The Sensationalist: Assessing Digital Diseases

This post is part of "The Sensationalist," a continuing series here at Experience Points in which we examine games' abilities to evoke emotions and sensations in video game players. Please have a look at the series' introduction as well its previous entries.

My latest PopMatters article is now live: Assessing Digital Diseases.

I mentioned my illogical fear of diseases at the beginning of this article, but as a child it was even worse. Outbreak gave me nightmares for weeks and I absolutely refused to touch my brother's copy of Hot Zone. Contagions are absolutely terrifying. They cannot be easily fought, death may come suddenly and painfully, and people you know and love can become carriers. I find few places as conceptually frightening as quarantine zones. At least games often give me something to shoot, necromorphs, the flood, zombies, etc., physical and vulnerable embodiments of disease.

I intentionally left out tactile games, some of which capture the paranoia and desperation of an epidemic. Pandemic, which I have discussed before, pits up to four players against a host of rapidly proliferating diseases. Cities on the game board can "hot zone," spreading the plague to neighboring cities, which can cause chain reactions. The cooperative game is quite difficult, and victory often comes in a moment of complete panic and mental exhaustion. The On The Brink expansion adds disease mutations, virulent strains, and even a bio-terrorist into the mix, which in combination can wreak havoc on one's sense of safety and control, a rare and delightful treat.

The aptly named Panic Station, a board game to be released later this year, evokes the same sense of paranoia, disgust, and fear created by Jon Carpenter's The Thing (probably my favorite horror film). Set in the confines of an alien occupied military base, you and your team must arm yourselves with flamethrower fuel, then seek out and destroy the hive. However, one of your teammates is a host for the alien. Even worse, this enemy menace can infect your entire crew. Before long, the sense of paranoia and isolation that comes with survival in a hot zone becomes overwhelming.

While I have yet to play Panic Station, it and a few board games like it, including Pandemic, masterfully play with the pop culture horror of disease, manifestations of the intangible real-world fears we so long to fight.

Divine Responsibility in From Dust

This post is part of "The Sensationalist," a continuing series here at Experience Points in which we examine games' abilities to evoke emotions and sensations in video game players. Please have a look at the series' introduction as well its previous entries.  

My latest PopMatters article is now live: Divine Responsibility in From Dust.

My original plan for this article was to discuss the sensation of responsibility in games in general using From Dust as a jumping off point. As a god game, however, From Dust raised too many interesting themes to casually brush aside.

On the subject of responsibility alone, I believe there is an inverse relationship between the sensation of responsibility and the scale of the game. I have written before about how successfully Bioshock 2 creates a unique parental bond between Eleanor and Delta. Ico similarly creates a bond of responsibility between the protagonist and Yorda. These relationships are not predicated on weak supporting characters. I felt deeply responsible for the fate of my team in Mass Effect 2, despite knowing they were all loyal and proven soldiers. The tribesmen of From Dust are far more dependent on the player than the crew of the normandy is on Shepard, yet my feelings of responsibility dwindled as the game progressed and I become both more powerful and more busy.

How can we talk about a god game without talking about god? Naturally, my mixed feelings about the game's attempt to personalize the relationship between the player and her flock brought reflected some of my own interests in divinity and spirituality in From Dust. I should say I am not a religious person. I am agnostic at my most devout, although I find religion a deeply interesting and important topic. While contemplating the prayers From Dust's villagers shout to the heavens and my own mostly catholic upbringing, I wondered how my island inhabitants would interpret the failings of their minor deity. As I grew distant, why did they not turn to a different god, perhaps the one causing all the devastation in the first place?

 From Dust is a decent experience and more than a little interesting, but when think upon my time spend with the villagers I feel sadly disconnected. I feel uncomfortable playing an impersonal and inadequate god who fails to maintain divine responsibility.

The Sensationalist: Mastering Systems of Emotion

This post is part of "The Sensationalist," a continuing series here at Experience Points in which we examine games' abilities to evoke emotions and sensations in video game players. Please have a look at the series' introduction as well its previous entries. 

My latest PopMatters articles is now up for your reading pleasure: Mastering Systems of Emotion. Check it out.

I believe it was Clint Hocking's talk during the Game Developers Conference that mentioned how fiction and gameplay are inexorably bound. His example was a Train version of Tetris, in which fitting the pieces together well represented good management of fitting Jews into train cars. People would play the game completely differently, or not at all. The pieces, because we know what the symbolize, create different meaning than the abstract pieces of the original game alone.

Systems of emotion, I imagine, are game systems in which we are not explicitly told what game components symbolize, but designers intentionally lead players to interpret them within a general theme. If players are contributing to the emotional system by imbuing symbols with personal meaning, than the emotional efficacy of the game will be strong.

Somewhat tangentially, almost two years ago exactly, I wrote a brief review of The Path. I called the game "obscure."Michael Samyn, one of the game's designers, stated: " I think it's as clear as it can possibly be. But its subject matter is complex, making it impossible to give straight answers." To be honest, I did not really agree with him or really understand what he meant until now. If The Path models an emotional system in which each interactive object and location jointly evoke particular emotions regarding specific themes, then Michael is very much correct. All The Path requires is that players keep an open mind and follow it. I do not think the game has any more intention than to have players confront their own feelings that arise as Tale of Tales escorts them through the forest. Even now, The Path is a beautifully designed game and, control scheme aside, a great example of designer-player storytelling.

The Sensationalist: Vengeance At Play

This post is part of "The Sensationalist," a continuing series here at Experience Points in which we examine games' abilities to evoke emotions and sensations in video game players. Please have a look at the series' introduction as well its previous entries.
My latest article is up on PopMatters. It discusses mankind's deep burning need to exact revenge, and explores what it looks like to see Vengeance At Play.

Admittedly, I missed a few examples of vengeance in games. The theme, in little ways, actually appears quite frequently. There are also a few that bare the term right in their titles, such as Far Cry 2 Vengeance and X2: Wolverine's Revenge. Although these are pretty awful. The games I selected explore revenge more thoroughly, giving it serious narrative weight or evoking some of the emotions encapsulated by the thirst for retribution. If you can think of any others, please share them in the comments section below.

One important topic I intentionally overlook for brevity's sake is vengeance in multiplayer games. Revenge is not really a narrative tool in multiplayer games. The desire to seek revenge after another player takes out your teammate, or you for that matter, is completely natural. Multiplayer gaming provides a relatively safe venue for homegrown vengeance.

It is interesting that some games encourage the pursuit of revenge. The Modern Warfare series features a revenge bonus every time you kill a target that recently killed you. It's an ingenious feature. With so many players in a match, one could easily miss the name of their assailant. Revenge alerts give players the catharsis they forgot they wanted. It is reassuring to know we can entertain real life revenge in multiplayer games without succumbing to the unsettling power of violent retribution.

The Sensationalist: Exploring Confined Spaces

This post is part of "The Sensationalist," a continuing series here at Experience Points in which we examine games' abilities to evoke emotions and sensations in video game players. Please have a look at the series' introduction as well its previous entries. As always, we welcome your thoughts on all the matters we discuss, and look forward to analyzing one of gaming's most powerful, yet intangible, abilities.

My latest post is up on PopMatters: Exploring Confined Space. While not conceived of as a Sensationalist post, I think the subject matters fits nicely into the series. I also want to maintain my habit of posting this approach to videogames with at least some frequency.

I have actually been meaning to write about Escape the Room games for awhile now, ever since playing Sagrario's Room Escape, which is one of the best of the genre. The simple white-washed room you find yourself in is deeply unsettling. It actually reminds me of the television show Lost, which features mysterious and sterile confined spaces. Also like Lost, most of these games have only the shred of an interesting story. It is a missed opportunity considering how much single-room experiences can offer.

Watching any of the films I mentioned in the article should convince you of the opportunities confined spaces can offer to game designers. Buried is not film of the year quality, but it is proof that a compelling and unique story can be told in terribly limiting circumstances. Some games do exploit confined spaces to evoke claustrophobia or other neat sensations. I mentioned Dead Space and Bioshock, which create an enclosed space that feels very confining. You could include a few levels from Halo in there as well. If you think of any others, definitely let me know. I am certain I am missing some fantastic use of a closet.

The Sensationalist: Guilt and Responsibility in Bioshock 2

This post is part of "The Sensationalist," a continuing series here at Experience Points in which we examine games' abilities to evoke emotions and sensations in video game players. Please have a look at the series' introduction as well its previous entries. As always, we welcome your thoughts on all the matters we discuss, and look forward to analyzing one of gaming's most powerful, yet intangible, abilities.

Warning: This post contains spoilers for Bioshock 2.

My first venture into Rapture revealed the dangerous affects of unmitigated self-interest. The denizens of Andrew Ryan’s underwater city cared only for themselves, and it caused the Libertarian paradise to eat itself alive.The protagonist of the first Bioshock is an automaton within this decaying world. While the decision to save or harvest little sisters has a narrative affect, their presence seems more environmental than personal. Bioshock 2 offers similar binary decision points, but by creating an intimate relationship between the Big Daddy protagonist and his Little Sister all grown up, the game evokes sensations of guilt and responsibility the first title could never have achieved.
Guilt is a difficult emotion to evoke in games. In order to feel guilt, you must in some way feel responsible for unfavorable actions. Choice in many games is superficial and largely meaningless. When choice does have an emotional element, say in Mass Effect 2 for example, it may also merely present two justifiable options. Shepard’s decisions can be well defended, regardless of consequences. To create a sense of guilt, players must feel responsible for not necessarily ideal circumstances, all without feeling cheated by the game designers into selecting sub-optimal outcomes.

The Big Daddy from the first Bioshock is a clockwork monster, mercilessly protecting Little Sisters. They seem to have less agency than Jack, who himself is controlled by Fontaine’s “would you kindly.” Sophia Lamb in Bioshock 2 paints Delta as a monstrous creation, ruining his beloved Little Sister Eleanor with his mad pursuit. The first character to test that theory is Grace Holloway, a woman who attempts to stop Delta by sending an army of splicers at him. If the player decides not to kill her when given the option, Grace tells him a monster would never show mercy. By choosing to let her live, Delta shows agency and moral intelligence. Thus, the responsibility for future actions are his.
Similar reminders occur when players are faced with the decision to kill Stanley Poole and Gilbert Alexander. All these decisions influence who Eleanor will become.When I killed Gilbert’s mutated splicer form, I still felt a sense of guilt, even when I felt justified in my actions. Likewise, finishing off the Big Daddy version of Mike Meltzer, a man trapped in Rapture to be with his daughter, I could not help but feel remorse. How would Eleanor interpret these actions? In an excellent article on a similar theme, Michael Abbot of The Brainy Gamer had this to say:

This game makes me feel the weight of compassion and responsibility. I won't soon forget confronting the rat-like Stanley Poole in the train station, every bit of me itching to kill him and make it painful. He stood there cowering, defenseless, bent at the waist, gripping his head. I watched him for a moment, savoring his suffering. And then I realized that she was watching too. Eleanor was there with me, just as she was 10 years before, when her mother faced a similar opportunity to kill a man. I turned and walked out the door. Near the end of the game, some 15 hours later, I discovered I was right. She was watching; and she learned.

Eleanor ultimately becomes the type of person Delta appears to be. If Delta seeks vengeance, so will Eleanor. If Delta harvests children to survive, Eleanor too will commit herself to survival, regardless of the sacrifices. Being responsible for another person’s identity goes beyond responsibility for a few disparate outcomes. My version of Delta would probably not have let Sophia Lam live. When Eleanor forgives her and saves her life in the “good” ending, it evokes a sense of responsibility for something greater than the self. She becomes a better person than those before her.
The player earns this outcome by saving Little Sisters rather than harvesting them. Protecting the children while they collect ADAM is both difficult and time consuming. Bioshock 2 asks the player to make a sacrifice by choosing to become responsible for the safety of another. Although the Little Sisters cannot actually be harmed, the game evokes a sense of guilt when the player dies during ADAM collection. Failing your responsibility can be an emotionally powerful experience.

I felt this same sense of guilt when I gave Eleanor a Big Sister outfit, and again every time I called her to aid me in battle. From beginning to end, Bioshock 2 is about taking responsibility for your own actions and accepting responsibility for Eleanor’s fate. The statues of Delta in Persephone, visible through the eyes of a Little Sister, emphasize the weird of these decisions. While the circumstances in Rapture are out of your hands, Eleanor’s destiny is not. When saving Eleanor means harming others and potentially harming her, justifiable actions can still engender a sense of guilt and remorse. By exploiting these emotions, 2K Marin makes even a Big Daddy feel remarkably human.

The Sensationalist: On Love

This post is part of "The Sensationalist," a continuing series here at Experience Points in which we examine games' abilities to evoke emotions and sensations in video game players. Please have a look at the series' introduction as well its previous entries. As always, we welcome your thoughts on all the matters we discuss, and look forward to analyzing one of gaming's most powerful, yet intangible, abilities.

Warning: This post contains spoilers for Lost Odyssey, The Darkness, Final Fantasy X, Passage and Uncharted 2.

This past weekend, my Experience Points writing partner Scott Juster got betrothed. The wedding ceremony was excellent and it felt rewarding to watch to great friends, clearly in love, become betrothed. For centuries artists have developed pictures of love, the all-consuming emotion that is so fundamental to human life and culture. To capture the medley of sensations included in love is a grand endeavor, for whatever creators come up with will only capture a shred of what weddings are designed to celebrate. With such emotions in the air, what better time to explore romance in videogames.

Conveying the feeling of love to someone, or something, not actually real is tremendously difficult - in no small part because love seems to encompass the gamut of human feelings. Longing, worry, jubilation and jealousy can all stem from romance. Artists draw upon a suite of sensations when depicting love. The best game designers and writers capture some of the elements with careful precision.
Interestingly, the only undoubtedly married couple playable in a videogame that I could find is Kaim and Sara of Lost Odyssey. While a portion of the game includes Kaim’s search and rescue of his beloved, their emotional connection is enhanced by their partnership in action as well. Knowing they are romantic partners enhances the meaning of companionship in the game as we rely on her skills in combat in addition to her presence in the story. The shared experience between two playable characters makes the game’s happy ending that much more rewarding. Unlike the tragic consequences of romance between Cloud and Aeris, the game confirms the love between two characters and even celebrates the concept with another scene of a marriage.

The physical presence of another, the back and forth between mere accompaniment and reliance, is an excellent method of communicating a meaningful relationship. The haptic communication of Prince of Persia, and the Prince’s reliance on Elika, creates a non-spoken bond between the two characters. The way their banters changes over time, becoming increasingly friendly, emphasizes their growing relationship.
The absence of Elika during a few brief moments in the game, particularly considering how useful she is mechanically, evokes a sense of loss and concern, some of the emotional risks that come with love. While others surely disagree, I found the Prince’s decision at the end of the game to revive Elika despite the consequences to be both believable and moving. Even the strongest willed individuals have made tragic mistakes because of love.

The Harvest Moon franchise lets players woo a love interest and even marry and have children. Like marriage in Fable II, the game breaks down an evolving relationship mechanically, essentially creating a “Will you marry me?” flow chart of optimal decisions. Once married, the familial character is more of a household adornment than a realistic love interest, but it does create a feeling of reassurance. One aspect of romantic love is knowing another person will be there for you, by physically and emotionally. The spouses of Harvest Moon and Fable II capture this slice of comfortable romance just slightly.
Dragon Age: Origins does a better job of conveying the growth of mutual affection. Seducing Leliana, for example, requires numerous conversations and “correct” dialogue decisions. These story elements develop a friendship between two strangers in a relatively organic fashion. While the game does still measure and monitor relationships, which devalues any budding romances, it makes up for it with dialogue. If, after sleeping with an NPC, the player character has a romp with another party member, their first love might even confront them. Dragon Age depicts the friendship aspects of romantic love, a just a little bit of jealousy as well.

The story of loss and pursuit are common trends for videogame romances. Mario must love the Princess, right? Why else would he risk his life, time and again, traveling through the mushroom kingdom and into the heart of Bowser’s castle if not for love? Sadly we know nothing of their relationship. It is just as feasible that Mario rescues Princess Peach because he has a strong sense of patriotic duty to his future Queen.
Similar tribulations face Drake when Elena’s life is threatened in Uncharted 2. Likewise, Jackie from The Darkness is faced with the disappearance and eventual murder of his girlfriend Jenny. So distraught is Jackie that he tries to commit suicide. Love is also capable of conjuring up powerfully dark emotions.

Tidus’s death in Final Fantasy X is moving, and Yuna’s attempt to whistle for his reappearance is heartbreaking for anyone who has felt the cold sting of love’s absence. Yuna’s pursuit of Tidus is even strong enough to fuel the story of Final Fantast X-2. The prospect of reviving her lost love, like the option that faces the Prince, is too appealing to pass up, even if it means untold dangers. Such adventures are common in games, perhaps because of the excitement such tales as The Odyssey has inspired in those willing to risk everything for the ones they love.
Jason Rhorer’s Passage captures the feeling of accompaniment and emotional loss present in Prince of Persia in an austere package. In one moment of profundity, Rhorer’s evokes a powerful sense of loss when your companion dies and your solitary character must carry on alone. He also evokes a similar sensation when the helpful partner in Gravity goes missing, trapping the player character on the bottom level, alone but for a slowly dying fireplace. Love does not come without risks. Artists and designers capture shreds of love, even some of the melancholy ones.

Love is hard to find and is invaluable. Depicting the complex range of emotions associated with love is an impossibly hard task. To embark on such an endeavor, to resolve oneself to depict and evoke sensations of romance, is a noble act. Even in these videogame fantasies, we are reminded of love’s fragility, its warmth, its comforting aura, its excitement and its dangers. To some extent, even artificial amor reminds us to cherish what love we find in our lives. In the spirit of adoration and fascination with love, let this article be a toast - to Scott and Hanah on finding, capturing, and appreciating the most powerful sensation of all.

The Sensationalist: To Be Young

This post is part of "The Sensationalist," a continuing series here at Experience Points in which we examine games' abilities to evoke emotions and sensations in video game players. Please have a look at the series' introduction as well its previous entries. As always, we welcome your thoughts on all the matters we discuss, and look forward to analyzing one of gaming's most powerful, yet intangible, abilities.

Many would give all they own to find the fountain of youth, the fabled spring that will grant eternal health and vigor to whomever drinks its water. But reversing the affects of time does not actually recreate youth. There is an essence to childhood entirely its own - being young does not just mean you have low cholesterol. Being a kid, particularly a small child, is at times frustrating, exhilarating, confusing, and joyous. Capturing such a strange emotional state in a videogame is no easy task.

What sensations are we to equate with childhood? Many sensations reoccur across children's literature, from spry curiosity to social shame. There is also a common feeling of isolation from adults. Adults are larger, more experienced, and carry the weight of authority. A small kid can feel alienated and undervalued, despite feeling as much like an agency wielding individual as her parents. Who has never felt trapped by adolescence? As many of us can remember, navigating a confusing world run by adults can be a disheartening experience.
No game evokes a stronger sense of child-like frailty than Ico. The game's titular protagonist is a small boy in a clearly adult-sized castle. His movements always seem a little more strained than usual, and the sound of his panting and huffing depict a child out of his league. Ico, unlike many other videogame heroes, is constantly struggling to overcome his stature. A very early Sensationalist post discussed this very topic in greater detail. Suffice it to say this protagonist evokes, through sound and visuals, the sensation of being overwhelmed and inexperienced - the reality a child would face in such a dangerous situation.

Nintendo similarly captures this feeling of dwarfed ability in Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time and Majora's Mask. While Link is still a very capable warrior, his abilities are altered depending on his physical form. In the first game, young link can fit through small passages, but also cowers under his shield instead of wearing it properly. In Majora's Mask, the citizens of Clocktown make reference to Link as a young "deku scrub," calling him out and isolating him from his peers. Guards will not allow Link to leave town as he is just a boy, despite his many accomplishments. He can, however, ingratiate himself amongst another band of young miscreants, evoking a sense of youth comraderie - a pleasant result of unfortunate circumstances. Until Link can change his physical form, being a child means navigating an adult world with very particular strategies.
The sense of separation between kids and adults also appears in Double Fine's Psychonauts. Raz, the game's protagonist, joins a psychic training summer camp as an effort to prove himself to his father. The aesthetics of the game are imaginative romps through distorted environments. One level combines Raz's childhood memories of a circus with another characters childhood fears of his butcher father. In Psychonauts, imagined anxieties become real, mirroring the uneasy fantasies of children. In these mindscapes, adults become caricatures of themselves. For example, the road crew in The Milk Man Conspiracy level are mockeries of FBI agents and roadside workers, giving themselves authority with strange and arbitrary symbols. As a child, adults can seem just as strange as the over-the-top inhabitants of Psychonauts.
Raz enters the world of adulthood eagerly. Perhaps a child's perpetual curiosity and forward progress is played out mechanically in Lucidity from Lucas Arts. Sofi, the game's little girl protagonist, is always happily skipping forward. Players must place objects in her path, steering her clear of hazards and obstacles. While the mechanics make the player less like a child and more like Sofi's guardian, the aesthetics of the game beautifully evoke a child-like perception of reality. Lucidity is very much like a children's novel dealing with mature themes. As Sofi confronts the death of her grandmother, players feel a heightened sense of anxiety and confusion in increasingly difficult levels. When Sofi cowers in fear at an encroaching darkness, and players are reminded of the tragedy for which the game is a metaphor, the game evokes some of the very adult emotions children wrestle with as they mature.
One aspect of growing up is confronting adult ideas, sometimes too soon, and learning about consequence. Fable 2 conveys a child's involvement in adult affairs with the games aptly named introduction, "Childhood." The player's decisions, while innocuous for a child, have long lasting consequences many years later. Tale of Tales creates an even deeper sense of child-like exploration coupled with deep foreboding in The Path, a dark retelling of Little Red Riding Hood. Robin, the youngest of six playable sisters featured in the game, is just nine years old. She approaches objects innocently, and objects we associate with adult ideas - like bullet casings - she may bypass altogether. Yet as she plays in this strange environment, her actions hint at the woman she may become and any number of tragedies that might befall her. Amazingly, the game evokes a sense of child-like wonder right alongside a child-like fear of the mysterious and unknown.
It is inherently difficult to depict the experience of youth from an adult perspective. But that need not be our goal. Adolescence is inextricably tied to our perceptions about adulthood. While there are quite a few games that feature children gleefully exploring their world, some even recreating the joyful pleasure of independent wandering (Pokemon for example), few conjure the complex emotions of youth in transition.

None of my examples should be considered "coming of age" tales per se. Yet all of them portray youth in relation to growth, both physical and emotional. They successfully isolate small aspects of childhood and with them engender interesting emotions. They open a mixed bag of sensations, from imaginative play to weary frustration, and give us a chance to be young again.

The Sensationalist: Designing Trust

This post is part of "The Sensationalist," a continuing series here at Experience Points in which we examine games' abilities to evoke emotions and sensations in video game players. Please have a look at the series' introduction as well its previous entries.

In the world of online gaming, where we rely on strangers to cover our backs, heal us up, support our attacks, and not steal our loot, trust can be a rare commodity. When a few anonymous individuals can foment hostility amongst compatriots, it can be difficult to have faith in others. Yet success in many multiplayer games hinges on mutual feelings of trust between allies. To build reciprocal confidence is to build a great gaming experience - trust me.

Trust in multiplayer online games comes in many forms, some of which I want to exclude from this discussion. For example, players often engage with others trusting they will not use "game breaking" exploits. That subject I address more directly with an older piece on the Prisoner's Dilemma. I'll also ignore personal self-confidence, which itself is an interesting sensation games frequently attempt to evoke. There is also the issue of trusting game design - believing the developers are not out to get you with a fundamentally flawed and unfair game, something transparency can ammend. Specifically, I want to to discuss trust between partners, or at least potential partners.

Last week, Scott suggested "three hypothetical scenarios that would explore the darker side of human interaction" in Left 4 Dead. These alternate modes of zombie survival would create distrust amongst team members, exploiting the need for cooperation versus secondary threats. Although the post-apocalyptic franchise asks far less of its players, the game still creates mutual dependence and a feeling of trust between players.
Left 4 Dead and its sequel engender mutual confidence between players by necessity, above and beyond similarly team-based games. Survival demands team cohesion, from picking up a downed pal off the ground to battling an enraged tank together. Equally important is how the game reminds players to have confidence in their comrades. When one player blasts an attacking zombie away about to hit teammate, their teammate will be notified that they have a savior. L4D also keeps track of health packs shared and pills freely given, awarding philanthropy. When a room is being defensively held against an onslaught of zombies, you feel much more capable knowing someone is covering your flank, ready to bandage you up if necessary. The feeling is exhilarating.

The importance here is that trust is somewhat quantifiable. As in real life, we build credit with others over long periods of time, time we do not have when playing random competitive games with strangers. During the hectic frenzy of gaming, trust is built through trial by fire. Having a measurable and easily understandable moment of team-building, one which proves the capability and generosity of your compatriots, is invaluable to evoking a sense of trust.

In team-based competitive games, it can become troublesome when players have little faith in the abilities of others. In a game like League of Legends, players frequently blame their own team mates for the group's failure. One death early in a match, and an ally might not trust you to carry your own weight. These dynamics change how games are played. Distrust in LoL can foster redundancy (players start usurping each others roles) and poor decision making (plunging fatalistically into battle).
Alternatively, warranted distrust in the abilities of others demands working around shortcomings. In order to build trust over a very short period of time, there needs to be a measurable way to determine someone's abilities. Persistent player identities with their own leveling system are not enough. Support classes, for example, would benefit from additional metrics besides kills and assists to judge their worth. Players should be well informed about the roles and abilities other players have access to. This also means creating distinct and recognizable abilities. Knowing how your allies are contributing to a team battle with a quick glance at the screen goes a long way for building trust.

Where treachery is a potentially fruitful option however, building trust can be even harder. Neptune's Pride, a browser-based sci-take mix of Risk and Diplomacy, relies on trust and intrigue. Everyone playing should expect to have alliances broken. Therefore, building trust between players is a delicate matter. In this game, as in real life, communication is important, but not exclusively so. Words must match action, even if this means telling someone you will invade their territory. If a time comes where the aggressor pleas for help, a record of honesty is necessary to rebuild trust between players. While Neptune's Pride does not force honesty, it does provide an easy venue for communication (a trust building requirement) and numerous easy-to-understand measurements of trust (from trading technology to knowing monitoring player progress).
Team cohesion, the feeling that you can rely on others, dramatically improves multiplayer gaming experiences. Ideally, players enter online matches with faith in others, acknowledging the lack of authority figures in online spaces. Unfortunately many of us have become bitter, our online experiences spoiled by treachery, ignorance, or incompetence.

Therefore we must put our gaming relationships to the test. The more frequent and transparent the trial is the better. Even frequent low-risk trials will improve how quickly we coalesce into a functioning team (Yea, even those office team-building exercises could work). The more quantifiable measurements of trust and information about player behavior, the better we can assess ourselves in relation to our gaming cohorts.

The Sensationalist: Homeward Bound

This post is part of "The Sensationalist," a continuing series here at Experience Points in which we examine games' abilities to evoke emotions and sensations in video game players. Please have a look at the series' introduction as well its previous entries.

WARNING: The tenth paragraph contains minor spoilers for Heavy Rain.

Just last Monday, I returned stateside from a three week excursion across the Atlantic. As you all know, the sense of comfort one feels upon returning home from a long journey is immensely satisfying - you almost want to sing about it. Home is more than a place of central operation. The idea of home is often associated with calm normality, refuge, contentment and peace of mind. It is our reward after a long days work and a venue for relaxation. The sensation of feeling at home is undeniably strong, yet videogames rarely exploit this emotion.

The mythological adventure of the hero's journey begins with a departure from home, leaving the mundane world behind. The home environment may contrast with the perilous realm, heightening its abnormality. It can also tell a story on its own, displaying the hero's faults which will be mended during the adventure. Of course this story could also be told entirely in the home. However, incorporating the ordinary into a game system designed for extraordinary feats can be difficult and seem meaningless. Thus, the home is mostly neglected. Most games begin just across the border into the fantastical.

There are a few notable counter-examples. Chronotrigger begins with Chrono lying in bed, awoken by his mother. Home is given a physical presence, although the house is quickly abandoned and rarely revisited. His village does become home-like in a way. As Chrono returns with his compatriots in different time periods, it generally remains geographically similar. The town's frequent appearance makes it familiar, somewhat evoking the sensation of home, but it is still not a bastion of comfort.
Familiarity only partly captures the sensation of home. By the end of Legend of Zelda: Majora's Mask, Termina's Clock Town becomes very familiar. Link navigates its streets and interacts with its citizens constantly. He only does this on a superficial level, however. Link is a still an outsider, a voyeur dawning various masks to interact with the town and its inhabitants as someone else entirely. While it is clearly a home, it is not his home.

The construction of a personal place is very important to our idea of home. It needs to feel like ours, sometimes through ownership. The apartments in Quantic Dream's Indigo Prophecy feel more personal because their residents conduct within them both important business and mundane tasks. Yet as players, watching Tyler Miles interact with his girlfriend at his home feels a bit intrusive. So while it does depict Tyler comfortably at home, it does not evoke within ourselves the same sensation.
Some games try to give players a personal investment in their abode. Many players are attracted to The Sims because they can imagine and build endlessly diverse homes of their very own. Each dinner table, grandfather clock, and bathroom is put there by the player specifically. This act connects players to their houses in a way other games do not. The home is undeniably personal.

Assassin's Creed 2 attempts to capitalize on the collector's satisfaction of ownership and personalization by allowing players, if they so choose, to amass an impressive array of 14th and 15th century paintings. Likewise, players can discover statues to adorn the Villa Auditore. Whenever they wish, players can visit and peruse their gallery. I personally took pride in my estate as it became wealthier and better attended. While this too can be associated with home, the Villa still feels cold and emotionally lifeless. It feels more like a large display case than a home.
Home ownership in Fable II personalizes the experience, but also expands beyond what AC2 offers by allowing players to merry and raise children within their residence. For some players, the experience of returning from an expedition and actually being greeted by a welcoming family evokes a strong sense of home. While I did not experience compelling family ties myself, Fable II has the potential to engender the sensations of comfort and respite associated with home.

As the old adage says, "home is where the heart is." Home is deeply associated with family and friends. While we all relish solitary activities in the home, these small moments often become rituals sandwiched between interactive relationships with other people, or even animals.
Interestingly, Heavy Rain captures this sentiment with its depiction of Ethan's various living situations. The most powerful sensation of home is created in the beginning of the game, when Ethan plays with his children in the yard and enjoys a meal with his family. When Ethan lives alone and has a strained relationship with Shaun, his home is dark, rundown, and shabby. Once Shaun is kidnapped, Ethan sleeps in a hotel; he essentially has no home. Finally, in the optimum ending, Ethan moves into a new apartment waiting to be furnished, creating a new family with Madison and Shaun. Throughout Heavy Rain, the physical home environments are metaphors, reflecting the current state of character relationships.

Games have largely abandoned homes on account of narrative and technical limitations. The few titles that successfully evoke sensations of home do not rely on the creation of physical space. Instead, they recreate the relationships which many of us associate with home. The most evocative sensations of home are not created in kitchens and bedrooms, but in the moments between battles, the calm before the storm.

The Normandy of Mass Effect is a constantly moving space ship, yet it feels like home. As does the fireside camp of Dragon Age: Origins. In Chronotrigger, and a few other games, "home" is created through the comfort of friends, when allies come together, share stories, and rest. The idea of home within the mundane world still remains largely unexplored by games. However, in many of our journeys, we may yet find the calm and familiar sensation of home along the way.

The Sensationalist: Controlling Emotions in Heavy Rain

This post is part of "The Sensationalist," a continuing series here at Experience Points in which we examine games' abilities to evoke emotions and sensations in video game players. Please have a look at the series' introduction as well its previous entries. As always, we welcome your thoughts on all the matters we discuss, and look forward to analyzing one of gaming's most powerful, yet intangible, abilities.

Warning: Very minor spoilers ahead!

In a recent GDC interview with G4, Quantic Dream's David Cage revealed that describing the experience of Heavy Rain to people over the last two years has been his personal nightmare. Each button on the PS3 controller corresponds to different actions at different times, so it is difficult to assess what is "done" with any consistency. Yet the game does explicitly seek to evoke a wide range of emotions from players with these controls. What players "do" or "should do" is have an emotional connection to the story through interactivity. My goal with this post is to explore this attempt at evocative player inputs.

I should start with a few caveats. There has been some debate about how suitable it is to call Heavy Rain a "game" at all. David Cage himself calls it an "interactive drama." The distinction, as I see it, is utterly pointless. If you thirst for more debate, I cede the floor to Chris Lepine of The Artful Gamer who recently posted an excellent piece on the subject. I am also steering clear of plot criticisms, including the affect player death has on the experience. That being said, story elements will arise whose effectiveness you question. In which case, consider my arguments on controls indicative of what QD would have achieved with better storytelling.

In response to those who criticize Heavy Rain as a glorified collection of quick-time events, I side with Mitch Krpata of Insult Swordfighting on this when he says "This is factually true, and experientially insignificant." Like all game interfaces, the input options are abstract symbols for what appears on screen. I take as my assumption the legitimacy of Heavy Rain's input design choices and go from there.
To begin with, there are a few important differences between the types of player interactions. A vast sum of the game is spent maneuvering characters about their day to day lives, participating leisurely in the mundane. Actions are contextual. Opening a door might require moving the thumb stick right. Alternatively, swiveling the thumb stick might turn a car's key in the ignition for example. Gentler tasks require slower actions, and sustained effort might require tapping on a button repeatedly. More difficult tasks, such as climbing a muddy hill, might require the player to hold down buttons in a particular order. Lastly, during particularly fast-paced scenes, quick button presses play out quick-time events.

There have been some criticisms levied at Heavy Rain for its interactive tedium, particularly the game's slow start. It does seem a bit ludicrous to brush someone's teeth with the thumb stick. Some of these early scenes, however, can be quite emotionally affecting. During the game's early moments, Ethan has a mock sword fight with one of his children. The battle prompts the player to parry and strike to win. You might, however, resist all your gaming knowledge and intentionally lose, ignoring the on screen instructions, to be a better father. As such, Heavy Rain conveys "failure" as a legitimate narrative outcome. More importantly for this scene, player input defines the emotional weight of the on-screen father-son relationship.

Additionally, the game's basic interactions are designed to contrast with the game's high tension moments. Theoretically, partaking in Ethan's daily routine of caring for his son emphasizes his normality. Fixing your son something to eat before bed time is a far cry from the heroics of champions traditionally found in videogames. Therefor, we should empathize with him more easily. To some extent, this interactive banality also maps the human body across situations. We are reminded that the same limbs, or controller inputs in this case, we use to kick a ball might, in the right situation, save a life. The realism this conveys stresses the emotional level non-normative scenarios evoke.
When tied to narrative outcomes, implementing the now normalized controller movements correctly suddenly becomes very important. In one dramatic scene, Ethan is giving CPR to his son Shaun. There were numerous moments when I, and Ethan by extension, had messed up basic everyday things, like carrying groceries. So, when a life depended on success, the possibility of failure was almost palpable. My only thought was "not now. Don't mess up now." The sense of tension and worry was far more powerful because my input mirrored routine interactions practiced earlier in the game.

This same relationship plays out on many occasions. When FBI agent Jaden is reeling under the effects of Triptocaine (or ARI?) withdrawal, button options vibrate violently and blur. Players are met with the same disorientation Jaden is feeling, making success that much more difficult. Complex actions require complex button sequences as well, mimicking the concentration and contortion required to pull something off. At one point, I was holding down the left trigger with my lip.

Similarly, when Madison is being assaulted with a bat, the appropriate button to dodge is actually attached to the object. Interpreting and acting upon this button display requires quick thinking. By contextualizing interface placement and adjusting its appearance based on character emotions, Heavy Rain creates stronger sensations of anxiety and tension. Our interactions with the game become colored by the emotions of the players, the actions on screen, and our own building distress.
Some have criticized the game for this behavior, suggesting this design choice breaks immersion, requiring the player to think only of the controller. I do concede there is some preparatory controller memorization during some scenes. However, I equate such behavior to a goalkeeper mentally concentrating on their body, muscles, and inevitable movement seconds before a penalty kick. It is unfortunate, in this case, we concentrate so heavily on a controller, but the reason is the same. We mentally prepare ourselves to act correctly and efficiently during moments of high anxiety, which Heavy Rain successfully creates.

There is one scene that is particularly evocative, which also collects input options successfully. One of Ethan's trials to save his son involves chopping off his own finger. Ethan may collect various items to prepare himself for the amputation. If they so choose, players follow Ethan, moving the six-axis controller to pull a knife out of the wall, rotating the thumb stick to heat up an improvised cauterizing iron, or slowly moving the stick up and down to regulate breathing and slow Ethan's heart rate.

If players do this, they partake in a ritual of sorts. While it calms Ethan, it actually builds up tension for the player, asking them to imagine themselves in the same scenario. Each mundane task carries greater weight because each step brings players closer to the horrendous act. The scene creates a sense of determination, resolve, and disgust.
Even if the only interaction the player indulges in is sawing through finger bone, the controller movement approximates and emphasizes the actual act. Players are encouraged to ponder the dilemma, stew within the emotions it creates, and face the grotesque challenge. Despite its digital nature, the sequence of events is incredibly cringe worthy. This scene epitomizes Heavy Rain's attempt at developing emotions with their game mechanics.

For many people, Heavy Rain fails to evoke anything but frustration and disappointment. The way players interact with the game is partially to blame. It is not always clear why certain actions are mapped to certain inputs, or why that mapping changes during a scene. Undoubtedly, the interactive tedium also confounds the emotions players are supposed to feel during high tension situations. While the game is not perfect, it does tread an innovative path with its controls. David Cage intended to make an emotionally dramatic interactive experience. Regardless of its success, the attempt is an intriguing and commendable addition to emotional and sensational gaming.

The Sensationalist: A Melodramatic Fantasy

This post is part of "The Sensationalist," a continuing series here at Experience Points in which we examine games' abilities to evoke emotions and sensations in video game players. Please have a look at the series' introduction as well its previous entries. As always, we welcome your thoughts on all the matters we discuss, and look forward to analyzing one of gaming's most powerful, yet intangible, abilities.

I listened to both the Giant Bomb and Gamers With Jobs podcasts week and both shows had some of their hosts describing their experience with Final Fantasy XIII. Inevitably, the question of "Should I play it?" came from the cast members who were still apprehensive. The answer was basically another series of questions: "Do you really like the Final Fantasy series? Do you have time to invest at least ten hours before the whole battle system is unlocked? How do you feel about the characters?"

This seems like a long way from the kind of reverence the series got in the late 1990s. In 1997 (and perhaps even today) the answer to the question "Should I play Final Fantasy VII?" was commonly "Do you own a PlayStation? If not, get one and then play it."

I think that melodrama is one of the major reasons why so many folks, including myself, have such strong emotional ties to the game. As Michael has written, melodrama at its most basic level is using music to heighten the impact of a story. Final Fantasy VII, devoid of the benefits and pitfalls of voice acting, uses its music to convey its story on an emotional level. The overworld map music is a prime example of how Final Fantasy VII uses music to communicate its themes while also retaining its importance to a huge number of players.

Before I go any further, I will offer a disclaimer: I am no music critic. Possessing only the scantest bits of formal musical knowledge, I aim only to fumble through and describe the sentiments and feelings of the music. For more refined and (let's face it) qualified analysis, I heartily recommend visiting Dan Bruno or Ben Abraham.

Distilled to its most basic structure, Final Fantasy VII's convoluted plot is one that stresses mutuality. It is a story in which the entire planet is threatened with destruction and the solution to this threat is the interconnectedness of life itself. Regardless of allegiance, belief, or geographical location, each character in the story is invested in stopping Sephiroth. In a story that would probably please Al Gore, all the planet's inhabitants, and even The Planet itself, unite to face a challenge to their collective existence.

The game's overworld music constantly reminds the player of their mission and reinforces the theme of unity:

Unlike many other Final Fantasy overworld tunes, the song has a slow buildup. While the overarching melody is introduced in the first ten seconds, the subsequent measures mirror the ambivalent, apprehensive state in which the player finds themselves upon hearing the song for the first time. The initial hours of Final Fantasy VII take place in Midgar, a huge industrial metropolis whose grand scale and internal politics make it feel like a world unto itself. After a dramatic escape, the concept that Midgar is but a small part of the world is daunting. Even more frightening is that the evil encountered within the city gates is not contained within them, and in fact has already spread across the world.

At the one minute mark, the melody is formally introduced in a relatively straightforward, as if to ensure that that we remember its basic form. Cloud, as well as the player, has a basic idea of what must be done, but the scope of the mission and the size of the world is still shocking for someone who spent spent so much time in the city looking at the small picture.

At about 1:55, the song goes on a bit of a tangent: while it retains the hints of the melody in the background, sharp keyboard strokes allude to one of gaming's most beloved characters: Aeris.

Aeris represents the countless individual sacrifices made throughout the struggle, and those haunting keystrokes speak to the frailty of one individual against an overwhelming force. After her sacrifice, Aeirs lives on through her friends as well and the many anonymous people that join in the communal struggle against Sephiroth.

At 2:40, the world map music provides a grand reintroduction to the original melody. This time, the full orchestra is brought in to reveal the narrative's broad scope and the myriad of people all fighting towards a single end. Over the course of the game, Cloud and company traverse the entire world exploring everything from Gothic mansions to beach resorts. Every corner of the map contains people whose lives were touched by the growing threat. Whether soaring over mountains with a would-be astronaut or visiting the salt of earth at an old mining camp, Final Fantasy VII's world is full of unique people with a common goal. Their diversity of experiences and the grandeur of their mission is mirrored in the music's crescendo, and their shared existence is echoed in its familiar melody.

However, victory is not assured The song retreats from its bombastic statement at 3:50 to remind us of the planet's tenuous state. At 4:10, a slow, ominous rhythm kicks in to warn us of the creeping, mysterious evil working its way across the globe. Sephiroth might not always be present, but the sense of doom he spreads is a constant undercurrent that provokes a sense of urgency, even in times of relative peace. The threat will not yield or rest, and so neither must Cloud.

At 5:15, the melodic forces of hope, grandeur, and destruction collide. The outcome is neither triumphant nor tragic; it is more inquisitive than anything. Strains of the original melody trail off, as if they are possibilities rather than eventualities. Success for Cloud and the player hinges on their ability to marshal all of the world's energy to complete the task at hand. Despite its magnificent variety, the world and its inhabitants are ultimately a vast network with a single future. Success is uncertain, and it relies on facing the danger together.

Final Fantasy VII is a story about how, even in a complex world, people are fundamentally connected to one another. This is a powerful lesson, and often comes as a profound revelation as people transition into adulthood. The game remains important not only because of its technical and gameplay accomplishments, but because it told a story that coincided with the coming of age of a generation players who now find themselves in a world that is both profoundly troubled and increasingly interconnected.

Final Fantasy VII's story is melodramatic in the best way. Time is often cruel towards games; graphics, game mechanics, and storytelling devices are easily worn down over the years. By crafting a musical version of its story, Final Fantasy VII uses melodrama to insulate it from the ravages of time. Just as John Williams' score helps Star Wars retain its impact, Nobuo Uematsu has given us music that that both burnishes and perpetuates Final Fantasy VII's popularity. The music encompasses the game's themes and provides players with an anthem that simultaneously appeals to their individual and shared experiences.

The Sensationalist: The Sentimental 'Mass Effect 2'

This post is part of "The Sensationalist," a continuing series here at Experience Points in which we examine games' abilities to evoke emotions and sensations in video game players. Please have a look at the series' introduction as well its previous entries. As always, we welcome your thoughts on all the matters we discuss, and look forward to analyzing one of gaming's most powerful, yet intangible, abilities.

Spoiler Pirate says "Yarrr! There be spoilers ahead!

Although the destruction of Normandy 1 occurs in the first five minutes of Mass Effect 2, Bioware rightly tried their best to keep the segment under wraps. For those who have played the first game, the reveal is powerful. In the scene, an enemy vessel carves into Commander Shepard's ship, ripping it apart. She ensures her crew's safety, walking through zero-g carnage to reach Joker, her ace pilot. More than establishing a fast-paced tonally dramatic introduction, Mass Effect 2 quickly establishes its intent to evoke nostalgia for the game's first iteration. By stressing the importance of the first game within the world and its characters, Bioware elicits sentimentality with an unprecedented success.
Despite the multitudes of sequels, most games do not reminisce on the preceding title. On the contrary, sequels often seem to divorce themselves from, or at least ignore, their predecessors. Final Fantasy X-2 for example, the first real sequel in the Final Fantasy series, seems more disparate to FFX than it does to FFIX. The mechanics change dramatically between the two titles and, while the plot centers on pre-established characters, the two games are tonally inconsistent. FFX-2 is a dancing musical number compared to the angst-driven drama of FFX. Similarly, while Assassin's Creed 2 includes some remnants of Altair's story arc, Desmond and Ezio exist independently, neither showing any sign of interest in Altair. While gameplay is similar, the environment is not.

Alternatively, complete consistency between two games merely elongates one experience without evoking any sense of nostalgia. The Halo, God of War, and Gears of War franchises iterate slightly between each title, mostly maintaining one narrative arc and mechanical experience across multiple games. While a few twists remind the player of past narrative events, the games stand largely as one whole. Mass Effect 2 maneuvers between these two limitations, inconsistency and regularity, by demarcating the relationship between the two games with an obvious metaphor - the demolition and reconstruction of the Normandy.
Appropriately, an optional side quest visit to the wreckage of Normandy 1 is included as free DLC content for those purchasing new copies of ME2. The entire sequence includes no combat, serving only to build sentimentality. Exploring the rubble for the dog tags of missing crew members, each with their own name, Shepard recalls still images from the first game. She also places a monument to those who lost their lives under her command. The moment is a silent and private affair, a narrative opportunity built solely to explore sentimentality.

Commander's Shepard's interactions with old crew members and early dialogue options also develop nostalgia for past experiences. When first regaining consciousness, Shepard may inquire about the status of her past team members. When talking to Lt. Anderson and Joker, she may also probe further into the whereabouts of her old friends. While they have all moved on, no one reoccurring character is unaffected by their past. Garrus, Joker, Anderson and others express longing for the halcyon days working for the Alliance. Even Doctor Chakwas, a relatively insignificant NPC from the first Mass Effect, joins Shepard's crew. If selected, Shepard joins the doctor for a drink, reminiscing about bygone days and their shared memories.
While many games have created nostalgia by referencing the games we grew up on, Mass Effect 2 evokes sentimentality by putting Commander Shepard through the same set of emotions. Her first mission is markedly strange without her loyal crew, and she expresses this same concern. Having to actively search out recruits dramatizes the absence of those who joined her in the first game out of a common sense of purpose. Dialogue options that express weary concern about her crew mirror my own hesitancy with a new cast of characters. Players who delve into the game's sentimentality may also reward themselves with Shepard's collection of model ships from ME1, her own keep sake and memorial to the past.

For those unable to import ME1 profiles into ME2, the experience could be very different. The mechanical and interface alterations may not evoke sentimentality from any player, but perhaps the scatted sci-fi references dotted around ME2 may serve to evoke nostalgia - in this case, for Firefly and Star Trek. Regardless, Shepard's consistent concern for past crew members, her numerous dialogue options that encourage reminiscence, and her encounters with old friends, should resonate with new and old players alike. Bioware succeeds in evoking sentimentality by doing what so many games have failed to do: making the first game clearly meaningful to the protagonist and her compatriots. It is a form of expert world-building few developers have even approached and Bioware should be lauded for it appropriately.