Narrative Games: A Paper.

With graduation just around the corner, I would like to celebrate the spirit of academia with yet another ten-page paper! This one is on games in which play is centered around the narrative: specifically, Heavy Rain and Mass Effect 2. I compare the two and relate them to Roland Barthes' theory of "the pleasure of the text." It was written for a class titles "Critical Theory and Analysis of Games," for which this was my final paper. Enjoy!

Narrative Play in Heavy Rain and Mass Effect 2

Bryant Cannon

Narrative has long been associated with linear media. Novels, films, theatre and even music have expressed what is known as “a story or account of events, or the like, whether true or fictitious,” according to Dictionary.com. Thus, narratives are linear entities, and are generally not associated with play; while a narrative is similar to play in that it exists in some sort of “magic circle,” (narrative’s being the reader’s suspension of disbelief, or belief and investment in non-fiction’s case), play is free and involves the partaker in its creation. What we can say, though, is that play is a sort of narrative-producing machine. Even the earliest or most unstructured forms of play produce a narrative when enacted. But only certain instances of play—mostly twentieth-century productions—have taken advantage of this capability of narrative production as a fiction producing artifact. In many circles, play has become a mode of escapism, where the fiction is just as important as the rules that govern the play. And in the past 20 years, video games have become more and more of a “space for play” than a “game” by definition. Thus, games have come quite close to being effective fiction producing works, with seemingly one antithesis: the reluctance of the industry to give up its definition of “game.” But recently, with the release of Quantic Dream’s Heavy Rain—which rides the coattails of the also recent Mass Effect 2 by Bioware—we see that narrative play is possible in a structured set of rules, or a “game.” But by comparing to the latter example, we also see that Heavy Rain attempts to defy the term “game” by chasing structured narrative play instead of a readily apparent ruleset.

Play in any sense produces a narrative. When children play house, they are creating a narrative based on the norms and procedures they’ve learned in real-world domestic settings. The narrative itself is then captured by such media as a video camera, photos, or even memory and word of mouth. A child would describe how he “made dinner” with his “wife” in “their kitchen,” and the “baby brother” starts “crying” out of “hunger.” Games also produce a narrative. A board game such as Power Grid (2004) or a video game like God of War (2005) creates fictional context and a systematic form of play that allows the player to guide the narrative within that ruleset. Even sports events produce a narrative, as relayed to TV and radio alongside an in-depth analysis of the game. But this is where play ceases to be fiction-producing entity. Even in a video game, the fiction is generally pre-defined, and only the individual actions create a unique narrative (and therefore a rather boring one). The narrative is not the play, and thus, we don’t see “narrative play.”

Again, narrative play exists wherever the play revolves around manipulating a fiction-based narrative. Though free play (children using their imaginations, and little more; also known as “mimicry” by Johan Huizinga) dates back perhaps to the beginning of humanity, structured narrative play mostly has presence in the early to mid 20th century. This type of play likely started with gamebooks (more commonly known as “choose-your-own-adventure” books), in which readers read a section of the book, and the text presents them with a choice to make in the context of the story. For example, “to fight the pirate, go to page 45. To run away, go to page 22.” The reader was an agent in the story, and therefore the reader was in “play” with the fictional narrative. Around the 70’s, a few additional mediums followed similar principles. In mystery dinner performances, the participants hold a set of information (which was planned and written by the writer or designer of the mystery dinner kit) and either compete or collaborate to solve the mystery of a murder that happened before or during the dinner. Pen-and-paper role-playing games introduced quantifiable game mechanics, but players often use their own fiction—regulated by a game master—as a context for the game. Eventually, text-based adventure games brought narrative play to the computer, offering a branching narrative (akin to gamebooks) to curious video gamers.

The average modern video game, though, does not follow suit. Beginning as early as asteroids and pong, games have been about quantifiable outcomes and competition in skill between two or more human players. Technically, even these games, or games such as God of War allow the player to “manipulate the fiction.” Technically, whether Kratos (God of War’s main character) uses a grapple or a vertical slash to defeat the harpy is part of the fiction; but these are hardly meaningful actions in the actual narrative of God of War. While the playing of the game still produces a narrative—just as sports and mimicry do—the macro-level events in the story are the same, no matter what choices the player makes. The player is not “playing the narrative,” but rather playing the game world, so we can hardly call it narrative play.

Recently, though, a number of video games have seen the light of day that we might say involve this narrative play. A game like Planescape: Torment (1997) involves interpreting narrative clues and cues in order to make decisions as the main character. As an existentialist game about the inevitability of fate, though, the game only has one ending. Much later, Bioshock (2007) tried to involve the player’s morality with the ending, and implemented two different ending sequences based on player choice. Most recently, Mass Effect 2 (2010) and Heavy Rain (2010) have made tremendous strides forward in presenting true narrative play in a video game. Essentially, these games strive to use narrative clues as one of their key feedback loops. They contrast to the tried-and-true but very simple “this person needs to find all of their chickens. Find them and receive some sort of reward!” in which the fiction is merely a context and codification of otherwise abstract tasks. These two games give us a difficult dramatic problem to solve, and offer more than one way to solve it. If we were to adjust my definition of narrative play to specifically fit video games, it would be when the play revolves around manipulating a fiction-based narrative based on signs in the form of narrative clues. In other words, these games use narrative events as both input and feedback.

Mass Effect 2 was developed by BioWare Austin and released in January of 2010. The player assumes the role of Commander Shepard, the leader of the space vessel Normandy. The game is primarily a first-person shooter. Players spend a large amount of time in combat, buying and upgrading weapons, or searching for useful items. But one of the unique draws of the game is its deep dialog system. The player chooses a line a dialog for each beat in the conversation; the character will never say anything unless it falls under the dialog choice of the player. Often, the game ditches the exhaustive nature of previous attempts at branching dialog, and challenges the player with meaningful decisions within the narrative of the game (even “cutscenes” involve these dialog decisions). For example, one scene requires the player to kill one of two characters, who are both potentially key to the story. Each one has an entire set of dialog, sidequests and animation that is completely missed if that character is killed. Also, throughout the game, the character has the responsibility to manage upgrades for the Normandy. The upgrades chosen have a significant effect on the narrative conclusion of the game. In fact, the ending of the game is totally contingent on some of the narrative paths that the player chooses. The game systematizes this: some dialog options are open after acquiring a certain “paragon” reputation (earned by choosing heroic dialog options) or “renegade” reputation (earned by choosing harsh dialog options). Also, each character has a quest for the player to aid them in a personal matter. Once completed, that character is considered “loyal.” Loyal allies have a much higher chance of surviving the final mission of the game. If only a few allies or less survive, then the game ends with the player character’s death. It is essentially a gauge for how fully the game has been completed. As such, the player has a place as an active agent in the narrative.

Heavy Rain was created by Quantic Dream, a French company led by designer and writer David Cage, and released in March 2010. Instead of starting with action-oriented gameplay like Mass Effect and the majority of games before it, Heavy Rain starts with narrative action. The player assumes the role of four different characters for different scenes in the game. The general narrative revolves around a father, Ethan Mars, and his search for the serial killer who has kidnapped his son. Actions available can be divided into three categories: dialog, which works in a similar fashion to the dialog in Mass Effect; thoughts, which are available at most any time; and actions, which are usually context sensitive buttons. Many scenes and action prompts are timed, forces the player to make decisions on their toes, and many scenes require a number of specific button presses in sequence (known as a “quicktime event”) to keep the character from failing their task or dying. This game, of course, also has a definite branching structure. Most scenes have two or more possible outcomes, as well as a number of variables that are affected during the scene that will have influence on scenes in the future. All of these variables weave together to create an organic narrative that can end in a variety of ways, all depending on the player’s actions and choices.

So here, we see that narrative play is possible within the structured setup of a video game. Since the birth of games, we have seen them as a form of competition and quantifiable outcomes. The rules, procedures, and results were based almost completely on numbers and abstract representations affected by the skill of the player. In fact, after playing a game for a few hours, the average gamer will begin to ignore the fiction, and entirely systematize the game. In his book Half Real, Jespur Juul refers to this as “information reduction,” or “The process where user improves at a task by learning to ignore irrelevant information” (Juul). A player in such a state subconsciously boils the game down to the basic formal elements. In a first-person-shooter, these elements would be the motion of different projectiles, the position of each player, the amount of each projectile able to be used, the bounding boxes of the environment, and the amount of hit-points that each player has; the player then traverses this system in an attempt to end the game session with a win (positive) state. The aforementioned games, though, factor in narrative elements to each decision made. This strategy leverages the player’s emotion, values and previous experience in making a decision—a more human interaction—and gives the potential for the game to be immune to information reduction. In this sense, the game’s formal and dramatic elements are inseparable; each depends on the other.

The two games here, though, represent the fine line between this inseparability. Mass Effect 2, despite its situation of deep narrative events on its core input and output systems, remains vulnerable to this complete systematization, or information reduction, more so than Heavy Rain. First of all, the game’s outcomes are strictly positive and negative. The perfect end state results in all of the characters surviving, while the worst possible end state results in all of the characters dying. These possibilities are essentially a “win” and “lose” state, with a degree of in-between. Thus, a player can, after some time with the game, optimize his strategies for achieving the “win” state, and ignore most of the fiction. The morality system in the game (the Paragon/Renegade dichotomy mentioned earlier) does raise some ambiguous moral questions, but has little effect on the win or lose states of the game; it mostly provides two ways for doing the same thing. The game has its moments in which the best course of action is ambiguous. One mission has the player giving bird’s-eye intel on an assassination target, and is eventually asked to confront him. When the target seems regretful but cowardly for what he had done to deserve an assassination, the player must choose whether to block the assassin’s shot path and allow the target to pass, or to let the assassin (a good friend of the player character’s) take the shot. But problematically, there is no real change in gameplay either way (though data such as this in the Mass Effect series is known to move onto unreleased sequels), and the game rewards you with black-and-white “good” (Paragon) or “bad” (Renegade) points. While it strives for true narrative play, it falls short to the demands of the game industry, and the typical, clear-cut feedback.

Heavy Rain, though, does not have a clear win state. Fighting the grain of current industry trends, each scene in the game has two or more different outcomes, or two or more different variables that create a unique outcome. A scene in the game allows the player-character to become romantically involved with another. When the player-character finds out that the girl he was with was a reporter and possibly only there to spy on him, the player has a choice to forgive or leave her. Each choice has different consequences in the game, but neither is the “right” choice or a “win” state. The scene ends ambiguously. The player can, in theory, create their own vision for what an ideal end state would look like.

Further, Mass Effect 2 overtly quantifies each of these narrative elements. For instance, the player earns “Paragon” and “Renegade” points for choosing appropriate dialog options in conversations, which the player can view on the pause menu. In fact, a “tip text” shown randomly in the game explains that the dialog options displayed at the top of the dialog tree correspond to Paragon actions, while those on the bottom correspond to Renegade actions. Thus, the player can literally complete the game effectively without knowing what the text content of each choice actually is, choosing each action based on where on the tree it is. In addition, each character in the game is considered “loyal” once their associated side-quest is completed, which is also a quantified statistic in the game, readily available as information in the pause menu. The simple fact that this information is displayed to the viewer changes the nature of the game significantly: it essentially becomes a math problem to the player, and allows the ignorance of narrative elements once the player understands how the system works. In this sense, Mass Effect 2 is similar to many other RPG’s, in which augmenting narrative elements with abstract, quantifiable values that are visible to the player and calculated in-game to decide an outcome of win or lose.

Heavy Rain, though, takes a different and very new approach, simply by hiding many of its underlying systems and variables to the viewer. This mostly comes in the same form as suspense in movies; the player doesn’t know what will happen next. While in many games, the player knows that no matter what they choose do, the story and characters will progress in the same way (as in Mass Effect 2; the overt system design lets the player know that doing a “loyalty quest” will earn the player the loyalty of the other character). Instead, Heavy Rain gives the player a difficult situation, and gives few hints as to what the consequences of an action will be. The effect is a sort of trial of instinct based on narrative events. An early scene gives the player the role of detective Shelby, who walks into a liquor store owned by the father of one of the victims of the Origami Killer. While in the back of the store, a shoplifter walks in with a gun and threatens the clerk. The player is then given the option to sneak around and take him by surprise, but if caught, a dialog between Shelby and the shoplifter begins. The player can be sympathetic or aggressive. But instead of trying to calculate how many “like points” they earn from the shoplifter through each dialog option, the player will naturally ask themselves, should I be violent with this person? Does he deserve a chance? What will he be inclined to do if I show weakness and side with him? The fulcrum of choice in the game is centered around the player’s emotions and feelings toward the characters and plot thus far in the game.

But of course, the game does have a logic system; otherwise it couldn’t be a video game. The game still runs on ones and zeroes, and there are still variables floating around, identifying the state of the game in one way or another. And still, if the traditional theory of the gamer applies, the player’s goal—and even their source of fun—is the act of comprehending this system and mastering it. So why doesn’t Heavy Rain just appear to have these human interactions? Hiding the system does not mean that narrative play and character connections transcend the system that leads to a desirable end state. If anything, take this from Heavy Rain: one scene in the game provokes the player to kill a drug dealer as the missing son’s father, Ethan Mars. But when the chase inevitably ends in the dealer’s daughter’s room, the player is at a crossroads. One button press is between the player shooting the man in the head. If the player kills him, the player gets another clue needed in order to find his son. Without killing the drug dealer, the player can still succeed in finding the player character’s son, but the scene in which Ethan must find his son is a bit more difficult. And in fact, there is no systematic upside to sparing the man. It only makes the game harder, and the designers do a good job at making this fact clear (at least, subconsciously) to the player. When I was given the choice, at least, I had a good feeling that letting him go wasn’t going to help me at all. So again, given the traditional theory of gamer psychology, it’s quite obvious what most gamers would choose in this scene, right? This quote comes from an interview with Heavy Rain’s lead designer, David Cage:

“Here, what I wanted to do was say, "Look, you just need to press this trigger, you kill this man and you get a reward. Do it." And we realized about 80 percent of people don't shoot, just because it's about role play. They feel they are Ethan, and they believe Ethan would not kill” (Kietzmann).

When 80 percent of a playtesting group would not choose the option that is vastly in their favor, it is apparent that some narrative magic is afoot.

Roland Barthes, an early to mid 20th century philosopher and literary critic, wrote The Pleasure of the Text: a book describing the inherent pleasure of an artistic text. In it, Barthes creates a dichotomy between two types of texts: a “readerly” text and a “writerly” text. A readerly text is one that has inherent meaning as intended by the author. In such a text, it is difficult to read the text a different way, as the theme (or meaning) is controlled to a T. While Barthes argues that pleasure is found in these texts, actual “bliss” is only found within writerly texts. A writerly text is one in which the reader himself finds meaning, based on what is found in the text. The meaning on the surface is ambiguous, but reader interprets—or “produces”—meaning himself. Barthes says that the literal reading of the text then ceases to be a “reactive compliment of a writing” or a “parasitical act,” and becomes more of a “form of work” (Barthes). Reading this sort of text is actually blissful, which Barthes must have believed is an elevated or true form of pleasure.

When gameplay achieves true narrative play, though the rules, code, and representations are static and set in stone (the “text”), the player is essentially producing a narrative that is personal to him or her. These games of narrative play exemplify this in a more extreme fashion as the written texts and films that Barthes refers to. Games are literally absent of narrative until enacted upon by the player; matched with a personality and skill set, so to speak. So games of narrative play—according to Barthes’ principals—are a form of blissful activity. They take a writerly and opinionated persona in order to be experienced fruitfully.

This, as discussed before, is where Mass Effect 2 fails to take the concept of narrative play as far as Heavy Rain has. The game overtly defines its meaning: fictional elements are assigned a variable that is displayed to the player, allowing them not only to make decisions based on the numbers themselves, but it forces its position on what is good or bad, gentle or rough, wise or unwise. Heavy Rain, on the other hand, lets the player’s connection to the characters influence the choices that are made, thus bending the ideas of winning and losing. Heavy Rain, then, might be considered a more blissful text, as players are literally a part of the text, and make it their own each time they dive into it. Of course, this concept of ignoring the system as a system and seeing it as a sort of organic narrative; a vague and changing system of characters, their wants, and their journey to obtain them; a structure wonderfully reflective of the human condition. So perhaps “game” isn’t quite the word…

In conclusion, both Mass Effect 2 and Heavy Rain are quintessential examples of playing a narrative, but it is the hidden and ambiguous systems of Heavy Rain that make it a true example of narrative play. Even after 20 years of fiction-producing artifacts we call video games, Quantic Dream has been able to create an experience that keeps the magic circle, throws out the math, and adds in the much-needed component of human emotion. If Barthes’ theories can apply, this kind of interaction might be the kind that starry-eyed game storytellers are looking for, and a new frontier for interactive entertainment.

Works Cited

Barthes, Roland. The Pleasure of the Text. Trans. Richard Miller. Canada: Harper Collins Canada Ltd. 1975.

Heavy Rain. Quantic Dream. Sony Computer Entertainment America. 2010. Video Game.

Juul, Jesper. Half Real: Video Games Between Real Rules and Fictional Worlds. Massachusets: MIT Press. 2005.

Juul, Jesper. Half Real: A Dictionary of Video Game Theory. . Apr 28 2010.

Kietzmann, Ludwig. “Interview: Spoiling Heavy Rain with David Cage.” Joystiq.com. 19 March 2010. Accessed: 20 April 2010. .

Mass Effect 2. BioWare Austin. Electronic Arts. 2010. Video Game.

The Adventure Continues...

I've come to an unfortunate conclusion quite recently: not keeping my blog going has disheartened my writing skills, constrained all theoretical thought to my powerful but humble mind, and lowered my chances of being taken seriously by X company and Y thinker. Not keeping my blog was stupid.

I've not done much formal writing on games for some time. It's strange though, because a good chunk of my time is spent pondering the difference between story and narrative, or conjuring up ways that mechanics can tell a story. I've only scribbled ideas on a .txt pad for the past 24 months, and now, I want to unleash those ideas to the world. I want you--yeah, YOU you silly non-gamer--to tell me what you think. It will help us both grow.

Know first that this blog was started in a writing class with the intent to carry it over to the real world of blogging in the future. Now is that (all too late) future, but realize that it still reeks of assignments that I have yet to exterminate. Yuck. (I jest, Mr. Feagin, as I have you to thank for starting this blog in the first place!)

I've decided that the blog will be updated weekly: at least every late Sunday night with a sort of opinion piece, sprinkled with small thoughts, findings, and other tidbits from the world and the wide web.

In celebration of this event, I will provide the last big paper that I am quite proud of. As of this point in time, I've had no feedback on it. Some of it is pretty old news in game studies, but there are ideas that I've enlightened myself to come back to. I wrote it for my Intro to Interactive Entertainment class during my freshman year at USC, and it clocks in at a whopping 8.5 pages! Be jealous, graduate students. Be very jealous.


Where We Are: Player Inscription in Games
By Bryant Cannon

Gaming culture today in is generally about escapism. To escape the stresses of our everyday lives, we enter a more exciting, vibrant world by playing a game. We embody a character as literally as possible, simulating ourselves in the game world. The buzz-word qualifier describing a quality interactive experience tends to be “immersive:” something that requires all attention and mimics reality with a 1:1 correlation. Conversely, many games still insist on abstracting the experience in some way, separating the player from the character he or she controls. These games have been criticized often, though, for their linearity and lack of “choice.” This issue is primarily present in discussing role-playing games, in which the player is meant to physically and socially play the role of a character.
But rather than look at it in terms of what is “immersive” or “not immersive,” we should find a different angle, instead focusing on the aesthetic principles of “implementing” the player into the game world in different ways. This idea references a classic paradox in game design: if a game is trying to tell a story, how can the main character have personality that fits into the game world when a player has control over it? In truth, games must therefore have a very different approach to telling a story than, say, film, even though film remains a primary source for inspiration in recent games.

Perceiving the Roots
In fact, the easiest way to see the different modes of player inscription is as an offshoot of film’s formal element we call “point of view.” In film theory, point of view (POV) is characterized by what the audience is able to see and when; by how the scope of characters being filmed is limited to certain fields. The categories of POV are mostly restricted to a first-person perspective and a third-person perspective, with both having a few sub-categories.
A literal use of first-person perspective in film is relatively seldom. Here, the camera is placed in the position of a characters head, as if we were actually seeing through his or her eyes. More frequently, we see a film narrated by a character that may or may not be seen in the frame. This is considered “first-person outside,” as the character we see from is “outside” of the story, typically telling a story or recalling an event from his or her past. Third-person perspectives, on the other hand, are found in the vast majority of films. In such, the characters are separate from the camera’s perspective, so the camera can take a more objective view of the story at hand. Third-person can then be heavily deconstructed into sub-categories. First, there is omniscient vs. limited perspective. Where an omniscient view is open to following any character anywhere at anytime, a limited view only allows a certain character to be followed. Second, the third-person view can be either primarily objective or various shades more subjective. An objective view takes little formal effort to change a portrayal of the story, merely recording reality for the viewer’s interpretation, while a subjective view does just the opposite.

Being Who?
Though we can adopt a piece of this model for role-playing games, its application is a bit different. Rather than point of view being a matter of perspective, we might say it’s a matter of inscription. The “point of view,” then, is where the player is in relation to the game fiction or game character. So on one hand, we have first-person inscription. This is when the game attempts to create an in-game version of the player, or avatar, that the player uses to interact with the world. Often, this character is created by the player. In The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion, the player begins by design this avatar, and then goes to adventure in the world. In addition to that, there are no cutscenes nor any instance of the player losing control of his or her character. With this, the player has a unique since of agency in the world, and forms a new story all on his or her own.
We might also say that RPG’s have a version of first-person, outside inscription. Simulation or “god” games, or even some strategy RPG’s, put the player in a position that directly effects the parts of the game, even though the character they play as may not be clearly articulated. A game like Black & White puts the character in the shoes of a god, and gives the ability to manipulate the objects and characters as he or she feels fit. The god has little to no recognition from the characters, but he—being the main character—acts on the game from OUTSIDE of the story.
In stark contrast, a third-person inscription puts the player in the control of another character. The character’s ego is nearly complete, and it is up to the player to perform linear tasks that are usually action-oriented. Final Fantasy X, for example, has a completely functioning story with little malleability for the player to experience. In order to progress the story, the player needs to move through the different areas of the game world in a chronological order and complete battles, which are generally story-unrelated. The player is merely guiding the character through the story, acting as the “hand of fate,” determining the success or failure of each battle. We can go a step further to say that Final Fantasy X also inscribes the player as an omniscient entity, as throughout the game, the player is given control of up to 7 different characters simultaneously, and occasionally control is given to two smaller parties who are physically separated from one another. These choices engage the player in a full exploration of the game world from a variety of viewpoints, or inscriptions of themselves, but it does not necessarily “immerse” the player in a one-to-one correlation with real-world interactions.
One discrepancy to note, of course, is that, while related to the concept of emergent or progressive rules in a video game, inscription has implications beyond this. A recent illustration is Valve Games’ shooter Half Life 2. The game puts the player clearly in the shoes of Gordon Freeman, and is void of any cutscenes that remove the player from the action: the game is told purely through the use of game engine scripts. Therefore, the game inscribes the player in first-person. But a more in-depth look sees that the game is almost purely linear, and is a true game of progression, as “reaching the end” and “beating the game” are the clear goals. Thus, this lack of “choices” or branching story events does not remove the game from first-person. Neither should we confuse inscription with perspective. Perspective does—as in Half Life 2—establish the inscription as first-person, the terms are not synonymous. In most MMORPG’s such as World of Warcraft, the primary viewpoint is outside of and behind the character, though the experience is clearly first-person. The character is customizable, and, by the very definition of an MMORPG, the character embodies the player in every way, especially within the chat log.

Applying Our Perspectives
So, in general, player inscription can be seen on a scale between two different extremes: that of mimicking reality for the player and that of abstracting the implementation in some way in order to allow the same story to recur during each play through. The general trend of the day is to associate full immersion with the mark of a quality and innovative game. Many believe that predefined roles in games, such as the one found in Final Fantasy X, “violate one’s sense of self and detract from the gaming experience” (Smith). At the same time, most of the Final Fantasy games—including the tenth installment—are critically acclaimed all over the world. There must be significance to this, but what is the use of having a third-person inscription in a game if it doesn’t fully immerse one into the experience?
First, there is hardly ever a game that squarely fits in one of these categories. Usually, certain specific choices are made to obtain a certain unique inscription. A prime example is Nintendo’s The Legend of Zelda: The Wind Waker. The player is given mostly third-person control over the character. The character (collectively known as Link) has a somewhat extensive pre-determined background; he has lived with his grandmother and his sister on Outset Island, until his sister is captured embarking him on a quest to rescue her. Initially, we might say we are inscribed in the third person, seeing the character from the outside and merely guiding him through the required progressions of the game. On the contrary, two aspects of the character lead to question this assumption. First, the character’s only “spoken” dialogue (aside from his various grunts and screams during combat) is user-entered answers to in-game questions. Second, the character’s name—though called by the name “Link” on many occasions outside of the game—is user-defined at the start of a new game. Thus, the game puts us in a position much closer to the psyche of the character, and gives us a sense of the character being an incarnation of ourselves; we get to customize him to our personal liking. All the same, we never “become” this character, as we do in a game like Oblivion. Since the makeup of the character and the actions available in the game world are relatively static, we should still classify this type of inscription as a kind of player-authored third-person experience. The player is not using the character as an implementation of his or herself, but rather is assisting in the authoring of that character in the game space.
A similar but contrasting instance of inscription is the recent FPS-RPG from 2K Games called Bioshock. Just the same as Link, and though there exists little exposition revealing this to us initially, our character Jack is a pre-determined persona with a written history. It is true we are playing as a different, fictional person, but that does not keep the piece from inscribing the player in the first-person. Rather than ever using cut scene to tell the story, every event is revealed in the game engine and is open to the responses of the player. We are essentially put in the shoes of another person. The game then uses this to its advantage. Our motive to complete the story lies in being reunited with our family: a history detail that actually has the potential to influence our actions in the game. But when, midway through the game, we find that Jack’s memory was altered, our only next motive is to kill Frank Fontaine. In addition, the player is forced at points to either harvest the ADAM (powerful substance needed in-game) from creatures called Little Sisters, thereby killing them, or rescuing them and receiving only small traces of ADAM. These moments utilize the player’s emotions and incorporate it into how the game is played, therefore allowing us to experience the game from the first-person.

Which is better?
So what does a third-person inscription do for us that a first-person inscription can’t? First, the common misconception about inscription is, again, that first-person inscription—or realistic “immersion”—results in a generally better experience. We generally see role-playing games as a way to literally “play a role” in a world by implementing ourselves in the first person through a usually customizable avatar.
In order to see past this, we must see games as having distinct purposes as interactive experiences. The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion looks to create a world and let the player live freely inside of it. In order to tell a story, the game uses a dynamic story that is never the same twice (though bits and pieces are static). In order to accomplish this, full control of the character is given to the player, along with the utmost customization: a first-person inscription. The game rules become the manipulation of the plot. To be more succinct, we might say that Oblivion intends to create story without using a plot, allowing depth and breadth to the world.
On the other hand, Final Fantasy X and many games similar to it have recently been criticized for their frequent cutscenes and lack of malleability to both the story and world. Though this may be true, we need to look within the bounds of what the game does do. Final Fantasy X has a static story, but what is there to criticize about that? Square-Enix—the developer of the game—has a history of masterful storytelling. The purpose of the game was not to allow the player to determine the story, or allow them an avatar, or a first-person position in the game. Rather, the game uses a third-person omniscient inscription to tell the story from a bit of a distance, keep the story constant, but still have control over all characters at once. The game is, first and foremost, a story, rather than an interactive playground in another world. Some may say that a work like this would be easily transferred to a movie format, and that it has no business being a game. On the contrary, the interactive aspects of the game are integral. Though the game is linear and non-malleable, allows it to be experienced at a variable rate, and with different levels of detail. Though a plot point—such as Tidus’ blitzball game near the beginning of the story—may be close, the player is allowed to advance to the next part at his or her choice. Interactivity also allows for the specific manipulation of fate for the characters. Obtaining a stronger sword in the game, for example, allows the player to guide the characters through the story with fewer struggles.

Conclusion
Ultimately, the “good” or “bad” of different inscriptions comes down to how the game is a work of art in and of itself. We must see the game as having its own purpose and not discriminate between methods of doing such. That said, inscription is an extremely integral part of crafting an interactive experience. Looking at inscription as a strategically aesthetic choice will allow us to understand how the game accomplishes the seducing and hypnotization of its players, along with any other more sophisticated effects an interactive game might have in our digitized 21st century.

Works Cited:

Smith, Harvey. Character Representation in Computer Games: The Case for ditching the Back Story. Nov 1999.

Film Review: Slumdog Millionaire

As anyone even remotely interested in filmmaking should know, Slumdog Millionaire won the Acadamy Award for best picture of 2008 (along with a number of other Oscars). Generally, I'd pass on a review for such a film for that very reason. But I've noticed that very few people I know have seen this film yet. I'm not sure if it's because of the setting, their apathy towards the Acadamy, or because none of them had even heard of this film before it was nominated. It is a shame that anyone has missed out on it until now, though, because it no doubt deserves that highest honor.



Slumdog is especially unique for its pseudo-episodic structure. The film is shown as a series of vignettes told from Jamal, the protagonist, to a security guard after he is accused of cheating in India's version of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? Each story is a separate entity, showing the guard exactly how Jamal came to learn the answer to each question. At the same time, though, each mini-story is a plot point in the story of Jamal's life: an epic journey with his brother, as they search for fame, money, and love. Intercut with these scenes are clips of Jamal in the hot seat, answering questions on the show. These multiple layers are all happening at once, but all directly relate to Jamal's search for Latika, his long lost love. Even though the narrative is mostly comprised of flashbacks, they are laid out in a cohesive, dynamic way that keeps you dying to experience the resolution. And the resolution, mind you, is mind-blowing.

This goes without mentioning the performances, which, though casted with mostly unknown actors, were all expressive, friendly, and charming. Dev Patel plays his very first Hollywood role as Jamal, and to great success. Every action and reaction is nuanced with character and realism. The amazing thing, though, is that Jamal's two younger incarnations (the film's story spans about a decade) also have large roles in the narrative, and yet, still carry the mannerisms and personality of the older Jamal quite well.

Sadly, I can't offer much negative criticism for the piece. Being completely immersed in Jamal's journey, I shed all disbelief while the movie shattered my expectations. I am willing to bet, though, that even the most hardened film critic would be forgiving of any shortcomings simply for the film's sheer charm and humble themes. Slumdog is treat, an inspiration, and an amazing showcase of art all in one. And these days, no one can deny how rarely we can say that about a film.

Artist Profile: Jason Rohrer

"Art game" is not a term that many are familiar with. A game is usually a form of mere entertainment, fitting under the same umbrella as film, making art by "hiding" art. But art games--games with a specific persuasive goal--exist in abundance. They're usually small, but have a power unique to the medium. One of the major video game auteurs working today is Jason Rohrer. The man lives simply off of donations from his free downloadable games, and supports a wife and two children with a budget of $828 per month. His games are simple and no-budget, but few others have achieved the power and thematic complexity that Rohrer has.

Rohrer has a portfolio of about 7 games, with another being released at the end of this month. Among these are Passage, Gravitation, and Between. Each game tends to last about 5 minutes. The games usually use the SDL library and incredibly simple pixel maps, giving the games a blatant "retro" look. The amazing thing about Rohrer, though, is his use of proven game mechanics to make a compelling, almost emergent story that is always slightly different but always compelling. In Passage, for example, the player has a top-down view of his character on a long, narrow path, interspersed with obstacles and treasure boxes. You can meet a girl if you walk in the right direction, but she always has to be at your side, meaning you can't pick up some treasures. You can pick them all up, but in the end--after time runs out (about 5 minutes)--you die alone.

Rohrer is one of the few to exemplify what I have hoped to see in games for a very long time: the power to move people. It's difficult to make a game--especially alone--and it doesn't help being a starry-eyed games student with gigantic ambitions. But Rohrer pulls games like these off with no budget and only a few months of work. It's truly inspiring to see how a small system can have an immense amount af meaning and emotion through play.