Gears of War: E-Day - Co-op on Mute

Four of us spawn into the Horde Siege briefing room. One of my new teammates heads to the supply drop to do a last-second check of their loadout, which is sensible, while another heads toward the exit, revving their chainsaw. The third is yet to move. I jump on top of a large table and scatter the items on top, because jumping on tables is funny.

A timer is counting down from ten. When it hits zero, our team will be unleashed on the Locusts, who we can already hear shrieking outside. As it hits five seconds, we gather by the door - there's just enough time to do a reload check, but not enough to climb back onto the table.

Zero! The doors fling open and we sprint out into mayhem, but we do so in silence. Or at least it's silence for me, as I've muted everyone.

For all I know, the rest of my team is nattering away, sharing strategies or cussing me out for jumping on the table. I don't know for sure, but I get the feeling they're not. Actions over words; fragging peacefully.

Having finished and greatly enjoyed the Gears of War: E-Day campaign, I decided to spend a few evenings in Horde Siege, which is a multiplayer co-operative mode set in the same city as the campaign. Four squads of four operate across a generous slice of the city, taking on dynamic missions which are all basically variations on retrieve, defend, diffuse, or massacre, before being extracted.

It's good fun, if a little repetitive, and I've been pleasantly surprised by how easy it is to perform in sync and move as a cohesive unit with my fellow human players, all of whom have been strangers who I've muted. 

When you're released from the briefing room, you're immediately flung into the shit. Even if there isn't a battle unfolding in front of you, either triggered by your own team or one of the other three, you will still need to make quick decisions about which of the mission icons you're going to pursue first.

Even without communication, nine times out of ten, my teammates and I have instinctively moved to the same icon, unprompted. There has been a collective understanding of when to pursue side missions or when to head directly to main tasks; when to scavenge for ammo and when to lend a hand to other squads. A silent agreement as to when we should wipe out every Locust in sight or when to just push through and make them someone else's problem. This shared understanding is partially due to exceptionally good level design, as well as thoughtful enemy spawning. It is pretty easy to read your environment and decipher what type of activity that setting lends itself to, and whether you should dig in or push forward. It's also rooted in a shared understanding of how to approach Gears co-op, and an overall co-op literacy shared by my new friends and I. A bit of all that, I reckon.

My approach to multiplayer may be somewhat antisocial, as I always mute mics, no matter the game. But I do like to play with others, even if I don't care to hear what they have to say. In E-Day, I've sought and found the high that comes from successfully working cooperatively, fending off waves of soft-fleshed ghouls or pulling off last-minute revives with new temporary acquaintances. I get a kick out of choosing to spend my in-session currency on upgrades that will benefit the entire team, and love to see my teammates do likewise. The vast majority of the people I've played with haven't needed to be told to share, support, or to work in sync, and that has greatly enhanced my enjoyment.

At the end of each session, the team is presented with one last opportunity to work cohesively. The squad must rid the pick-up point of enemies, so that the extraction 'copter can land and take us home. When the job is done, you are invited to man a turret on the aircraft and luxuriate in a few seconds of super-violence, carving your way through whatever is left of the pursuing Locust, and giving one last assist to any partners still mired in the shit. 

In one memorable session, we left a teammate behind, as they died just short of the craft. They were heartbreakingly close, but not close enough for us to revive them and make it back to the helicopter in time. Unable to communicate, or at least unable to communicate with me, everyone on the helicopter knew to remain onboard, and not attempt a heroic rescue. One last group decision that didn't need to be said out loud.

Had our fallen brother been audible, I'm sure they would have praised our synchronised inaction. They would have thanked us for our service as their head was crushed like a grape under the boot of a disturbingly large Locust. 

Or they may have just been screaming at us to "get the fuck down here and revive me". Dunno, couldn't hear them.

Because of the muting.