With spiralling production costs, there is more than ever before a gnawing impetus within the games industry to get things right - to recoup costs at any price. But this situation isn't entirely without precedent. The sensible journey towards dependable returns was taken over fifty years ago by Hollywood. Facing a similar financial dilemma and a number of changes to how films could be distributed, the major studios chose to reduce the diversity of their output, and concentrate what resources they had into a select number of prestigious titles. As so often is the case, financial pressures moulded the form of cultural production. This is how the blockbuster was born.

So what defines a blockbuster? Well, it's more than just its hefty price-tag. It's the juggernaut that powers the entire project: from the incremental series of trailers that start a year out to the media blitz immediately prior to release. It all generates waves of anticipation, escalating to the point where even the briefest glimpse of, say, Master Chief's redesigned codpiece can temporarily melt the internet.

But the blockbuster also has its downside. It's frequently been seen as the symptom of a risk-adverse industry. For when the stakes are so high, and the margins so slight, originality can prove to be a dangerously unpredictable quality. Better to play it safe. So for every Armageddon, A Bug's Life and Dante's Peak, Hollywood releases a Deep Impact, Antz and Volcano.

The formula to create a truly successful blockbuster is elusive. It must at once be familiar, so as not alienate eager audiences, and striking enough to capture their imaginations.


The Uncharted series, more than any other contemporary franchise, knows what it is to be a blockbuster, taking one of the very best as its blueprint. The adventures of Indiana Jones loom large over Nathan Drake. In no way should this observation be taken as a slur on Naughty Dog's achievements. One of the things that made the Indiana Jones series so instantly compelling was its derivative nature. What Raiders did so effectively was to mulch down the low-rent conventions and stock characters of the Saturday morning serials that Spielberg and Lucas watched as children, and elevate them into something so much more. It's pop-culture alchemy at its most enchanting.

In similar fashion, Uncharted channels Raiders, Temple of Doom, and The Last Crusade. But it never slavishly imitates them; it always adds to the point where it overtakes the original in terms of riveting spectacle.

There are, of course, a wealth of similarities between the two franchises: a roguish protagonist, lost mythical cities, crumbling temples, magical artefacts and ballsy heroines. At times, sequences and shots are lifted wholesale. (Think about the rapidly descending ceiling in Among Thieves and Temple of Doom.)


But their kinship goes much deeper, manifesting at the level of narrative. Like those Saturday morning serials, Raiders of the Lost Ark can be divided into episodes, with the close each being punctuated by a cliff-hanger. Uncharted mirrors this form precisely, with each game in the series being split into 22 chapters. Typically, they also conclude in mouth-gaping spectacular, after which Drake and the audience collectively draw breath before the title of the next chapter is revealed. There are no load screens, no intrusive divides, one sequences seamlessly dovetails into the next. The pace never slackens.

There is also much in common in terms of plot, or the lack thereof. It's not that the plots of both franchises aren't compelling (they are), but they exist mainly as a pretext for the exhilarating action. In fact, the action exists because resolution is continually deferred. Explosions, crashes, death-defying leaps, torture, chases, last-minute reprieves, and escapes all get in the way, stopping Drake and Indy from reaching their respective goals. The narrative spurs are nearly always interchangeable. It doesn't matter whether it's the search for the Holy Grail or the lost city of El Dorado, the quest for Sivalinga or the Cintamani stone. It doesn't really matter what Drake or Indy is after. It's what happens along the way that stays with you.

With a few notable exceptions - Nolan's Batman films, for instance - the arms race of the summer has taken the blockbuster to a place where characterisation is on the whole subservient to concussive pyrotechnics. In Uncharted, though, character remains paramount.


Indy chopped and changed his love interests with each film, sacrificing emotional continuity. Uncharted, however, has maintained and developed a small core of characters, adding genuine romance and heart to the blueprint. Elena and Chloe, like Marion Ravenwood, are strong female characters, who endure as strongly in the mind as Drake. They aren't hapless, helpless heroines always waiting for him. They know how to throw punch and hold a gun. Similarly, whereas Henry Jones Snr. only appears in the Last Crusade, Sully has been a gruff paternal presence throughout the whole Uncharted series. In terms of characterisation and the development, Naughty Dog has outstripped its inspiration.


Earlier, I wrote that the essence of a great blockbuster is to be simultaneously familiar yet different. Star Wars did it by setting ancient archetypal mythology amidst the stars. Jaws achieved it by taking the classic tale of man confronting the monster and setting it in a parochial seaside town. Uncharted is doing it by learning from one of the very best.

Nowhere is this debt more pronounced than in the multiple scenes in which Drake runs towards camera with peril nipping at his heels. You can't help but think of Indy fleeing from that gigantic boulder. Initially, it was an affectionate allusion, but now we've reached the point where the Uncharted series has made this sequence firmly its own, to the point where I no longer think of Indy first; I think of Drake.

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