Longswords and Lightsabers

I think everybody remembers the first time they saw a lightsaber ignite (I am sure there are people who don't, and I don't want to hear from those people; let me keep my now-Disney magic).  I'm not sure why that is.  Swords are one of those weapons, like pistols, that have an impact on culture that is all out of proportion to their impact on war, but there is something about a lightsaber that I find thrilling even now, even when I prefer to see the Jedi as a morally bankrupt collection of self-important slavers.  I can recall the scene from Episode IV where Obi-Wan ignites Anakin's lightsaber for Luke with vivid clarity, visually and emotionally.  I remember feeling like I was going to pop out of my skin in excitement when I saw the new, more Hong Kong-inspired lightsaber choreography in Episode I.  I remember the entire theater erupting in approbation when Yoda first drew his lightsaber in Episode II.

In 2002, Star Wars Insider 62 made a serious go at building the lore of how you actually use a lightsaber.  No, I didn't read the article.  But the idea still thrilled me when I found out about it (through Knights of the Old Republic II, I think).  Geeks love datasets to master, so how could I resist learning about the fictional lore of the seven canonical forms of lightsaber combat?  They even have cool names, and who can resist memorizing cool, arbitrary names to refer to cool fictional concepts?  Well, I can't.

On the other hand, the more I learn about fighting, the less enamored I am of the concepts of systems of fighting.  That is to say, I am increasingly convinced that true mastery of an art (be it a martial art or not) lies not finding the best collection of teachings about that art and mastering them, but in realizing that all teachings about the art are merely tools to be encompassed.  He is not the master of lightsaber combat who can effortlessly switch among the seven canonical forms, each of which he has mastered.  Rather, he is the master of lightsaber combat whose form cannot be categorized, meeting always the needs of the moment.  To reach this level of mastery, perhaps it is necessary to master the seven individual forms, and perhaps not, but in no case is the form - the system - the goal.

This being my understanding of real fighting, many of the uses of lightsaber combat lore in actual Star Wars media seem amateurish and hackneyed to me.  Obi-Wan Kenobi is sent to confront the famed Jedi killer General Grievous because Obi-Wan is a master of soresu, the defensive form - only a master of soresu can be expected to withstand Grievous' furious assault.  Count Dooku is a nearly unbeatable duelist because he has concentrated on mastering makashi, the dueling form.  The whole affair seems awfully rock-paper-scissors to me.

"You're using Bonetti's defense against me, eh?"

"I thought it fitting, considering the rocky terrain."

"Naturally, you must suspect me to attack with Capo Ferro."

"Naturally, but I find that Thibault cancels out Capo Ferro.  Don't you?"

"Unless the enemy has studied his Agrippa ... which I have."

That's just ... not how it works.  Or if it is, I shall be very much surprised to discover it.

 For me, the magic is gone if the unreality rises above the height at which I can suspend my disbelief.  The clone army (among other things) destroyed the magic of the Jedi for me (well, put the final nail in the coffin), and it took Karen Traviss' Republic Commando books saying, "Hey, no, that is simply genetic slavery, you tossers" to bring it back (yes, oddly, being able to admit the Jedi are morally bankrupt, self-important slavers revives the magic for me).  And recently, I found something to revive the magic of lightsaber combat.

Although each of the seven canonical forms may be a caricature of real fighting, collectively, I think they can be thought of as standing for principles that are actually useful in actual sword fighting.  Yes, I actually sometimes think to myself in sparring, "Ataru.  Keep your hands high."

Shii Cho, Form I, was noted for its preference for direct, simple movements.  In reality, simple is always better, but shii cho can still stand for that principle: every movement of the sword should be as simple as will still get the job done.  For instance, when striking, don't cock the sword back first - strike from where the sword already is, or if it must be cocked back, incorporate that into your guard.  Shii cho means the elimination of extraneous movements and flourishes.

Makashi, Form II, was noted for its elegance and precision, considered the height of lightsaber dueling.  Makashi can stand for the principle of precision.  For instance, when parrying, move your weapon as far as necessary to displace the incoming blow - but no farther.  Makashi means that movements must not only be simple, not only direct, but also precise.

Soresu, Form III, was noted for its defensive emphasis.  Soresu stands for the principle that Tristan phrases thus: "Priority one: stay alive.  Priority two, kill the other person."  The most obvious application of this principle is never to ignore the enemy's blade.  It is surprisingly difficult, even in the heat of mock-combat, not to take an opening that presents itself even if doing so results in you being struck.  True it may be that one should never draw a sword without intending to put somebody in a coma, a wheelchair, or a bodybag, but a true art aims to do so with maximum safety.  Priority one is to stay alive.  The enemy's incapacitation is priority two.  Soresu.

Ataru, Form IV, was noted for its mobility and use of the Force to assist the practitioner's movements.  Ataru stands for the principle of athleticism.  We can explain this in two ways.  The first is that every movement should be made not only directly, simply, and precisely, but also with speed and power.  It does no good to strike or parry slowly, for the slow sword is easily intercepted or overpowered and will not cut.  The second is that nothing the swordsman does should be limited by the fact that it is a strain on the body. It is easier to keep the hands close to the body, for fully extending them with a three-pound sword is a strain, but that is bad form and unsafe.  The only way to effortlessly achieve proper form is fitness, athleticism.  Ataru.

Shien / Djem So, Form V, was an evolution of soresu with an offensive twist.  Whereas soresu would deflect a blaster bolt, shien would deflect it into an enemy.  Soresu parries and waits for an opening; djem so parries and creates an opening.  In shien, we may see an expression of the concept the German masters referred to as fühlen, or feeling.  Fühlen is the art of sensing how the enemy is moving his blade against yours in order to predict what he is going to do and, armed with such knowledge, to exploit his momentum.  If the enemy is attempting to overpower your blade, do not resist - rather, let his determination force his own weapon off balance as you strike.  If the enemy is offering no resistance, seize control of his weapon and strike.  Djem so stands for the principle of controlling the fight.  This can mean striking first, but more importantly it means that one should never simply defend.  Parry in such a way that your blade is poised for a counterattack while the opponent's is not - or, if possible, counterattack and parry with the same (simple, direct, precise, powerful) motion.  When attacking, do so in a way that controls the enemy's blade either directly (i.e., blade-to-blade contact) or forecloses the counterattacks that can easily be made from his current guard.  Together, shien and djem so mean that safety lies not simply in defending oneself, but in dominating the enemy and his weapon.

Niman, Form VI, was a moderate form that lay somewhere in between the other six canonical lightsaber forms.  While niman proved unsuitable for actual combat (as many Jedi discovered to their cost during Episode II), it may stand for the principle of synthesis.  That is to say, all principles of fencing must be combined and internalized in a unified way.  One cannot be direct one moment, precise the next, and then fast the third, any more than one can only think about defense in one moment and then only think about offense the next; all movements must be governed by all principles at once, and ultimately the individual principles ought to merge in the unconscious mind until they are simply "fighting," so that one's movements are not only simple, direct, precise, and powerful, but also spontaneous, without the hesitation that comes from thinking, "What am I supposed to do next?"  Niman means what the heroes of the Iliad say to to encourage their comrades: "Remember all your excellence, for now is the time for you to be a spearman (well okay, swordsman) and a bold warrior."

Juyo, Form VII (that's right, I don't count vaapad), was a form characterized by a bold offense and intense emotional focus on the enemy.  Known as the "ferocity form," juyo stands for the principle of aggression.  Swordsmanship may lead to deep self-mastery and control, but the sword itself is a tool to put people in wheelchairs, comas, or body bags.  One must strike not only simply, directly, precisely, powerfully, spontaneously, but with intent.  The goal of striking is not to score points, but to so devastate the enemy's body that he either surrenders or is physiologically incapable of continuing to attack.  This is not to say that only fight-ending strikes should be struck.  Rather, the killer instinct that juyo stands for underlies proper form itself.  One cannot strike spontaneously or quickly if one is hesitant to hurt the enemy.  Juyo is training to suppress the resistance to harming another human being.  It is, as Chief Harkness says, deciding right now, ahead of time, that you're gonna kill the motherfucker if that's what it takes.

And so this is how lightsaber combat becomes relevant to me again.  There are more principles to KDF than these, of course - these are simply devices to give extra mnemonic weight to things I should be thinking about.  When I am sparring, are my feet so placed, my hands so gripping the sword, and my guard so held that am I set up to strike or defend without any extraneous movement?  Shii cho.  When I practice my cuts, am I hyperextending my wrists; when I wind, am I keeping my point on target; when I parry, am I wildly over-committing?  Makashi.  Am I thinking, at all times, of how my feet can move to void an attack and how my sword can displace an attack given their current positions - and whether those defensive movements match up with what attacks my opponent can make given his stance?  Soresu.  Am I thinking not only of how I can void and displace, but how I can do so in a way that will threaten my opponent and regain the initiative?  Shien.  Am I not simply planning how to react to my opponent but how to make him react to me?  Djem so.  Am I striking to full extension, keeping my parries strong and extended, and holding my guards in their proper position even if it makes me tired?  Ataru.  Am I in this to win the game that is sparring, or to kill my opponent?  Juyo.  Am I thinking about all this at once?  Niman.

Today was a Day

I don't think I've done a "here's what happened today" post in years, but today was a pretty good day and people sometimes wonder what I'm up to when I'm not working (and I don't feel that there's much about work I can say in a forum like this), so I think I'm going to do one.

Today was a pretty good day.  I woke up fairly early, and decided not to go grocery shopping since I didn't want to risk delivery making me late for fencing.  Instead I made a list of things to do today on my special notepad (just a regular notepad, but one of the first things I bought in New York) with my special pen (just a regular pen that I keep in my pocket, but having a writing instrument be part of my everyday panoply makes me feel more like a man).  Since there was no work today, I could concentrate on housekeeping.

The first item of "housekeeping" was to get things ready for the Silverway session tomorrow.  At last my poor neglected D&D campaign can move forward, in our new DM-is-in-New-York format.  Part of successful DMing over a remote platform like roll20.net is getting the space set up beforehand, so I hopped online and got my digital house (or tabletop, I suppose) in order.  Then it was off to fencing.  I decided not to take chapter five of On Basilisk Station because I try not to print things here at the apartment, and I'm almost done with chapter five so I wanted to save what was left for Monday's commute.  I find the mando alphabet harder to read than the aurebesh.  At first I thought it was because I had more practice with aurebesh (yes, I go to Star Tours in part to practice reading a fictional script, and yes, I pause episodes of The Clone Wars to read the aurebesh), but by now I think I can say that's not the case.  I think it's just that more mando letters look similar to each other than in the aurebesh or English alphabet.  As a native English speaker it's hard to judge which English letters are confusingly similar (b, d, p and q, certainly, but what about, say, e and c?), but I feel like the aurebesh letters are fairly distinct from one another, whereas in the mando alphabet I still sometimes get confused between a and p, b and q, c, t, g and w, k and r, l and s, m and n, and u and x are all pretty similar to each other - that's virtually the entire alphabet.  Still, it's a fun project.  Practice practice.

Speaking of practice, today was my first time back to fencing in almost a month.  But I see that I have written many paragraphs about that, so let me skip fencing for now.  After class, I hung around a bit and actually got invited to go to the bar with the guys in what is apparently a post-fencing ritual.  That would be nice, but I don't know if I have the money for it.  Maybe I should try to make room for it.  It would be good to have friends outside of work.

At any rate, I went home, did my meager grocery shopping, and then finished up my laundry.  Turns out the massive cardboard flat that's been under the stairs in front of my apartment actually had a tiny label on it declaring that it was for me: my ironing board had arrived.  A full-size ironing board is not something that my housemates felt the need to find room for (and given their jobs, who can blame them?), but after trying to iron pants on a countertop ironing board I decided that enough was enough, and bought my own full-size ironing board.  Now my pants (and dry cleaning budget) can feel the firepower of this fully armed and operational ... clothes-pressing ... operation?  Anyway, since I have the apartment to myself I had a nice quiet time doing my ironing like a big boy and singing worship songs.  And that brings me to, well, now.  A nice, responsible day.

So ... I guess that brings me back to KDF.

Since I had been gone, I had ordered a fencing helmet (for some reason Raab Rashi, the studio owner/katana instructor - I use his name because I don't think he'd mind the modest advertising additional internet presence brings - refers to them as "helmets," instead of "fencing masks," though I suppose they do provide more throat, side, and back protection than a regular fencing mask) and picked up a cheap pair of lacrosse gloves in anticipation of the new advanced/sparring hour, as I had been told this was the minimum allowable safety equipment.  I am quite happy with the helmet, although I may have to invest in a set of contacts - only wearing them once a week, they should last me for quite a while.  I am really quite happy with the gloves, even though they're cheap by lacrosse standards, and even though at some point I'd like to upgrade to hard-shell gauntlets.  Since the studio now offers unlimited KDF training, today I was going to go to all three Saturday classes: beginning, open level, and advanced/sparring.

The beginning and open level classes were a lot of fun.  I try to work on keeping my face impassive during class, since facial expression can give away your intentions in a fight.  It is surprisingly difficult not to show in your face that you have mentally committed to hitting somebody, so it's something I try to practice whenever I have a sword in my hand or when I drill in the mornings.  Today, though, it was really hard to keep from grinning.  As we practiced our cuts in the beginning class and some zwerchau and scheitelhau plays ("plays" is the KDF term for "things you can do from a given position or with a given maneuver") in the open level, I could feel my pulse quicken, my airways open up, and my heart lift.  It was good, exciting, and alive.  I am starting to actually feel part of the class community, too, which is also good, exciting, and alive.

And then we got to the sparring class.  This was still good, but much less thrilling.  I was expecting that, of course, since I didn't really feel ready for sparring.  I went because Raab recommended I do so for the sake of learning despite my comparative inexperience.  When to begin free fencing is a topic that I know many weapons instructors have different views on, but I figured that this was the opinion being expressed by my fencing authority (well, one of them), so I might as well go with it.  I went in expecting to get beat up a lot, and the fact that my right hand, left index finger, right pinky, and both forearms are still sore eight hours later is testament to the fact that I did.  For the record, getting walloped, even with the padded boffers I was using, hurts more than getting shot in paintball - or at least the soreness and tenderness lasts longer.  Since I do not yet own a fencing jacket I wasn't allowed to spar with nylon, and as much as I hate to shy away from bruises, I have to admit that was probably wise.

I would have liked a little more structure to the rules of sparring.  I have no interest in counting points or in deciding who "wins" a bout, of course, but I do have plenty of interest in learning how to do it for real.  For now, there is plenty for my brain to sponge up without worrying about that sort of thing, but for the future, I want to know - do we stop our rounds after a good hit has been landed, or only after a good hit has been landed and the attacker has successfully made it to safety?  Those seem to be the two major schools of thought.  To them I would add a third, or at least like to raise the question at some point: what about stopping our rounds only after a crippling hit has been landed?  We've already been taught a few cuts that are clearly not going to end a fight, but this point is bigger than that.  For instance, I get the impression that most practitioners would stop a bout (score a point, whatever) after a thrust that would run their opponent through the lung.  And that is certainly a good hit.  But of course, being impaled through the lungs is not crippling, and is not even especially likely to be mortal, so ... should we really stop sparring just because that's happened?  To put it another way, I suppose I'd like to have a clearer idea of what our sparring is trying to achieve ... which is probably a post for another time.

I'm still very glad I went, though.  We only had enough space for two pairs to be sparring at once, and as many of the guys (there are several women who are regulars in class, but none of them happened to be present for today's sparring class) had just gotten their fancy new fencing jackets, they were excited to be sparring with nylon.  That left me with a disproportionate amount of time with the boffers, which are heavy, imbalanced, and generally make me feel slow as molasses.  This in turn makes it extra difficult for me to remember what I know.  But that was perhaps a good thing, as the senior student I did two bouts with turned them into teaching experiences rather than just beating on me, and Tristan reminded me that I actually did know several plays applicable to the situations the aforesaid student was deliberately putting me into.  As before, when I was handling these same boffers in June, it all felt very serious.  I could feel my mind engage its learning mode, just trying to absorb as much data as possible.

I saw The Wolverine last weekend, and it reminded me how much fencing is not like dance.  I have a tendency to compare it to dance, because that's what I know, and it's a fairly well-established trope in fiction that a very skillful combatant looks like he or she is dancing.  It often looks that way in film, television, and stage, and those are generally the only ways most people see fencing.  But fencing is not dancing.  There is no rhythm to fencing, no internal metronome.  There is a metronome in fight choreographies, of course, because the performers need to synchronize their timing or the choreography would break down.  But when doing it for real, the metronome is replaced by asynchronous movement - not just asynchronous movements, but moving when and in a way for which one's opponent is not prepared - and speed, as much of it as one's mind, reflexes, and conditioning can muster - and if that is more speed than one's opponent can muster, too bad for him.

There are other ways in which I notice that fencing is not like dance.  One that's been deviling me is this: when I practice "leaping" to the side with my zwerchauen (that is, at least as I have been taught, simply taking a long lateral step), I have a tendency to recover by bringing my trailing foot too far - the instep of my trailing foot ends up directly aligned with the heel of my leading foot, so the two could be brought together to form a T.  This, of course, is because I practiced that very stance in college ad nauseum, attempting to ingrain in myself the classic stance of a 19th century gentleman at ease in a ballroom and presenting his silhouette to best advantage.  I guess it worked, because my trailing foot can find that position in my sleep.  For fencing, though, having both feet in line like that weakens one's balance.  I've been working on this minor thing all week, and I was very proud of myself the other day when I could finally throw a phantom right zwerchau at speed without falling into that T-stance ... only to discover that the problem had migrated to my left zwerchau.  Well, practice practice.

One thing that is like dance, though - so far, at least - is the mental process of learning.  The Dance Master always used to tell us that if we were having trouble learning a step, we should just go home and sleep on it - we'd find that it made more sense after giving our brains that time to process.  I've definitely experienced this in my park drills - on one day I just won't be able to keep from rising on the balls of my feet when I cut (another dance habit), and on the next day I can stay grounded.  I haven't had a chance to experience this in our open level drills and plays, because we haven't been repeating things from class to class (yet; perhaps this will change with the addition of Tuesday night classes), but I look forward to seeing it at least with respect to sparring.

And on that note, I should end this post and get to sleep.  Mental processing, and Silverway, await!

Empire at War

I was thinking today about the best Star Wars games of all time. I would name them as these: TIE Fighter, Knights of the Old Republic, and Republic Commando. I'd add X-Wing, X-Wing: Alliance, Jedi Knight II, and Jedi Academy if we want to extend the list beyond three. And just maybe Empire at War. I've been meaning to comment on Empire at War for a while, and since I'm fairly deep into my first imperial campaign in the expansion I figured this post is about due.

A brief overview for those of you who are interested in my game posts but aren't familiar with the title. Empire at War is basically a Galactic Civil War alternate-history sandbox. The game takes place on both the strategic and tactical levels, both in real time. The strategic (interstellar) part of the game consists of building your forces and planetary bases and maneuvering on the galactic scale. Base building is similar to Rome: Total War - specific buildings are required for specific units and other buildings, but it isn't a "base building" game in the sense of a classic RTS; either a planet has a particular facility or it doesn't. Planets are differentiated from one another by the tactical map associated with that particular planet (e.g., the famous stormtrooper training world of Carida reduces the cost of infantry units), the amount of credits they contribute to the owner's economy, the allegiance and formidability of the natives, a strategic or tactical bonus appropriate to the world, the maximum supportable number of land facilities, and the maximum supportable size of space station.

As a Star Wars game goes that's mostly all you'd want. One potential disappointment is the fact that the Rebellion functions, strategically, pretty much just like the Empire - while the Rebels have a slight informational advantage in terms of concealing the forces at a particular world from their enemies, the core mechanism of expansion is conquering planets. This makes the game play like fairly late in the Civil War (post-Endor), when the Rebellion was legitimate enough that planets would actually declare their allegiance to the fledgling "New Republic" even though the Empire was clearly not defeated. Whether this is a failing sort of depends on your point of view. Empire at War is clearly trying to let you rewrite Star Wars history, so maybe the Rebellion in this game is actually far more formidable than the Rebellion in Star Wars canon. That's kind of cool. On the other hand, it means that you can't play the "where is the Rebel base?" kind of skulk-and-hide that you might want to. The criminal faction in the expansion, the Zann Consortium, actually plays rather more like you'd expect the classic Rebellion to play. The Consortium can conquer planets, but it can also "corrupt" worlds held by other players by setting up a variety of criminal enterprises in the system. Consortium units can travel anywhere within the corrupted network of systems by paying [sometimes very hefty] bribe costs, allowing them to strike without warning anywhere within the web of corruption.

Once combat is initiated the strategic map pauses, and you fight the battle out on the tactical level using whatever forces you have brought to the system, or whichever forces are stationed in the system. Space combat is basically built around a rock-paper-scissors type of system, with roughly four rates of combatants: starfighters, corvettes, frigates/cruisers, and capital ships. Starfighters are represented on the "squadron" level (though the number of ships in a squadron varies from three to seven depending on class) and are divided into space superiority fighters and bombers. Bombers are valuable for their proton torpedoes, which in this game bypass shields, making them potentially devastating to anything larger than a corvette. Space superiority fighters are valuable as dogfighters and interceptors. Both are extraordinarily vulnerable to the corvette-class vessels, which fill an anti-fighter fleet defense role, and are in turn no match for your frigates and cruisers. Capital ships, which can only be built at particular worlds famous for their shipyards (e.g., Kuat and Mon Calamari), will eat virtually any starship alive but are potentially vulnerable to bombers.

The game does a good job, I think, of presenting an interesting and Star Wars-y space combat problem. The tactical problem in space is really dominated by the really big ships and the really small ships. Unmolested bombers can make quick work of even an Imperial Star Destroyer. A few corvettes can create a virtually impenetrable fighter defense, but these pickets are in turn easy pickings for the enemy's heavy combatants, which both outrange and outgun them. A fighter screen can do the same work without that vulnerability, but not as efficiently - and that tactic also opens the door for a few daring corvettes on the enemy's side to punch a gaping hole in your fighter screen. The great skill is to manage your formation so as to create a gap in the enemy's coverage without creating one in your own - usually all with the aim of letting the ponderous capital ships bring their awesome firepower to bear (and the firepower of a single Star Destroyer is truly awesome, I assure you) or letting your bombers begin their run.

The defender in a space battle will usually be defending a space station (and sadly, no planet may have more than one space station), which may range in formidability from a mere deterrence to a fleet-smashing fortress depending on how much has been invested in it. Space stations have fighters and starships assigned to them as garrisons. These garrison ships play an important part in the tactical dynamic of attacking and defending. Each level of station has a fixed number of garrison units it can have in the fight at any given time. The trick is, so long as the station's hangar hardpoint is intact (frigate-sized vessels and up are composed of individually targetable subsystems such as weapons, shield generators, engines, flight control, etc.), destroyed garrison units will be periodically replaced. Thus, the attacker has an incentive to strike hard and decisively, to minimize the impact of these extra units; while the defender is well served by playing a delaying game. There is a finite number of units either side can have on the board at any given time, so players can have reserves ready to hyperspace in as units are destroyed. Garrison units do not count against this ship limit, so the defender has a potential numerical advantage, but this rarely obtains as it is quite difficult to issue every system a formidable defense fleet from the regular navy.

Both land and space combat have their "super weapons," which is only appropriate in a Star Wars game. Your space battle super weapons are planetside surface-to-orbit guns which must be constructed like any other base building. The Rebels have their signature v-150 Planet Defender ion cannon, while the Empire has a hypervelocity mass driver. These weapons are substantial obstacles to anything larger than a corvette, although they are also quite expensive and take up a base slot that could be used for something else. They have a nice feel to them - there's really no counter except to destroy the weapon with a commando raid (if you're the Rebels), use only small ships, or to attack with several times the force you otherwise would have.

Land combat follows a similar basic dynamic but has a few extra wrinkles thrown in. Each land map has several "reinforcement points," which are areas suitable for landing troops. The number of units (measured in platoons ranging from two to five armored vehicles or two to three squads of infantry) the attacker can have on planet at any given time depends on the number of reinforcement points he controls (each LZ allowing a different number of units, so some are more valuable than others), while the defender can start the battle with a full complement of units from his regular army plus the garrison units deployed by his base buildings, which are replaced as destroyed just as in a space battle. Control of the map's landing zones is usually an important piece of victory, as the landing zones constrain the momentum of an attack. It is even possible, if one can manage it, to cut off the attacking units completely by capturing all the LZs on the map - thus, while the enemy may have a very large army in orbit, he may literally have no place to land them.

Star Wars has always followed a World War-style tactical model, so it is appropriate that the land units be classified (more or less) into infantry, light armor, heavy armor, and artillery. Infantry is important for its ability to effectively engage other infantry and its ability to capture locations (such as landing zones) and the "build pads" which are scattered across each map at important locations and which allow you to emplace pre-fabricated turrets and repair stations. Infantry is what changes the front lines of a battle. Light armor (such as the AT-ST) is about as effective as you'd expect in a World War II game; it's no match for a serious armored fighting vehicle, but it's also fast and a simply insuperable obstacle to infantry with no anti-tank teams. Artillery is relatively short ranged (though longer-ranged than anything else on the battlefield) but devastating against soft targets or emplacements and can make quick work of an infantry advance. Heavy armor is largely the queen of the battlefield (anti-tank teams excepted), so there is again a rock-paper-scissors sort of balancing act between the anti-armor and anti-infantry arms of the service. Unless, of course, the Empire deploys AT-ATs - a weapon against which nothing but overwhelming numbers and brute force will truly avail.

One of the nice things about Empire at War's land combat is that it allows for situations in which one side simply cannot win. If you have run out of anti-armor capable units or emplacements it really doesn't matter how many men you have left on the field so long as the enemy has even a token force of tanks or walkers. At the same time, a single anti-armor turret can do for virtually an entire platoon of light armor. If the enemy has brought airspeeders to the fight and you have no anti-aircraft capabilities, you have already lost. A single AT-AT really can win an entire battle if the other side is unprepared. You don't find that sort of model in games very often, and it's nice to appreciate it when it happens.

Your land super weapons are bombing sorties (assuming you have any bombers in orbit) and, in the expansion, orbital bombardment. Star Wars has never had much land-air integration, and this game is no exception, but the periodic use of bombers or bombardment does open up some interesting strategies. Sorties are only available periodically, so a battle has to drag on some time before they're available, but they can also flatten pretty much anything in a single run. Thus they can be used to clear choke points, add anti-armor punch to an otherwise light attack, or smash a base building that would otherwise be beyond reach.

One frustrating thing about land combat (and to a lesser extent space combat) is that the build pads (or the defense satellites, which are far less numerous than build pads) can only be built upon during a battle. These are an important part of the battlefield; they help to give it shape and substance, and they also increase the cost of a battle (since each emplacement costs a small amount of money), which is an important strategic consideration. A base can be made significantly more or less defensible based on the geography of these emplacements. So it's well worth your time to build on them after you've effectively won a battle, but that means trekking infantry all the way out to each one, which is silly.

The other interesting thing about land battles is that most worlds have natives who are friendly either to the Empire or Rebellion (and a few have natives who are just plain hostile) and are produced, garrison-like, from native dwellings on the map. Depending on the world in question the natives may be mere unfortunates who are caught in the crossfire or a serious tactical consideration. On most worlds they're mere civilians armed with blaster pistols, good for little more than harassing attacks or capturing undefended locations (since they live all across the map, though, they can be highly useful for capturing advance landing zones or fortifying locations in advance of your main force). A few worlds, such as Kashyyyk (the wookiee homeworld), have natives who are actually quite fearsome. And on some the natives are formidable through sheer numbers. Endor, for instance, is virtually impossible for the Empire to conquer if the Ewoks are backed by even a handful of Rebel troops. The Ewoks are not formidable fighters, but they are numerous, and if properly supported can overrun the initial imperial beachhead with ease.

Combat is a nice mix of the small and large scale. The Rebels have the unique option of slipping a small force of ground troops past a planet's orbital defenses and attacking its land facilities directly, so there's always the specter of a small-scale action - and as I said, it's difficult to adequately cover your systems, so even the front lines can wind up being essentially small unit actions. The feel of the game sort of switches organically in smaller actions from formation management to individual unit management. I was once down to defending a base with two squads of stormtroopers and a pair of speeder bikes, defending against the exhausted remnants of a Rebel attack that were just unwilling to give up and retreat. The action mostly consisted of the scout troopers trying to buy time for the stormtroopers to get some emplacements ready, and had a very nice edge-of-your-seat feeling. Or again, I once defeated an Acclamator-class assault ship with a single Corellian corvette by luring the Acclamator's fighter screen away and then leading it a merry chase through an asteroid field until the rocks pounded it to rubble. That kind of shift to the individual and heroic happens quite naturally, and is a nice shift.

And finally there are the heroes - the obvious ones like Luke Skywalker, Emperor Palpatine, Obi-Wan, Darth Vader, and the like; and the less obvious ones like Captain Piett ("You are in command now ... Admiral Piett") and Mon Mothma. The game does a good job of balancing the innately hero-driven aspect of the Star Wars universe and keeping things relatively realistic (and therefore keeping your troops relevant). Some, like Darth Vader, have a presence in both land and space. Others are only combatants in land battles (e.g., Obi-Wan), space battles (Capt. Piett), or not combatants at all (Mon Mothma and Grand Moff Tarkin). Basically heroes are exceptional at what they're good at, and just like everyone else otherwise. Rogue Squadron can do for a large number of TIE fighters, but they aren't that great against a Tartan cruiser. Some of my favorite moments have been with the Jedi, like the time Yoda cut through an entire platoon of stormtroopers only to be stepped on by an AT-ST. Or the time I discovered the Emperor himself on a planet, and he turned my prize heavy armor company against me using the Dark Side of the Force ... and then as he was plastered by my proton torpedo artillery he croaked, "I did not foresee this!"

So, not the best Star Wars game ever. But pretty close, really.