Painting with Gameplay

Over the last fifteen years, we have seen the average video game grow longer and become more narrative-driven than ever. If massively-successful, story-oriented franchises like Final Fantasy, Metal Gear Solid, Grand Theft Auto, and Halo are any indication, gamers respond to emotion. They respond to characters, story arcs, and most of all, purpose. They want to know who they are fighting, and why. Knowing this seems to give their bullets meaning.

And yet, the fact that the meaning seems to come from outside the gameplay (i.e., the backstory), is, in my view, problematic. Game designer and former Sony Online Entertainment employee Rod Humble has helped to begin what I believe will lead to a revolution of "meaningful" gameplay - gameplay that is communicative in the way that books and film are communicative. He views gameplay itself as a kind of paintbrush, and I feel he has used it effectively in his small game, The Marriage, in which he attempts conveys the feeling he gets from being married. The game is, however, abstract, and while this abstraction lessens the dramatic effect, I believe that a game designer could effectively remove the abstraction simply by doing what artists do best: representing life.
Attempting to explain every facet of the game's analogy to marriage is beyond the scope of this blog entry, but I will sum it up briefly: You essentially play the "agent of Love," as Humble puts it in his explanation of the game, trying to keep the couple engrossed in their marriage. The male counterpart is represented by the blue square, the female, the pink. Their individual sizes update throughout the game representing each respective spouse's "dominance," in the marriage, while their translucency indicates their individual level of engagement in the marriage. The player can "mouse over" the squares to cause them to come together and "kiss," after which they bounce off and go their separate ways, until the player causes them to begin moving toward each other again. Circles signify events that affect the marriage from the outside. They fly around the screen, seemingly at random.

While I am unclear about what every individual item in the metaphor actually means one thing seems clear: It is a game about balance. For example, when the couple "kisses," the masculine square shrinks in size, while the female counterpart grows. Indeed, it is clear that Humble is commenting on the differing, often conflicting, requirements a husband and wife in marriage. Similarly, colliding with or "mousing over" each circle effects each spouse differently. The player must draw upon these resources to keep the marriage alive, balancing each individual's levels dominance and engagement. This feeling of balance comes purely from the gameplay.

Rod Humble was able to create this game by taking intangible phenomena, such as marital dominance and contentment, and making them part of the mechanics of a game. He quantifies these emotions and puts them in the context of rules. He made them visual - though, abstractly visual - so that the player can literally see and respond to what is happening. Thus, I feel that Humble succeeds in the ambition he states in his explanation, which is to use "...game rules to explain something invisible but real." Humble has essentially "painted" with gameplay.

While Humble views his game as art, he recognizes one immediate failure of the game as a communicative device: It requires explanation. "I wanted a game that the graphics and other elements took second stage," writes Humble, reminding us that Chess is engaging, "whether playing with stones or diamond encrusted ivory sculpted pieces. One should not assume the game is incomplete because of its graphical simplicity...." Essentially, Humble sets out to create art with gameplay alone.

And yet, Humble admits he "cheated a little here by using colour symbolism similar to painting." Even at a more basic level, the game fails to work without some sort of visual representation - whether it be squares or circles. As unintelligible as the game is without the explanation, it still is dependent on some sort of visual representation - color, motion, etc. - to create meaning. What would happen if we truly reduced the game down to just its mechanics? I would imagine this would look like a table of numbers, moving up and down, keeping track of each object's position in space, size, color, etc. Even then, we are using numbers and charts to represent the gameplay!

It would seem that gameplay requires representation to be intelligible. It by itself cannot be used to create art - it is only a fundamental element of game design. Meaning comes from combining rules with a "dramatic" element - the element that provides context: characters, goals, etc. Thus, by replacing the abstraction of squares and circles with natural-looking characters and situations, The Marriage would not only become intelligible, but also more emotionally engaging. No longer would the player be dealing with squares and circles, but with people.

So, how do we make the conversion from abstraction to naturalism? I believe this can largely be done by simply looking at life and other media, such as film. Instead of using a change in size to indicate marital dominance, the designer must ask himself, how might this be indicated in real life? For example, as a wife gains dominance, she may take on a more demanding tone of voice, become more talkative, etc. Instead of visual translucency, marital satisfaction might be indicated by indifferent facial expressions, or a reduction in the tendency to hug or kiss. The designer has control over the inputs and outputs of the game, and can choose to make them abstract or naturalistic.

Like "The Marriage," game design is a balancing act. Too much focus on rules, and the game is unintelligible; too much on the "dramatic" element, and we miss out on that unique ability to explain difficult concepts to us through choice, consequence, and performance. I believe Rod Humble is tapping into something that could help to turn games into a medium of choice for artists seeking to convey a message, so long as we learn how to harness that power through naturalistic representation.

This image is a screenshot the tech demo for the game Heavy Rain, which garnered attention from the Electronic Entertainment Expo in 2006, due to its lifelike, emotive animation.

Character Development in Games

Games are journeys. They are personal experiences that revolve around discovery, and through that discovery, we learn. Experiences change us; they have the power to move us, and sometimes, develop us.

While watching a movie or reading fiction, few things are more satisfying than seeing a character develop. Why, then, should games, another storytelling medium, lack this profundity and magic? Indeed, it would seem it should not. But the best way for a game to develop a protagonist will likely turn out to be much different than would a film or novel. It would seem that the player himself must go through a change - perhaps some representation of the change that the protagonist undergoes through the course of the story.

So, I implore you now to share and discuss your thoughts on character development in games. I will be very interested to hear your ideas on this topic.

Fly Before Walking?

Birth.

An infant has no knowledge of the outside world; the tiny bundle of wonder is like a hyper-sensitive sponge, soaking up everything in sight.

Soon after birth, the infant learns to crawl. A few months and a year down the road, it will walk. And after walking...running.

It has always been the dream of man to fly. Renaissance inventors were obsessed with the possibility and the ancient Greeks wrote of it in tragedy. To fly is to dream in day; to fly is to become something we are not. The daring required for the Wright brothers to set flight at Kitty Hawk is the same daring that put man on the Moon.

As game designers, we want to fly. We want games that are loaded with emotion and contextual meaning; we want our Godfathers, Citizen Kanes, and Midnight Cowboys, and we want them now. We want mainstream media to take us seriously.

All of us have been guilty of impatience, at one point or another. I heard an argument the other day that equated GTA and Halo to murder simulators - very fun murder simulators. I've had a lot of fun with those games, but look at the ratio of narrative driven content (involved VO on missions, NPC interaction with context, cutscenes, etc) versus empty simulation time.

But where to fill that empty space?

Two answers are given for this question. First, we should crawl - we should get a story down first that isn't confusing or boring, and has a good deal of empathy in cutscenes. GTA IV and MGS IV came very close to establishing this type of pathos, but I found MGS IV long-winded (but Kojima is an auteur, so I take that as part of the amazing whole), and GTA IV's reviews lauded it as a superior triumph in establishing player-character catharsis, but at least for me, it wasn't there in the slightest. GTA IV felt stilted and very stale, when it came to narrative, and the comparisons to some of Scorsese's best were out of line.

After we crawl, we should start walking - adopting more of the Mass Effect style in-engine story telling and keeping the player involved...and then run, etc.

The problem with this 'by-the-bricks' approach is that it's piecemeal. Art is a whole, not parts; placing things in like Lego bricks seems to fail the focus will be lacking in one area or the other. Art is a synthesis of disciplines; in literature it is the crafting of prose sentence mingled with the rhythm of words connecting together; cinema is the camera, acting, formal disciplines, et al; and where do games fit it in? A solution to a problem must be complete.

Therefore, I propose that we fly before we walk. Flying - shooting for the stars - may be a painful process. Millions of dollars could be lost. Careers could be ruined. Reality: games, depicting moving images that include life-like avatars of real-life people cost a lot of money. Mess up trying to fly, without the right parts or people, and the fall is going to be long and hard.

It's not a road that should be tread lightly.

If game designers want to make that Godfather, that Citizen Kane, take notice; those were studio pictures. It is up to the auteur - or team of auteurs - to make the game that they know they can make. It is up to the auteur to shoot for the stars and dream of flight. We went to the moon in a decade. I think that the most powerful avenue of storytelling can be reached quicker - with hard work, diligence, and attention to craft. We need to synthesize our art form; codify it and reproduce exceptional works that are clear and demonstrable products of this process.

It's out there...who's going to claim it?

They're waiting. Can you hear them?

A birth is at hand.

The Auteur in Games: Caution and Diligence

Auteuristic theory transformed the landscape of cinema. It is not coincidence that the influence of Truffault and others' writings in Cahiers du cinéma preceded the explosion of Young Hollywood and coincided with French New Wave, which form the artistic tenets of the filmic medium today.

As has been previously stated, games are a visual medium, meaning that they at the very least involve moving images. This language has been critiqued and developed at length by the development of the film industry. The main argument of auteurism in film, when abstracted further to games, is that the author must remain agnostic of medium.

This is to say, quite plainly, that an author may write a story with a book, with a movie, or with a game, and that the neither of the mediums is superior to another, but must be used with the author's intent in mind. Examine, for a moment, the differences between the Lord of the Rings novels by J.R.R Tolkien, and the movies by Peter Jackson. They are similar, and yet remain a consistent level of quality, by virtue of their differences.

But what of the games? One playthrough of the games that accompany the trilogy finds them lacking in the breadth, scope, and drama of the movies, in addition to a host of problems in integrating the core story articulated in the books. It is here that I will posit the main argument for the advent of the auteur in games: quality.

Though a game may be fashioned by committee, it is those games which bear a significantly focused direction (the brain trust behind the first Halo, the work of Blezinsky on Gears, Molyneux's Fables, Kojima's Metal Gears, the brothers Houser on GTA III and forward). Indeed, Sam Houser has stated that his responsibilities on GTA III to be "militant on ensuring the game had a look, a sound, a story and a feel that worked."

Does not the director maintain the voice of quality for his work, in addition to the blocking and staging of mise-en-scene? It is also no secret that the Grand Theft Auto series has been one of the most prolific and successful of the past two console generations. The argument of game auteurism is that this is not a mistake, nor is the involvement of Jason Jones, Alex Seropian, and others on Halo. Abstract ad nauseum for every game with this model, and we will see a great many successes versus fewer failures.

The argument of game auteurism will say that gameplay is the brush by which the artist may paint, the words by which the writer may write. To fulfill this novel position, the game auteur must be well versed in the forms of dramatic composition, visual and aesthetic production of moving image, and the dynamics and interlocking mechanisms of complex game development.

The game auteur will also hold a singular vision for a game, and must imprint his style upon the game. Thus, the auteur must be well-versed and skilled. It will not do for an aspiring auteur to simply be a producer, or simply a writer. The game auteur must, and rightfully so, be a skilled talent unlike the rest. How else will he be able to lead a team of perhaps a hundred men, unless his skill and vision are clearly articulated with a golden touch?

Diligence must be applied to reach this virtue. To be the auteur of the game - captain of a great force of creative talent - the auteur of the game must hold himself to a higher standard. Mediocrity is the panacea for all others, but a humble approach must be taken to this role of game development. First, one must recognize that every great work of art is not perfect, and it is this ideal which must be maintained. No matter how good or proficient one has become at his art form, he may always become more proficient and efficient. In order to reach this asymptotic ideal, the auteur must hold himself to a nearly insane level of quality, and by this he will be able to demand the same standard of quality of those with which he collaborates.

Caution must be applied when articulating this belief - that the game auteur can and will produce the emotionally impacting and profoundly moving dramatic interactive story. It will not do to march into the industry and announce that 'I know how things should work, despite having less experience.' If the game auteur theory is correct, then it should arise from his or her hard work and diligence, then transfer to the suggestion that he ought to lead a game. Games are expensive labors with great monetary reward for publishers, but also great downside; if the auteur is unprepared and somehow manages to be granted control of a project at the depth he desires, he must be cautious and diligent to produce a work of unspeakable quality, else the vision of the auteur may be short lived.

It also will not, and simply will not do, for us to create games that are deigned mediocre by those who consume them. I personally hold the view that art is the product of the artist, and that a great artist cannot help to create many works that an audience will enjoy and love; hence it is to becoming a great artist must be the highest priority. This is why we must be diligent; it will do no good to posit theories on narrative in games and ways in which a story might be told better than it is currently told, if we cannot produce the desired result when it matters.

For this reason, I place a call to all who will hold this vision as kindred to their own: do not rest, do not sleep, until you are satisfied with your ability to create art. If we are diligent, we cannot fail. But diligence requires both sacrifice and humility; let us pray that we are capable of both in equally great measure.

Depth Versus Breadth (The Artifice Grail)

The following is the first in a series of essays about gameplay and how games from the 'core' can be adapted to appeal to all. This works from the idea that gameplay is powerful and that once a player is introduced properly to a game, he will love it. (if the proper systems and design are aligned)

We will discuss Halo, as an example of a game that did many things correct in this sphere, and also had a few failures as well. This is an introduction.

Design question:

Breadth vs. Depth.

Is it better to give a player a host of non-essential abilities that are not story critical, that on the surface present 'complexity?' Or, conversely, is it better to limit the player's control over the amount of things he may do in a game system and focus on what he can do inside of this boundary?

Are we telling an actual story or subjecting the player to an endless amount of system-user interface relationships? The latter model is extremely inconsistent and replies in large part on chance and weak storytelling elements to generate player emotion.

Examine the most culturally relevant and successful movies, specifically those that have been deemed works of great art. Even in those successful movies that are not deemed 'art,' (or high art, to be more specific), there is a calculated use of film in these instances. In a movie like Star Wars, the moment-to-moment and even minute-to-minute beats compose a work that has a profound impact on the viewer. The Godfather (I and II) is viewed as a supreme work of mastery because of the attention to detail by Francis Ford Coppola. One need only look at the notes of Coppola on Mario Puzo's script to know what insight the director brought to the picture, and why very few movies exist in modern day perception at that level of quality. Examine also the movies of James Cameron (Terminator 2) and Christopher Nolan (Dark Knight)

Terminator 2 and the Dark Knight are important to examine because they are transcendent pieces of action cinema. This is to say that they escape the trappings of their supposed target demographic (18-35 year old males come to mind) and have indelibly etched themselves in the pantheon of American cinema. Games naturally lend to action, so examining the success of these properties will tie into the proposed mechanics that we are seeking.

What all of the aforementioned titles have in common is the fact that they are focused. The answer to this statement is, quite obviously, that they are also movies. This again begets the question of breadth versus depth when applied to games. Depth of design will eschew all things not essential to telling a story, and will instead focus on the production of an interactive experience that will tell a story.

This again references that wonderful example of Gears' intersection of aesthetic and gameplay form. Though from a narratological standpoint the game is still lacking in a few key respects, it is worth noting how much the gameplay compliments the story's universe. Games will do well to shed the aspects of their designs that do not focus on aptly telling a great story.

Begging the question, I must point out that this does not mean that games should become super-streamlined pieces of artificial entertainment. A game may boast a wealth of facets to its gameplay form, but each of these must serve that game's point. Since most games involve a story, and that is the main takeaway for most experiencers of the form, it would follow to declare that a game involving a story should tell its story well.

Examining games as pieces of narrative language will confirm the need for depth versus breath. Novels in which the prose is scattered (however good those disparate parts may be) are not prime for the consumption of a story. Analagous to focused game would be any novel by Robert Ludlum. The great spy novels are renowned for their twisting yarns, and yet the prose is quite readable, and works within the ambitious frameworks without becoming too heady or convoluted.

A game must not be convoluted; rather, it must serve its narrative purpose with clarity and strength.

From Under the Shadows

Video games are not films. They are not literature - nor are they theater. Until designers realize this, games will continue to suffocate inside the current vacuum of innovation. Games are a medium all their own, and while they certainly aspects from the visual and performing arts - a concept that cannot be ignored - games contain one central, absolutely CRITICAL difference: Gameplay is king.

In the early 1900s, it became common for many silent films to contain title cards to help tell their stories. The filmmakers inserted parts of a completely different medium, literature, to help tell the story when they were unable to do so filmically. This is incredibly fascinating, because it is exactly what game makers are doing with games today: when they are unable to tell the story using gameplay, they insert a completely different medium. This medium, ironically, is film - or at least, something filmic: the cutscene.

The pattern seems almost uncanny - it suggests that, like the filmmakers of the early 20th century, game designers still don't know what we have. We are still in the "Silent" era of games; we have yet to come out from under the shadows of preceding media.

When it does emerge, it will be unlike anything the world has seen.

Gameplay as Aesthetic

Because games have been so limited in their scope (exempting the few forays into uncharted territory every year), there is a propensity to borrow.

The borrowing is only part of the parcel; the symptom runs deeper than this shared mechanic. Examine, for a moment, the mechanics of Epic's Gears of War. Gears has that aesthetic quality, that mysterious elixir that compels. It is a game about war and combat, with curious levels of depth beneath its aesthetic. Yet the most compelling aspect of Gears is the marriage of its gameplay aesthetic and the universe as a whole.

It is a game that punishes the player for running and gunning the style of Halo, but rewards for the chess-like measure and countermeasure of moving between cover. The roadie run ability evokes shades of Jean Pierre Melville's most intimate tracking shots, pulling the gamer into a dialogue with the visual language of the game's events with great detail and success.

This aesthetic and gameplay could be explored and discussed at length. The chief concern of this discourse, for now, will direct its attention to borrowing. The reason that Gears is part and parcel with its universe, uniting both aesthetic and gameplay, is because it was designed as such. Yet, examine a game like Drake's Fortune or Metal Gear Solid 4. Both of these games borrowed the mechanics of Gears, either in small part or large part.

Is the eponymous character of Drake's a marine in a world that is dominated by war? Conversely, the world of Solid Snake, in MGS 4, does bear some similarity to the world of Gears. This highlights a point of discussion, as we seek to define a broader language for games and interactive play. A type of gameplay may be borrowed, augmented, or transmuted, if it fits the form and narrative. It is no secret that the mechanics of Metal Gear Solid 4 benefited greatly from the inclusion of the Gears influence.

Now we may turn our focus to other games. The Force Unleashed may be described as a standard 'hack 'n slash' game, with 'magic' abilities. However, one must examine the point of this game, as displayed in the title. Force Unleashed. Those words connotate Yoda's words (part of Star Wars canon) in the Empire Strikes Back: 'my ally is the Force...and a powerful ally it is.' The trailers and promotional material for this game highlight the Force, the very life-breath of the game's universe, being taken to the limit.

In order to deliver on this promise, one must devise a way to tell this story that reflects this rather large theme. The use of the Force should be as integrated into the game as Gears' own roadie run and cover mechanics. However, the Force Unleashed borrows heavily from preexisting and codified concepts in its 'genre' (action-adventure), with button combos and 'magic attacks.' The Force, which is the life-breath of this game and its reason above all, falls short and is shackled by a resource measurement.

These concepts - the life bar and resource bar, and the combo based hack and slash - are holdovers from a previous era in which the technology had to be stretched in a way that could not a) tell the story in a cohesive form and aesthetic of gameplay and b) match the realism of a moving visual world.

One may argue that the Force Unleashed suffered from this viewpoint.

The game, frustrating in its mechanical execution, exacerbates the pain of playing by dwelling utterly meaningless sections of gameplay. Never, while I am Starkiller, do I feel as if I am the envoy of the Force, the sieve through which this incredible universe-constructing power flows. It is a failure of form, purported by its borrowing from previous material.

The gameplay as aesthetic, if it does exist, is quite poor. this is akin to a movie being told in a visual way that is completely unstimulating and does not engage the viewer.

By focusing on the formal elements of gameplay mechanics and design, and paying close attention to the marriage between the aforementioned and the aesthetic of the universe, we may come closer to the holy grail we've been chasing for forty years.