that group, to whom blame can be apportioned, but, in fact, the problem is everyone, ourselves included.  We're the sinners who want things all our own way and who distrust those with different lifestyles, cultures and agendas.  As long as we remain in our sin that will never change, however you draw the separation lines.

Last Sunday evening I had a unique opportunity to take a walk through the centre of Budapest on my own and got to do some writing on the steps of the Fisherman's Bastion on Várhegy, looking down on the Danube and the Parliament building over in Pest.  With this view and these thoughts (and others) in mind, and with a week's worth of editing and honing of both the words and the ideas behind them, this is what I came up with.

Do remember, as you read it, that I love Hungary, and Budapest especially, but just because I love something does not mean I cannot see its flaws.  Any errors in historical, or geographical accuracy are entirely my own.

A Fekete Duna (The Black Danube)

The river is black now.  By day she flows a murky, greenish brown, and Strauss is proven false.  Swimmers brave the beaches of Margit Sziget and there are parties by the banks, but though the breeze is fresh and the view a pearl of Europe, you cannot escape that filmy surface, that unclean sheen, that tepid, ancient lie.

But the river is black now; lacquered gold where street lamps cast their gaze.  Her bridges arc in filigree chords and all the monuments of greatness - squandered and taken - stand out like rich topaz on a field of starry black.  Tourists smile and point, immortalise themselves on her banks and spans.  They are backlit by splendour, eyes starry in the flash. Beneath, pleasure boats cruise past like they're sliding on glass, through the shade of their Grand Prince, beneath the chains and the roaring lions, towards freedom (hid) and the distant, stolen sea.  They slice through their own reflections and are gone.

But the river is black now - she frames her city like a mirror in a darkened room, defining light and shade and nothing more.  She cuts between classes, the high and low, between those elevated and those levelled; West and East.  Spots of colour on her banks tell of burger chains and clubs, vending machines and hotel bars.  Trams weave by like the ghosts of regimes past.

But the river is black now, so the old man on the hill does not watch her, nor remember how they threw him to her grasp; the red wake he left behind him in his spiked and sudden coffin.  The river stained, the bishop sainted, yet above a verdant lady stands, her gaze upon that long, dark ribbon: not just Gellért's blood at all.  How could she glance away from one she claims, twice now, to have freed?

But the river is black now - on her banks lie many shoes, cast-off and cast iron: forgotten reminders of a forgettable night, or a frozen memory of an unmentionable one.  Who wishes to recall such cold amidst the summer heat, or the black-clad ice that flowed through the city and turned the river white, then red.

But the river is black now - no one sees those shapes lurking in its shadows, picking scraps and making do midst the waste and grime, lost and forgotten in its flow like the souls in back alleys begging for change, or the woman selling flowers to tourists, back bent and humbled even as the roses stand tall and proud.

Because the river is black now, and every step forward seems a step further back.  All this progress, like the Danube, merely lies.

Nostalgia, or VII things I want from a Final Fantasy VII remake.

Ah, even the logo makes me feel nostalgic...

I've been feeling particularly nostalgic for various media this summer.  From the trailers for Star Wars: The Force Awakens a couple of months ago, making me dig out my Gamecube to play Rogue Leader and read old (and now non-canonical) novels by Timothy Zahn, through Jurassic World making me feel like a nine year old again, to the gameplay footage of Rise of the Tomb Raider that has me working my way through my first complete replay of Tomb Raider: Anniversary since it was released eight years ago.  (I'd have been playing the original Tomb Raider instead, actually, but it was further away at the time I felt I needed it most).

All of these franchises are much-beloved and have a particularly special place in my heart - taking up hours of my childhood, adolescence and student years - but perhaps the biggest nostalgia-inducing news of the summer was that Square Enix are actually going ahead and remaking Final Fantasy VII, something fans have been clamouring for since the JRPG giant used the opening of their most iconic game as a tech demo for the PS3, over a decade ago.  Final Fantasy VII remains my favourite video game of all time, and perhaps through sheer force of nostalgia alone, is one of my favourite stories of all time.

Would you entrust the fate of the planet to these weirdos?

I love the characters.  The main hero, Cloud Strife, is a callous mercenary type who doesn't appear to care about anything, but who SPOILERS turns out to be a seriously insecure man-child with an identity crisis.  There are two female leads, one a carefree flower girl with a tragic past, the other a hardened fighter who just might have the key to unlocking Cloud's true self.  And then there are also the real oddballs, like Red XIII, a wolf-lion thing whose grandfather is inexplicably an old man who floats through the air, and Cait Sith, a robotic cat/moogle doll controlled by a mysterious third party with their own mysterious agenda END SPOILERS.  It's one of the most eclectic and colourful casts in any role playing game and it's an odd mixture that somehow just works.

Aeris takes urban gardening to new levels.

I also love the world, which, like the characters, is a slightly bizarre amalgamation of anime tropes, both serious and surreal, ranging from cyberpunk (Midgar) and steampunk (Nibelheim), through the colourfully weird (the Gold Saucer or Costa del Sol) to the ancient and mysterious (Temple of the Ancients).  It has a glorious mix of completely incompatible technologies, revelling in the mechanical details of cars, trains, ships and airships whilst gods and demons materialise out of the air.  Its aesthetic is as comfortable amidst complex networks of piping and CG schematics as it is in the quiet of a forest, or a lonely mountainside.  Perhaps Aeris' garden, holding on to life amidst the ruins of an old church, is as good a summation of Final Fantasy VII's unique setting as any.

And I love the music.  VII's soundtrack is probably not Nobuo Uematsu's greatest work.  That honour might well go to the soundtrack to IX, which manages to blend it's themes and allusions seamlessly amidst a deliberately archaic style.  VII's soundtrack is, however, my favourite and it's all part of the same peculiar and heady mix that pervades every other part of the game.  Never has a synthesised game soundtrack made me feel so much, nor so perfectly conjured up the world it accompanies.

But all that is likely to change - not literally, the FFVII I know and love is, in fact, going nowhere at all - with the advent of the remake.  Modern graphics and gameplay styles will, of necessity, be implemented into a current-gen re-imagining of any 32 bit classic.  Current aesthetic trends will most likely win over the older ones that VII is in tune with.  Square Enix's recent history with the Final Fantasy series will doubtlessly be evident in some, or all of the way the game looks, feels and plays.  Change is a-coming, but it won't all necessarily be for the worse.  With that in mind, here, at last, are the seven things I'd really like to see in a remake of Final Fantasy VII

1) A soundtrack which isn't fully orchestrated.

Let's start with this one.  It's asking a lot, I know, but I'd really like to see at least some synthesised music, or at the very least some experimental instrumentation used in the soundtrack for the new VII.  I'm a big fan of the Final Fantasy concerts that have been played over the years and like an orchestrated arrangement as much as the next guy, but I don't really want them in the game itself.

These guys do a brilliant job, but they might not be needed all the time.

There's something about the arranged versions I've heard that make them sound too much like they come from our world and not enough like they're from VII's.  The synth in particular is a really big part of why VII's world sounds so grungy and  industrial. Any new soundtrack has to take that into account.  The music to the CG film sequel, Advent Children, went part of the way, including modern instrumentation and a nice use of electric guitar in its version of the iconic One Winged Angel, but I'd like to see the remake take things further, regressing a little if it has to to keep the game sounding right.

2) A world map.

This goes without saying really.  Final Fantasy games haven't had a proper world map since IX and they have been, for the most part, much poorer for it.  Yes, world maps can feel archaic and dated, but there are ways to implement them which aren't so incongruous.  Dragon Quest VIII had a world map that felt like a scaled down level in its own right, with plenty to explore, without being an 'Open World'.  VII could easily go down a similar route.  Any complete removal of VII's map would cause outcry amongst fans and would remove some of the game's sense of glorious freedom after the intense cyberpunk confines of Midgar.

3) But not an Open World.

There are enough Open World games out there these days.  VII really doesn't need to be one of them.

Yes, it's beautiful, Geralt, really it is, but we just don't need it this time.

4) More side quests (but not too many).

The remake has a real opportunity to expand on VIIs world considerably.  We already know more about it thanks to games like Crisis Core and even Advent Children managed to show us some new things in its running time.  It would be great to acknowledge these additions to the world somehow in the remake.  One way to make this work would be to include more side quests.  Meaningful ones, of course, not just fetch quests or 'requisition orders' (the single most annoying feature in the most recent Dragon Age: Inquisition), but little stories encapsulated in gameplay.  They would also be great opportunities to expand our understanding of the main characters and even open up some real surprises (see point 7).  Just don't give us too many.  I don't want another game turning into a gigantic to-do list.

5) Mini-games.

The original had them and we want them back, but perhaps they could be a little more polished this time?  Just not if its at the expense of the rest of the game.

Imagine Mog's House in HD!  Actually, maybe don't...

6) Materia.

There has been a fair amount of talk about the remake having new elements and modernised gameplay and this is all to be expected, but there's one thing in VII's battle system that I really hope they don't remove or tweak too much: the materia system.  It was just such a neat way of managing spells and abilities, providing lots of options, but also had reasonable limitations which lessened over time.  It was also a lot simpler to navigate and manage than most of today's complex roleplaying game skill and equipment systems and, honestly, there's really nothing wrong with simplicity, especially when it is the veneer covering genuine depth.  The materia system had both in spades.

7) Surprises.

My favourite remakes of the last two decades were Resident Evil (2002), on the Gamecube (and recently remastered for current-gen consoles) and Tomb Raider: Anniversary (2007), which, as I mentioned before, I'm replaying at the moment.  These are both remakes of games from 1996, only a year before Final Fantasy VII came onto the scene, and they are also both seminal entries in some of my favourite game franchises, but there is one other thing I hope they'll have in common with the FFVII remake.

It's not what you're expecting... unless you didn't play the original...

One feature which stands out in both of these games is their use of returning player expectations and their tendency to subvert them.  Take Resident Evil for example.  It frequently sets up a scenario identical to one in the original game and at just the moment when a jump scare might be anticipated - or known to be a red herring - the game will flip it around and scare the hell out of you in so doing.  Tomb Raider: Anniversary does something similar, making its puzzles and environments more challenging by showing a similar set up to the one we experienced in '96 and then doing something completely different with it.  VII needs something similar to happen to it to keep it fresh.  You can add all the new gameplay and graphics enhancements you like, but if it doesn't walk the fine line between faithful recreation and subversive reflection, then it's just not worth doing.

And that's it really.  I'm sure I'll come up with a million others in the (most likely many) years before this game is released, but I'm not going to demand that they keep it the same as it was eighteen years ago, nor am I going to complain that they've ruined my favourite game if the remake doesn't live up to my hopes and dreams.  The truth is that, despite our clamour for a remake, Final Fantasy VII is as playable today as it was when I first got my hands on it and it really isn't going anywhere any time soon.

I might go play some now, in fact...