I’m generally opposed to the idea of repeating a task for its own sake of biding my time secure in the knowledge that there’s no endpoint to be reached of putting time and effort into developing a multi-faceted, fully-functioning subterranean paradise when the only thing to do with it is, eventually, abandon it. There are lots of things which don’t appeal to me about these endless, repetitive games, but in fairness to this one, none of them are really Fallout Shelter’s fault. But in Fallout Shelter, a game which solely revolves around the accruing and balancing of resources, it’s easy to boil away all the extraneous, bothersome morality and just regard everything in the game – up to and including people – as differently-shaped commodities. Vice versa, too: spend enough time looking for it, and you’re sure to stumble across something which doesn’t necessarily gel with your personal philosophies. If you root around in the guts of any fictional world you’ll probably find all kinds of insightful social commentary – intentional or otherwise. It has that fifties-era cutesy aesthetic, and the series has always been about parodying archaic ideologies. Is Fallout Shelter’s cavalier attitude to women and children a razor-sharp satirization of 1950s family values? Hell, maybe. If it were up to me I’d get the kids involved too, seeing as how when they’re born they stroll smugly out of the elevator like biology ain’t a thing, but apparently child labour is where the game draws the line. There’s no decline in their productivity, they can toil around the clock without food or water, and if a fire breaks out or Raiders invade, they do the sensible thing and run away. Mums-to-be in Fallout Shelter get a spiffy yellow t-shirt, unbridled happiness and, oddly, the gift of immortality. Maybe I should feel bad about the bulk of my workforce being in its third trimester, but frankly, I can’t see any downside to it.
There are two blokes in the doorway with rocket launchers and body armour, waiting to repel any would-be invaders my most virile dweller is mooching around in the living quarters, serially impregnating everyone who happens by, and about three hours ago I sent one lucky chap out into the irradiated wasteland, though I’ve just remembered I haven’t checked on him since. I’ve got seventeen pregnant women operating pumps and heavy machinery, serving food, broadcasting radio signals and churning out medical supplies.
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