The Feeling of Meaningful Choice

What does your Inquisitor look like?

My latest PopMatters is up, in which I amble about in the dark searching for the feeling, an emotional description of sorts, of meaningful choice in games.

Exploring how you experience art is a strange inward process. I describe it in the article as though it were an attempt to explain the shady unknown of someone standing in your peripheral vision. Actually doing it though, of self-reflectively poking at how something means is more destabilizing than that. Trying to understand the experiential difference between one choice and another becomes an exercise in futility.

Take Mendelsund's What We See When We Read. The book is an excellent analysis of the act of reading, but it also asks far more questions than it answers. Is reading really like following a path? If so, what does it mean to diverge from that path? How does the order of events or descriptions (or the lack thereof) change how we experience a character or a story? All of these apply to games too, as narrative works, but are then mixed up with a strange variation in agency.

My decision in Dragon Age: Inquisition to romance Josephine, whether or not it alters the script significantly, is fundamentally important to me in a way far more important than, say, whether I chose to kill all the dragons in the game. If you choose to not romance anyone, are you missing out on meaning? I don't think so. Instead, how the game means is different.

How do things mean to you? I don't know. But searching for an answer is a rewarding process in and of itself.

Video Games and the House on Loon Lake

Confirmed: Rapture is real (image from PopMatters).

This week on PopMatters I write about the House on Loon Lake.

No: it’s not the latest indie darling that Jorge and I are fawning over. It’s an old episode of This American Life about an abandoned house full of artifacts left by its former inhabitants. The episode tries to unravel the mystery: Who were these people? Why did they leave? Why is the house still full of stuff?

The nerdiest part of my brain immediately made the leap: it’s like Looking Glass created a real life immersive sim and made a radio show about it. On a more serious note, it’s a good reminder that environmental storytelling (even tropes like abandoned diary pages and broken dolls) is based in reality. It’s easy to roll our eyes at audio logs and graffiti messages scrawled across walls, but sometimes reality is just as cheesy as fantasy. I mean, finding an abandoned letter from a woman who had just given birth, imploring the father to come to the hospital and go along with the lie that he was her husband? It seems unreal.

Hopefully you’ve listened to the show at this point, because I’m going to spoil it: the mystery is never solved. More accurately, it is only partially solved and the explanation is a quiet, ambiguous one that leaves a multitude of loose ends. It’s fully explored, but it’s hard to shake the feeling that you want more and that if you search, you’ll eventually find something. Some missed clue or hidden code that will keep the story’s boundaries from becoming hard barriers.

 I think this is the feeling that keeps the search for Luigi in Super Mario 64 alive. Giving up means admitting that even the most mysterious world is ultimately finite.

Postcards from 'Proteus'

This week at PopMatters, I send some postcards from Proteus.

When Proteus first came out, it re-ignited the "What is a game debate?" that tends to crop up every spring when the holiday rush dies down. Alright, that's a bit snarky, but only because I'm not sure such a debate is even that useful, or even a true debate at all. Mathew Burns says it better than me, but having a dialogue between experimental interactive experiences and big-publisher, "triple-a" Video Games isn't tenable or necessarily valuable.

Proteus' importance doesn't reside in a definition, but rather in the kind of thought it inspires in the people that play it. At the very least, the fact that people are forced to question their assumptions of what they consider a game shows gives it merit. On a more practical level, there are real mysteries that can be uncovered in Proteus that require attention and dedication. The thing is more than just a nature video on loop. Check out Jorge's and my stream for some concrete examples.

Finally, I threw in some screenshots to help convey the narrative of one of my playthroughs. I'm interested to see if they are similar to other people's experiences. Regardless of what Proteus in an ontological sense, it's clearly a great discussion-starter.

Survival as Facade in 'Tomb Raider'

Image from PopMatters

This week on PopMatters, I expand on the theme of survival in Tomb Raider. It's something Jorge and I talked a little bit about in this week's podcast, but it continued to stick with me long after finishing the game.

I may have come off as a little extreme, so let me clarify: I don't think every game needs to be a roguelike. Not every game needs to be Minecraft. Gameplay abstractions are a necessity, otherwise it would be like QWOP every time we tried to make Lara jump.

However, I do think a game like Tomb Raider does itself a disservice by leaning so heavily on its plot and aesthetics to communicate its themes. The environmental detail, character animation, and voice acting are outstanding, but the themes of danger and desperation are blunted after the cutscenes end. Lara and company say they have to worry about hunger, the weather, and injuries, but none of these things (aside from one instance where your control of Lara is briefly compromised by an injury that is magically solved by the next cutscene) actually impact the moment-to-moment gameplay.

Accepting Tomb Raider as a survival story requires heavy buy-in to what the game tells and shows you, as what you'll feel will be something different. There's very little penalty for abandoning the hunting mechanic. I probably killed fewer than ten animals and still managed to nearly max out all the weapons and abilities. Unexpected injuries are nonexistent and the penalty for trying an ill-conceived jump is negligible, the major penalty being the gruesome death animations that get less shocking each time they're repeated. BioShock Infinite's leniency is harsh by comparison. There aren't any heavy emotional or social choices to make amongst Lara's crew. Everything plays out in a preordained way.

Again, it's not that there isn't a place for more scripted, plot driven game experiences, it's just that these incongruities are just going to get more apparent as time goes on. This new Tomb Raider was billed as having reinvented Lara as a grittier, more grounded character. There is some truth to this, especially when it comes to the story, dialogue, and visual effects. But when it comes to picking up the controller, the pressure of survival melts away, leaving an experience that is actually not that far removed from the days when Lara would perform standing backflips while shooting tigers in the face.

'God of War: Ascension' and The Problem with Prequels

Image from PopMatters

This week at PopMatters, I wrote about God of War: Ascension as a prime example of why I hate prequels.

I've probably talked about this before either on the site or the podcast, so I won't go too deep here. The point is that all the chronological weirdness and retroactive character development that happens in prequels is compounded by the mechanical iteration that happens between each game in a long-running series. The result is a game whose overall story becomes muddled from a narrative and mechanical perspective. At a certain point, you just have to trash the entire idea of a single storyline and embrace the idea of a broader mythos. Take the Star Wars universe vs. the Batman mythos for example: one has become a bloated, tortured mess of conflicting events and ridiculous narrative backflips while the other remains one of the great pieces of modern folklore.

Instead, let me say a few more things about Ascension itself. Jorge and I probably won't talk about it on the podcast, since I recommended that he skip it. It's not that it's a bad game, I just haven't enjoyed it as much as the others (and I've played them all). As I say in the column, it's hard to get reinvested in Kratos' backstory when so much of it has already been so fruitfully mined and subsequently resolved in such a cathartic fashion. How do you top fighting your way to the top of Olympus and pummeling Zeus to death? Maybe you don't.

Unfortunately, there are also structural changes that I feel hamper the overall experience. The fighting system has been rebalanced in a way that locks combos behind a meter that is charged by landing successful hits and depleted by getting hit. This might make sense for multiplayer (as you might want to make players earn their big combos), but in the single player it feels unnecessarily limiting. You end up doing the same low-level combos over and over again because your move set starts out at the bottom of the tree at the beginning of each battle and enemies tend not to put up all that much of a fight. Other things (like changing the grapple button and the counter-attack timing) might appeal to some people, but I feel it gives the game much slower, less skill intensive flow. The removal of dedicated special weapons and the curbed magic system combine with the game's overall ease to make it a much duller experience than its predecessors.

Some sections actually benefit from this less punishing difficulty, as the camera often zooms out to ridiculous lengths. God of War has always enjoyed its wide angles, but Ascension has a habit of putting the view over the combat. In many cases, it's easy to lose track of which pixels you're controlling and which ones are you enemies. It doesn't help that, especially in the run up to Delphi, the colors and environmental patterns make Kratos and his enemies blend into the background.

From a general perspective, Ascension still looks, sounds, and feels fine; it's just not as sharp as its predecessors. Everything feels a bit subdued and the fact that you already know how the story is going to turn out doesn't do it any favors.

Finding the Right Amount of 'Asura's Wrath'

Image from PopMatters

This week on PopMatters, I rage out with Asura's Wrath.

Actually, there's not much to be angry about, as I liked the game quite a bit. I had been casually following Asura's Wrath up to its release, so I was surprised by the final product. I expected a more formulaic character-action style game in the mold of God of War. What I got was more like an interactive Dragonball Z show.

The actual direct-control fighting isn't all that interesting compared to other games; you have a weak attack, a strong attack, and a handful of contextual moves. The game's quicktime events aren't all that challenging either. What's special is the framework in which all this happens. In a bizarre, yet highly-entertaining move, the game is presented episodically.

We're talking full-on, Saturday morning cartoon style episodes here: intro credits for each chapter, episode previews, dramatic breaks right before a confrontation. It takes a little while to get used to, but I think it was ultimately a great design decision. The game is repetitive in multiple ways: combat is the same basic charge-to-special move every time. There are only so many possible QTE prompts. Even the sound effects and musical themes get reused regularly.

In short, it's a lot like an episodic television show. Watch enough episodes of anything in a row and you'll quickly see familiar plot arcs, the same sets, and reused soundtracks. It's something that I hadn't thought about too much in the context of gaming, largely because even the most "episodic" games rarely span the length of a single TV season, let alone an entire series.

Like many folks, I've all but abandoned broadcast TV at this point. If I watch a series, it's usually in a compressed timeframe made possible by Netflix. My game habits have followed this model for a long time. If I don't set aside a large chunk of time, I'm probably not going to play anything. Asura's Wrath reminded me that this method might sacrifice enjoyment for efficiency. Playing an episode every day or so helped me appreciate the game's structure and cadence. Suddenly, something that might have first like filler was a welcome ritual.

I'm not sure I'll be able to serialize my play sessions when it comes to other games. Experiences like Far Cry 3 have a habit of lending themselves to marathons. Still it's a good thing to keep in mind when facing the prospect of devoting an entire day to a single game. Familiarity can breed contempt. In Asura's case, it would probably breed rage. That guy makes Kratos seem easy going.

Discovering the Chrono Trigger Anime Short

Image from Square Enix

A while back, I was cruising around the Internet, looking at Chrono Trigger stuff (surprising, I know), when I found something amazing: an official Chrono Trigger animated short, Dimensional Adventure Numa Monjar (which I've embedded below).

A quick jaunt over to Wikipedia confirmed that it was created back in 1996 and screened at a Japanese manga festival. It's great fan service for Chrono Trigger devotees: A Nu and Mamo (one of the kilwala enemies) are a Laurel & Hardy duo looking to make it big at the Millenial Fair. Unbeknownst to the humans, the game's monsters put on their own celebration the night before the fair opens. Pratfalls abound as old favorites like Gato (or "Gonzales," as he was called in Japan) and Johnny show up to celebrate.

In this age of tightly controlled corporate tie-ins and meticulously constructed expanded universes, it's rare to find spinoff content that hasn't been carefully packaged for consumption. In fact, the mid-1990s was probably the end of the era where you could be completely surprised by some kind of transmedia content. And now, thanks to the Internet, it's easy for fans to create and distribute their own tributes to huge audiences. None of this is a bad thing (especially the ease at which fans can spread their art), it just makes it less mysterious and surprising when you run across extracurricular material.

I still remember when I happened upon the Zelda manga in Nintendo Power. Suddenly, the bounds of a game I loved seemed bigger, it's legend (pardon the pun) richer. Similarly, the Chrono Trigger anime offers an alternative look at the characters and world I love. It expands on characters I know and love while keeping the same quirky sense of humor found in the game. It's fan service and that's ok; anyone who cares enough to watch is also the same kind of person that will get the weird visual jokes and cameos. It's a strange, charming little detour that expands the a beloved game's world.

Wondering what happens before Crono wakes up? Give it a watch:

Part 1 of 2:

Part 2 of 2:

'Demon's Souls' Debrief

Image from PopMatters.com

The following post contains spoilers for Demon's Souls.

This week at PopMatters, I finally wrap up Demon's Souls.

I actually finished the game several weeks ago and had been meaning to write something about it. The problem was that I couldn't figure out what to say. I think this was partly due to the general numbness one feels after finally finishing a game as brutally difficult as Demon's Souls.

A less hyperbolic reason is because the ending is strangely ambiguous. The entire game is about making your way through ridiculously dangerous environments in order to fight massive, deadly bosses. At first, it seems like this the last boss will conform to this pattern. After all, you fight him inside an enormous living beast that also happens to be the source of the evil you've been battling for the entire game. But then, you get to the final confrontation and are presented with what I see as a joke conveyed through game mechanics: for the first time in the whole game, you're able to easily dominate your opponent.

I actually didn't get a chance to talk about the most amusing thing about the ending in my column: after you finish the game, you're immediately dumped into newgame plus mode. As if after dozens of hours and thousands of lost souls, the first thing you'll want to do is start again on an even harder difficulty setting. Imagine the research and the skills necessary to go through the whole thing again. Actually, when you put it that way, it would be interesting to see just how powerful the revamped enemies are...

It's this feedback loop that ultimately made Demon's Souls so compelling. Things start out pretty discouraging, but each time to try something new or progress a bit further you learn something that will help you next time. Eventually, you've constructed a plan and developed your reflexes to the point where you can succeed. On top of this iterative mindset, you also develop a brutal disposition, similar to the one your enemies have towards you: when you encounter a new enemy, you know that survival is about decisive, merciless action. When you reach the end and employ this mindset against the final boss, his pathetic strength serves to highlight how much you've come to resemble the brutal demons you've been fighting.

I guess the fact I was essentially transformed into a monster via systemic interactions should be disturbing, but my I suppose my mind has been warped: I just think it's funny.

Missing the Point in 'Metroid: Other M'

Image from PopMatters.com

This week at PopMatters, I explain why I think Metroid: Other M "misses the point."

Basically, the game falls victim to the curse that's been plaguing Star Wars since the prequels came out: Other M focuses too much on the details of its lore and, in the process, loses the spirit that made the series special in in the first place. Instead of focusing on environmental storytelling and exploration, Other M shovels the equivalent of a heaping pile of midichlorians onto the screen. The existence of unimaginative writing and exposition dumps is bad enough, but what's truly sad is the way Samus becomes a victim of the dialog and cutscenes. A mysterious, effective warrior becomes an incompetent sniveling child before our eyes.

Equally tragic is the way this surface-level appreciation of Metroid infects the game's mechanics. I go into this in the article, but I think it bears repeating: Doing the wall jump in Super Metroid was an achievement. It required exploration, problem solving skills, and the manual dexterity to pull it off. It was special because it summed up the game's exploratory approach and required actual effort to execute. Wall jumping in Other M is all but automatic: the procedure is literally spelled out for you in an onscreen prompt, and the action itself is simplified to the point of triviality. The result is something that looks right from a visual perspective, but lacks the essence of what makes the move special.

It's just one of the many elements in the game that was seemingly included out of obligation, rather than necessity. As the Prime series demonstrated, you don't need to blindly follow precedent and mine (or perhaps manufacture?) a backstory in order to make a Metroid game that upholds the tradition of the NES/SNES games. If Retro could make three great first-person games, it's conceivable that Team Ninja could have delivered a successful, more melee-centric take on the franchise. In some ways, they did.

However, there is simply too much facade and not enough substance in Other M. Or rather, there is too much substance when it comes to story and dialog, and not enough when it comes to meaningful game elements.

Risk/Reward in Metroid: Other M

Image via GiantBomb.com

After bashing Metroid: Other M on our last podcast, I thought I should write out some more coherent thoughts on the game. The game has problems, but the more I thought about it, the more I decided that they were almost all tied to the game's plot and characters. I'll try to explain the downright insulting nature of the game's story in a future post (plot holes, nonsensical dialog, sexism; it's really a piece of work). For now, I think it bears mentioning that, on a basic mechanical level, Metroid: Other M has an interesting risk reward system that lures players into taking risks during battle.

Like most Metroid games, you can hold down the firing button for a more powerful charged attack. Doing so takes time and leaves you without any offensive capabilities. However, you also have access to a dodge maneuver that both allows you to avoid attacks at the last second. Successfully dodging while holding down the firing button grants you a fully-charged blaster without having to wait for the meter to fill up. Performing this move is a calculated risk: there's always the chance you'll dodge too late or miss an attack from a secondary enemy, but being able to fire consecutive charged blasts with almost no lag time is extremely effective against even the strongest enemies.

Metroid: Other M gives you a reason to make combat more exciting and dynamic. You could keep your distance and pepper most enemies to death with weak shots, but that soon becomes slow and dull. Things get even more hectic when you start incorporating melee and finishing attacks, both of which require a fully charged meter and close proximity to enemies. Racing towards a stunned enemy or jumping on top of one is pretty much the most dangerous thing you can do in terms of inviting injury, but it's also the way to quickly deal out large amounts of damage. This leads to situations where you might actually get more aggressive when you are low in health because you want to end the battle before you making a mistake or getting tagged by an errant shot from a far-away enemy.

Other M's first-person mode offers a similar mixture of benefits and drawbacks. The game is usually played with the Wii Remote in the horizontal, NES-style position, but pointing the remote at the screen activates a first-person perspective that gives you access to missiles and lock-on targeting. Both of these things are highly useful against enemies, but they come at a price: your field of vision is much more limited, you have to manually find targets rather than rely on the third-person aim assist, and you can't dodge. Like the dodge/charge dynamic, going into first person offers benefits that must be balanced against ever-present risks.

On a side note, first-person mode is interesting from a physical perspective, as it puts you int he unique position of having to quickly change the way you hold the controller. While awkward at times, it's a novel way to simulate the feeling of having to quickly draw and aim a weapon under pressure. The game slows the action for a brief moment when you switch, but you still need to get your bearings quickly and go in with a specific plan.

Unfortunately, all these risk/reward systems require a herculean suspension of disbelief in order to reconcile them with the game's story and fiction. How does dodging a projectile possibly recharge an energy weapon? Samus flawlessly target enemies in third-person mode, but routinely misses in first person mode. Thanks to my input, she alternates from being the best shot in the galaxy to being unable to hit the broad side of a barn. Missiles are in endless supply and cause no splash damage, so why does she only use them in first-person mode?

There are plenty of interesting systems at work in Metroid: Other M, it's just a shame that you have to ignore the story, disregard its characters, and forgo any hope of technological plausibility to find them. Ultimately, the game's biggest risk is its focus on its plot and character development and it's a risk that doesn't pay off.

At Home in the Bastion

I'm a year late to the party, but I finally had a chance to play Bastion. My only regret is that I waited so long; it's one of those games that feels like it was made specifically for me. I'll probably share some more detailed thoughts in the future. For now, I wanted to highlight a few of lessons I hope people take from Bastion.

When it comes to story and dialog in games, the old "less is more" rule is a good one to follow. Bastion's narrator, Ruck, is quite vocal and the game has a lot of backstory, but the game never gets bogged down with didactic explanations for dull exposition dumps. I also loved the economy of words used to convey Bastion's story. Ruck speaks plainly, and is a master of the understatement. So much of the game is communicated through subtext and inference, a refreshing break the multitude of games that beat you over the head with obvous messages. Take one of my favorite lines:

"In the history of Caelondia, no one's ever volunteered for another shift on the Walls. Out there, the Kid learned to fend for himself. Learned to build. Learned to break.

From this, we get a sense of the hardship of serving in Caelondia's military, as well as the possible existence of a social stigma attached to those who serve. We learn about the Kid's journey and how he became such a proficient soldier. After experiencing the Kid's fighting skills first hand, we know that the process of "learning to break" involved more than just smashing crates. The Kid had to break the wilderness; he had to break the uprisings; he had to break away from his youth.

The story is told while you play the game, not while you are waiting to play. Listening to Ruck's raspy drawl while my frantically dealing with hordes of enemies kept my brain working in more ways than one. Additionally, hearing the narration adapt to my actions and weapon choices was an incentive to avoid getting into a gameplay rut.

Bastion doesn't shy away from traditional brawler dynamics for the sake of its story or physical realism. On the contrary, the game encourages you to exploit action priorities by cancelling out of animations or dashing before an attack has fully completed. The constant barrage of various enemies and the many options of dealing with them makes the game feel like a modernized version of Golden Axe or Secret of Mana.

Ultimately, everything comes down to your ability to dodge, block, and attack, but the different weapons drastically alter the balance between these three actions. I found it hard to part with my trusty melee hammer, but once I forced myself to learn how to best use the rifle I never wanted to let it go.

Finally, Bastion has an extremetly elegant approach to game difficulty. Players looking for a challenge can opt to turn on idols that make battles more dangerous; some make enemies move faster or explode upon defeat while others cause random status effects. This is both more creative than simply cranking up the damage values or adding more enemies, as it actually alters the way you have to play, thereby teaching you new techniques. Additionally, activating idols also increases the amount of money and XP you gain from enemies. It's a great difficulty loop, as it serves players who are actively looking for a challenge, lures players on the borderline with incentives to increase their skills, and stays completely out of the way of those who aren't interested.

This scalability makes the prospect of jumping into Bastion's New Game Plus mode that much more enticing. After finishing the game, new challenges and rewards await, as do new narration dialog and story decisions. The depth to which Bastion's plot and game dynamics are revealed is left largely up to the player's discretion. Whether you're looking for a casual beat 'em up, a challenging action experience, or a cautionary tale about imperialism, Bastion invites you to make yourself at home.

Shootin' Dudes and the Importance of a Good Plot

This week at PopMatters, I commend the strength of interesting plots.

I'm always a bit wary of opening the whole "story vs. gameplay" can of worms, mostly because it's a false dichotomy. As Mattie Brice succinctly puts it, "narrative is a game mechanic." If a game's authored story impacts the way you play the game, it is functionally another rule you interact with as you negotiate a game system.

My point is that mundane game systems can be galvanized by a clever story. Without Red Dead Redemption's plot about the struggle against cyclical violence, it would have just been another open world game. John Marston's fate and his family's struggles alter the way it feels to participate in the game's events. Visual and audio choices serve a similar function. Mechanically, Heavy Rain is little more than digitial game of Simon says rather than a tense thriller.

I touch briefly on some reservations I had regarding Starhawk's story that I want to clarify. I think creators should be free to create the stories they want to create. Just because the game has two black lead characters doesn't mean it has to grapple with race as a thematic element. Sometimes, not addressing an issue is actually a statement unto itself. My point is that the absence of any complex social, cultural, or historical themes doesn't do anything to bolster game systems that would benefit from a little support.

Playing as the Arbiter in Halo 2 isn't all that different from playing as Master Chief on a mechanical level. What makes this moment special is the story: suddenly, you're playing as "the enemy." You're seeing a new perspective in the war, one that reveals new narrative complexities that broaden Halo's overall scope. The Elites become more than targets: they're actual characters. I think BioShock is a similar example: its legendary plot and sudden twist turn the game into a commentary on the medium itself rather than a prettier version of Doom.

Stories in games are tricky, but they don't (and I would argue they shouldn't) always strive to accommodate whatever the player wants. Even the most inflexible plots can inject meaning into game mechanics and dynamics. I think we should embrace that concept by continually pushing for interesting stories.

'Neuromancer' and The Beauty of Sad Endings

This week at PopMatters, I connected the dots between Neuromancer and some of my favorite video games. More specifically, I talked about how some of the most memorable endings end on a down note.

It seems to me that many games end abruptly. You'll have a climactic battle (out of which you'll usually emerge victorious) and then the game will end. Triumph is a sweet sensation, but experiencing the aftermath can be more deeply satisfying. Neuromancer's climax was seemingly world-changing, but the epilogue revealed that old habits die hard and heroism can be a fleeting trait. To avoid going too deep into spoilers, I'll just say that having characters like Neuromancer's protagonist, Case, help us come to terms with what happens to extraordinary people once they settle back into ordinary circumstances.

On another note, I'm happy to report that Neuromancer lived up to the hype. I never read it before and it was a pretty glaring entry on list of shame. It's always nice to see one of the foundational works of a genre withstand the test of time. We're creeping up on its thirtieth anniversary, but the concepts it brings up still feel relevant. I especially enjoyed the constant focus on what brand of products the characters used. The companies may have changed, but corporate visibility is an ever-present force in our society (just ask Apple).

Finally, it's been nice to get back into reading. It sounds strange, but somewhere along the line I picked up the bad habit of just plain not reading books. I blame academia. In any case, I've read a couple novels over the past few weeks and have felt more creatively energized as a result. Nothing helps me improve my own skills like experiencing (and then "borrowing") techniques from those far more talented than me. The oft-neglected artistic portion of my brain is feeling refreshed and rejuvenated.

It's nice to periodically rediscover pleasure in turning words into writing, even if the source of the inspiration is a bit depressing.

In Defense of Spoiler Warnings

This week's PopMatters post is about spoilers.

I'm sympathetic to Tom Bissell's frustration by gaming's obsession over spoilers. Too much tongue-biting stunts the critical discussion. While there is no consensus over how soon is "too soon," I think it's fair to assume that if you are reading a critical piece on a particular game, you take responsibility for your own exposure to spoilers. Maybe there should be a one year statute of limitations on warnings in general? Whatever the case, the ultimate onus is on the reader.

That being said, I am firmly of the opinion that spoilers matter, and that "going in blind" is an important experience, especially for critics. A recent study out of UC San Diego suggests that people find spoiled stories more "pleasurable" (whatever that means), but it's important to remember that stories are about more than hedonism.

Puzzling through an obscure narrative may not be as immediately pleasing as simply consuming the story, but such experiences are crucial learning experiences. Gaining the skills to make sense of a confusing situation is a skill applicable to life in general; life rarely offers convenient spoilers. From an artistic perspective, we must acknowledge that any preconceived notions impact our reactions to a piece of work. For those that say spoilers stunt the critical conversation, I ask the following: Is not an "unspoiled" perspective a legitimate, even useful perspective?

One of the most valuable things video games give players is the opportunity to make sense of new systems. Like literature and film, Video games tell stories with characters, plots, and cinematography. They also tell stories with mechanics: the player's journey from neophyte to an expert is a story about discover, learning, dedication, and practice. Being told that there is a secret block in level 1-1 in Super Mario Bros. is different from discovering it. In the former situation, the player is given the knowledge. In the latter situation, the player obtains the knowledge and has a story to tell afterwards. In my opinion, this is a far richer experience, and is one of the reason I avoid mechanical spoilers more seriously than I do plot-related spoilers.

Again, I'm not calling for critics to practice self-censorship. I am simply pushing back against those who would say that spoiler warnings are meaningless, especially when they claim to speak with empirical authority. Lively, honest discussion about games fosters a healthy critical community, but carelessly discarding the unspoiled experience destroys some of the rarest, most unique stories games provide.

EXP Podcast #136: Cross-media 'Cast

Today, it feels like more games than ever enjoy an "expanded universe." Books, TV shows, comics, and movies all develop worlds and characters that first appeared in video games. This might be great for devoted fans, but what does it imply about games' abilities to stand on their own? This week, we use Mark Filipowich's article on cross-media storytelling as a starting point for discussing the ways in which supplemental media affect the stories games try to tell. We also lay out some plans for a cross-media adventure that will be the topic for a future show. As always, we're glad to have you all along for the ride and look forward to reading your comments!

Some discussion starters:

- What are some of your favorite examples of game-related cross-media storytelling and why are they effective?
- How can we separate marketing cash-ins from legitimate additions to a game's story?
- Does an abundance of ancillary material degrade in-game content? How can games tell stories that stand on their own?

To listen to the podcast:

- Subscribe to the EXP Podcast via iTunes here. Additionally, here is the stand-alone feed.
- Listen to the podcast in your browser by left-clicking here. Or, right-click and select "save as link" to download the show in MP3 format.
- Subscribe to this podcast and EXP's written content with the RSS link on the right.

Show notes:

- Run time: 32 min 00 sec
- "Games and Cross-Media Storytelling," by Mark Filipowich, via PopMatters
- Music provided by Brad Sucks

A Familiar Legend

The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time 3D came out a couple of days ago and, if reviews are any indication, people are enjoying it.

I am a long-time Zelda fan, and frequent visitors to the site won't be surprised to learn that it warms my heart to see such a positive reception for what I argue is one of the most influential games of all time. Even so, I try not to let my admiration obscure reality: Ocarina originally came out in 1998 and has been re-released on the GameCube and the Virtual Console. After thirteen years and three re-releases, the core game remains unchanged.

On a broader scale, the general Zelda formula itself has not significantly changed for almost twenty years. Ever since A Link to the Past, many of the same items, enemies, and dungeon challenges have greeted old and new players alike. While the artistic style and input methods vary depending on the year and the console, players can be certain that they will be lighting torches, throwing boomerangs, and fighting for Hyrule's salvation.

A couple of days ago, our friend Steven O'Dell posed a question on Twitter regarding why people were freaked out about the new XCOM game's divergence from its predecessors. A similar question could be asked about Zelda: Would it be so bad if the series went down an unfamiliar path? Unlike the forthcoming XCOM game, it looks like The Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword will be a traditional addition to the series. For me (and I suspect many other fans) this is a good thing, as part of what makes Zelda valuable is its familiarity.

Kratos and the Camera

My latest PopMatters post is up and it's about my old friend, Kratos.

Now that I think about it, this is the second PopMatters post in a row in which I tackle a "silly" game from a "serious" perspective. I didn't purposely line up my posts to be complementary, but I do think that both this recent post and the Vanquish piece have inadvertently revealed one of my core beliefs regarding media and criticism. Simply put: criticism of a cultural artifact should not be limited by said artifact's perceived social status. Rigid cultural hierarchies are stifling, but that's a post for another day.

I'm fully aware that the God of War games are in many ways big, dumb action games. I'm also well aware that they are not necessarily the epitome of the "character-action" genre, as fans of Devil May Cry and Ninja Gaiden would remind me. All this being said, God of War is a series that has always done an excellent job of communicating its themes through its plot, aesthetics, and rules. Like the ancient Greek myths themselves, God of War is rife with copious amounts of violence and sex. But if you look carefully, you'll find that the series' fixation on violence is more than skin deep.

Countless thousands of words have been dedicated to games like BioShock, Braid, and Passage; games that "make you think." All of these games are excellent, and do merit reflection. However, thinking is an activity, one that can be performed in the context of any game, not just the ones with a capital "M" Message. True, God of War makes for some bombastic good times, but it also demonstrates a unique dedication to communicating the violence's utility and cyclical nature within the game's world. God of War's aesthetic, narrative, and ludic pieces fit together in such a way as to immerse the player in the Kratos' savage existence.

One of my pet peeves is people's use of the word "consume" in relation to the art they experience. The word carries terribly passive, disposable connotations: rather than considering, responding, contemplating, or enjoying something, you're just ingesting it with little thought as to what it contains. If you're dedicated to the gastric-intestinal metaphor, why not use the word "digesting?" At least it implies you're examining the component parts of a work and gaining something something nutritious in the process. With games like God of War, it can be very easy to fall into the trap of simply consuming media uncritically. Familiar themes and impressive graphics make it easy to engage at superficial level and move on without examining the entire package.

As a famous Greek once said: "The unexamined life is not worth living." I argue that the same thing holds true for games. Blasting robots in slow motion in Vanquish or triggering the "Shit yeah!" audio cue in Gears of War offers frivolous moments of fun, but that does not preclude those games from being the subjects of deeper analysis.

Fortunately, you can have it both ways. Games like God of War offer the catharsis that comes from immediate action as well as long term intellectual stimulation. You just have to slow down and look for it.

The Seriously Absurd Case of Vanquish

My latest PopMatters post is about one of my favorite games from 2010: Vanquish.

Around here, both Jorge and I are pretty careful about using the "F" word. You know the one I'm talking about: "fun." While it's perfectly fine to have fun playing a game, describing it as such often says very little about why and how a game tickled your fancy. Additionally, it obscures the nuances between experiences that are amusing, enjoyable, or rewarding. I wouldn't necessarily call a game like don't take it personally... "fun" in the same way a roller coaster is fun, but I'm extremely glad I played it.

This brings us back to Vanquish, a game I found extremely fun in the way that roller coasters, fried food, and action movies are fun. I mean, just look at it:

It was a challenge was to get past all the bombast that infatuated me, but the end result was very rewarding. The game's campy story and absurd characters are a light-hearted veneer over one of the most innovative shooters in a long time. Once again, Shinji Mikami demonstrates his talent for innovative and experimental design. After re-defining third person shooters with Resident Evil 4, he has clearly been paying attention to subsequent innovations from games like Gears of War. While Vanquich pokes fun at Marcus and the gang, it's more of a love letter than anything: be it the gravelly-voiced protagonist or the necessary use of cover, Vanquish is well aware of its predecessors' strengths.

However, Vanquish is more than a tribute: it successfully addresses many of the problems that plague action and shooter games. It's a cover-based shooter that is both fast-paced and strategic. Its use of "bullet time" is an integral part of the combat, not just a gimmick or an "auto-kill" function. It has an interesting weapon upgrade system that affects player behavior and battle dynamics. It doesn't hurt that the game is visually stunning either. Games like Vanquish are an optimistic sign that the Japanese development community is still capable of producing excellent, relevant games.

Vanquish may seem like a goofy Gears clone at first, but it soon becomes apparent that it is both a tribute and a challenge to other third-person shooters. Vanquish might act the fool, but it is completely serious about providing a polished, innovative experience. It's a fun thing to experience.

EXP Podcast #119: Dead Space Debrief

With the release of Dead Space 2, Jorge was finally enticed into playing the first Dead Space. I had played the game some time ago and had quite a positive experience (check out the show notes for some of my writing on the game), so I was excited to get a chance to discuss it on the podcast. As with all of our in-depth discussions on particular games, we cover everything from the rule systems to the story themes, giving folks ample warning before revealing any crucial plot points. We discuss everything from the aesthetics of hydroponics, the nature of the sci-fi genre, to signs of an extra-terrestrial Professor Layton. While no one can hear you scream in space, feel free to sound off with your thoughts in the comments!

Some discussion starters:

- Is there a way to balance the impulse to create a unified world that avoids becoming repetitive? Are Dead Space's sterile hallways a liability or a strength?

- How does Dead Space relate to other survival horror games?

- What are the benefits and drawbacks of revisiting or playing an original game before its sequel? For those of you who have already played Dead Space 2, how did your knowledge (or lack thereof) with the original affect your experience?

To listen to the podcast:

- Subscribe to the EXP Podcast via iTunes here. Additionally, here is the stand-alone feed.
- Listen to the podcast in your browser by left-clicking the title. Or, right-click and select "save as link" to download the show in MP3 format.
- Subscribe to this podcast and EXP's written content with the RSS link on the right.

Show notes:

The Versatility of Famous Voices in Video Games

This week at Popmatters, I wrote about celebrity voices in games.

The topic has been on my mind as of late, as I feel like the medium has reached a strange point in terms of voice acting. In story-driven games, dialogue is more important than ever. However, many games are trying to create their own self-contained world, so having a clearly-recognizable may detract from the player’s immmersion. Additionally, actors like Nolan North and Jennifer Hale are quickly becoming minor celebrities within video game culture. Perhaps the talents of celebrities who gained fame outside the medium are just an unnecessary distraction?

Then again, celebrities can sometimes strengthen a game’s artistic or cultural relevance. In addition to the sheer talent of actors that honed their craft on stage and on screen, famous actors often have personas that stretch across multiple art forms. For example, would Brutal Legend been as charming without Jack Black? The game’s mixture of camp, humor, and rock and roll reverence fits perfectly with Black’s persona. If Eddie Riggs was played by anyone else, I suspect the character would simply have felt like a Jack Black knock-off. This type of casting dances on the line separating the earnest from the self-aware.

What should we make of God of War III, in which Kevin Sorbo is cast as Hercules? While he plays it straight as far as his performance in the game, his very appearance is a wink at an audience who has come to associate him with a very different version of the famous Greek hero. He does a good job blending in with the game’s tone, which makes sorting out the intent behind his casting even trickier.

Ultimately, I suppose it all comes down to the highly-subjective measure of whether an actor “feels” right for the job. There are times for both bold assertions of celebrity and transformative performances. The trick is figuring out which approach to take, and when to take it.