I went into Dispatch with a goal in mind: Be a hard-ass. Seeing the trailers for Adhoc’s revival of Telltale’s signature cinematic, choice-focused story games, I figured it would be fun to roleplay its lead, Robert Robertson, as a straight-shooting boss who only deals in tough love.
I used to play every Telltale game with a character arc in mind, largely to see whether they could bend enough to allow my interpretation. And Dispatch’s world of superheroes caught in the corporate machine handed me the perfect set-up for my story.
As a former superhero turned operator for the Superhero Dispatch Network, an agency that takes calls from in-peril civilians and sends heroes to their aid, Robert is in charge of the Z-Team. This dysfunctional crew of loud-mouthed, reformed supervillains are easy targets for some tough love and brutal managerial feedback. Dispatch is an episodic game, with half of its weekly episodes putting you in the operator’s chair, sending the Z-Team off to solve cases, level up their individual stats, and deal with any mid-mission issues that emerge.
But it was the other half of Dispatch I was here for, the Telltale-inspired half. Riddled with dialogue choices, chaotic split-second decisions and branching paths, it was exactly what I loved about Telltale’s The Walking Dead. And I got plenty of them. From the off, I was admonishing slip-ups. Rejecting excuses. Establishing authority. One early scenario saw Invisigal, my reckless mentee with the power to turn invisible mess up a mission by ignoring instructions. I went in on her, and she unleashed a cracking punch that knocked Robert on his arse. Proof I was ruffling feathers.
It was two episodes into performing my HR summoning ritual that an opportunity to really lay down the law crossed my desk, though. A member of the Z-Team had to be permanently cut, and I was making the call. Seeing that Invisigal was on the chopping block, I was ready to get sweet revenge for Robert’s bruised ego (and cheek). But, before I could axe her, she left the team of her own volition.
In the phone call that followed, she opened up, explaining she really was trying to be a hero. It wasn’t an eye-rolling pity party. Dispatch’s writing is too smart for that. She just sounded defeated. And while my thumb hovered over the dedicated “be an asshole button,” I got cold feet. The dynamic between her and Robert was too personal. Too well-acted and relatable. So, I encouraged her to rejoin the crew.
Still, the story insisted I cut someone in her place: either Sonar, the crypto bro monster bat, or Coupé, the deadly flying assassin. But I felt too emotionally involved in the decision to be objective. Sonar had to stay. He was less useful than Coupé. To be honest, he was a liability. But if a prior mini-game mission where he begged to pitch ideas to a thinly veiled Elon Musk stand-in was any indication, this dude needed some friends, a little validation and some purpose away from Reddit.
These decisions closed out Dispatch’s third chapter, and they were the moment I realised I couldn’t hack being a hard-ass. The Z-Team were too endearing. They grew on me so quickly that I couldn’t torment them with my roleplay. Even when I tried to get back on course, one episode later, I was asked to fill Coupé’s empty spot, and despite being offered legally distinct Superman, I picked Water Boy: the bumbling, clumsy SDN janitor who desperately wanted to be a superhero. He was a clutz, potentially a danger to himself and others, and his power was just violently vomiting water, but my god, the kid had heart!
My Robert ended up a monumental softie. I could never bring myself to be cruel, because Dispatch’s various reformed super villains and their sarcastic corporate babysitters were too lovable, and its writing too charming to taint with my feeble attempts at tough-love. From Episode 4 onwards, my mean-spirited roleplay experiment had become a cosy weekly hang-out with my gang of super-powered losers, and I wouldn’t have changed it one bit.