EXP Podcast #70: Silent Hill Sound Off!

It's easy for games to get lost in the crowded winter season, when huge games like Mass Effect and Call of Duty dominate dominate both sales charts and critical conversation. This week, we have an in-depth discussion about a game that has been quietly lurking in the shadows: Silent Hill: Shattered Memories. The most title recent in a long-running series, Shattered Memories re-imagines the first Silent Hill to provide both a unique gameplay and storytelling experience. In addition to upholding the sense of dread and horror from the previous games (seriously, try playing this with the lights off!), Shattered Memories has some narrative twists that set it apart from most other games.

Jorge and I made sure to keep the first half of our talk spoiler-free before getting down to specific plot points. Despite (or perhaps because of) its rough edges, we both highly recommend the game. Just don't blame us when you're huddled beneath the covers at night, afraid to turn the lights off. Finally, the in-game psychologist told us its healthy to share your feelings with others, so feel free to jump in with your comments.

Some discussion starters:

- For those of you who played the game, what did you think? Had you played other Silent Hill games before? How did your puzzles and stories differ from ours?

- The game claims "to play you" just as much as you play it. For those of you who played it, was this accurate? What other games "play" their players, and how do they do so?

- Is there room on the market for "double-A" games like Shattered Memories? Is this a meaningful distinction? How should we evaluate games with experimental concepts but less polish than blockbuster titles?

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: 44 min 23 sec
- Music provided by Brad Sucks

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.

Set Piece Cinema

Alfred Hitchcock was particularly fond of set pieces. He treated them as crescendos, eye-catching scenes built to demonstrate his virtuosity and break the viewer out of a trance. A properly paced film would include three of these "bumps," although Hitchcock enjoyed showing off more than average (I could consider Rope one long set piece).

Another informative definition comes from screen writer John August, who defines a film set piece as:

A scene or sequence with escalated stakes and production values, as appropriate to the genre. For instance, in an action film, a set-piece might be a helicopter chase amid skyscrapers. In a musical, a set-piece might be a roller-blade dance number. In a high-concept comedy, a set piece might find the claustrophobic hero on an increasingly crowded bus, until he can’t take it anymore. Done right, set-pieces are moments you remember weeks after seeing a movie.

While some conventions are followed, others are discarded to set the scene apart. Game conventions should be treated similarly, altering the experience for a particular purpose. But if we were to follow Hitchcock's suggestion of three bumps per film, a twelve hour videogame should include eight or more set pieces. While rare in older titles, Uncharted 2 teems with cinematic set pieces and is representative of what I hope is a larger trend in game design.
A post by Richard Terrell at Critical-Gaming Network from late last year discusses set pieces, drawing on, among other things, Super Mario Bros. Terrell rightly points to World 2-3 as a distinct Mario Bros. set piece. In this world, Mario's conventional platforming is performed while flying Cheep-Cheeps move in non-normative patterns that do not match traditional enemies. Although Mario Bros. succeeds partly because each world feels unique, this level is particularly memorable because it distinguishes itself from its surroundings.

Naughty Dog expertly intermingles unique set pieces into Uncharted 2 with comparatively high frequency. In an iconic scene revealed at E3 2009, Nathan battles a group of soldiers inside a hotel, taking cover behind pillars and furniture as normal. Suddenly an attack helicopter blasts the hotel, causing it to fall into a neighboring building. For a brief moment, the floor tilts dramatically and shooting enemies becomes more difficult. Finally, jarring the player's sense of control, Nathan leaps to safety.

The collapsing hotel scene is short, but its brevity is partly why it is so memorable. For a brief moment, along with visual changes, normative gameplay is slightly altered to create a new and unique experience. This strategy is repeated throughout the game, alternatively keeping the pace riveting and relaxing. Similar set pieces include a sliding platform in Shambala, a homicidal truck in an alleyway, a tank vs. village scenario, and a truck platforming sequence. Each of these scenes stand alone, sandwiched between normal game interaction.

The truck scene, and a similar train sequence, are longer set pieces that still succeed because they adhere to the 'brief alterations' rule. The train platforming scenario is a unique set piece itself, but it is also broken up into variations on the theme. At times, players must dodge oncoming obstacles, combat a helicopter on a moving vehicle, and snipe distant enemies while correcting for the curvature of the tracks. These longer set pieces follow Hitchcock's suggestion on a smaller scale while avoiding tedium.
While less adeptly paced, Modern Warfare 2 follows the trend of set piece design with its own variations on its gameplay conventions. A brief non-traditional segment of trench warfare in front of the White House is particularly memorable. A pitch black city suffering the effects of an electro-magnetic pulse creates another memorable set piece. While Modern Warfare 2 lets some of its levels drag on (Favela, Burger Town), it is indicative of a trend towards a level design that is built around these memorable set pieces.

These aforementioned set pieces are strictly linear scripted events, but they need not be. The quick downpours of Left 4 Dead 2's 'Heavy Rain' campaign is entirely controlled by the AI director. Nevertheless, its sudden alteration to existing conventions create for emergent behavior and memorable results. In a medium built upon small iterations of game conventions (not necessarily a bad thing), distinct crescendos and narrative "bumps" are powerful design tools to enliven a game and smooth its pacing. Uncharted 2 is one of the best paced games I have ever played, in no small part due to its exquisite pacing and fluid set piece integration. Building games around narrative and gameplay moments holds great potential. Alfred Hitchcock would be proud.

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.

EXP Podcast #28: Power to the Players?

As we all learned from Uncle Ben, "With great power, comes great responsibility." When Paragon Studios gave players the tools to create their own quests in City of Heroes, it soon became a case study of what happens when people discover a new-found power. Upon gaining the power to design quests, some players began to exploit the system for maximum experience points with the minimum amount of work. This kicked up a storm amongst the City of Heroes players, as well as in the larger video game community. This week, we use Nels Anderson's post on the subject as focal point for discussing the role and regulation of player-created content. As always, we're interested to hear your experiences, so feel free to create some "reader-generated" content in the comments.

Some discussion starters:

- How should player generated content be regulated? Should it? By whom?
- Are games with player-created content fated to be dominated by an elite class of creators? Is democratization necessary or ideal?
- Why do players exploit games? Where is the line between optimization and exploitation drawn?

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: 26 min 56 sec
- Nels Anderson's post, via Above49.ca: "About that Player-Generated Content..."
- Nate Ralph's post, via Wired: "Handed Keys to Kingdom, Gamers Race to Bottom"
- Music provided by Brad Sucks

Broadening Failure

At the recent Game Developers Conference in San Francisco, MIT ludologist Jesper Juul gave a talk entitled Fear of Failing: The many meanings of difficulty in videogames. You can find the written content of Juul's speech in its entirety here. Juul has this to day about the utility of failure in videogames:

"The study of players discussed in this essay indicates that failure serves the deeper function of making players readjust their perception of a game. In effect, failure adds content by making the player see new nuances in a game."

Through his implications regarding the "sweet spot" of difficulty for game designers, I wanted to explore multiple types of failure and how they've been expressed in recent games. Let me begin by saying this post is more of an exploration of failure than a treatise. I encourage you to share your own experiences with failure and punishment. I can assure, I have hours of failing experience myself.

Just this past weekend, Scott and I were playing Resident Evil 5, fighting the final boss. Unfortunately, our ammo reserve was depleted and we were forced to rely on our knife attack. If you've played RE5, you know how absolutely absurd it is to accomplish such a feat. Naturally, the battle was taking longer than expected, and I vocalized my discontent. Scott, on the other hand, was enjoying this herculean test of skill.
Aside from illuminating our competing perceptions about game difficulty, for me, this experience was about failure. No man should have to fight tentacled monstrosities with a knife! In my eyes, we had already failed. I'm almost certain Capcom had no intention of humiliating players to such a degree, so having to conduct the fight with a knife instead of a shotgun was their way of punishing players for their lack of foresight. We should have anticipated a boss battle and stocked up on ammo accordingly.

For others, failure is only failure when the game over screen pops up. This is the difference between Outcome Failure and Process Failure, two types of failure easily applied to game design. Though I agree with Juul's position that players want to feel somewhat responsible for failure, differentiating between competing forms is important because it shapes how players perceive punishment. In my case, the punishment lasted far longer than it should have considering I had already internalized my failure and drawn what nuance I could from the game's mechanics.

I also think there is a small, but important difference between in-game and out-of-game punishments for failure. The RE5 knife fight is an in-game punishment because it does not necessarily allude to the player. There is no point where the game says "You Sir, on the couch, eating a hot pocket; you messed up big time." Sure, increased difficulty is punishing the player, but I can also imagine Chris and Sheva are being punished for their own incompetency. With a little imagination, I can distance myself from the failure and feel only "somewhat responsible." Why blame myself when I can blame the protagonist?

The out-of-game punishment explicitly defines failure as my own. I would consider a game over screen an example of excessive punishment in this category. A more apparent example is failure in a multiplayer game. Take Left 4 Dead as an example. Success in L4D depends on team cohesion, and there are various in-game punishments for straying too far from the flock. There is also out-of-game punishments when team members chide other players for their poor gameplay. When players rely on each other , voice chat becomes a punishment tool to reinforce good player behavior. In this case, social dynamics pressure players to improve their skills lest they become insulted.
None of these failures and punishments are inherently better than the other. The fact I located failure earlier in my RE5 experience than Scott is likely personal preference in regards to difficulty and rewards. If I could silence my perfectionist gamer traits, perhaps I would have enjoyed the lengthy knife fight. Unlike Scott, I don't want all my skills to be tested at the seams.

Likewise, in-game and out-of-game punishments can be good or bad. There are plenty of unforgiving games, demanding tedious replays after every failure. Yet multiplayer punishment isn't always an improvement, especially when people insult your mother instead of give you tips on how to improve your performance. Some games are unforgiving with failure, forcing players to persist in the face of tiresome gameplay.

Perhaps it better to clarify Juul's claim by saying good failure adds content, and good failure depends on a games themes and forms of punishment. Ammunition conservation in Resident Evil 5 is just as important as its grotesque monstrosities in creating high stress situations. Likewise, group voice chat in Left 4 Dead develops team camaraderie and promulgates successful gameplay tactics. Meanwhile, games like The Path quietly dismember our notions of sucess and failure. Gamer masochism never ceases to amaze me.

A Good Game's Ghost

In last week's podcast, Jorge and I tried to wrap our minds around examples of "B," kitsch, and camp games. It started me thinking about games that, while not necessarily "bad," try to do some interesting things and wind up coming up short. It seems that the middle ground between Broken Pixels and GOTY is a sparsely populated one, so I wanted to elaborate on one of my favorite "splendid failures:" Geist.

Three big concepts that Geist swung at...and missed:

1. The Story

The Swing: The game's silent protagonist, research scientist John Raimi, suddenly becomes embroiled in a sinister plot in which secret scientific experiments are being used to unleash demonic beasts from another dimension into our world. Raimi battles his way through extra-governmental troops as well as creatures of the occult. It is refreshing spin on the traditional "space marine in an alien universe" story.

The Miss: Unfortunately, Gordon Freeman robbed the game of some of its novelty in 1998. And again in 2004.

2. The Possession System

The Swing: After an unfortunate run in with the game's mad scientist/resident occultist, Raimi becomes separated from his body, turned into an ethereal being invisible to the naked eye, and gains the power of ghostly possession. This ability opens up intriguing and novel gameplay scenarios: Raimi can posses people to glean information from their memories or employ their skills. Animals can also be possessed and utilized in solving puzzles or navigating environments closed off to humans. Possession of inanimate objects is also possible, and over the course of the game Raimi possesses everything from an shower heads to turrets.

The Miss: The possession mechanic becomes its own undoing by fostering the player's imagination. While the player seems to be in command of a possessed person or object, the effective control that can be exerted over the host is extremely limited. When possessed, most humans have similar skills and identical controls. The prospect of possessing a rat is fun initially, but the sheen wears off when it becomes apparent its main powers are to run and squeak; no biting or clawing for these gentle rodents. Because of technical limitations, Raimi can only possess certain objects in any given room. While it is neat to take control of an old TV and blow it up, the game's narrative suggests that Raimi could just as easily take control of the coffee table holding it up. Unfortunately, only certain items seem susceptible to Raimi's ethereal powers. It was a noble attempt, but the hardware running the game (and the GameCube was no slouch!) simply did not have the power to convey the interactivity necessary to back up the game's concept.

3. The Identity Crisis: Shooting or Sleuthing?

The Swing: The game alternates between standard first-person shooter gun battles and adventure sequences in which the player must determine how to use the environment to scare someone, thereby making them vulnerable to possession. The gun battles range from fighting human military forces to hellish monsters and include a variety of fps tropes like turret sequences, escort missions, and timed battles. In the possession sequences, the pace is slowed and the player must determine how best to terrorize potential hosts by utilizing objects in the environment.

The Miss: While finding objects with which to scare a person is fun, it soon becomes apparent that there is only one solution to each puzzle. As discussed in the aforementioned section, a very limited number of objects can be possessed. Even if it would make logical sense to scare a person by possessing some books and hurling a few at them, if the books are not the key to the puzzle, they are not interactive and the player is out of luck. While inventive, the limited puzzles are jarring since they exist in what seems to be a perfect environment for testing the ingenuity of the player. Instead of fostering creativity, many challenges degenerate into using the "examine" command on every object in a room until the glowing one appears.

The shooting, while serviceable, does not set the game apart from high budget smash hits like Half-life or Halo. Some wonky aiming, cheap AI, and questionable frame rates add frustration to mundane missions and inspires more longing for non-existent in-depth possession puzzles.

Despite all of its shortcomings, or more accurately because of them, I admire this game. The sci-fi story, possession mechanics, and gameplay variety all show that both N-Space and Nintendo were looking to put out a bold, inventive title. The game provides fun in the form of short bursts of ingenuity. There are some gruesome monsters, and playing poltergeist is entertaining.

The game fell victim to bad timing. It was just released before the developers could sort out the balance between adventure and gun play, before Nintendo could provide the audience necessary for a new intellectual property to succeed, and before consoles could make possible the kind of interactivity necessary to support the game's story.

With Geist, it is clear that the spirit was willing, but the flesh was weak.

A Frustrating Narrative

Whether it is seeing a faraway ledge taunting you, being bested by a computer opponent, or struggling against a maverick camera, video games can be a frustrating ordeal. Their ability to inspire frustration is often overlooked when we articulate the differences between video games and other mediums, but I think the idea that we even expect challenge from games makes them unique. Certainly, a particularly tortuous novel or abstract film can be exasperating, but books and DVDs lead relatively safe lives compared to video game controllers.

I usually find myself getting exasperated with a game in which I continually fail. Usually, this failure takes the form of "dying," in some way, which means losing progress, points, gear, or the like. However, my recent time with PixelJunkEden and BioShock suggest that perhaps failure alone does not lead to frustration and that bad mechanics are not solely to blame. Instead, a game's narrative determines its capacity to frustrate.

I enjoyed BioShock and PixelJunk Eden immensely, despite experiencing quite a few failures on my journey through Rapture and my trek into Eden. I had no large problems with the controls, mechanics, or rules of either game. Curiosly, BioShock stood out as the far more frustrating of the two, despite the fact I failed far more when playing PixelJunkEden.

BioShock is a monument to story telling in games, or more precisely, a monument to explicit, linear-narrative storytelling. Well-written and competently voiced, the game's dialogue and characters articulate the story of a city's tragic demise. The dilapidated city structures are beautiful landmarks along a road that inexorably led me to the game's conclusion. BioShock is a game with a clear message and an explicit story, and this is why my failures frustrated me.

I had a propensity of attacking Big Daddy's without much forethought, and this led me to become intimately familiar with the inside of the vita chambers. Every time I died, it felt as thought I was somehow upsetting the game's narrative. Perhaps Jack was meant to "die" a couple of times to explicate the chambers' cloning capabilities, but rushing headlong into the same battle five times in a row felt like a disservice the story in which I was participating.

My PixelJunkEden failures dwarfed my BioShock deaths. Sweating against the clock while trying to collect enough pollen to traverse the game's massive levels created a mixture of stress and Zen concentration. Despite countless re-tries, I felt little frustration in having to repeat levels.

In retrospect, my lack of frustration in the face of dozens of failures was due in large part to PixelJunkEden's narrative approach. The game has very little explicit story, and what is present mimics the game's graphics to create something that is both abstract and impressionistic. The narrative inPixelJunk is a vague theme: It is a story about pollination and growth.

While playing the game, I clung to the naturalistic motif. I saw the game as a representation of plants' life cycle: Sometimes, plants do not bloom very strongly and must endure a long winter before trying to rebound in the spring. The non-human world is less linear than human-centered stories, and since I viewed the game as a story about nature, setbacks felt less permanent. I could fail as many times as necessary and feel little frustration because failure was not destructive to the narrative.

I have tried to avoid the term ludo-narrative dissonance until now, but I cannot find a better way to describe what I believe is the core reason behind frustration in gamers. If a game's narrative suggest that the protagonist not fail, yet, when controlling the protagonist, the player repeatedly fails, dissonance clearly exists. Here I begin to tread gingerly, as the beast that is the "Narratologists vs. Ludologists debate" is a fitful sleeper, and it is hard to control once woken.

We make sense of our world by creating stories that explain the situations we encounter. Some games create stories by presenting the player with apre-constructed narrative, while others create messages by employing gameplay techniques. However, without each other as foils, neither of approach holds any relative meaning. The chasm between narrative andgameplay is not going to disappear; we just need to figure out how to build a bridge with a sturdy center.

EXP Podcast #8: Patent Pending

This week, an intrepid Internet explorer happened upon some mysterious patents filed by Nintendo. The documents lay out a new system for delivering hints in a game, as well as a mode of play in which the player watches the game unfold on its own until they choose to join in. This raises numerous issues in regards to game difficulty, the accessibility of modern video games, and defining exactly what it even means to "play a game." As always, check out the show notes for links to the stories and references, and feel free to offer your speculations on how (or if) this patent will be utilized.

Some discussion starters:
- Do you think this system would create new gamers, or simply irritate current gamers?
- How much challenge do you like in a game? Does it depend on what kind of game it is, or is there a specific way of implementing challenge that is particularly appealing?
- How much interaction do we need with a game in order for it to still qualify as 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: 26 mins 13 sec
- The Kotaku article describing Nintendo's patent
- Some developers comment on the news
- Corvus Elrod's excellent exploration of the definition of a "game"
- The Graveyard is a videogame?
- Music provided by Brad Sucks

Cooperation in the LittleBigPlanet

This is the second of five posts about LittleBigPlanet (for those of you paying attention, yes, I did add one). My first post dealt with the mechanics and deconstructionist nature of the game. Today, I will discuss playing one of the biggest draws of playing the game: playing it with others. I hope to contribute to a discussion about what I confidently call the PS3's premier game, so I encourage everyone to jump in!

As Michael Abbott points out, LBP is a game people want to play together, regardless of their gaming habits. I have been playing the game regularly since its release and have played with people whoposses varying degrees of video game experience. Even people normally indifferent towards games seem to like LBP, and I would like to suggest two reasons for this.

A Certain Je Ne Sais Quoi: The Presentation of LittleBigPlanet

When it comes to a game's appeal, regardless of gameplay, presentation matters. LBP is a game whose style and high-quality workmanship is intuitively apparent to anyone, regardless of their video game knowledge. As Michael elegantly states, "this game was lovingly crafted by human beings."

Most importantly it is also a game crafted for human beings, in the sense that the game's appeal is not beholden to any specific group of people. Because the players have so much control over the look and structure of both Sackboy and the levels, the game can be sappy or serious, cute or homely. The imagery may be fantastic, but it is also technically impressive.

At the risk of getting overly metaphysical, I argue that LBP is a game that feels comfortable in its own skin. Its presentation suggests an earnestness behind its development. LBP is not a game designed by focus group testing; it is an organic artistic vision created by people who shared a vision.

Nothing in the game is "accidental." Each minute detail, whither it be a color, shape, animation, or sound, conveys a sense of deliberation. Even so, the game avoids feeling overwrought. Too often, games seem to be "trying" for something rather than actually "being" something. For me, the difference between the presentation ofLBP and the presentation of Gears of War is that Gears goes out of its way to remind you that you are a marine in dystopian future at every turn: "See, look how much they swear! Look how buff they are! Look at how everything is cracked and grey! This is EXTREME!" Of course, this feeling is extremely subjective, and I do not think "trying" is always a bad thing (I should point out that I like Gears, by the way).

LBP exists quietly and confidently, which is why I think people are drawn to it. LBP fosters an intuitive attraction in people, and it is only natural to want to play the game with others who share the attraction.

The Taxonomies at Play: Co-op in LittleBigPlanet

LBP offers something for everyone, regardless of where a player falls along the spectrum of Mitch Krpata's New Taxonomy of Gaming. LBP's implementation of gameplay makes cooperative gameplay essential for any type of player to derive full enjoyment of the game.

Tourists: LBP is an excellent game for folks just looking to see the sights. The developer worlds are clever, and the player created levels mean the sightseeing never has to end. But, to see all the best, most impressive levels, Tourists benefit from cooperation with bothcompletionists and perfectionists. The occasional helping hand through a difficult level, or the favorites list of a veteran player allows tourists to experience the game's highlights.

Completionists: Completionists will enjoy the respectable chunk of time required work through and unlock all of LBP's story mode levels. Because it is possible to do this alone, one can argue that completionists benefit the least from co-op in LBP. However, can one say they have "completed" LBP without experiencing the mayhem of four players on the screen at once? Is one's experience "complete" without playing the magnificentIco-themed level? LBP is a game with the potential to reinvent itself indefinitely. Large-scale communal cooperation benefits completionists : people who are basically level story mode tourists can still spend hours creating levels. Perfectionists can implement their hard-won items when creating new challenges. The dynamic between people creating and people playing continually refreshes the game for players of all styles.

Perfectionists: The scoring and ranking mechanic in LBP caters directly to perfectionists. While completely optional, the scoreboard acts as a constant motivator for those wishing to master the game. Items are unlocked for passing levels without dying, and each level has a item-collection percentage that goads perfectionists onward. Cooperation is ingeniously worked into the perfectionist's play experience: in order to attain 100% on a level, you must work with other players. Some puzzles require as many as fourSackboys to solve. As it is unlikely that four perfectionists will be playing at the same time, the perfectionist relies on both completionists and tourists to fulfill their objective.


LBP succeeds as a cooperative game because its presentation lures a wide variety of people into its world. Once in the world, players rely on one another to fully realize the kind ofgameplay they enjoy. Tourists have a beautiful world full of guides to point out the highlights, completionists have a self-perpetuating game built by their fellow players, and perfectionists can embark on a grand treasure hunt that necessitates the help of friends.

When it comes to the effect cooperation has on LBP, the game's intro says it best:

"It forms a world, an ethereal dreamscape of adventure and possibilities. An abstract plane of beautiful wonderment, just waiting to be explored."

Review: The Precarious Mirror's Edge

This week I review Mirror's Edge, a game that has already received a great deal of attention, with mixed opinions, and created a stir surrounding the process of reviewing innovative games. Also, a recent issue of contention is how to properly criticize a game that is clearly unique and innovative. The discussion has been vigorous and fascinating, with differing opinion all around. Now that the dust is beginning to settle, I hope to contribute my own thoughts, again, on DICE's parkour platformer. Also, I am lucky enough to be free of review score limitations. My thanks to all those who have already contributed their thoughts on the subject.

I played and finished Mirror's Edge on the Xbox 360. I have only played a small amount of time trial mode.

Last week I wrote an article discussing the directional guidance system available in Mirror's Edge, hoping to offer a less prevalent criticism than most readers have come across. There seems to be a general consensus among those who have played the game, and I agree: Mirror's Edge is absolutely thrilling when moving fluidly through the environment, but frequent obstructions slow the pace, activated triggers, soldiers that need to be disposed of and inelegant combat create frustrating obstacles. Most interesting, however, is exploring why this is the case and if this could have been avoided.

At the core of Mirror's Edge is a superb free running experience. There are few games that simulate movement in such an exhilarating and teeth-clenching way. Only racing games hold a candle to the sense of speed and maneuverability you feel when traversing the ledges and overhangs of Faith's dystopian city. All other game elements are inessential to this source of entertainment. That which is most fun about the game owes nothing to, and is only hindered by, the secondary game elements.

Along with many others, I also have my moments of frustration. An only slightly misplaced leap will send me sinking to a splattering death again and again, though I know where I need to go. Or, after disabling four well armored guards, a quick gun butt to the head will send me reeling with little hope of recovery. Or, after expert maneuvering, I will get shot just before escaping a mob of troops. Sadly, these "almost got away" moments are the outliers. Far more frequently, a guard will incapacitate me before I can even get any sense of direction. The moments of speed are just too few to satisfy.

Dice built Mirror's Edge on the precarious foundation of the first-person shooter genre, although it was marketed as the first of its kind break out of the existing FPS mold by discouraging gunplay. If we wanted, Mirror's Edge could be a non-violent counterpart to traditional shooters. Why, then, does the game rely so heavily on FPS conventions? There are buttons to press, valves to turn and rooms of gunmen blocking your path. These shooter elements of Mirror's Edge, including the combat, impede fluid movement and do nothing to improve the story, which is riddled with cliches that fit naturally in any shooter title.

Mirror's Edge is very much like its protagonist. I'm sorry, but the analogy between Faith and the game is just too good to pass up. Dice took a daring innovative leap forward with Mirror's Edge, but misjudged how much distance they needed to cover between a new genre of their making and classic shooter environment. The game is burdened with needless level obstacles, activated checkpoints and cumbersome combat, left overs from its FPS origins, and falls to the ground.

Despite trying my hardest not to harm anyone, I repeatedly found myself in situations where killing was the best available option. Dice could have fit the first-person platforming into another environment and done away with this problem altogether. The worlds of Uncharted, Tomb Raider, and Prince of Persia could all have accommodated free running beautifully. Even a parkour racing game could be feasible and very engaging.

Again, when Mirror's Edge is "on" it is a unique, amazing, and beautiful adventure. Had this game been an early release on any of the next gen consoles, I think it would have been better received simply to see it stretch the boundaries of videogame movement. Mirror's Edge, as is, will leave many disappointed.

Yet this creation deserves a large heaping of praise. The movement mechanics are flawless and make this game well worth playing. But more importantly, I feel a responsibility to give Dice credit for their bravery. Developers and gamers should take note of innovation where innovation succeeds, even when the game does not. The inevitable Mirror's Edge sequel will be great if Dice is willing to brave the unconventional and leap farther into an unknown genre.

Seeing Red

In between frantic rooftop escapades in Mirror's Edge, I had a chance to read a scrolling in-game news bulletin. It warned parents that a fondness for the color red may be a sign their child is a runner, the game's version of a rebellious UPS driver. In a world this white, it is hard not to be drawn immediately to anything red. Most things are painted in either of these two colors.

Beyond making the Mirror's Edge world look like a giant Target commercial, the contrast between red and white serves a functional purpose. When something on screen is glowing crimson, it lets the player know this object is useful for maneuvering through the environment. The game calls this "runner vision." I call it a failed attempt at player guidance.

The justification for seeing red is this: it simulates how useful objects may stand out to a highly skilled runner like Faith. I reluctantly accept this explanation. Most games rely a similar excuse to account for weapons glowing, or any other attention getting device. However, when the creators shepherd me through an experience, I can't help but feel manhandled.

Most scalable objects in Mirror's Edge do not glow red consistently. They often blend in with all the other white objects, only appearing red when nearby. Personally, I found this to be their biggest flaw. Countless times I would leap towards a distant ledge, pipe, or over hang, not knowing if it would change color or let me fall to my death. My training was not to move effortlessly through my surroundings, but to seek out objects that might become red. This off-and-on nature of the guidance system snapped me out of the experience, even more so than dying over and over and over again.

Dice studio saw fit to include one other directional assistance mechanic. With the press of a button, Faith can turn and look towards her primary objective. This was even more of an abysmal failure. The entire point of the game was to find a path towards a single location, a path that is almost never a straight line. Getting to a distant door or ladder is an action composed of many small steps. The immediate goal of finding the best route to move forward trumps the long term locational goal and makes this function essentially useless.

I am not strictly opposed to a little direction. Fable II's glowing breadcrumbs were not jarring in the slightest. Unlike Mirror's Edge, this trail of goodness is always present and can be set towards various locations of your choosing. The subtlety lets the line fade into the background whenever you choose to forge your own path. Like a parent teaching a child to ride a bicycle, you should easily forget the guiding hand is there and soon be able to ride all on your own.

To carry this bicycle analogy one step further, needing this assistance at all is a sign the bicycle was not built with training wheels. You wouldn't need the developer's artificial touch if the game could be "ridden" on its own. Though Fable II's trail does not draw attention to itself the way red-vision does, it is still included to replace a coherently structured and easily managed level design. Perhaps Lionhead Studios removed a map display to clean up the HUD. Or arguably, the expansive free-flowing nature of Fable II makes an easily maneuverable experience impossible. Regardless, any guidance system exists when the ideal (the player leading themselves) cannot be met.

Of course in Mirror's Edge, and Fable II, I can turn this assistance off. However, in doing so, the whitewashed buildings, without the red contrast, lose some of their meaning and become more boring than they were to begin with. Effectively, seeing red is a less than perfect band-aid for other game flaws I hope to cover next week.

Again, I am no proponent of game difficulty for its own sake. I'll gladly accept a helping hand when appropriate. It is when this hand is wearing a ruby encrusted glove that glitters in the sunlight that I am inclined to let go.

Beyond Limitations

[Warning: This post may contain spoilers. Read with discretion.]

Last week Spencer Greenwood of Noble Carrots wrote a very interesting post concerning the thematic limitations of videogames. In this article, Spencer discusses the opening scene to Call of Duty 4, a game I was fortunate enough to be playing at the time, in which the character is dragged through a city, only able to look around. Greenwood had this to say: "The game robs the player of its usual interactivity to great emotional effect. However, I am not sure that this level should exist in a game. Why couldn't it be left to happen in a film? ... the emotionally engaging part of the video they were watching was fundamentally, not an interactive experience."

My first thought was in defense of the game. This segment holds more meaning specifically because I expected more character control than I was given. If this were to happen in a film, I would never have had this expectation. But couldn't this also be considered a limitation? Am I confining my experience by playing games with certain gameplay expectations? I quickly jumped down a rabbit hole of thoughts regarding the limitations of videogames. If the medium cannot address certain thematic concerns, is it doomed to be literature and film's entertaining but ignorant and incoherent step-brother? Are we trapped within the narrative walls of our console prison?

To answer these questions, I first want to take a look at another example from CoD 4. In this scene, your character is extremely limited. You must crawl slowly through the wreckage of your downed helicopter just to gaze upon the nuclear destruction and die. This segment is stunning and disturbing.

The contrast between interaction in the rest of the game and minimal interaction in this particular scene, creates a narrative connection between the lack of player mobility and the lack of character agency within the story. As the player is confined to the limitations of game mechanics, so is the protagonist confined within the structured violence of a war hungry world. The inevitability of player death creates a sense of entanglement, or even culpability, with the system of violence that allowed nuclear carnage to ensue. Maybe being a soldier in CoD 4 isn't as freeing or exhilarating as you thought. The expressive power of this scene could not have been the same in film or literature.

Every medium has its own limits and expectations. Novels are confined to paper and text, with a history of established narrative techniques. Film is a purely visual and auditory experience, and it too has a set of rules and patterns commonly adhered to. Videogames are no different. Therefore, we can take a lesson from those artists who have used these unique characteristics as artistic diving boards.

Vladamir Nabakov was a master of the English language, and several others for that matter, and often used reader expectations to his advantage. Traditionally, novels have a beginning and an end: first A happens, then B, C and so on. In Pnin, the narrator becomes trapped in this formula. The protagonist's story presumably continues past the last chapter while the narrator is forced to begin again at A, doomed to recount the tale for eternity.

Taking lessons from Nabakov, Mark Danielewski's House of Leaves creates a frightening manifestation of the story with the actual text and paper of the book itself, breaking countless conventions in the process. Danielewski's text warps and fades into the binding, crosses over itself, literally creating a labyrinthine journey. Like the titular house of leaves, the book itself is larger on the inside than it is on the outside, adding a sense of macabre realism to the tale. These stories could not have been told with the same power in any other format.

Film too has its narrative jugglers. Federico Fellini's 8½ is filmed in such a way as to warp dreams, flashbacks, and reality, creating the most "metafilm" I can think of. Christopher Nolan's Memento tells a compelling story in backward moving segments of linear narrative. This film shatters the viewers' narrative expectations while simultaneously driving the story towards both a beginning and an end. These movies take the limits of storytelling in film and use them towards their own ends, creating unmatchable experiences.

If film and literature can do it, so can videogames. Some already have. Metal Gear Solid fans should all remember Psycho Mantis, a telekinetic, leather wearing weirdo who can read your mind and your memory card! Having an enemy call you a coward for saving your game too often is uniquely unsettling.

Jonathan Blow's Braid also has a scene in which the limits of the game mechanics forge a stronger narrative. At one point in Braid, time moves according to the direction you move, resulting in your character rushing past an NPC who comments on his haste. The protagonist, by definition, is rash and driven ever onward. Without the limitations of a side-scrolling platformer and the mechanics of time, this illuminating piece of narrative would not have been the same.

All the limitations of videogames, from interactivity to save files, hand-held controllers to less-than-perfect AI, are also the features that make videogames unique. No experience in one medium can be mirrored perfectly in another, as it should be. We may have limitations but the expressive power of videogames is limitless.

More Than Mortality

I can never die. I can take bullets and axe blows, magic blasts and troll strikes. In Fable II, I am invincible, and though it feels strange, I'm loving it.

Of course my new found immunity to the reaper is off putting. It is weird to say it, but I have grown accustomed to dying... a lot. Death has been a staple of character driven games since the beginning. When Mario fell into a bottomless hole, did any of us really think he was going anywhere but the great big cloud level in the sky?

The illustration of our demise varies, from falling off the screen to the more popular dark atmosphere, chimes, splash of red and slowed time portrait. The conclusion is the same, two words we all know so well: game over. Yet Fable II and some other interesting titles deviate from the norm and offer other propositions. What if death in videogames is more complex and holds more narrative potential than we imagine?

Plenty of people die in Fable II, just not you (or children). Two things happen instead of death: you lose an arbitrary amount of experience points and you receive a scar. You can't do a thing about the scar, it's permanent. No make-up in Albion will cover up the doozie my character has across her face.

Personally, that is enough incentive for me to go into battle prepared with plenty of health potions. For one, I want my character to be pretty. There are social repercussions for the unattractive. Secondly, I'm too self conscious of my "l33t skillz" to be comfortable with severe beatings.

Death has become the ultimate punishment for player failure. For the more masochistic gamers out there, this is a good thing. The threat of death serves to ratchet up the tension and test their skills against the finality of annihilation (I'm looking at you Megaman 9 fans). Is this necessary though? Can we have a challenging, serious and tense gaming without the reaper looming over us? Some developers think so.

Take a look at Bioshock for example. Bioshock does not punish the daredevil player with a game over screen. Rather than dying, your character Jack reappears in a Vita-chamber, healing him to full while leaving your enemies' health bar as they were. Whether or not this makes the game too easy is hotly debated. I'm not the only who one believes the game's tone succeeded without mortality. The art design and sound effects kept my tension level somewhere around sheer panic, and I never fought a big daddy eagerly and without preparation.

So perhaps we need not punish ourselves with death to play a suspenseful and formidable game, but can immortality be an improvement? Puzzle solving, not survival is the challenge of Braid. With time rewinding abilities, your death is never permanent. Interestingly, the fact that you both can and cannot die is essential to the game. There is at least one moment where you must kill your character and rewind in order to progress. This puzzle can be difficult for those of us who accept death as a punishment for a fact. The narrative of Braid is murky at best but, depending on how you see the story, this death/non-death is tragic and revealing of the protagonist's fate. I would not be surprised if more casual gamers saw this connection between death and narrative than those of us accustomed to mortality.

Death and the lack therefor can serve a narrative purpose. Why limit ourselves with a "game over" screen that may only serve to break us out of the game or force us to retrace our steps? Sure, dying is a good excuse to put down the game and go outside, but who needs that? Fable II's scarring system serves to personalize the narrative that continues uninterrupted. If you play with a renegade style, dashing into battle without health potions or food, you'll come out showing the signs of battle, intertwining your experience, the story, and the mechanics. At this point in my game, my scars are worn with pride. This lack of punishment is healthy for hardcore and casual gamers alike, but more importantly, it's healthy for narrative innovation.

One last game I want to mention reports to have a very strange approach to death. Quantic Dream, creators of Indigo Prophecy, will be releasing Heavy Rain, a PS3 exclusive, some time next year. Your character can die in the very first level of Heavy Rain, and once she does, her death is permanent, the story will continue without her. A story that continues independent of your survival is, as far as I know, unheard of. Similar to Fable II, death is not a punishment but an opportunity to build upon a personalized narrative that includes your own demise.

Beyond the mechanics of character mortality, I find death in videogames fascinating. How does death in videogames reflect cultural perceptions on the subject? Does the mortality or immortality of a character affect how we approach a game? Does character death still serve its purpose if we have grown so accustomed to it?

It is not my intention to answer these questions, but remind us that these questions exist and they are worthy of contemplation. I also want to commend Lionhead Studios and other developers willing to take a novel approach to mortality, one in which the punishment mechanic personalizes, not concludes, the gaming experience. We should look forward to videogame death with curiosity, not fear, to see beyond "game over."

Videogames and the Culture of Collection

Try this mental exercise: pick an enjoyable game and try to describe its objective. After trying this out myself, I found that many of the titles I came up with boiled down to the act of collecting. The stories were different and the characters were diverse, but a huge number of games seem to revolve around amassing possessions. Be it stars, crystals, pocket monsters, pendants, statues, jiggies, hearts, or good old fashioned loot, game culture seems to be a culture of hoarding.

Here, I'll suggest three reasons why I believe the collection element is so strong in games, while also offering some thoughts on the benefits and limitations of this particular gameplay tradition. A disclaimer: the bulk of my thoughts concern action/adventure/RPG-style games, but we should not overlook the prevalent role of collection in other genres such as racing and sports.

1. "Can a Pixel Feel?": Collection as Plot Devices
Storytelling in videogames has historically been a tricky undertaking, and the difficulties of creating meaningful characters persist today. Constructing a layered narrative that succeeds in fomenting the development of complex characters necessitates both artistic and technical skill. Even if a developer can craft an enjoyable story, technical restrictions can limit player attachment to the virtual characters. Advancing a story is difficult if your characters can only perform three frames of animation, or if disk space limits the amount of dialogue you can write or record.

8-bit era Link was not the most articulate chap (not that he is a motormouth today), and his strength as a character could not be relied upon to move the story of a game forward. Thus, it is necessary to introduce items that move the game along. The task of collecting becomes the primary focus for the player and their avatar. Collection serves as the metric by which story and character progression are measured. Gaining new weapons and stat points denotes character growth, and the number of items collected signifies progress in the story (e.g. If you have collected 50% of the stars, the game is half over).

2. "Is that it?": Collection as a Gameplay Style
Relative to movies, television, theater, and even some novels, videogames are meant to be long engagements. The shortest blockbuster games are easily twice as long as Hollywood blockbuster movies. Collection adds to the amount of time a player spends in a game, immersing them in the game's world.

I will use movies as an example again: From an economic standpoint $60 dollars for a block-buster game is about six times as much money as the equivalent big-budget Hollywood movie costs. It feels good when I know that when I pay six times as much for a game, I'll get six times the hours of enjoyment from my purchase.

These extra hours must be filled with something, and oftentimes the character arcs simply cannot support dozens of hours of focus. This is no slight towards writers or directors; creating a compelling plot with empathetic characters is difficult to do for any length of time. By inserting long stretches of collection-based gameplay, character and story development is spaced out, giving videogames their unique artistic pacing.

Additionally, adding collection gameplay exposes the player to the complete work of the game developer. If a game necessitates scouring an entire virtual world looking for hidden treasure, the developers can rest assured that their hard work has been witnessed and that the player is given the opportunity to enjoy every aspect of their art.

3. "Greed is Good": The Societal Drive to Collect
Videogames are products of a world dominated by twentieth century capitalism. Compound this with the heavy influence of Euro-centric cultural norms, and collection in games takes on a more culturally reflective image. Game players and developers are immersed in a largely global culture of accumulation: accumulation of money, accumulation of resources, accumulation of consumer goods, etc. Is it any wonder our art reflects our society, or that our society draws influence from our art?

When a game asks us to amass a stockpile of items, it is playing into a familiar theme for most gamers. Our non-gaming lives are defined by societal rules that dictate that the person with the most "wins." We are conditioned to understand collection as a necessary, if not worthwhile, goal and our games conform to this societal demand. While the merit of this is debatable, the success of the collection tactic within games is a testament to its efficacy.

Consider the Pokemon franchise as the ultimate example of modern western capitalism distilled into a neat package (or possibly trapped within a Pokeball). The point of the series is to collect resources (Pokemon) and grow these assets (by investing time into improving and trading them) in hopes of edging out your competitors. "Gotta catch 'em all!" is arguably the most descriptive and most fitting slogan ever created in gaming. This slogan can easily be read as "Gotta buy 'em all!" since, as we have seen, the Pokemon videogames themselves have created a thriving meta-game. Not only must players focus on accumulating Pokemon in the game world, they must also accumulate a variety of Pokemon games if they hope to compete their collections.

Do not mistake this final point as some neo-socialist diatribe against capitalism and its evils; the world is painted in a rainbow of greys. It may be embarrassing to admit, but Pokemon games are damn fun.

Collection has its place, and I would be sad to see it fall by the wayside. I believe it is one aspect that truly differentiates videogames from other artistic mediums. Games can play into this convention honestly and succeed, but they are also free to put a spin on the collection trope. Take Katamari Damacy as an example, in which collection is taken its logical conclusion. The game is charming and fun, but it also delivers a sly critique on both gaming culture and its place in society.

Collection in games sometimes worries me in that it represents the temptation of stagnation. Today's games are increasingly detailed in regards to both artistry and technology. I do not think collection should exist simply because it has historical precedent, fits well with traditional game design, and is a familiar mode of existence. Games that need not be scavenger hunts should jettison this convention in favor of pursuing new storytelling and gameplay directions. It is hard to understand a character if all you know about them is that he really needs to get ten more MacGuffins in order to save the universe or something.

Ultimately, I seem to find myself in the ironic position of focusing on collecting video games while worrying that they focus too much on collection.