To the tune of Blitzkrieg Bop, a gang of hillbillies bang double-barreled banjos against an undead Mexican trio known as "Scaryachi". Next, an edgy goth group trades the notes of Feel Good Inc. with a peppy, baton-twirling marching band. Bullet barrages, lightning bolts and grenades arc across either side of the stage, each products of timely Wiimote wagging on your end.
What the hockey gods giveth, they taketh away. Last season's innovation, the skill stick, gave us a clean control to rack up goals. "Finally," the fans spoke, "something fun and fluid to play with on offence." Making the right analog an analog for your player's stick was as good a design decision as we'd seen in sports games, and for a while, this advancement was enough to overlook other faults.
When it was the titular town of Guns N' Roses' 1987 tune, Mr. Rose sold us on Paradise City as an idyllic rocker's resort. The grass? Green. The girls? Pretty. What more did you need to know? Axl's promise of fertile, babe-abundant terrain moved millions of records for the rock group and the fictional burg's fictional tourism flourished in kind.
A violent trivia: each sack a quarterback endures lessens his life expectancy by two days. Two days! A legitimate week's end, as it were. Forty-eight hours the chap could've spend picnicking, dating female leaders-of-cheer, inking an uninteresting memoir, or playing video game football, presumably. Sport is a sacrificial job, but for all their million-salaried selves, what's braver than gambling moments of your life over a few yards of turf?