You enter one side of the room and the henchmen, who rarely differentiate in their plan of attack, dutifully show up to be blown away. It's a simple process served up with peerless presentation. It's so good it evokes a worrisome existential crisis: Yes, it's another eight-to-ten hours of killing everyone in the world, but what if this is, and will always be, what games are best at? Max Payne 3 nearly makes you roll over in defeat, knowing that Rockstar has harnessed impeccable technology to make people die real good. %Gallery-155342%The shooting is a revelation. Can you really argue with the outcome? The cemetery perfectly recalls the birth of Max, the cynical, disheveled vigilante – and what better playground for Max, the cover-based shooter, than a plot of land filled with upright granite slabs? Rockstar can't outrun the nature of the game, no more than its wrecked anti-hero can escape his nature as problem solver via midair shooting. The transition from emotionally tinged burial ground to functional battleground is at once touching and tasteless, presented in that kind of awkward, bittersweet combination that video games have gotten down to an art form. This man exists to kill, and the tombstone that names his murdered wife and daughter is there to provide cover. A quiet moment of remembrance, dour and dusted in snow, is soon buried beneath the sound of gunfire. Max Payne can't even find peace in a graveyard.
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