Grasping Inside a Star-filled Sky

In my latest post over at PopMatters, I delve into the depths of Inside a Star-filled Sky.

The more time I spend with it, the more I admire it. The game draws inspiration from traditional twin-stick shooters and marries it with procedural generated, recursive levels and an open-ended progression structure; elements that seem to be all the rage these days.

I find myself fighting with the controls from time to time and the game has made me appreciate the elegant simplicity and transparent rules of classic shooters like Robotron. Despite these issues, I appreciate the game's tactical feel. In addition to elements of bullet hell and pattern memorization, being able to reconfigure power-ups and enemy abilities ads a lot of strategy to a genre that is usually based on twitch-based skills.

As luck would have it, Jason Rohrer, Inside a Star-filled Sky's creator, released a major update just as this post was set to publish. The update has made the game much more social, which detracts from the sense of individuality and isolation I felt while playing it. Although my essay is now a bit outdated, I still think it's an interesting testament to the difficulty of writing about games. A simple update can drastically alter a game's message, which makes it even more important to document changes before they become lost in the ether.

In a way, it's poetic that Inside a Star-filled Sky has already grown beyond the game I wrote about. It's a game whose dynamics center around endless expansion, growth, and variation; it makes sense that the game itself would continue to change.

A Relaxing Ride with Fig. 8

One of my New Year’s resolutions was to play more independent and experimental games. Well, we’re officially one month into 2011 and I’m slowly-but-surely making some headway in terms of expanding my horizons. I have a bad habit of ignoring the critical side of my brain while playing browser-based games. It’s probably due to the amount of hype mainstream titles get and the fallacy that expense always means quality. To fight this inclination, I’ll try to offer some quick critiques of the smaller games I play. This week, I’ll talk about Fig. 8.

The Mysterious Identity of Professor Layton

Logic puzzles and mathematical word problems have long assumed an irritating role in my life: In grade school, they were the odious bits of the classroom I had to take home with me. If I was unfortunate enough for my Mom to decide that I was "wasting" my summer in front of the TV playing video games, I was greeted by a notebook full of the blasted things.

More troublesome was the way puzzles were incorporated into standardized tests used to lump kids into intellectual groups. Sadly, this trend persisted through college and continues into graduate school. While not Professor Layton's fault, the gameplay is nevertheless made up of activities I most strongly associate with things that have historically prevented me from enjoying myself.

So why did I play through the games? After hearing so much about the clever puzzles and finely-crafted artwork, my curiosity simply got the best of me.

It should be noted that when I say I "played" through the games, what I really mean is that I took advantage of Hanah's superior aptitude and enjoyment. I would tackle a few puzzles, but after my inevitable rage-quit, I would contently look over her shoulder while voicing my only-occasionally-helpful suggestions.

This being said, it should not come as a surprise that I latched on to games' stories and characters as if they were some sort of animated, whimsical security blanket that could shield me from the MENSA-inspired barrage. I have grown particularly fascinated by Layton himself. For me, the character is far more of a mystery than any of the game's puzzles.

I quickly found Professor Layton to be a thoroughly authentic character. Paradoxically, this is largely due to the relatively small amount of back-story provided for him. We know that Layton somehow became a professor, a world-famous archaeologist, a masterful puzzle-solver, a strict adherent to some form of neo-chivalry, an accomplished swordsman, and the guardian of a young apprentice. What we do not know is how or why this all happened.

Instead of guiding the player through an origin story, the game introduces the Professor as a character whose existence predated their first play session. Layton already has an established worldview, set of characteristics, and even arch rival, all of which are illustrated through current events. Solving puzzles with Layton is akin to meeting someone on the job; the player gets to know him gradually, in the context of what he does best.

In one respect, Akihiro Hino and Level-5 have created a spiritual peer of Indiana Jones, Sherlock Holmes, and Nathan Drake. However, Layton's resemblance to these characters is juxtaposed by distinctly ambiguous characteristics that cast him as something more akin to a cultural chameleon.

Perhaps "golem" would be a more apt term for Layton? It was quite surprising to find a Japanese-created, English-themed character named Hershel. Yet, despite having a name strongly associated with a specific ethnoreligious group, the game never explains Layton's background. In comparison to many of the games' caricature-based inhabitants, Layton is a malleable lump of clay in the player's mind.

While his skin is light, is is not as pale as many of the WASPy folks who supply him with puzzles. Layton's physical features are exceedingly nondescript: aside from an unusually square jaw, his face has no stubble or recognizable quirks. A line for a mouth, a line for a nose, a line for each ear, and two dots for eyes thwart most attempts at establishing any definitive ethnicity.

Some studies have suggested that, in addition to eyes, eyebrows are crucial in helping us remember faces. Layton, with his extremely simple eyes and nearly non-existent eyebrows, is both an everyman and anonymous man. His appearance diverges from the many popular hyper-real, gratuitously sexual characters found in video games.

A visit to Nintendo's Professor Layton website demonstrates the careful balancing act Nintendo is performing with the game's marketing. The three live action commercials all focus on the female players and bill the title as "a puzzle solving action game." Professor Layton makes a brief appearance and his name is in the title, but the focus in these spots is set squarely on the player. The game is framed as one in which the hero is not only the player, but a non-stereotypical player. In order not to detract from her, Layton blends in to the background.

Thus, we are presented with a mystery: How can a lead character possess a complex backstory based on well-worn gender, cultural, and narrative tropes while still serving as an empty vessel for the player to fill with their own personality? Somehow, Layton is at once a character and an avatar.

When I was floating this idea to Hanah, I initially asked her about Layton's distinguishing characteristics. "He wears glasses, doesn't he?" she asked.

He doesn't, but she does. Very puzzling indeed.

Missing in Action, part 3: Anonymity in Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare

This is the third post in a three part series dedicated to analyzing Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare. Feel free to read the first part, Civilians in Call of Duty: Modern Warfare, and the second part, "Seeing the Elephant" in Call of Duty: Modern Warfare.

Beware of spoilers in this post.

The question about whether games can and should have overarching messages is a contentious one. Video games, perhaps more so than any other medium, foster an environment in which both the author and audience are highly active participants in creating the meaning behind the final product. Even in the case of highly scripted games like CoD 4, individual player choices and experiences have the potential to elicit a myriad of interpretations regarding the work's themes.

My experience with CoD 4 was affected just as strongly by what was present in the game than by what was not present. Over the past two posts, I have argued that CoD 4's thematic strength comes from its omissions. The game's lack of a civilian presence highlights the ways in which non-combatants are transformed from people into abstract justifications for war. Also absent is combat's aftermath and wider ramifications: CoD 4's dramatic, chaotic battle scenes may give us a glimpse of "the elephant," but this view comes at the expense of a wider exploration of the beast's true destructive nature.

In searching for the larger message of CoD 4, I was again drawn to the gaps in its construction of reality. After the initial shock of the nuclear explosion and the death of Sgt. Paul Jackson, I began to see the broader lesson of the character's death. While spectacular from the player's view, Sgt. Jackson's death fades into obscurity against the backdrop of the larger conflict, thereby highlighting the anonymity imposed on those touched by war.

Jackson's death is jarring in terms of its suddenness and its aftermath. It is surprising enough to witness the failure of the "good guys," but even more unexpected is the sudden erasure of a character the player had grown to know. Not only is the player's relationship with the character terminated, the character's identity is stripped down to the barest details.

While the spectacle of the nuclear blast was impressive, the most shocking part of the event was how quickly Jackson faded into obscurity after his death. The early portion of the game was spent following (and controlling) Jackson and his comrades. After the blast, Jackson becomes a single name on a huge casualty list and simply fades into history.

The casualty list has no room to mention the many dangerous missions he took, nor does it state that he died trying to save a fallen soldier. In fact, unlike the Sgt. Jackson in the video below, my Sgt. Jackson immediately turned around after waking up from the blast, crawled over to one of the other soldiers in the helicopter, and tried in vain to rescue them. Only after seeing they were dead did he/I exit the chopper and begin searching for other survivors.

Regardless of the particulars of his or the player's story, Jackson is distilled into three sterile letters: "KIA."

Perhaps shamefully, I knew more about Sgt. Jackson's exploits than most of the actual soldiers who die in today's real wars. Some get their names read on the nightly news, but it is exceedingly rare to learn about the context behind their death or the life behind the name. How many names on the Vietnam Memorial are those of people who died as anonymous heroes?

Those fortunate enough to escape death, fall victim to a similar kind of societal amnesia. In the Iraq war, some soldiers were whisked from the front only to find themselves dropped into the battle of Walter Reed, a fight in which reinforcements are sorely wanting. Although some people avoid incurring physical scars, it is hard to make it out completely unscathed.

CoD 4's ethos is a slippery one: sometimes over the top, other times poignant, the game seems to take pleasure in sampling a variety of sometimes contradictory, sometimes hypocritical philosophies. Every time the player fails, they are greeted by a quote about war. Some of these lament war's existence, others partake in militaristic pride, while several engage in gallows humor. Taken as a collection, they serve to illustrate war's existence as a set of conflicting notions mashed together to create a single ugly entity.

CoD 4 shows us how the separate pieces of this creation can become lost after they are combined. Although CoD 4 highlights the characters' and the player's specific contributions during the story's pivotal plot points, the game is ultimately about the subsumption of the individual. Civilians and soldiers alike become abstract entities, the grisly realities of battle are abandoned in search of the next fight, and heroes become marks on a casualty list.

In their absence however, these details become conspicuous. Simply because Call of Duty 4 leaves certain things out does not render it useless for understanding war's cultural importance. Things that start out as missing in action instead become points of learning and reflection.

Missing in Action, part 1: Civilians in Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare

This is the first of a three part series dedicated to analyzing Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare.

Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare is an exceedingly entertaining game, which makes it a bit problematic for folks who like to think of video games as meaningful art. At first blush, the game seems vacuous: while playing, I was never inspired to ruminate on any philosophies, I never made any particularly heavy ethical decisions, and the plot had all the nuance of an episode of 24.

The game's outstanding production values can give off the sense that the game is "war porn." Players are quickly funneled through the game, jumping from one explosion to the next, very rarely reflecting on the human toll or existential meaning behind the battles they fight. Despite a large cast of characters, the game seems to lack humanity.

Duncan Fyfe gives aptly describes the morally unambiguous world of CoD 4:

"There is never any question about who's hostile and who's not; everyone is, and they'll confirm it by firing first. The rules of engagement, in part, exist to prevent unnecessary civilian casualties. In these games, the civilians are never there to begin with. These are entertainment wars."

Clearly, the game has blind spots, but that does not mean it has nothing to say about war. Instead of dismissing the game as mindless entertainment, we can use utilize its omissions to explore our understanding of war in both our video games and our larger world.

To revisit Duncan's point, it should be noted that although the civilians "are never there to begin with," it is implied that they are "somewhere" and that they must be helped. Their implied presence is used as a tool to justify the game's violence, and by extension, the violence of war. During the opening scene, the player's ability to act is stifled as they witness a brutal military coup. An attentive player watches while civilians are beaten and executed. Although the player is powerless to help at this point, they have been provided with the justification for action. By removing a large portion of player control, the game links the player to the theoretical civilians via a feeling of shared helplessness. When the player is finally given a gun, they are justified in using it.

As is the case with many justifications, this one's utility overrides its logic. Real civilians serve as a representation of humanity in the opening scene, but are quickly transformed into a mantra to justify combat. At one point, the player's squad learns that the enemy is massacring civilians in a nearby village. Upon arrival, there are few signs of a massacre, let alone previous habitation. In effect, the player's true mission was never to rescue civilians, but rather to kill enemies. "They're killing civilians" becomes a stand in for "They're the bad guys," which is in turn a stand in for "Shoot 'em." But how is this helping the civilians? Who are these people? How many of them have been killed? Somewhere along the line, these questions stopped mattering.

Of the many spurious reasons behind the United States' invasion of Iraq, the goal of "helping the civilians" was one of the more noble ones. However, as in CoD 4, the cry of "Saddam's killing civilians" was quickly translated into "Stop the the bad guy," which was a stand in for "Shoot 'em." Never mind trying to parse out the intricacies of military force, the aftermath of battle, or war's unintended consequences, let alone anything regarding the needs and culture of those who needed help.

The average person knows almost as much about Iraqi citizens as they do about the practically non-existent people that supposedly inhabit the world of CoD 4. None of these victims have names, families, or history; they are ultimately used as a collective entity to justify action. While it may be absurd that the player never interacts with those they are tasked to protect, is it any less absurd than the fact that no one can decide how many Iraqis have died since the invasion?

The resemblance between the confirmed death count in our real war and the confirmed death count in our video game war demonstrates that CoD 4's world may not be as detached from reality as it appears. This is in no way an apology for the game; this is claim that the game simply succeeds in mirroring the world it aspires to emulate, albeit in unintended ways. CoD 4 creates a world absent of fully-realized humans, a world in which civilians are plot devices used to advance the narrative of war.

Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare introduces us to theoretical civilians. Unfortunately, it is not the first time we have been presented with such a concept.

The Voyeurism of Majora's Mask

For the past few weeks, I've been playing through Legend of Zelda: Majora's Mask with the Vintage Game Club. I do not have the deep history of Zelda games others have, so this whole endeavor is new to me. Which means Majora's Mask has been one of the more frustrating gaming experiences I've had in a long while. I have been pushing my way this game with stubborn determination, playing off and on (mostly off). Despite my tendency to shout expletives at the screen, I've come to appreciate Link for what he is: an amazingly skilled voyeur.

I am using the term voyeur in the more child appropriate sense of the word; Link is no sexual deviant after all. He is, however, an agent who easily slips into the lives of others, navigating his way through various cultures. By donning various masks, some allowing Link to change into an entirely different species, Link has the uncanny ability to immerse himself (and by extension the player) into the lives of others.

On his excellent GameSetWatch column Lingua Franca, Daniel Johnson discusses "cultural pedagogy of the Goron tribe in the Legend Of Zelda series." In this piece, Johnson touches upon Link's ability to change into a Goron hero:

"What this mechanic does is allow Link to switch on the fly between ingroup and outgroup membership of the respective cultures, changing his interplay with each. This gives players the opportunity to observe first-hand how it feels to be treated as either one of the races within the game. Termina's residents don't have four sets of speech for the respective races, but rather, the speech is tied to the gameplay and narrative."
The Goron tribe's interaction with Link is based on thinking he is actually the hero Darmani. For a brief section of the game, Link is someone else entirely. Like the Deku, Darmani has his own unique way of moving and fighting. This makes Majora's Mask "a playground for cultural experimentation," as Johnson puts it, and a sort of multiple-game hybrid, allowing the player to take on the role of an entirely a unique protagonist. Of course the game requires all of Link's faculties, but the feel of combining several experiences into one cohesive package resonates strongly. Link is far more than a boy in green.

To some extent, Link has no real story of his own. The individual stories of the townspeople, even their mundane concerns, eclipse the larger goal of stopping the coming apocalypse. Link's lack of speech (a characteristic I find increasingly strange as the franchise matures) compounds the sense Link is a disembodied agent acting out the will of the player, completely independent from a preexisting "Link."

Being able to interact with NPCs numerous times with different results is incredibly rare. It breathes realism into Majora's Mask that other stagnant games should envy. The player easily becomes intimate with the townspeople, learning of their burdens and helping where he can. But this help isn't necesarily permanent. Link's assistance can be easily brushed away with time reversal. After aging one man's chicks into chickens and raising his spirits,a time reversal will return Link to day one to find the same man morose once again. Link is only temporarily responsible for the immediate fate of Termina's population. It's a voyeuristic social experiment at its best.
Another interesting quest has Link reuniting Kafei and Anju, two lovers in a dire situation. This quest involves secret meetings, romance, letter delivery, and heroism. This story in particular has all the contraptions of a television drama suitable for the whole family. Link has more in common with Dr. Sam Beckett of Quantum Leap than his adventuring genre companions.

None of this is to say Majora's Mask is immature or pointlessly complicated. On the contrary, I think Link's social interaction is by far the most interesting and innovative aspect of Majora's Mask. Few people are eager to admit voyeuristic tendencies, although the desire to gossip, interact with strangers, and play the role of insider is very human. Videogames are partly interesting because we can become someone else for awhile, with their own relationships and history. Majora's Mask feeds this desire by creating Link as not one character, but an amalgamation of many.

Review: The Surprise of Super Mario Galaxy

Every time I play a new Super Mario game, I am surprised. I am surprised that a franchise as old as Mario can stay relevant over the years, even though the plucky plumber continues to hop over the lifeless carcasses of so many washed-up characters. I am surprised that, although Nintendo has given Mario as many wacky jobs as Fox has given Homer Simpson, the Mario series remains fresh. I am surprised that it remains as exhilarating to control Mario as he sprints and jumps over lava today as it did over twenty years ago.

At this point, it should not come as a surprise when I say that Super Mario Galaxy is an excellent game.

Every few years, Nintendo unleashes upon the gaming world an overall-clad testament to the company's continuing mastery of the platforming genre, and of game design in general. Every Mario platformer has either demonstrated untapped potential in the genre or demonstrated Nintendo's willingness to pursue novel, sometimes risky, design choices (many ended up doing both of these things):

• Super Mario Bros. defined (and many would argue continues to define) video games as medium
• Super Mario Bros. 3 showed us the possibilities of an overworld map and demonstrated that that 2D sidescrollers can have multiple layers of depth
• Super Mario World familiarized us with everyone's favorite mount and well as demonstrated how expansive and secretive supposedly linear levels can be
• Super Mario 64 ushered in the era of 3D gaming and created the scavenger hunt template that 3D action games continue to use
• Super Mario Sunshine gave Mario a permanent tool for the first time, and introduced new water and tightrope-based gameplay dynamics

Super Mario Galaxy re-introduces 3D gaming, expands the rules of platforming, and demonstrates how the judicious use of motion control can augment traditional gaming mechanics.

Galaxy's approach to 3D sets it apart from any other game. We live in a 3D world, one that relies on rules of orientation: the concepts of "right-side-up" and "upside down" define our perception, and have defined how we have constructed 3D games. Galaxy's spherical design aesthetic often alters this concept of orientation; when Mario runs around one of the planetoids, his direction is dictated by how the camera is positioned. With a simple button press, what was once "left" instantly becomes "up." Suddenly, the player must learn how to negotiate a new universe of game design, bringing back echoes of the delirious sense of freedom inspired by Mario 64.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Nintendo demonstrates wisdom when implementing motion control. Instead of awkwardly trying to replace actions traditionally controlled by buttons with hand motions, Galaxy uses the Wii's powers to augment traditional skills. The most prevalent use of the Wii remote's motion sensing capabilities is found in Mario's spin move. Used as an offensive attack or a jump-boost, the spin is activated by the nearly ubiquitous "Wii waggle." Even a small flick of the wrist will activate the move, but more importantly, the form of the waggle is irrelevant: the move is performed identically whether one shakes the Wii remote like bottle of cheese whiz or a fishing rod.

Without having to worry about performing an oddly exact notion, the player can instead focus on linking the move together with button presses. Motion control is used inventively to eliminate the need for awkward thumb repositioning or unintuitive combination presses. This development lends itself well to new gamers while also introducing a new set of challenges for veterans.

Other motion controls crop up in racing and balancing mini games, but these sections are cleverly separated from the main platforming stages. Again, Nintendo understands that motion control requires new design conventions. Motion control is not yet refined enough to handle the precision jumps Mario is famous for, and so Nintendo does not force the issue. Instead, they use the novelty of tilt control and cursor pointing in unique challenges that benefit from those specific features.


I have marveled at the inventive platforming in games like LittleBigPlanet and And Yet it Moves, but Galaxy makes an even larger impression. It implements the concepts found in numerous critical darlings in fully realized way, often years ahead of other studios. Not only is Nintendo the best in the business, it also maintains its position in the vanguard of game design.

There is something special about the essence of Mario, even when compared to other beloved franchises. Mario either inspires creativity or attracts people willing to explore new ideas within the oldest of genres. Franchises like Pokemon and Zelda remain largely in a state of suspended animation that, while pleasant, makes them feel conservative when compared to Mario. A new Mario game not only finds the intensity to make my hands sweat, but does so in a fresh way each time.

Every iteration of Mario is crafted with painstaking care to inspire in the player a new way of conceptualizing the platformer. The title "Super Mario Galaxy" is fittingly poetic, as this game, like every Mario game, is its own independent reality: Galaxy's very being is justified and explained perfectly within its set of unified rules, fashioned specifically to reify it as the sole form of existence. Playing this game leaves one feeling that this is, and has always been, the natural way of things.

Super Mario Galaxy makes it impossible to imagine what will come next, just as each previous title made it impossible to imagine its successor. However, that game will come, and we will be surprised when we are dropped into that new universe. We will also quickly be unable to imagine anything else.

EXP Podcast #36: Another Brick in the Wall

What happens when our universe and the digital ones we find in games begin to overlap? Inspired by Steven Conway's excellent piece about re-examining "the fourth wall" in the context of video games, we take a look at the strengths and weaknesses of playing a self-aware game. Much is discussed: we navigate the labyrinth that is the Metal Gear universe, explore the hidden meaning of Tingle, and dredge the depths of Rapture in search of answers. Help us break the fourth wall of our site by jumping in with your thoughts in the comments!

Some discussion starters:

- What games successfully play with the idea of the fourth wall? Do they employ subtle "winks" or explicit self awareness?
- Are games that "extend the magic circle" to encompass the player the ideal way to play? How does the rise of motion control effect this?
- How does the role of authorship impact the idea of the fourth wall? Is it necessary for a designer to extend the magic circle, or is it up to players to dictate their level of involvement in the game's fiction?

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:

- Run time: 35 min 47 sec
- "A Circular Wall? Reformulating the Fourth Wall for Video Games," by Steven Conway, via Gamasutra
- Music provided by Brad Sucks

A Portal Through Time

This past weekend, I plugged a gaping hole in my personal gaming experience: I finally played through Portal. Let us dispense with the formalities: the game is a masterpiece. The marriage of a brilliant concept and a sublime execution is a rare treat. Anyone who enjoys games, science-fiction, or simply fine storytelling should play it.

After basking in Portal's magnificence, I began to ask myself why I had waited to so long to play it. I was keenly aware of its existence: it garnered excellent reviews and spawned numerous geek memes. I even had a friend who dressed up as weighted companion cube for Halloween, so why the delay?

I am reminded of a post Michael Abbott wrote during last fall's game release orgy:

For those of us who enjoy contemplative play - and if you haven't tried it, I heartily recommend it - I suggest we slow down and chew our food. Resist the urge to finish a game simply to stay with the pack. Leave open the possibility of writing about and discussing games weeks or months after they're released. Enjoy the scenery. Jump off the [new release] train. I suspect it's headed nowhere anyway.

These sentiments appeal to my preferred gaming style. A completionist by nature, I love exploring everything a game has to offer and reflecting on the experience when I finish. The impulse to "keep up with the Joneses" is expensive, time consuming, and, in my mind, not conducive to fostering thoughtful reflections on video games.

However, as I played Portal, I could not shake the feeling that during the fall of 2007, I was chewing the wrong "food."

Staying up to date on gaming releases allows one to analyze games within their contemporary contexts and to monitor trends within the overall medium. Portal's gameplay and story challenge many traditional gaming conventions. Creating a first-person game that does not involve explicit gore is nearly unheard of, and the game's mechanics allow for a truly novel way to explore three-dimensional space. The game's writing caliber equals and surpasses most television and movie dialogue, and serves to augment the gameplay experience.

If I had played Portal, before now, it would have had major impacts on the work I do for this site. In our discussion on ethical decisions, Nels, Jorge, and I explored how choices, consequences, and personal moral systems affected the weight of in-game decision making. In Portal, I found myself examining the ethical validity of destroying the child-like turrets. If one became turned around and rendered harmless, I elected to let it "live" rather than destroying it. Unlike the Little Sister choices in Bioshock, Portal's rules did not imply a reward/punishment dynamic when acting on the turrets. Even though the game was narratologically linear in both presentation and execution, the combination of strong characterization and my preconceived ethical system engendered moral decisions.

Portal inspired meditations on life and murder, something I would have brought up in last week's podcast. The game uses murder as a means to arrive at a larger message, utilizing it as a tool to fashion a believable story. In the tradition of many murder mysteries, the unseen killing of other test subjects and Aperature staff begins the story. GlaDOS even has a self-professed motive: Science!

At some point in the game, I began thinking of GlaDOS as a person, and I resigned myself to the idea of her murder. It was not enough to escape; she had to be stopped. In the climactic confrontation, GlaDOS seems to dance on the line of sentience. Are her insults and shrieks of pain that of a software program created to elicit unease from humans, or are they signs of intelligent life? If it is the latter, Portal is at once a mystery and an assassination game.

In addition to one's personal experience, it is valuable to play a game along with a community. Being able to discuss contemporary titles with others furthers the collective understanding of a game's importance, as was evidenced by last winter's Prince of Persia discussion. Unfortunately, not all games have the staying power and dedicated community that titles like Far Cry 2 enjoy; most games are fated to burn brightly when first released, and then glow as embers until enough time has gone by to examine them in a historical context.

Limits on time, money, and interest all factor in to deciding what we play, making difficult choices necessary and inevitable. But how do we choose which games we play and when we play them? Do we go strictly by personal inclination, or is there a way to suss out which games deserve immediate analysis?

Recalling Michael's nutritionally-themed metaphor, it seems that some games are best consumed hot out of the oven while others function perfectly well as leftovers. Most importantly, it seems that chewing our food is much more enjoyable when we are all gathered around the same table, sharing the meal.

Whatever the case may be, I think this xkcd comic perfectly illustrates what it was like to hang out with me this past week:

Uncharted: The Artifact

Seeing as how Uncharted: Drake's Fortune is about a quest to uncover ancient artifacts, it seems fitting to imagine the game itself as a piece of history. What might we learn about video games when we view them in the context of design evolution? What does a title convey about contemporaneous player tastes?

***

Imagine the distant future: The year 2030. As you make your way to home from work, you pass a thrift store advertising their selection of video games.

"Why the Hell not?" you ask. You engage the maneuvering thrusters on your hover-car and find a parking space.

You arrive home with your prize: Uncharted: Drake's Fortune. After dusting off your PS3, you find yourself looking back at the year 2007.

Being Part of the World

While the graphics may pale in comparison to your SONARS (Sony Optic Nerve Augmented Reality System), the game world is remarkably coherent. Waterfalls and foliage are imbued with the same sense of physicality that Nathan Drake, your avatar, exudes. When he climbs over a box or leans against an ancient stone wall, you get the impression that the models are actually interacting with each other. Perhaps this is due to the detailed character animations, or maybe the texture artists out-did themselves.

Whatever it is, the game lacks the Hanna-Barbara syndrome: The sense that only some parts of the scene have weight or structure. Just as Yogi and his picnic basket seem oddly more detailed than the background or set pieces, games like Final Fantasy VII and The Legend of Zelda: The Ocarina of Time contained characters and items that seemed to pop out of their environments. Uncharted's world, however, possesses a unified style in which the vine you can swing on and the tree that you simply admire from afar appear equally real.

"What the Hell is Yogi Bear?" your kids asks, as she sizes up Dad's latest "treasure."

You respond without looking away from the screen: "You know those cartoons Grandpa is always quoting? And watch your mouth."

Going through the Motions

You stumble upon an ammo cache and to your delight, find a grenade. Ready to wreak havoc, you pull the pin with the L1 button, swing Drake into position with the two analog sticks, and promptly throw the grenade at Drake's feet.

With a bruised ego and a bruised avatar, you realize that the arc of the throw is controlled by tilting the controller. Why would aiming a grenade require two separate, yet crucial methods of controlling the y-axis while aiming? Throwing grenades is not a groundbreaking gameplay development, so why fix something that is not broken?

You are reminded that the Sixaxis experienced some growing pains during its early years. Precision was not the device's strength, and games were generally ill served when they relied on motion control for subtle actions. Thankfully, only a couple years later, the Sixaxis as used in Lair was supplanted by the Sixaxis as used in Flower. Unfortunately, the motion control in Uncharted seems closer to the former than the latter. All this seems quaint in the face of Microsoft's new holographic projection peripheral, Project Limpopo, but the effective implementation of motion controls (however simple) still makes a difference.

A Familiar Game

A sense of deja vu sets in and, while not altogether unpleasant, begins to dredge up other long forgotten games. You crouch behind a wall for cover and bullets dance above your head, stirring familiar memories. A lucky shot tags you and the colors wash out of the screen. You look through your inventory for bandage, but by that time, is recharged and back in fighting form.

A couple of breaks to drive a vehicle or operate a turret carry a familiar scent. You decide that the game just wants to make sure it sidesteps the "one-trick pony" label. Somehow, the boating sequences feel more like a punishment than a bonus, but they end soon enough.

A cutscene begins and you put your controller down to get a drink. While at the sink, you glance back at the TV just in time to see a flashing circle and Drake's subsequent demise under a pile of loose pile of rocks. The quicktime event has made its presence known.

"People couldn't have tolerated that crap, could they have?" you mutter as you restart the sequence. After all, even Nintendo's Check Balancing Board lets you correct a misplaced decimal without having to re-open the bank statement. The second time around, you make it through unscathed and you cannot help but feel a small, guilty twinge of adrenaline in response.

You find yourself musing that despite its quirks, the game was definitely on to something. How often is it that someone could control a Mal-like character in Marcus-like fashion? It might not be a museum piece, but this is a finely crafted experience. There is a certain frankness to it: Uncharted strives to demonstrate narrative cohesion and visual fidelity while incorporating the popular gameplay elements of its generation. Uncharted's successes and failures are more than its own; they are the triumphs and shortfalls of a generation in gaming.

Nathan Drake in: The Curse of Ludonarrative Dissonance!

With Uncharted: Drake's Fortune, Naughty Dog presents the player with Nathan Drake, a character designed as an alternative to super-powered space marine heroes so often found in games. In the game's "making of" featurette, the development team repeatedly mentions their commitment to fashioning an "every-man" hero.

Michael Abbott sums up Drake's appeal:

"Much of Uncharted's success can be traced to its hero, Nathan Drake - a regular guy with no special powers or skills (well, he is a pretty good climber). Nate's ordinariness helps explain the game's overarching structure. Nate is basically in it for the ride, tracking a story he does not control, figuring it out as he goes along."

Based on the voice acting and cutscenes, this is accurate. Yelling "Aw crap!" when a grenade rolls in front of your feet seems like a natural reaction. Grunting and panting while scaling a sheer cliff is something I could see myself doing. And who really makes sure their shirt is tucked in at all times? Drake's characterization suggests he could indeed be one of my drinking buddies.

However, when it comes to actively playing the game, I feel as though I am controlling a completely different character. Why? Because, when faced with an obstacle, this plucky, fun-loving, regular dude morphs into a frighteningly efficient killing machine.

Things started getting weird when the trophies came rolling in. Every so often, I'd hear a chime alerting me to my latest accomplishment, the majority of which were tied to weapon proficiency. Soon, I began to wonder just how lethal Drake was, so I collected some data:

Drake's Body Count

Trophy	Confirmed kills	Estimated kills
Brutal Slugger (kill 20 enemies with brutal combo)	20	-
Stealth Attacker (20 stealth kills)	-	5
Steel fist (melee kill after dealing bullet damage)	-	2
Run-and_Gunner	20	-
Hangman	-	5
Grenade Hangman	-	0
50 Kills: PM - 9mm	50	-
50 Kills - 92FS - 9mm	50	-
50 Kills: Micro - 9mm	10	-
20 Kills: Wes - 44	-	5
20 Kills: Desert - 5	-	3
30 Kills: MP40	30	-
50 Kills: AK-47	50	-
50 Kills: M4	50	-
30 Kills: Dragon Sniper	30	-
50 Kills: Moss - 12	-	-
50 Kills: SAS - 12	-	-
30 Kills: M79	-	20
20 Kills: Mk-NDI grenades	20	-
Totals	320 (confirmed kills)	358 (conservative total estimate)

Note that these numbers are a conservative estimate of how many enemies were slain over the course of my play-through. Although I cannot substantiate it, I would guess that the actual body count is closer to 500.

I soon realized I was controlling a character whose cutscene persona clashed with his gameplay persona. Cutscene Drake was a smooth talker who tried to bluff his way out of jams, lived to solve historical mysteries, and was not immune to accidentally bumping his head on low doorways. Gameplay Drake shed his conventional charm, instead becoming an expert marksman proficient with over a dozen firearms, a stealth assassin whose first move against an unsuspecting enemy was to kill rather than incapacitate, and a juggernaut who slaughtered his way out of predicaments. Unfortunately, this Drake was unable to kill that infamous beast we call "ludonarrative dissonance."

Naughty Dog was actually too successful in casting Drake as an every-man. The writing, acting, and directing did help me identify with the character, so much so that I felt like I was betraying their creation when actually participating in the game. Uncharted is one of the few titles in which I have given any thought to how many people I/my avatar killed in a game. Based on his personality and competance, Drake simply did not seem like the kind of guy who would (or could) pick up any random gun and use it for large-scale manslaughter.ally seem like the kind of guy who would shrug off large-scale manslaughter. While interesting, I do not think this was the developer's intent.

I am hoping that in Uncharted 2, the Drake that shows up in the gameplay will be the same Drake I got to know in the cutscenes. A shift of focus towards "action" rather than "combat" could provide big thrills by emphasizing ingenuity in the face of danger rather than blood-lust. Implementing more complex platforming or chase sequences would both show off the game's wonderfully crafted engine while also preventing Drake from becoming a sociopathic killer.

Since the game so successfully relies on cinematic techniques, why not look to the master for inspiration?

Despite its low body count, the scene conveys is full of hazardous excitement. The fighting showcased is not that of trained warriors, but that of desperate people in an extraordinary circumstances . Indy's admission, "I'm making this up as I go," also serves to remind the audience that he is not a superhero; he's just a guy trying his best to stumble through ridiculous situations.

An action/adventure approach would mesh well with the character Naughty Dog created. Gameplay that downplays gun fighting in favor of more physical and environmental challenges would better complement the Drake we meet in the cutscenes. Additionally, this approach would give the game some much-needed separation from the ubiquitous run/shoot/cover gameplay popularized by Gears of War.

As an added bonus, limiting the amount of explicit killing could clear the way for more prudent, meaningful, and hilarious violence:

Talk about an everyman: Who among us cannot sympathize with Indy's decision? I have a feeling Drake would.

EXP Podcast #33: The Decision Dilemma

Last month, outspoken game designers Clint Hocking and Manveer Heir held a little cross-blog discussion regarding the design and implementation of ethical choices in video games. We are accustomed to making decisions about weapons, strategies, and the color of our Sim hairstyles, but meaningful choices with moral weight are relatively rare. Even when faced with potentially tough moral dilemmas, the current nature of video games may dilute the effect. Heir suggests in-game permanence (which has created various interesting experiments), while Hocking eschews authorial influence in favor of ludic solutions.

It is tough topic, so we decided to we decided to call for backup. This week, we have are honored to welcome Nels Anderson, author of the excellent Above49 blog and gameplay programmer for Hot Head Games. Join us while we discuss permanence, harvesting children, Choose-Your-Own-Adventures, readability, and the future of moral choices in games. With three of us at the table, we made this podcast slightly longer than normal, but extra time is well spent on a very complicated and contentious subject. We encourage you to read theHocking's and Heir's original articles in the show notes, along with supplementary pieces we discuss in the show. As always, feel free to weigh in with your thoughts in the comments.

Some discussion starters:

- Have you ever faced a difficult in-game discussion that stemmed from moral concerns? If so, did you translate this into simply mechanical outcomes? Did you approach is role-playing as the protagonist?
- If your in-game decisions were permanent, would they be more meaningful? What techniques add add weight to a decision?
- To what extent is in-game decision making impacted by real-world experiences? Do you carry your personal set of ethics into a game?

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:

- Run time: 41 min 13 sec
- "Ethical Decision Making," by Clint Hocking, via Click Nothing
- "Designing Ethical Dilemmas," by Manveer Heir via Design Rampage
- "Ludonarrative Dissonance in Bioshock," by Clint Hocking
- Rescuing vs. Harvesting Little Sisters Graph, via Escapist Magazine
- Music provided by Brad Sucks

Difficult Games, part 3: The Rise and Fall of Difficulty

This is the third post in a series about exploring the role of "difficulty" in video games. Feel free to read the first two posts as well as an ancillary post using Mirror's Edge as a case study:

Difficult Games, part 1: Gaming Tony Kushner

Difficult Games, part 2: A Reflection on Themes

On the Edge of Success

In his essay, "The Art of the Difficult," playwright and critic Tony Kushner argues in favor of art that challenges its audience. He focuses on plays that present challenges in terms of their creation, staging, and interpretation. Kushner's arguments are useful for analyzing the ways video games address complicated themes, however, video games traditionally offer more than simply a theme-driven concept of difficulty.

In order to complete a game, a minimum amount of physical and mental dexterity is required. Having a brilliant analytical mind or a deep knowledge of art history will not yield a successful sniper shot nor the precision to execute a series of perfect jumps across spiked chasms.

When I started this series, one of the major questions I had was whether games had grown easier over the years. I personally feel that I have an easier time succeeding in games today even though my basic aptitude and dexterity has plateaued (and probably even declined).

While it is true that the kinds of difficulty found in games of the 1980s and 90s is becoming unusual, the trajectory of game difficulty remains curious. In many ways, games are becoming simultaneously more and less challenging as time passes.

The Fall of Specialization and the Erosion of "Skill"

The advent of services like the Wii Virtual Console as well as retro homages like Mega Man 9 have brought into sharp relief the contrast between older games and contemporary titles. Both Michael Abbott and Mitch Krpata wrote eloquently about Mega Man 9, commenting on its unforgiving nature and punishing level design. They both identified the game as one that demanded excellence rather than one that fostered development.

Games from the 8-bit era place the onus of learning the system of rules and the techniques for success on the player. To succeed in a game meant becoming a specialist in a specific set of skills required by the game. Memorizing jumps, learning enemy patterns, and having the patience to re-try a sequence numerous times made players experts.

This skill-based ethos has softened over the years. Let us use the Super Mario games as examples: in the old days Mario could take one hit (if you were lucky) before the player was sent back to re-try the level. Falling into lava was instant death, and completing a stage meant getting from one point to another flawlessly.

Today, Mario has a raft of hit points and falling in lava results in singed bottom instead of a "game over." Completing stages in Super Mario 64, Super Mario Sunshine, and Super Mario Galaxy are tied to finding a way to collect a star. The player can bumble their way to success or achieve a flawless speed run; if they find some way to collect the star, the end result is the same.

Although Leigh Alexander's post "Great Big Bites," focuses on the PlayStation era, she explores a the current zeitgeist of instantly accessible games:

Engagement is the Word Of The Day -- developers promoting new projects enthusiastically use phrases like "bite-sized chunks", "pick up and play". If a game doesn't demand any more than five minutes from you in any given session to be enjoyable, that's a plus. And when we pick-up-and-play these games in bite-sized chunks, we are meant to be immersed and to receive a narrative without ever needing to sit still, watch, read or listen. Oh, and the game is also supposed to teach us how to play it without us realizing we're being tutored, and we're never supposed to feel stumped or stuck.

Alexander wonders whether we are losing the skill to patiently explore a game in the absence of overt help from the game itself. The original Legend of Zelda's map had no landmarks, Final Fantasy VII had a story that took dozens of hours to tell, and PC adventure game puzzles required abstract (and sometimes nonsensical) thinking to solve. Games that have instant maps, record every clue, and neatly section gameplay into bite-sized chunks require none of the skills historically associated with gaming. Feeling less than special for completing games that ask so little is understandable.

However, while difficulty based on specialization and finely honed skills may be waning, there are new forms of challenges taking assuming dominance.

The Rise of Generalized Skill and Required Creativity

Modern games require a player to display an enormous breadth of skill and creativity. While games may not be as punishing as they once were, their control schemes have grown increasingly complex and their goals more abstract.

Using Mario once again as an example, we can see how varied modern gaming is. In Super Mario Galaxy, Mario can tip-toe, walk, run, wall slide, duck, jump, double-jump, triple-jump, cartwheel, back flip, long jump, spin, and ground pound (the list goes on, but you get the idea). To put it another way, today, Mario has more actions than he had frames of animation in the 8-bit days. These moves require the player to gain proficiency in a number of actions to be used in various situations. While the platforming challenges themselves may be simpler, recognizing the correct tools to solve them has become more complex.

Additionally, an increasing number of games abruptly change styles during play. Racing, rolling, and surfing are all secondary play types in Mario, yet they are necessary to complete the game. Since Metal Gear Solid, nary a game is shipped without some sort of stealth element, regardless of genre. While players may not fail as often in modern games, they are responsible for learning a wide variety of actions within each game.

Even more revolutionary is the move towards community based games and user generated content. The contemporary gaming scene is dominated with games like require active player input in creating the gaming experience. World of Warcraft owes its success to the players' willingness to form guilds and then devote time to their upkeep. LittleBigPlanet starts to shine only after the players take it upon themselves to create the game they want to play.

In these examples, success and failure are measured in terms of community engagement and artistic creativity. While the traditional parts of the gameplay may seem easy in comparison to their precursors, the source of the games' difficulty has shifted from the process of consuming to the process of creating.


Kushner's point that difficulty is the key to truly powerful art is an important one, but we must remember that ideas like "difficulty" can be surprisingly fluid. Measuring difficulty in games using a metric tailored to titles from 1980s as ignores monumental shifts in game design and player taste. One could just as easily look at the original Metroid game and decry it as "easy" because everything is offered to the player readily: There are no levels to design or communities to build, only critters to zap.

Difficulty is not a singular force with a unified trajectory; it is contextually-based concept that continues to branch out, acquiring new meanings as philosophies, technology, and tastes change over time.

On the Edge of Success

Thanks to Krystian Majewski and Erik Hanson, I have plenty of homework to do before I put out the third official part of my series on game difficulty (you can check out part 1 and part 2 here). In the meantime, I thought I would post a sort of "appendix" or case study about how to approach a specific game's difficulty.

A while ago, I stumbled upon Ben Abraham's "How to Kill People More Effectively in Far Cry 2," a post in which he outlines five ways to prevent yourself from dying time and again in Far Cry 2. I feel that Mirror's Edge and Far Cry 2 are in some ways kindred spirits: people want to like them, but certain characteristics give rise to frustration and disappointment which serve to mar the overall experience. I enjoyed Mirror's Edge quite a bit, but the enjoyment came after employing five major techniques that alleviated the trouble I was having with the punishing gameplay. So, without further ado, I present: "On the Edge of Success!"

1. Walls are your friends

Judging distances in the platforming segments can be a bit tricky, as it is difficult to tell just how far some gaps are. To alleviate the pressure of timing your jump perfectly, make use of the walls liberally. Wall runs can save you if you accidentally jump to early, as your momentum can carry you far enough to close the gap on a botched leap. Additionally, wall runs can in combination with ending the run with a jump can give you a little extra altitude when trying to reach a high ledge or poll. Faith is a nimble character, so do not settle on the ground as the only thing to put your feet on.

2. "One at a time, Faith"

Sometimes, you simply will not be able to avoid an enemy confrontation. Whether it is a scripted event or the AI has simply blocked off an escape route, fighting is sometimes necessary. At multiple points in the game, your navigator sidekick,Merc, cautions you to fight each enemy as an individual.

Rather than trying to "Rambo" your way out of a situation, take his advice. Even if you charge into a group of guards and use your slow-down "bullet-time" reaction trick, this will only neutralize one guard. The other two will start wailing on you, and you will not make it out alive. Instead, you must prevent the enemies from clumping together by leading them on a chase. Circle around obstacles, slide underneath them, or dart around a corner to draw a straggler away from the group. In this way, you can neutralize each guard while gaining enough momentum to refill your slow-down move in the process.

3. Strafe for your life!

"But what if the guards won't move?" you ask. That is where strafing comes in.

In video game parlance, "strafing" has become synonymous with "moving sideways." A more traditional definition is an offensive maneuver that seeks to inflict damage on an opponent through a series of attack runs. Faith's major advantage over the guards is her superior speed, so you must use this during battles. If an enemy refuses to move or separate from a group, target them, land a couple of attacks making sure not to dally too long in the fray, and then circle around for another run.

You might not even successfully incapacitate a guard on the first run-through, but you will be able to inflict damage without incurring any yourself. Remember, the guards want you to stand still: they are physically stronger than you and a stationary target is an easy one to shoot. Do not play the game by their rules. Think of the fights in Mirror's Edge like the plane scene in North by Northwest; you are the plane and the guards are Cary Grant, but this time, there ain't no corn to hide in.

4. People don't kill people, guns kill people

Here is where things will get controversial. Simply put, guns are a great way to solve an enemy confrontation. They are quick and deadly, and when used, drastically increase your chance of surviving an encounter with multiple enemies. The trick is being able to get over any moral compunction caused by using them.

I can not tell you how to quiet your guilt, but I will offer a couple of suggestions. First, while much has been made of the possibility of completing the game without firing a shot, remember that it is only one possible way of playing the game. In fact, completing the game without firing a shot is an unlockable achievement, which suggests it is an additional challenge rather than a core requirement. Try doing a stage and using a gun, and then re-play it without one in order wean yourself off firearms.

Second, you can utilize the narrative to justify gun use. At one point in the game, government forces locate and kill Faith's friend. This becomes a turning point in the story and in Faith's character arc, as the government forces have literally drawn first blood. Would it not be completely understandable to assume that Faith would, at this point, take the proverbial gloves off and start shooting to kill? In fact, during one of the later cut scenes, she uses a gun to trigger an explosion, suggesting that she is resigned to the idea that some of her opponents may die as she continues her quest.

Regardless of how you want to justify it, not using guns is a challenge, one that is not unique to Mirror's Edge. For example, in every single Metal Gear Solid game, it is theoretically possible to complete the game without killing any soldiers. However, "possible" does not suggest it is mandatory or even likely. Ultimately, you must decide how important the use or disuse of guns is to your conception of game's narrative. I played through the game both with and without the use of guns, and I enjoyed the novelty of both styles.

5. Take Authorial Control

Continuing down the road of controversy and subjectivity, we come to the issue of the game's narrative. While it may not be one of the great historical works of storytelling, Mirror's Edge contains a very linear, focused plot. The story of Faith's journey to rescue her sister and undermine a tyrannical government can seem understandably disjointed and halting if you must replay certain sections of the game ten times in a row before succeeding. Being frustrating by the narrative juxtaposition of catching the "flow" of free running in one scene and then being subjected to a perceived trial-and-error sequence in the next is understandable.

So how do you relieve the frustration of repeated failure? My solution was to decrease the importance of the narrative in terms of evaluating my enjoyment of the game. The story of a corrupt government trying to stamp out free thinkers is not exactly new, so I shifted my focus and instead began analyzing the stages as puzzles. This made the game a series of skill challenges, resistant to the effects of discontinuity that hamper a plot. By doing this, mistimed jumps became setbacks rather than narrative apocrypha, and enemies became obstacles rather than characters that required integration with the story.

Repeated restarts initially made the game feel broken, but I realized I was trying to fix something that was immutable: I could not "take back" that unfortunate encounter with barbed wire within the context of any story, since clearly Faith's story does not end with her getting her pants snagged on a razor. However, I easily "fix" the problem of not solving a "puzzle" by improving my skills, experimenting, and learning from my mistakes. Both scenarios result in the same outcome: I get to the other side of the fence. By looking at my failure like a challenging puzzle rather than an aborted plot point, I was able to retain my patience and enjoyment while playing.


I am fully aware that this mindset raises interesting philosophical questions in regards to game analysis. Essentially, the problem is whether we analyze a game based on what is given to us (drawing on some sense of authorial intent), or whether we evaluate games based on what we can do with the content (regardless or despite authorial intent). Can a game overcome flaws based on the way gamers play it?

I will not say that there is one standard we should follow, but I will argue we must address this distinction when analyzing games, especially games that challenge players to create their own meaning, or those that contain a myriad of ways to play. Is calling The Sims boring a commentary on the game or a reflection on the player? How do we take in to account Red vs. Blue or Grifball when evaluating Halo?

We should not excuse games with inane stories or sloppy mechanics, but it is necessary to ascertain just how and what we are evaluating when it comes to determining a title's capacity for fun and difficulty. When games like Mirror's Edge or Far Cry 2 challenge us, it is only fair to question how much of the challenge is fed by our expectations, and to explore the role our perception plays in the gaming experience. This is a lot to take in, and the subjectivity inherent in gaming experiences makes the concept of difficulty amazingly abstract, so I am interested to hear other thoughts on the matter.

Regardless of how you feel, just remember to keep strafing: seriously, it works.

Difficult Games, part 2: A Reflection on Themes

In my previous post, I introduced Tony Kushner's "The Art of the Difficult," an article that argues on behalf of plays that challenge their audiences. Kushner rails against plays that are "eager to please" audiences accustomed to simple messages presented in uninspired ways. By addressing the messiness of of humanity in complex ways, people are challenged to think critically and struggle towards an understanding of human existence.

The comparison between theater and video games is not a perfect one, as games require a level of immediate physical dexterity that theater does not. Still, Kushner's philosophy can be used to explore the approach to thematic Difficulty in games. Using Kushner's argument as analytical tool, we can begin to undo the common conflation of "adult" and "mature" games.

Mirror's Edge and Echoes of Schindler

Kushner cites Schindler's List as an example of how a serious or "adult" topic does not necessarily yield a Difficult work:

For all of its crepuscular, ashy tonalities and its galumphing ponderousness, it's too squeaky clean, it's too careful, it betrays what it purports to represent, which was the antithesis of clean and careful, which was madness. Schindler risks nothing in attempting to make sense of the unfathomable; it only seeks to succeed, and so it's finally shallow, successful (237 Oscars!) and can speak to the Holocaust only in Hollywood cliches. Sure, it made German audiences "think about the Holocaust." Have you noticed that every five years something comes along that makes German audiences "think about the Holocaust"? And still they have in many ways some of the most draconian anti-immigration laws in Europe. They need to stop thinking so ostentatiously and to think more constantly, quietly and deeply instead.

Although it draws on less specific imagery and history than Schindler, the story of Mirror's Edge is subject to similar criticism. Summarizing the game's story is as easy as constructing a Don LaFontaine-inspired intro: "In a world where government enforces order at the barrel of a gun, people trade freedom for security, and the media is nothing but propaganda machine, one brave soul must have the FAITH to stand up." Ah, if only he was still with us today.

Mirror's Edge does not present the audience with a story that will teach them anything. Faith's morality is as unblemished as the sun-bleached roofs she traverses: she fights against governmental corruption, exhibits un-shakable loyalty to friends and family, and exhibits an appreciation for human life in a society indifferent to suffering. Her enemies are similarly shallow: whether they are killers, traitors, or mindless followers, everyone is sorted into camps that either endorse tyranny or liberty. In the end, Faith remains the same person she was the moment I met her.

I do not mean to suggest that the story is dull: I enjoy a good dystopian tale. I am, however, disappointed that Mirror's Edge never made an attempt to challenge the way I understand humanity. The narrative is Orwellian in tone, yet stripped of any nuance. The most compelling part of Nineteen Eighty-Four was not the cruelty that Winston endured, it was how that cruelty changed him as a person. In Nineteen Eighty-Four, the very nature of reality is called into question. In Mirror's Edge, truth is easy to find: just look at Faith.


Faith in Progress

So, are we doomed to wait for a thematically Difficult game? Actually, I can think of several recent examples of games that challenge their audiences to discern their obscure meanings through a number of subtle nuances and conflicting messages:

Far Cry 2

As Jorge's analysis of Far Cry 2 demonstrates, it is possible for games to both engage with themes of violence, race, and colonialism while at the same time existing as products of said constructs. Who are the heroes and villains in Far Cry 2? Does the game offer any philosophies on human nature, or simply present questions?

Flower

I maintain that Flower is one of the most mature games we have seen in a long time, exactly because of its difficult narrative. What is Flower about? Is it a treatise on the environmentalism? A Christian allegory? A meditation on the meaning of "nature?" It could be any of these things or none.

Noby Noby Boy

Playing Noby Noby Boy is an exercise in confronting thematic challenge. Is the game a metaphor for capitalism, a study of the impulse to consume, or simply a game that lets you eat your own butt? We create order in the world by creating stories, so how do we understand a system that seems opposed to structure?

Onward to Fallujah

Amidst the controversy sparked by Six Days in Fallujah, Anthony Crouts, Konami's VP of marketing said: "We're not trying to make social commentary. We're not pro-war. We're not trying to make people feel uncomfortable. We just want to bring a compelling entertainment experience." In saying this, Crouts eloquently articulates the exact the argument for avoiding the Difficult. People do not want to think, they do want to be challenged, they do not want to be shocked because these things lead to discomfort.

Without Difficulty, we will never know discomfort, which means we will never know plays such as Venus or games like Today I Die. By shunning the Difficult, video games may continue to evolve technologically, but they will grow stagnant in terms of their contribution to our knowledge of the world. Rather than hide from the discomfort elicited by games that make us truly grapple with painful, confusing, or ugly concepts, we must embrace them and in doing so gain a greater understanding the human experience.

We must seek out and embrace the Difficult. Whether this means traveling to Fallujah or visiting a magical worm-boy that eats entire towns only to poop them out whole, we must proceed with the confidence of knowing we will be better for the experience.