Lowering Expectations

"Hello. My name is Doug, and I am a motivational speaker."

At least, that's the role I'll be filling today.

There’s quite a serious desire, especially as a beginner, to make a big mark on the game industry.  No matter how rational and level-headed you are, it’s easy to envision yourself as the developer of the next Portal, Angry Birds, or Minecraft.  And yes, there’s the remote possibility that you could be that person.  However, chances are also pretty good that if you get into the game industry at all, you’ll spend much of your career working on rehashes of old concepts, film- and TV-licensed games, and overall generic, unremarkable titles.  If you think about it that way, you can easily start getting concerned.  “I need to make something special right now while I still have the chance.”

So that’s exactly what you try to do.  You put all of your knowledge and skills to the test.  You come up with crazy new concepts and attempt to find ways to execute them.  You attempt to make game engines do things they weren’t designed for.  You work under the guise of “Boy, if I can make this work, I would just be the most awesome person ever!”  You look at your creation as something that no one will be able to ignore.  In a good way.  Not in a Mystery Science Theater 3000 kind of way.

Then again, maybe that’s just me.  Which reminds me…

THIS IS AN IMPORTANT NOTE:

The recommendations in this blog post are not intended to apply to everyone.  This is not general advice.  Everyone has a unique way of working, getting motivated, and making things happen.  If your brain works in a certain way, the information you are about to see may be completely wrong.

What, then, is my target demographic?  Who is this advice designed for?  It’s designed for those who are inspired by the big picture, but who need something else to gain the motivation to learn something new.  It’s for anyone whose delusions of grandeur have overpowered the ability to expand and grow.  It’s for those who have forgotten about the virtues of patience.  And, on a more pathetic note, it’s for people like me who have worked under established guidelines all their lives, and have now realized that they can’t establish guidelines of their own.  In short, it’s for people who need motivation to keep learning.

As we grow up, we’re told to reach for the stars.  There’s nothing we can’t do.  We are awesome.  While this may be true, this line of thinking has a particular, glaring flaw.  When one “reaches for the stars,” there is an implication that the goals we strive for are far away.  In response, we establish short-term goals that can help to lead us to this final step.  Our conscious minds are more capable of interpreting and dealing with these shorter-term goals, delegating our ultimate goal to the back of the mind to be dealt with later.  In a few years, maybe.  Thus, we move incrementally up a path we’ve established, making that unreachable goal seem much more attainable.

As we move closer and closer to our ultimate goal, however, it becomes harder and harder to follow the established path.  While the steps to reach the end become smaller and smaller, the desire to follow those steps diminishes.  When the end is in sight, it comes back into focus and blocks out everything else.  “This is what I’ve sought for years, and it’s about to happen.  My dream is becoming a reality right in front of me.”  We’re so close to the stars now that we can almost reach out and touch them.

“Almost” being the operative word.

Einstein’s theories state that as one moves closer and closer to the speed of light, it requires the expulsion of exponentially greater amounts of energy.  If you’re traveling at 99 percent the speed of light, basic thought would seem to suggest that expending that last percentage point worth of energy would get you there.  In reality, (at least according to the now-aging theory), that extra percentage point would take you to more like 99.00001 percent of light speed.  “Okay, then…light speed is right there.  I’ll just double my energy output and that should put me well over the top.”  So you double your energy output.  You’re now traveling at 99.1 percent of light speed.  So on and so forth.

Reaching for a major goal feels similar to this concept.  In the beginning, it seems outrageous and practically unattainable.  As you move forward and apply yourself to the problem incrementally, you move closer and closer to your goal.  Eventually, you reach that elusive 99 percent.  Only a few simple steps will help you to break that barrier and achieve your dream.  On the other hand, with your dream staring you right in the face, another possibility becomes more and more appealing: you’ll take what you’ve achieved, all you’ve learned, and press forward with it.  You’ll consolidate your 99 percent, make it more efficient, and hope that it can push you the rest of the way.  In the end, though, no matter how much you spruce up your 99 percent, it can still only take you 99 percent of the way.

What’s the point of all this nonsense about percentages?  The gap between knowing MOST of what you need to know about making games and knowing ALL you need to know about making games is bigger than it seems.  More accurately, “knowing all you need to know about making games” doesn’t exist.  There is no 100 percent.  While this is true of anything that demands the accrual of experience, it’s especially true in a field as consistently shifting as gaming.  New technologies, new processes, and new ways of thinking are always entering into play.  There’s always something new to learn.

So let’s take a completely random, out-of-the-blue, entirely hypothetical situation.  Let’s say you graduated from a Bachelor’s program in game design some, I don’t know…32 months ago.  You learned a lot there and built up a pretty sizable skill set.  You know how to market yourself fairly well, and you’ve been trying to use that skill set to net yourself a job in the industry.  Good.  For some reason or reasons unknown, however, you’re just not making a mark with your prospective employers.  Maybe you complain a lot about the requirement for 2 years of experience on so-called “entry-level” jobs.  Maybe you’ve thought about trying to go independent.

Over the course of all this, you’ve been trying to work on some projects to build up your portfolio, and you’ve run into a few snags.  Primarily, you seem to have a lack of fully-completed, fully-playable games available to show to the world.  Now comes the time to ask a question: “Why don’t I have any fully-completed games here?  Is it the fact that I can’t get my [artist / programmer / designer] friends to help [make me some assets / make this thing work / make this thing “work”]?  I know it’s not me because I can do anything.  People have been saying that all my life.  I can do anything, just…not everything all at once.”

Stop right there.  I’m here to crush your spirits.  I’m going to destroy all of your hopes and dreams.

It’s your fault.  You don’t know as much as you think.  You are not worthy.

There.  Now what do we do when people break our spirits?  No, no, stop crying.  It’s okay.

If you find yourself struggling to find motivation, if your eye has been dead-set on the end goal, and if you find yourself struggling to complete your heroic quest, consider that your wakeup call.  What I meant to say is, “You are not worthy…

“…Yet.”

  All that means is that there’s still more to learn.

Of course, the idea that there would ever NOT be more to learn is ridiculous.  What I’m talking about here is taking a step back, going back to your roots, and re-learning the basics.  Whether that means going through old tutorials and training programs for the basics of Unity, something as major as reexamining what makes a game a game, or something as minor as reevaluating the basic language of a C++ sequence you set up at the beginning of a project, going back to basics can remind you of what you need to do to complete your ultimate task.  Treat yourself like a rookie.  At the very least, it will make you feel smart to learn about the things you already know.

But the true goal here is something bigger.  Lowering expectations isn’t so much about making yourself feel more qualified to do what you do.  Really, it’s about reigniting that spark to learn something new.  By going back to the beginning, you get introduced to new avenues you may not have explored before.  New information resources turn up.  New chains of thought are set into motion. 

Perhaps most importantly, you can present yourself with the opportunity to stop trying to solve a specific problem you might be facing.  If you’re building a game from a preexisting engine, it’s easy to get caught up in the frustration of, “I guess the engine just isn’t designed for this.”  Maybe Unreal just isn’t designed to allow two rockets fired from opposite directions to hit each other in midair and explode.  (I’ll admit…I haven’t actually tried this.)  When you go back to the basics of the engine, though, and re-teach yourself about collisions, weapon mechanics, and the basic functionality of code blocks, you can likely discover that all of the elements you need are there.  You may even look at elements you never considered to be part of the solution before.  The more you learn about those basic elements, the easier it becomes to see how they can all be connected to create the desired effect.

Essentially, treating yourself as a rookie gives you the opportunity to stop looking at problems for what they are and start looking at their component parts a bit more.  By doing so, you get a new opportunity to evaluate your problem and tackle it once and for all.

And after that’s done, I’ve got some more work for you.

If you find yourself stuck and you have the luxury of some extra time, step away from the problem and go back to the beginning.  Revisit what you thought you knew, and then, go further.  Before long, you’ll be able to take what you’ve learned and apply it to the problem you’ve been facing.

Theoretically, anyway.  I don’t offer guarantees.

Thank you.  That is all.

Four Years Later

In early 2008, I was engaged in the second of my two college semesters abroad in Montreal.  I took part in a class called “EGD-310: Interactive Storytelling,” a standard part of the curriculum for Game Design students.  Studying in Montreal, however, carried with it a separate perk.  Our instructor was, at the time, working as the lead writer on a recently-announced project for a brand new studio.  While she declined our half-joking requests to be taken onto the project as her brain trust, she was able to share with us her knowledge and experience from years of writing for video games – knowledge and experience that was being put into action a few blocks away.

Though it’s been nearly four years since I was first exposed to those lessons, I’m now able to see them in action and get a more complete picture of what everything means.   With Deus Ex: Human Revolution finally available, I’ve once again entered a classroom with Mary DeMarle, and it’s interesting to see some of her lessons in action.

This blog post is serving dual purposes.  On the one hand, it serves as a [very] limited review of some of the aspects of the narrative for Deus Ex: Human Revolution.  On the other, and more importantly, it analyzes those aspects in an effort to understand the challenges associated with nonlinear narrative development.  As the game is still a somewhat recent release, I’ll do my best to avoid spoilers.

The Basics of Interactive Narrative

Writing for a game is unlike writing for any other medium.  Even a highly linear game demands much more flexibility and depth than a comparable movie or television script.  Most of the issues involved with writing for games come back to one overarching concern: THE PLAYER WILL NEVER DO EVERYTHING YOU WANT.  As a result, every bit of freedom allowed to the player will alter the game narrative in some way.  Player personalities become projected onto characters and a player’s skills and tactics alter a story’s pacing.  Thus, the individual player’s interpretation of a game character’s interaction with the environment – in a way, the plot – will vary depending on the subject concerned.  As more and more freedom is provided to the player, this sensation grows more pronounced.

The above relationship can apply to either implicit or explicit narrative.  When referring to implicit narrative, player freedom refers to the openness of in-game actions.  A greater number of play styles being available indicates a greater level of freedom for implicit narrative.  When referring to explicit narrative, player freedom refers to a diversity of predetermined story elements, i.e., a branching vs. non-branching storyline.  A non-branching storyline provides one set of established plot points which will always be followed in the same sequence.  In contrast, a branching storyline provides the player with these established plot points, but these plot points don’t always link together, or at least not always in the same way.  A branching storyline is still based upon player choice, but unlike with implicit narrative, the established story points play out in the same way for each player.

While level of rigidity can, and often will, be similar between implicit and explicit narrative elements, it doesn’t need to be by any means.  An open explicit narrative with a rigid implicit narrative is similar to a text adventure or a choose-your-own-adventure novel.  Story progression and endings can be changed, but the path to each will play out similarly any time that story path is followed.  An open implicit narrative with a rigid explicit narrative is similar to what you find in a lot of stealth- or action-based games.  While there’s only one core story to follow, there are a fair number of options for how to progress between each one.  Player actions will have minimal bearing on how the explicit plot plays out, but the player’s interpretation of the story will be highly individualized.

This description is very generalized and may come off as a bit confusing.  For that, I apologize.  In the basic sense, though, what matters is that an open explicit narrative will change the plot for ANY player.  An open implicit narrative will change the way the plot is interpreted by an INDIVIDUAL player.

So where does Human Revolution fall in the spectrum of implicit and explicit openness?  The entire concept of its narrative is centered around a high degree of explicit openness.  There are a range of side missions to choose from, branching dialogue tracks, and a variably open world is provided to allow players the option to complete some mission objectives in differing sequences.  Likewise, the implicit narrative is provided a large degree of openness via a combination of stealth and action tactical options, lethal versus non-lethal weaponry, and an RPG-style upgrading system that changes the gameplay style, but has little direct bearing on how the explicit narrative plays out.  The result is a game with a high level of freedom in both implicit and explicit narrative elements.

By its very nature, implicit narrative is something a game writer has little control over.  The most a game writer can really do is leave gaps in the explicit elements to allow room for interpretation.  Layout for implicit narrative falls more in the hands of game designers, level designers, and artists.  Therefore, for the purposes of this discussion, any further reference to the game narrative will refer to narrative of the explicit variety.

Characterization & The “Hero’s Journey”

Deus Ex: Human Revolution

Player Character: Adam Jensen, Security Manager at Sarif Industries, a biotech corporation that creates cybernetic prostheses for various purposes.

Character Traits: Well, he’s male.  He’s sort of…thirties-ish.  A bit of a Matrix character look about him.  Incidentally, sounds a bit like Keanu Reeves.  And, emotionally, um…well…it depends.

One big challenge a writer of an interactive narrative may face is the prospect of developing the main character.  A character’s personality is illustrated through actions; choices made in a given situation, styles of interaction with other characters, and measures taken to solve (or not solve) a problem all combine to give an image of who a character is.  In a game, the main character is a combination of two personalities: the player and the avatar.  Since the actions taken by individual players, i.e., their personalities, are impossible to predict and player choices dictate how the avatar character interacts with the plot, it’s extremely unlikely that a character will develop as both the writer and player desire.

One solution to this problem is to remove all personality from the avatar and allow the player to start from scratch.  This approach is used in many MMORPGs.  The character created is the creation of the player.  This technique, while effective in the open, unending structure of MMORPGs, doesn’t lend itself well to more traditional “beginning, middle, and end” plots.  A plot based around a three-act structure is expected to build and evolve, and that evolution is shown through the characters.  As a result, the characters are affected by events in the plot – affected in ways that the player might not be.  So how do you generate character traits and development for a character whose behavior is affected by actions that can’t always be predicted?

Deus Ex makes use of a highly structured system of narrative branches and dialogue tracks to dictate what sort of range of options the player has for the type of person Adam Jensen will be.  For instance, the various choices made available in dialogue tracks, which may read as “Cold, Empathetic, Confrontational”, are not absolute.  While they yield different results to accommodate different play styles, each option keeps within the range of the preexisting character traits of Adam Jensen.  Each piece of dialogue expresses the advertised inflection, but is worded so as to lead back to the core character.

Despite the tendency of the dialogue to rein the character back towards the center, enough action in one direction or another will, in the long run, shift Jensen’s character towards one end or another of his established range.  To put it another way, if you stretch a rubber band enough, it will eventually start to lose its elasticity.  The ultimate range of characterization that can be reached is limited to fit within pre-scripted (and often pre-rendered) cutscenes at key points in the story, but it’s enough to create the sensation that the player does have control over the character development process.  For the most part, it seems to be relatively seamless; the player isn’t left with the idea that he’s done something wrong or strayed from the intended character.

The same concept applies to the game’s portrayal of the “Hero’s Journey”.  Human Revolution’s practice of continually driving players back towards key plot points is the main tool used to ensure the integrity of the character development process and the evolution of the plot.  While the narrative structure is based upon branching, it still focuses on classic narrative elements.  Players still progress through a story about a “hero” who is pressed into action by an inciting incident, discovering that not everything is as it seems while facing ever more challenging threats, until he finally uncovers the truth and eliminates the primary threat that led him into action in the first place.  The basic elements of progression and character development are all still there.  The variability lies in the manner in which players move from point to point in that sequence.

Believability

A game with a highly interactive narrative runs into the same problems as one with highly photorealistic graphics.  It’s the classic balance of believability versus realism.  In game that is very realistic in the visual sense, every detail matters.  A low-res texture or an object placement that doesn’t make sense aesthetically becomes all the more noticeable as the visuals reach more and more towards reality.  What might normally be a minor inconsistency that players accept and ignore becomes a glaring error that players note and view unfavorably.  It doesn’t fit – players don’t believe it.  The illusion of the game is broken and a degree of immersion is lost.

In the case of interactive narrative, we run into the same concerns.  Real life has no narrative structure; it is infinitely variable.  We can say or do whatever we want, and those words and actions have different consequences based on the situation and people involved.  Human Revolution attempts to capture a small slice of this interactivity through variable dialogue tracks.  Choosing the right dialogue track for whatever outcome you wish to produce is based upon evaluating the personality of the receiver.  Limits are set in place in terms of how often the player can speak in a given conversation (typically around 4 to 8 times, give or take), how many dialogue choices there are at any one time (no more than 4), and also by the range to which character traits can be maintained.

For the most part, this system blends together well, depending on play style.  Since the believability of the conversation is dependent on the player’s familiarity with the character of Adam Jensen, however, it can take a while for the player to settle in.  The player’s exact choice and inflection of words can’t be reflected entirely accurately, so what a player might think is the best thing to say in a given situation won’t always be available.  As players grow more comfortable with Jensen’s style of speech and ways of thinking, it becomes easier to predict the direction of a conversation and accept a more secondary role in the decision-making process.

Some lines of dialogue do tend to feel a bit unnatural when combined together.  For instance, you might be attempting to convince someone to do something important.  You say exactly the right line towards convincing someone to do something.  A second choice appears, and again, the right choice is made.  The subject is almost ready to do what you want.  Then, you select the incorrect line.  The subject calls you an idiot and thinks you’re being manipulative.  Another choice appears, and you select the correct line again.  Instantly, the subject forgets that you were being ignorant and manipulative, realizes how wrong he’s been, and gives you everything you want. 

Now, in most cases, a situation this minor would easily be interpreted as “fitting into the rules” and would not interfere with the believability of the game world.  However, since the act of pressing through the conversation is centered around a mechanic as undeniably real as human emotion, it becomes easy to notice that something is off.  When something isn’t quite right about someone’s behavior, it’s hard to miss.  

Actions can also interfere with the believability structure, such as in the situation when I ran up to the “boss” character, David Sarif, in the middle of a crisis situation.  With my gun drawn, I engaged him in conversation.  A small cutscene began, and his immediate response was, “What are you doing?  Put that thing away!”  After holstering my gun, I spoke to him again.  Another cutscene began, with David Sarif walking up to Adam Jensen as though he had just entered the room – as though he hadn’t just spoken to him three seconds earlier.  “Oh, Adam, thank God you’re here!”  It seems a bit strange that your employer, for whom you are employed as Security Manager, would be offended that you were carrying a gun in the middle of a life-threatening situation, and apparently so much so that he wouldn’t acknowledge your existence until you put it away.

Conclusions

In the end, what Deus Ex: Human Revolution illustrates about interactive narrative design is that control is key.  Though the game may offer a wide range of story branches to follow, they are all very carefully regulated and deliberately placed.  The degree of freedom players have is far from infinite, and measures are often put in place to ensure that players remain on the Golden Path and keep moving towards the next vital plot point.  Yes, it’s a game about choices and their consequences, but those choices and consequences are all regulated cleverly.  The idea is to provide enough flexibility to generate the sensation or illusion of player control while subtly ensuring that everything eventually leads where it needs to.  In short, the folks at Eidos have done a very good job of tracking and controlling the variables.  The places where the narrative falls down demonstrate a conflict between player and developer control – elements of non-sequitur generated by behaviors that can’t be fully accommodated.

I’ve truly only scratched the surface of the issue of nonlinear narrative design.  I spent the better part of four months learning about it and still can’t quite grasp it all, so I don’t expect to explain it effectively in one blog post.  What’s always interesting, though, is the process of analysis.  It’s always a learning experience.  For instance, four years later, Mary DeMarle is still teaching me about narrative design.

Eager Apathy

Or: How Learning How To Design Games has Ruined My Interest in Playing Them

I’ve been trying to come up with a new blog post for some time.  Many people write analyses of specific games or current events.  That’s not so easy for me, seeing as I often know frightfully little about games.  In my frustration, I lost the will to try making a point and began rambling about my nostalgic experiences of games past.  It led me to an interesting question: why do I need to write about my past experiences in gaming?  Why don’t I have anything interesting to say about new releases?

The answer: because I don’t know anything about games.  You see, I’m in rather a strange situation.  It’s actually a bit difficult to describe.

I do have a particular fondness and respect for video games.  I do enjoy playing certain games.  However, generally speaking, the world of games has trouble securing my attention.  For someone who’s trying to gain a foothold in the industry, this situation is far from ideal.  I have a certain duty and responsibility to remain educated and up-to-date on the latest big titles, and I find it strangely difficult to find the motivation to do that.  It’s a duty to myself as a designer, the industry as a whole as a sign of respect, and to people like you who take the time to read what I have to say about games.  If I have no opinions on the world of games, I have nothing to work with.

It’s not that I don’t enjoy video games.  In fact, that’s exactly what makes my predicament so difficult to describe.  I love to design games.  I love the challenge of sculpting player experiences and tying together all of a game’s various pieces.  Likewise, I look back fondly on the video games I’ve played in the past, the emotions connected with beating them, and the social experiences related to their play.  There was a time, probably about five years ago, when these experiences were at their zenith.  Back then, I was still, primarily, a game player more than a game maker.

These days, however, I consider myself a game creator.  I often feel as though my duty to create an experience is greater than my duty to actually experience that experience.  My game experiences aren’t so much new as they are fan-based quests for nostalgia.  Again, it’s difficult to describe, but a good example would be the fact that the great majority of games I’ve purchased in the past 8 to 10 years have been sequels or new installments in franchises I already own.  I can list off all of the games I’ve purchased (or received) in that time period which are my first foray into an IP (dates represent my purchase, not releases):

Super Smash Bros. Melee (2002)

Metroid Prime (2002)

Timesplitters 2 (2003)

SSX 3 (2003)

Resident Evil Zero (Unknown)

Wii Sports (2006)

Rayman Raving Rabbids (2006)

The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess (2006)

Excite Truck (2006)

Portal (2007)

Zack & Wiki (2007)

WarioWare: Smooth Moves (2007)

Wii Fit (2008)

In a way, these are the only new games I’ve bought in the last ten years.  Yes, I own more than what’s on this list, but these are the only games that weren’t bought for the sake of name recognition.  I don’t include games based on movie franchises or sports games in this list as they represent recognized names or formats.  Likewise, I don’t include the small number of indie games I’ve played in stints of less than ten minutes.  Thirteen games.  The bottom line is that games just don’t seem to catch my interest very easily.

Oddly, this apathy seems to stem from fandom itself.  No…that’s not entirely true.  The original basis for my “eager apathy” likely stems from two opposing forces I’ve been exposed to – fandom and fanboyishness.  When I say “fandom”, I refer to my general interest in the game industry and in the idea of games themselves.  When I say “fanboyishness”, I refer mainly to my devotion to a specific company: Nintendo.

Fandom is the driving force behind a desire to create games.  Whether you play a great number of games or not, you take to them with enough interest to develop an understanding of what they are and what they’re capable of being.  Fandom is what brings you back to a game a second time.  Fandom is what draws you to learn more – to discover what this fascinating thing is and what it’s all about.  Fandom comes out of positive experiences and openness…

The first video game I ever beat was on my Nintendo 64.  And no, despite Super Mario 64 being the first title I owned for the system, that victory came later.  My first victory presented itself in Starfox 64.  Oh, I remember that day.  How troubling and irritating that final battle against Andross was.  Little did I know at the time, but I wasn’t even fighting the true, “difficult” final battle.  Still, ignorance being bliss, after several unrecognized hours, I rose from my seat, dripping with sweat, to cry out “YES!” for the first time.  I don’t remember for sure, but I think I may have been weeping with joy.

“Fanboyishness” (or “fangirlishness”, I believe I’ve also heard) is, essentially, another way of saying “stubbornness”.  Though it derives from fandom, it lies on the opposite end of the spectrum in terms of its motivations and inspirations.  Fanboyishness isn’t an interest that leads to a desire for more knowledge, but a blind sense of devotion.  It’s a sense of superiority and protectiveness.  It’s a sense of defensiveness against perceived threats.  Fanboyishness results from negative experiences and isolation…

My fandom truly rose to prominence in the transitional era between the first and second 3D console generations.  To serve as the most obvious transition from a Nintendo 64, my next console of choice would be the Gamecube.  Given the rather poor reaction it went on to receive, particularly in a high school like mine, I expended a great deal of effort working to validate that choice in the face of the opposition.  Rather than studying all the industry had to offer, I dug in my heels, defending the Gamecube from those who would deride it.  In efforts to balance what I saw as a rather unbalanced media portrayal of Nintendo, I eventually took to ignoring the competition altogether.

Though that era has passed and I’ve been introduced to more intelligent and level-headed gamers, a part of me has had trouble letting go of the stubbornness.  My mind still filters out information on games I can’t play (by virtue of not owning the necessary hardware).  As a result, I’ve missed out, partly by choice, on a great number of the most popular games of the past ten years.

On that note, there’s another important list I’d like to mention.  These are very, very popular games I know almost nothing about, have never played, or in some cases, have vehemently resisted playing for no real reason.  Now comes the time when you attempt to slap me in the face through the computer for even thinking of calling myself a game designer.

Games I haven’t played and/or know very little about:

The Halo franchise

BioShock

The Call of Duty franchise

The Gears of War franchise

The God of War franchise

The Elder Scrolls franchise

Any Grand Theft Auto (other than GTA3)

World of Warcraft

Any MMORPG (except a brief stint on The Matrix Online)

Most of the Final Fantasy series

Half-Life 1 & 2

Braid

Red Dead Redemption

The Sims franchise

Any Zelda other than Twilight Princess

Super Mario Bros. 3…

The list goes on, but this should at least give you some idea of why I have trouble talking to people about games.  Name your favorite game, and chances are good I’ve never played it.

This ongoing dichotomy of fandom and fanboyishness is just one part of the puzzle, however.  It helped to lay the groundwork for a way of thinking that has inspired further isolation and restriction.  The real key to my apathy lies in an additional result of my fandom.  As a fan, I began to develop a personal connection with the games I played.  No…more than that, I developed a sense of personal responsibility for those games.  In a way, that personal responsibility has turned on itself, changing the way I see my relationship with games forever.

Beating Starfox 64, in retrospect, may have been the experience that really turned me back on to video games after having missed the 16-bit era.  Prior to that point, video games had always been a primarily social experience – something I would bring my friends over for.  But when I beat Starfox 64, I had, for the first time, done it entirely by myself.  Video games were no longer a party piece or a casual pastime, but instead, they represented challenges that could be overcome.  My video games became about me, not just those around me.  Naturally, I wasn’t thinking along these lines at the time, but I get the sense that this could easily be true. 

That sense of personal ownership culminated five years later in Metroid Prime, a game I was drawn to for no specific reason, experienced alone, and beat in a way that became a truly individualized and personal experience.  My resulting fandom is what would eventually lead to my choosing to enter the game design field.  I wanted to know more about what this and other games were, and that quest for knowledge led to my learning how to make video games of my own.

Through fandom, I had made games something personal to me.  They became things that I took responsibility for tracking down, obtaining, experiencing, and completing by myself.  I had taken responsibility for developing my own play experience and the idea of what the game meant to me – the entire concept surrounding a game.  I suppose from there, taking responsibility for actually creating the game was the next logical step. 

So that’s exactly what I did.

Through a seemingly random series of events, I soon found myself drifting into a game design degree program.  I would spend the next four years learning about generating flow, creating assets, working out a crude functionality, and managing the elements that make a game an enjoyable experience for the player.

What I’m now left with is the desire (and for the sake of my portfolio, the need) to conceive and develop new game ideas.  The challenge no longer lies in seeking out the perfect game through research and sampling, but in creating a game of my own.  That sense of wonderment and awe is gone; everything has become concrete and simplified.  I’m no longer able to see games as adventures to be lived or as new worlds to enter, but instead, as collections of elements.  I can admire a game for its presentation and cohesiveness, the cleverness of its mechanics, or the cleanliness of its functionality, but only when I’m able to ignore these elements do I truly enjoy a game.  In looking at games more analytically, I can still admire them, but I can’t really enjoy them.

Before I started making games, I thought more along the lines of “Which game would I most enjoy playing?”  It was a highly personal analysis that resulted in a much wider breadth of knowledge being gleaned from the experience.  “I like this about this game, but I also like this other thing about another game.  Which one would I most enjoy playing?”  Since I hail from a bloodline terrible at making decisions, there could be only one rational solution: “I’ll have to play both!”  Ultimately, the decision was about me, and either way, I’d derive significant enjoyment from the experience.

These days, my conundrums aren’t based upon my personal enjoyment.  I don’t debate over which game I’d enjoy designing more, which I well shouldn’t.  You don’t design games for yourself.  That said, my debate also isn’t based upon which design “the audience” would enjoy more.  As I look back on the designs I’ve conceived over the past few years, the actual question I ask seems to be far colder and, frankly, a bit disturbing.  In the end, I seem to ask myself, “Which design would allow me to most effectively display my utter brilliance?”

I ask it in much the same way that the CEO of a major Wall Street firm might ask, “Would I get a bigger bonus than the other CEOs if I laid off the entire city of Detroit?”

Okay, I don’t find myself literally asking which designs make me look good.  However, as I run words like “innovation” and “immersion” through my head, there always seem to be lingering thoughts of “This would look GREAT on my portfolio,” or “If I can pull this off, I’d look like a crazy genius.”  I find myself with desires to do something insane and seemingly impossible.  They’re delusions of grandeur, mostly, but the point being that I interpret designing games as a personal duty.

There was something personal when it came to choosing and playing the right games.  “I did this.  Me.”  Now that I’ve started designing, that personal connection has been translated to the development process.  It’s a desire for quality and making great games, sure, but it comes from that selfish wish to witness myself doing something utterly brilliant.  “I DID this.  Tiny little Wheatley DID this!”  As a result, I’m often disappointed when I find myself NOT doing something utterly brilliant.

The real issue, though, is that the desire to make games has come to outweigh the desire to play games.  “There’s a new game coming out?  Bah.  I don’t care.  I’m too busy trying to make this one work.”  In other words, I’m wrapped up in my work.  (Mentally speaking, at least.  I have difficulty actually translating my design concerns into results.)  The thing is, I don’t want to be in a situation of isolation.  I want to be able to introduce myself to new games and truly enjoy them again.  Yet somehow, I can’t seem to get over the mental block that tells me I don’t have time to play.  The ghost of fanboyishness comes in and tells me that there are games I shouldn’t enjoy, shouldn’t RISK enjoying, and therefore shouldn’t play.  In the end, it works into a pattern in which I only end up playing three or four new games every year.

I’m not entirely sure why I don’t enjoy games anymore, but I’ve attempted to lay out my best guesses here.  I’ll say it again – it’s not that I don’t still love the world of games.  I love designing, I love the development process, I love the culture, and I love the idea and potential of video games.  What I miss is that spark – that desire to know more.  I miss the need to absorb all that the world of games has to offer.

If you’ve managed to bear with me this long, well done.  You clearly possess a great tolerance for boring personal stories.  Or maybe you’re a kindred spirit.  Either way, I hope you’ve been able to get something out of this.  It’s all I can really think of talking about right now.  As I always wish upon my colleagues, good luck out there, and keep having fun.

That is all.

What Violence Means to Games

I’d like to put my “More than Design” series on break for a little while to discuss a different issue.

I’ve been running a lot of blog topics through my head recently.  In the process of this line of thinking, the Supreme Court came up with a news-breaking ruling: video games are protected by the First Amendment and sales of violent games cannot be restricted by the government.  Now, I wasn’t greatly impressed by this ruling, namely because I’ve never felt all that threatened by government regulation.  At the time, I just kind of tossed it aside and offered a hearty “Congratulations” to my colleagues.  However, as time wore on, I started thinking about it again.  I’ve thought about the violence question a lot in the past, and the whole issue with the Supreme Court ruling has gotten me thinking about it again.  In response, I decided to jot down a few thoughts.  Those thoughts kept coming, resulting in what you see below.

An Introduction to Regulation

If you look back through video game history, particularly at attempts for regulation, you’ll come across the scandal involving Death Race for the NES and Arcade.  In the game, you drive over humanoid figures in a car, turning them into graves.  When it was claimed that Death Race served as a means of promoting violence (supposedly by inspiring children to start going out and running people over, or something like that), the developers fought back with the information that the footage was taken out of context.  Players in the game weren’t running over humans, but zombies.  Apparently, that makes everything okay.

Ah, zombies.  Zombies make for a great way out.  Can you imagine if you were to create a game that involved running through a mall killing hordes of innocent civilians?  The scandal!  The outrage!  Zombies, though, are mindless drones who are better off dead anyway, so a game like Dead Rising is okay.  It’s just a fantasy environment, like something out of a horror movie.  The same goes for just about any zombie game.  Left 4 Dead using live humans?  Resident Evil?  The closest you can get to a zombie game using live humans is something like Grand Theft Auto, and that series has definitely seen its share of controversy, too.

Can More Violence Make a Game Better?

Then there’s something like Gears of War.  From what little I know of this game, I know it has some rather impressive and elaborate weapon impacts.  I don’t know how much time it takes to make a head explosion look that realistic, but I know it involves a certain amount of research and subsequent testing and tweaking.  It’s impressive to have such realistic shotgun impacts, but do they really make the game better?  That’s an interesting question.  Most people probably wouldn’t find it worth the effort it takes to create such effects.  However, Gears of War caters to a specific demographic – a demographic which gravitates towards things like realistic head explosions.  If players in the target demographic find those effects impressive and are more fully immersed in the game world as a result, then you could truly say that those effects make for a better game.

Another classic example is Mortal Kombat.  Nintendo’s decision to remove all blood from the Super Nintendo version of Mortal Kombat is often regarded as one of the company’s all-time great screw-ups.  Swapping out blood for sweat did nothing to impact Mortal Kombat from a design standpoint.  Removing Fatalities, while having a slight impact on the gameplay (as they require specific button combinations), was also largely an aesthetic choice.  Regardless, the Super Nintendo version of Mortal Kombat was generally regarded by fans as a lesser game than its Genesis and arcade counterparts, and, among other reasons, Nintendo has been thought of as the “kiddie company” ever since.

What Mortal Kombat demonstrates is that what violence and gore provide to a video game, more than anything, is spectacle.  From a design standpoint, Mortal Kombat is a fighting game based on mastering the use of complex button combinations in specific time intervals.  But the design isn’t what Mortal Kombat is about.  It’s about brutally ripping your opponent’s spine out or watching them explode into a flurry of blood and bones.  Even then, it’s not necessarily about the violence itself.  It’s about the pure showmanship of the whole ordeal.  It’s not just bloody and vicious – it’s completely over-the-top.  You don’t just destroy your opponent – you show off to the camera.  What people really missed from the SNES version wasn’t blood and gore, but the flash and absurdity that the blood and gore offered.

On the other hand, I’ve heard people complain about other games for their lack of, specifically, blood.  I’ve seen people rant in forums about how Zelda needs to be M-rated, a gritty action title in which enemies shower Link in blood as they get sliced up.  This isn’t just random musing, either.  This is serious talk from people who legitimately believe that a Mature rating will automatically make Zelda into a better game.  The gameplay and overall flash value wouldn’t change; the only addition would be a bit of blood in replacement of cartoony flashes.  For these people, I suppose increased gore WOULD make for a better game.  However, for everyone else, all it does is limit the available market.

In this case, the addition of blood doesn’t really serve a purpose of improving the flash value of the game.  This is just gore for the sake of gore.  Yes, changing Zelda into a more God of War-like environment would make the series appeal to a new audience.  However, it doesn’t change it from a design standpoint.  Additionally, a well-established and very popular series like Zelda has no responsibility to add blood purely to attract a few new people.  Those who want a more God of War-like environment can play God of War.  Those who want Zelda to be Zelda can still have Zelda.

Violence for the Sake of Violence

I don’t take issue with the existence of violence in video games.  After all, where would the industry be today if it hadn’t been for a bit of punching, kicking, and shooting?  Violence is, on some level, almost necessary to the very existence of video games.  Violence generates danger, generating drama that can drive a player forward.  Sure, there are other ways to generate action, but what better motivation is there than “SOMEONE IS GOING TO KILL YOU!”

What I take issue with is the concept of what seems to be violence for the sake of violence.  Games with unnecessary levels of gore, deliberate showers of blood, and game mechanics centered around actively going around killing as many people as possible in the most gruesome, tortuous ways possible – this sort of thing I have a problem with.  (There was a lot of sighing involved when I witnessed Manhunt in action.)  With all that the game industry has tried to do to gain respect and freedom over the years, it feels as though deliberate shows of elaborate and gratuitous violence tend to hinder progress.

And no, games aren’t the immature displays of vulgarity that the news media, parents, and politicians make them out to be.  People who want to see all games as poor inspirations for children will see what they want to see.  They’ll focus on the gore, the sexism, and the way in which such elements actively involve the players.  The issue I see is that while this isn’t what games are about, we’ve certainly made it easy to paint that picture.  The conversation can be a little hypocritical at times.

THE GAME INDUSTRY sits on the couch, playing God of War.  CONCERNED PARENTS stand off to the side, hands on hips.

CONCERNED PARENTS: Video games are a horrible influence on our children!  They expose them to scenes of graphic violence!

INDUSTRY: So do movies, the news, even Saturday morning cartoon shows.  Do you want to get rid of all of those, too?

PARENTS: But video games are different because they make our children active participants in that violence.  They don’t just glorify killing – they make it seem fun!

           

INDUSTRY: Games aren’t about glorifying killing.  Games are useful tools for all sorts of things.  They’re vital teaching tools, they develop hand-eye coordination, and some are even being developed that can help people manage chronic illnesses like cystic fibrosis.

PARENTS: We don’t hear about any of those games anywhere.  We only ever see ads full of explosions and guns.

INDUSTRY: That’s just a matter of what the media promotes.  Games aren’t trying to make violence cool or fun.  You should really just consider the potential thatOHMYGODDIDYOUSEETHAT?!  I JUST SLICED THAT GUY INTO FOUR PIECES!  THE BLOOD ANIMATIONS IN HERE ARE AMAZING!

CONCERNED PARENTS stand with a shocked and horrified expression.

It just seems like we shouldn’t be trying to convince people of our maturity while simultaneously showing how cool it is to disembowel demons with a giant sword.

 Really, though, what can you do about that sort of thing?  To end the violence is to restrict our own freedom.  The best we can do is admit equality.  “Yes…we’re just as immature as the rest of the world.  Please treat us as you would treat the rest of the world.”  Don’t think for one moment that I’m suggesting games are worse than other forms of media in regards to gratuitous violence.  Movies like Saw illustrate the apparent appeal of this kind of material to the cinema audience.  The fact that the original went on to have as many sequels as it did only proves the point.

Again, I don’t take issue with the fact that violence exists prominently in games.  My concerns arise when the potential video games offer to society is pushed aside in favor of making violence more realistic.  When new graphics technology emerges, we make more detailed blood spatter.  When a new control scheme rolls around, we use it to swing a sword or aim a gun.  These are, of course, just small portions of what new technology is used for, but in some ways, they serve as a driving force behind the very evolution of that technology.

As stated before, it’s not so much about violence as it is about flash.  Graphics technology in particular has moved forward in an effort to make games more elaborate, impressive, and exciting-looking.  Invariably, one of the main ways to illustrate that impressiveness is with a big action title – characters going buck-wild jumping around through particle effects, blasting away at enemies while bits of the world explode dramatically around them.  It certainly looks pretty.  If it doesn’t, the more clever gameplay-oriented games will have a lot of trouble compensating.

In this sense, you could almost say that violence has driven graphics forward.  Since graphics technology has represented the primary evolution of video games over the years, it could even be said that violence has moved the entire game industry forward.  That scene is shifting somewhat now.  Changes in control schemes are bringing elements of gameplay into greater prominence in the public eye, and as graphics technology has begun to plateau, issues such as social connectivity and adaptability are becoming the new evolutionary forces for the industry.  This doesn’t mean games are becoming any less flashy or less violent.  Simply put, the public is becoming more aware that there are different aspects to consider, and those aspects are becoming decidedly more prevalent in the mainstream world than they have been in the past.

Artistic Expression

There’s also a strange argument for the use of violence from an artistic standpoint.  Now, I’m not about to start another “games as art” debate here.  That’s another topic all its own.  No, I’m simply referring to the fact that works of art (high art) have a level of expressive freedom beyond what the average media allows.  Art is about meaning – the observer derives some sort of meaning from a work of art through experience and reflection.  Every piece of a work of art serves to conjure up an emotion and get the observer thinking.  Sex, nudity, and violence are allowed to exist in high art if they work towards this purpose.

Art, through its function of eliciting emotion from the observer, contains massive freedom to utilize violence to achieve that end.  Artists have the privilege of claiming that their work is designed to elicit a particular feeling.  If you were to look at something like Dead Rising as a work of art, you could theoretically say that the act of killing zombies in creative ways is meant to make the player feel some emotional response.  The player may feel excited, nervous, disgusted, frustrated, or even joyous as they run around beating zombies with a baseball bat in an effort to survive.  But you see, that’s all part of the open interpretation of art.  Everyone experiences and reflects on it differently.

I’m not about to claim Dead Rising is a work of art.  In my mind, it’s just a world in which you run around killing zombies.  What I hope to do is illustrate the point that making violence in a game mean something not only makes for a better game, but also brings games one step closer to being taken seriously as works of art.  I’m not greatly concerned with whether or not games reach that status, but I know a lot of people seem to be.

Freedom of Speech

I think it’s important to consider what’s been offered here.  Games have been granted the same rights as other forms of media.  The game industry has been granted what is deserves: equality.  That’s all.  No more, no less.  The fact that violent game sales cannot be restricted doesn’t indicate that games are free and clear from persecution.  All it tells us is that the United States government recognizes games as being less destructive and dangerous to society than yelling “FIRE” in a crowded theater.  It’s not a statement that we’re mature and civilized, but rather that we’re no worse than television or movies.  Really, I think that’s a fair assessment.

The worst thing to do is flaunt the liberty we’ve won.  The Supreme Court hasn’t just given us permission to go out and make games as violent as we please.  Well, technically, they have, but that’s not the point.  The point is that just because you CAN do something doesn’t mean you SHOULD.  This isn’t a criticism of the industry.  I’m not implying that we’re bloodthirsty savages who only want the opportunity to unleash images of bloodied corpses and exploding heads upon the world.  No.  We’re mature enough people…most of the time.  I just think it’s up to us to maintain that maturity.  I don’t want people to get into a habit of “violence for the sake of violence” just because we’re free to do so.  Violence is still a useful element in a lot of games, but there no sense in feeling obligated to use it.