hi i really love colors and fallout new vegas so let me tell you fnv has great colors and anyone who says its boring sucks
the box and promotional art, with reds, dark bowns, and bright yellow. The start screen has a offset of a cool grey to show off a full moon, but its the same colors. The default UI is specifically a yellow, which every other game has as green. Its all correlated, nicely.
The game has this same color pallet throughout! with small variations like caves and vaults to bring you into a dungeon. The biggest outliner for it is Vegas, where theres a lot of clashing colors from the hotels different themes. it really feels like a Wizard of Oz experience, especially with House’s face being bright green and practically alien in the red, black, and white color scheme of Lucky 38.
Goodsprings is all light browns with wooden buildings with red paints. Primm uses dark browns, yellow lights. Novac has the bright red legion flags, the fires, more browns. The only times you see greens are for “alien” objects. Novac has Dinky, but even then it’s washed out to blend in and mesh with the mojave… compared to vault 22 with its bright green plants or vault 34’s radioactive waste puddles.
the biggest problem with the vanilla game is just the lighting. no its not natural at all, its very stylistic that makes everything yellowish. Video games have that issue trying to balance naturalistic and stylistic elements. but fnv has a really easy to read color language, with nice balances. even in the dlcs you get separate correlations! its awesome, i love the stylistic colors in each of them :D
Theory: The route the Courier was taking in Fallout: New Vegas would have probably gotten him killed.
The Courier was going north on the I-15, the road covered in Powder Gangers and Deathclaws. Alternatively, if he was going through Goodsprings, the threats would be Scorpions if going north through the Goodsprings Graveyard, or Fiends if going through the mountains leading to Red Rock Canyon.
The Strip was positively packed with cars, so even though it was a few blocks too early General MacManus tapped his driver on the shoulder and hardly waited for the jeep to slow down before jumping out and hoofing it towards the Lucky 38. His dogrobber followed suit in a clumsier fashion, lugging a bag and briefcase.
MacManus was big and broad, and had never given a shit about people he didn’t know, if it came down to it, so despite the crowd he was inside the casino within moments, snapping his aviators off and thrusting them backwards for Corporal Smythe to grab. When his glasses disappeared MacManus waved a paw of a hand at the liveried elevator boy, who dropped into a crisp bow and held the elevator door.
MacManus was on a mission, an important one. Of the two major projects he was working on, the first had ended early and the second was starting late. With that in play, he had managed- at great expense of money and mental effort- to carve out a teeny tiny fraction of vacation time for himself, and he was not going to hesitate at achieving it.
During the brief ride up he studiously avoided the elevator boy’s attempts at pleasant conversation, dwelling instead for a moment on the difficulty at hand. The last project he’d have to put his stamp on was ludicrous- a monkey’s job. A few of the eggheads kept wanting to tinker with the M42, adding blast shields and ammo variants. Which meant that he personally had ended up in the godforsaken desert south of Las Vegas at a makeshift observation deck, listening to the junior officers ooh and ah and quote Hindu scripture like it was the second coming of goddamned Trinity. He really pitied the poor grunt down there in the valley who had to nuke some cardboard targets from a grenade’s throw away.
It was a waste of money, and he’d said so, but he put his stamp on it anyway to get the eggheads to shut up, but he’d taken his aide Colonel Tidewater aside to let him know that the budget for the project could be safely decimated. Literally.Tidewater was out doing the legwork on the next project- some relatively practical idea about setting up newly built prisons, hospitals and such so that they could be quickly converted into useful military sites in the event regular bases were targets. Otherwise, he’d be here and there would be someone interesting to talk to.
MacManus felt the elevator slow as they neared the Presidential Suites, but he lashed out with a craggy finger in the elevator boy’s face and waggled it very deliberately. The unfortunate lad blanched but made the right choice, ignoring whatver VIPs had called the elevator.
Here they were at one of the most important targets in MacManus’ sight right now- the Lucky 38 Cocktail Lounge. He pushed out of the elevator before the door was barely opened, leaving his perpetually embarrassed dogrobber to tip and console the elevator boy.
This was it. The Holy Grail. Shangri-la. There were better bars in Vegas, of course, and Robert House’s taste in decorating would never match the Ultra Luxe, for example, but… MacManus peered through rills of cigarette smoke backlit by the sun through the tower’s windows. The view. The thrice-damned view.
He made a quick circuit, taking it in. He didn’t get to come in here often enough. The genius of this view, was that unless you got right up close and peered down, you couldn’t see the filthy city of Las Vegas at all. Seated on his usual chair- which he regretfully bypassed for the moment- he looked out at the mountains, at the thin clouds as they were driven across the sunny sky. Soon enough. Unfortunately, business never ceased.
MacManus made a departure from his routine and sat down at the bar. He reached inside his jacket and removed his pipe- a scuffed, stubby Irish bulldog- and his tobacco, which he had made by Kramer’s whenever he was in LA. It was a dark English blend, and he was sure that the smell of it straight from the pouch would keep anyone from sitting next to him. Once lit, though, it would be a smoke to rival any cathedral’s incense.
The bartender limped over and discreetly handed him a shotglass full of matches. MacManus took them and began to pack and light his pipe without acknowledging the man. Once he was steadily puffing, he looked over and gave the bartender a smile.
“Thank you, Chet.”
“My pleasure, General.” He blinked a bit more than was necessary. The power of latakia. “What will it be this morning, sir?”
MacManus looked past him, behind the bar, and chuckled. The beer taps on display were a joke, the rube’s idea of good beer and whiskey. Horowitz? Dirty Fenster? Jesus wept. House made a mint by catering to the poor schmucks who didn’t know any better. But when dealing with an arrogant sonofabitch like House, of course it was a trap.
The only thing Robert House hated more than a rube was a poser. If you asked for some top shelf booze that wasn’t shown, you’d be served it and made to feel like a king. But then the quality of service would plummet and your luck at the casino would disappear. Your punishment for putting on airs.
General Roderick MacManus was an arrogant sonofabitch as well, and ten years ago he’d made a sort of friendship with Robert House by escaping the trap the only possible way. He had cheated.
“The Satrap 1851, of course, Chet.” It was his family’s whisky, brewed for a short time and raved about by serious imbibers for some time, but discontinued before the Great War and never seen outside of Scotland. His first time at the Lucky 38 he’d asked for it, knowing they wouldn’t have it. He’d endured the embarassment and apologies with a wry smile, but on his next visit there’d been a bottle of it waiting, as well as a discreet invitation up to the penthouse, to talk business.
Chet nodded and went to fetch the drink. MacManus tucked his tobacco pouch back into his jacket and almost relaxed.
His friendship with House had turned into quite the mutual arrangement, and he’d spent many a pleasant afternoon with the man, solving… well, some of the world’s problems. At least until a couple years ago. House had always been eccentric, but at some point at least one of his gears had slipped, and he’d become a recluse. He didn’t leave the penthouse and nobody was permitted in. They’d kept in touch over the defense network (a RobCo product, of course), but electronic letters were a pale substitute for the company of your peers.
“Your Satrap, sir.” Chet brought the glass over to him like it was full of plutonium. Probably as expensive.
MacManus took a contemplative puff, before grabbing his pipe and using it to point vaguely… up. “Is… he taking visitors yet?”
“He is not, sir.” It was quite a poker face. Chet’s talents were wasted in this part of the Lucky 38. MacManus nodded with what he hoped was a reasonable expression, and without looking signaled for his dogrobber. The Corporal responded by swiftly slapping the briefcase on the bar and then stepping back into helpful distance.
MacManus snapped the catches open and reached inside for the souvenir snowglobe he’d had made for his friend. A little joke between the two of them. He set it down on the bar in front of Chet.
“Give this to Robert, with my regards, Chet.”
“I will do, sir.”
“Give Corporal Smythe a drink, please, Chet. Not the good stuff.”
“Indeed, sir.” MacManus grinned and crammed his pipe back in his mouth. He picked up his glass of whisky and stood up from the bar.
I didn’t know that picture was actually a concept art, but now I wonder if this is how the Strip is actually supposed to look like. In the game all we get is one street with four weird casinos, one hotel and one embassy. And that’s about it, which seems a bit unrealistic, because if that is all Mr. House managed to do with his missile defense system, he’s not half as smart as he thinks he is. I mean, theoretically a street like that could have remained unharmed without his help.
But even this one street is cut in two, because otherwise most of the computers wouldn’t be able to run the game. All these lights, people, more than anywhere on the Mojave probably – if there were more of them, the player would have to restart the game every five minutes.
So maybe what the creators really had in mind while they were building the Strip, was this concept art. Maybe this is what was really saved and what this place actually looks like. And as a consequence, this is where the courier actually was. They didn’t see one leftover of a street – they saw all this. They didn’t see five buildings out of the window of the Lucky 38 – they saw everything you see on that picture.