Shadow of the Colossus - 2006

There is a dead woman, a youth with a sword and giants lurking about. A promise is given: if all sixteen colossi are killed then she can be saved from death’s grasp. The light, floating above, guarantees its part of the deal; so long as the player kills the giants, she will be saved. With that, the hero leaves with his horse and follows a thin beam of light, cast from his sword, to find his opponents. That is the minimal fiction presented up front for Shadow of the Colossus, a single player game by Fumito Ueda. This text, existing in a world of myth, challenges the manner in which heroes are presented in games(the player is the “chosen one”, gifted with action in an interactive world). However, the language of this critique exists between game rules and the fictional world(non-diegetic and diegetic attributes). It must be inferred from how the rules—things such as health, mode of travel, controls—relate to the narrative. In calling attention to this landscape between rules and fiction, Shadow of the Colossus denies the player the ability to be simplistically heroic. The interactive text makes an ethical claim by showing what the player can or cannot do; and, in so doing, shows what they should or should not do.

Light as a technical element holds sway over the game. The Dormin, a being that exists as a glowing sunspot, is the one that instructs the player to kill the colossi. The player holds the sword high, and it casts a ray of light that resembles The Dormin in intensity. To make light powerful, the use of bloom, a graphical device which heightens and blurs light, is used to make light overwhelming. On a rules based level, the function of this is to provide a path for reaching the colossi; the fiction reminds the player that The Dormin promised to save the woman. If one completes the game, however, the intersection between the two is troubling. The Dormin had tricked the player into killing the colossi so that it could be free from its prison; it had used the player for its plan. However, even if one discerned The Dormin were evil during the game, one might still listen to what they have to say. Some of the colossi are found within valleys which obscure sunlight; this is where the player realizes how much they need the light. Without it, there is no guide for them. The mountainous regions become labyrinths. The light, as presenting the fiction and justification for the rules, goads the player into killing the colossi. The melding of the rules, something above question(such as your sword serving as a guide and the colossi needing to die for the game to progress), and fiction highlights how they are both functionally positioned towards making the player feel justified in doing any action, so long as it is presented as a goal. Ethics is beyond the scope of these elements. The player is to accept them simply due to their existence, no questions asked.

In game theory, there is the claim that action which does not help to facilitate the rules is meaningless(Juul 58). In Monopoly, for instance, one could go around the board innumerable times and never buy a property or collect two-hundred dollars. The rules afford this possibility, but they do not want it. It serves no purpose towards continuing the desired game state. The fiction, if one wishes to call the description of the Parker Brothers game that, even forcefully pushes against it; how is one to get a monopoly without buying anything? These two aspects of the game function towards keeping the player towards a set end. Their purpose is to move the player towards a specific goal, the end. Shadow of the Colossus is more difficult. The game and narrative afford the player negative actions. In general, the colossi are placid and not a threat(even if they attack on sight, it is because they notice your sword and purpose). You are initiating action and violence; even then they might not respond in kind. However, one might not necessarily fight the colossi: the game also affords numerous sections within its world that exist outside both desired rules and narrative(both allow the existence of these locations, but they provide neither motive nor cause for the player to linger). These sections are tranquil pools, lush forests, sylvan scenes and other peaceful locals that are far removed from the battles against the giants. The game does not compel the player to linger at these locations, and that is enough for them to be considered “meaningless”. As a whole, however, these locations are sections provided to the player so that they might have additional options. The moral choice, as the game posits, is to continue the text so to kill more colossi, or abstain and sit by a pool with your horse. The argument is to show that these acts might be claimed to be “meaningless”, but they are not immoral. Since the rules and narrative function towards immorality, they are to be ignored. The game’s ethic is such.

One example of a strange overlap between rules and fiction, and which Ueda uses to highlight the game’s ethic, is the player’s horse, Agro. The explicitly stated—through the instruction booklet—purpose of the horse is to provide you with enhanced mobility for battling the colossi. To this end, the horse has its AI which it uses to maneuver without your direct control and comes to your aid should you be in trouble. Since the horse has no ‘hit points’, the player is to understand that Agro can be used however they please(a colossus cannot kill him). However, there are some unstated properties that the horse has. Should it fall from a great height or jump incorrectly onto a patch of rough stone, it might hurt its foot and be unable to run. Although this wound is not permanent, it shows that there are unstated, through the fiction and explicit rules, fashions in which the player can affect the world. By making Agro a non-enemy that the player is forced to interact with, the text stresses that there are good and bad actions that can be had within the game(just as Agro can be hurt, the player can scratch its ears and make the horse, by all appearances, quite happy). Even if never stated or presented by the game, they can still be done; ignorance is not necessarily a defense. They do not function towards ‘finishing the game’, but their impact exists nonetheless. These unstated, “meaningless” actions, which exist between the fiction and functional game rules, highlight the game’s ethic. The game provides the option to not kill innocents and this should not be ignored.

Functionally, by producing a negative game experience, the text is denying player heroics. The protagonist is the only one functionally capable of altering the game state; everyone else is without strength, yet the player is heroically gifted in this manner(only they provide input). Although that claim is necessarily true for all games—players are the only ones which interact with the rules—Ueda stresses that fact by making the landscape vast and open. Between the colossi are the “meaningless” rivers and animal homes. In this vast terrain, the only movement, and action, is the player’s. Since the only “meaningful” action the player might take is one of wrongdoing, the possibility of inaction prevents the player’s trials from being vaunted. This is a key change from other games which allow, and fully condone, the actions normally presented in games of this sort; one does not consider the death of a boss at the end of a Zelda dungeon, for instance. Elements of those texts functioned towards making the player feel a sense of being “the chosen”; Shadow of the Colossus works against that. It eschews what the player might rather have—a simple action game where you fight monstrous mountains—for an ethical claim of what exists between the rules and fiction. Drawing this attention to where they meet hampers heroic dreams the player might have.

The aesthetic elements of the text, such as its world design and bloom effects, highlight the relationship between diegetic elements, whether positive or negative, non-diegetic elements and what exists in between. The “meaningless” actions exist outside either of them, and they serve as the game’s ethic. Inaction, or refraining from immoral actions, can be part of the overall assessment of an interactive text, even if it prevents the player from reaching the “end” of it. Given how the game presents its ethical dilemma between the two worlds of rules and fiction, the player is to remove themselves from it. Continuing with the interaction of the game allows more sentient beings to perish, and that interaction would be a negative outcome. Removing oneself from the actions and sitting at the proverbial pool of contemplation is an answer to this dilemma. Although the player is an actor within the fictional world, they might abhor their actions(such as killing an innocent colossus); it is not necessarily a good response to do what a game asks one to do. Shadow of the Colossus asks the player to take more seriously their role in fictional world.

Work Cited:
Juul, Jesper. half-real. 1. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 2005.

But I Don't Want the Next Game

Looking around, it can become plain enough that games are nearly universal in their love of sequels. This post is not going to try and question why that is the case(after all, perhaps games are episodic by nature?--who am I to judge). However, this is to question the nature in which sequels are quickly planned and released. Hopefully, an understanding might be reached on how to evaluate such games.

There are questionable changes between Katamari Damacy and We Love Katamari. It is more so, if one removes the narrative context and looks specifically at the game, very little change made(this might be intentional within the game, but it is still worth considering). What, then, is the reason to move on in the first place? A football player does not look around and say: it's time for an upgrade, and then move nonchalantly onto the next sport. There seems to be something within video games that inspires this sort of upgrade. It is possible, given the finite space found within games, that the reason is practical. A basketball game with friends is far more dynamic in how it might be experience(wind, personal feelings, and simply another court or hoop). The game rules are not necessarily changing, but the dynamics therein have. Getting the next game in a series--strictly on rules--would seem to alleviate this problem. New possibilities have been given all of a sudden and now new fun, with old thrills, can be had.

Hypothetically though, there is an issue with this. Let us assume that game X eventually has tapped out all that might be had within a given structure(physics, simulation, interaction--however you wish to look at this). The rules are, one might say, perfectly structured and afford little reason for changing. This might be absurd to think, but to illustrate my point I hope you'll indulge me for a moment. It might be said that no change should, or ever could, be made to the game. There would be nothing to do. The game might even have a precisely detailed formula, easy to use too, that generates any level that the player would desire. Content is infinite and so is interaction. Another game, truly, could not possibly come in the series simply due to these rules.

That was, perhaps, a loaded example, but it illustrates a point. On a strictly rules based level, there is very little--aside from a perhaps academic curiosity--in following games as they progress. Physics and such could, theoretically, make a more engaging game, but that does not necessarily mean it will surpass the one already present(basketball players did not leave in droves for lacrosse, after all). If one were to prefer the nature of Street Fighter 2, there is no reason to move onto Street Fighter 4. Looking broadly, unless one wishes to understand the evolution of the medium, there is no reason to change at any given point. Since games have done this for years--Chess, for instance--it is applicable, it seems, to video games as well.

The problem, of course, that comes from this has already been hypothetically described above: the infinite, perfect game(X). Why ever leave it? The answer, and I have been obtusely dancing around the issue, is context and purpose for actions. X would be the Soma of gaming(Brave New World, for those playing along at home): it provides all possible gaming fixations that other 'dumb' texts(Mario or Halo, take your pick) provide. Theoretically speaking, you should never leave it. I believe this hypothetical example, even if it exists only in the abstract, is reason enough for more 'serious games'(I hope to write on this later) to be made. It is not inconceivable for such a thing to exist, and the need for innovation(other than ogling bloom effects and render speed) would be necessary.

Less Mechanics =(?) Good

http://www.gamasutra.com/view/feature/3621/fewer_mechanics_better_game.php

This is an interesting article, and certainly worth reading.

No More Heroes - 2008

Critiquing gaming is nothing new. There are strident individuals, whether in the community or not, that call for changes in design. Perhaps the call is for relatively minor changes, such as more focus on gameplay rather than cinemas. Or, more broadly, for games to be more serious in their subject matter(and handle it well, too). No More Heroes echoes these concerns. For that much, it might be considered a good text. It manages to use specific examples towards its thesis: gaming as a whole has a great deal of baggage and should drop the lot of it. I can agree with this statement. Many games--I shall mention Final Fantasy games in general--would be better without bloated story arcs and lackluster writing. Again, in this sense No More Heroes makes a compelling case for gaming to change.

The game, though, can be considered a failure. Towards its end of criticizing gaming as a whole, it creates straw men of gaming archetypes. It cannot criticize new innovations in action and storytelling--Resident Evil 4 and Shadow of the Colossus respectively--and reduces its opponents arguments back into the eight bit level. Many games might have 'fetch and quest' sub-sections or tedious money collecting segments, but they are criticized for it by review sites. Forcing the player through these proves nothing really: people know they are bad elements of design already. No More Heroes insists on simplicity for its own agenda. It can only sway minds with easy claims made about gaming without addressing more serious efforts, whether technical or otherwise, for what they are. For a game that wishes a revival of gaming, this is difficult to swallow.

Of interest, too, is the game's emphasis on brutal killing. Moral character is irrelevant: it is not worth pursuing. Rather, it is worth considering the fighting functionality. It consists of simple "A" button attacks followed by quick flicks of the Wiimote(phallically indulged in the game). The combat becomes simplistic and repetitive quickly--there is no need to change tactics or strategy against the myriad opponents. They are all the same. This is another layer to the joke, advocates of the game would likely claim. However, that would be missing the implications. At one point does one question the joke one is being subjected to? Is it necessary to spend money on something for it to call us an idiot? And, more importantly, if the argument the text has starts out with a false premise(or at least skewed ones), how far are we to take it? No More Heroes is not concerned with such things. It dwells in stereotypes yet thinks itself above it. This is doubtful when considered proper. It perhaps criticizes gaming, but only on a superficial level. To that end, it employs tired game mechanics and poor area design. Its weak arguments stand for themselves(or, more accurately, fall).

There are two differing opinions worth reading in conjunction with mine, I think:
Pro:http://www.popmatters.com/pm/multimedia/reviews/55076/no-more-heroes/
Con(but not to my level):http://www.gamecritics.com/no-more-heroes-review
This game, at the very least, deserves to be considered on multiple angles. It might not have given gaming that much, but, in the interest if fairness, it should be followed through.

Phoenix Wright 3: Trials and Tribulations - 2007

Of interest in this installment is the inclusion of 'Prosecutor Godot'. The name, given the nature of the series, is certainly intentional and worthy of consideration(the game series has exceptional localization). It is referring to Samuel Beckett's famous play Waiting For Godot--there are numerous jokes about this throughout the course of the game, and they seem to have some fun with the idea. What is the player to take from this allusion to 'high art' amongst hamburger jokes? This is difficult, if not impossible, question to answer. At times the game seems concerned with figuring this out, but then at other moments the name seems like a reference and nothing more. I am tempted to read more into it, but it is perhaps just a roundabout joke because, in the end, it was Godot waiting for others to show up. There is no overt suggestion that they are playing with any ideas from the original text, and speculating otherwise would be reading too much into it(the best that one might assume is that Godot, likely standing in for God--and truth--in the original text, now plays an active part in the world. In the world of Phoenix Wright, there are no philosophical difficulties arising from 'loss of truth'; take it as a given, things work out in the end. God as judge would be pleased).

The series is also intriguing in how it manages to work contrary to general assumptions about games. While one is perhaps interacting with the virtual world, it is on such a set path that it borders on pointlessness(the player serves as a means to the ends, and those are the well crafted, cinematic court room exchanges). Even if one were to claim, for instance, that Mario games are exceptionally linear--let us assume this for the argument--one would have at least the ability, without penalty, to jump up and down or grab the next koopa shell. This series does not provide flexibility in this regard. You are set to follow the trial to a set end--the truth--and other interactions are, functionally, pointless. Philosophical issues, again, perhaps inherent within this understanding of the truth are not seriously dealt with. The game is more interested in providing an engaging experience on its own merits. It succeeds at this much, despite its strange understanding of gameplay.

Though, from the above point, one could ask, 'Why am I am playing a game at all? If I want to hear a good story, wouldn't a book or film be better? There are expectations about games that this one seems unwilling to fulfill.' I do not have an answer to this criticism. I can simply point out that the series comes from a healthy tradition of text based games. They fulfill the criteria* of 'being a game', and so one cannot accuse it of the contrary. It might not be what one abstractly considers a game, but it should be respected for its achievements regardless. At the very least, the series is more interested in good values like justice, honor and truth than other more famous media talking points(many cop or court dramas come to mind). Although the series has many bizarre ideas--the fusing of 'gaminess' with characters, such as Psych-locks, seems to undermine individuality--it manages to craft a compelling narrative devoid of other aspects. In this sense, it is a success that deserves recognition.

*"A game is a rule-based system with a variable and quantifiable outcome, where different outcomes are assigned different values, the player exerts effort in order to influence the outcome, the player feels emotionally attached to the outcome, and the consequences of the activity are optional and negotiable."(http://www.half-real.net/dictionary/)

Metroid Prime 3: Corruption - 2007

This game focuses, more so than the others, on its shooter credentials(so to speak). I do not want to be overly dismissive of this gameplay, but it is necessary. On a shooter-to-shooter level, this game pales compared to something like HALO or Gears of War. This is an issue due to the less than stellar AI in the game. The enemies tend to stand still and not go into cover when under attack. This is, given the insistence that space pirates are a grave threat to the galaxy, a bit much to swallow. It does not help, in addition, that the game is rather insistent on throwing the same enemies, in much the same general encounter types, at the player over and over again(sure, I suppose, they might be a 'phazon' variety, but that would be a dodge should would choose to argue it: the core gameplay does not change). The text, then, is structured in an overly 'gamey' style, and can be criticized--somewhat--for weaknesses on this level.

However, to focus on those elements alone would be a disservice to the richness of the game's artistic touches. The individual planets--Bryyo and Phaaze for instance--have a feel to them; it is as if one is on an alien planet. You feel alone amongst cyclopean buildings, things grander than yourself. It is, I suppose the designers would hope, to create a cosmic insignificance in the player. Things have come and gone, come and gone and then you decided to wander into the picture. It also helps, amongst this, that myriad scans give important 'biological' information on fake species. Subtle touches like this make the worlds like living things, rather than just images passing themselves off as worlds.

Although HALO and Gears of War might craft context for their action that is appropriate, the Metroid Prime series, especially 1 and 3, manages to make the context central to appreciation. Hell, Gears could have had people fighting inside bathrooms with dancing donkeys and people would praise it--gameplay was irrespective of narrative, context and artistic achievements(I do not buy the simplistic dirty art that shooters are traditional beholden to). I think that is a weakness of those games, and creating worlds that feel alien and feel abandoned--the Battleship in Prime 3 is incredible--is a greater achievement. I can forgive, when pressed, shooting weakness when I have the awe of planet Phaaze--and certain things living there--as the aspects I remember.

Super Mario Galaxy - 2007

Galaxy functions as an obvious throwback to abstracted game design. It is no accident the game takes place in space--Mario's simple gameplay style of jumping and running has reached the final frontier, which is, curiously, where it all began. The stars are like 'micro games' from the Warioware game series. They showcase an idea for a brief length of time then you move onto something else. In this style, and its interesting use of camera(the topsy-turvy nature of things), it manages to keep things moving at a brisk pace. This is a sugar rush game: there is nothing (substantial) to think about after everything is said and done. Design choices, which I hope to discuss, are of importance, but there are no themes explored(unless, of course, you are intrigued by the ending where Bowser and Mario party--maybe they realize a sequel is already in the works for their adventures to continue).

The highly abstracted nature of the game, explicated literally by the numerous 'black holes' and rabbits(think Alice, or The Matrix, whichever you would rather) compounds to tell the player a simple point: through your inhibitions to the wayside. Unlike a game like Gears of War which values its (offensive) context, Galaxy does not care. Due to this it dodges any questions pertaining to sexism, or lizard hatred. It also provides an interesting method to contextualize--in non-context, oddly--why random stages can mold and change at the drop of a hat. A fire/ice stage felt strange in Banjo Tooie, but here it fits right alongside giant asteroids and battle cruisers. The game does not care, and it wants you to feel the same way(seriously, Airships in space). Nostalgia, or the thrill to do cool things, is the driving force, and one mustn’t forget.

Galaxy feels like a spiritual successor to the incredible platformer Donkey Kong Jungle Beat for the GameCube. The other, much to my amusement, has literally no story(one might construe context, but it's never explicitly stated or even implied). It willfully moved between stages that made no sense: a cloud stage went underground, and a monkey race in a jungle then led to a stage in outer space--it didn't matter, in effect. Its primary goal was to provide old school gameplay with an updated mode of input(the bongos). Galaxy gladly--or, as some say, shoehorns--in the Wiimote into the mix of things, and criticizing it, on the face of it, would be wrong. This is to miss the game's legacy and how it wants to preserve lack of context, and the accompanying freedom it provides: it follows in the footsteps of previous Nintendo ventures. The trial galaxies, the 'secret highlight' of the game all have different modes of interaction with the environment. Again, this is not an accident by any means. This was a deliberate attempt to show how Mario(and by extension, what he represents) can still be relevant nowadays. He can change, but his abstracted fun(gaminess, if you will) is a necessity for his enjoyment.

Of importance, beyond the abstraction, is the non-linear nature of the game. Since the planets and stars are sometimes created for you, the game extols the virtues of discovery and creation. The boundaries of space are limitless, and Galaxy wants to infuse this with its gameplay. It holds true to its roots, but it allows them to fly freely; the results are, to say the least, satisfying.

Published Work

http://www.popmatters.com/pm/features/article/51493/the-enemy-within/
Although this is unrelated to games, I thought that my readership, for what they are worth, might appreciate this.

Updates

Updates will be less frequent. Time has, unfortunatly, been taken up elsewhere. I hope to update at least once a week, but it might be difficult.

I apologize if this upsets anyone(though I doubt it does).

Juul - Two Papers Worth Reading

The first--fiction(narrative) does not necessarily matter. In fact, it might hinder the end product(as narrative does battle with rules).

The second--fiction has a point(in the first instance of playing the game), but, over time, people abstract away from it and focus on the rules.

It would seem, to me anyways, that paper two is better at stating the relationship--and how players view it--between fiction and rules. There is something to be said, for PC gamers anyways, that the graphics go down when you competitively play--the fiction does not matter anymore, only the game matters. From that, one might deduce why games (seemingly) more focused on rules, like Portal and Silent Hill, make, perhaps, a larger impression than more narrative driven texts such as Final Fantasy.

I shall give it more thought, however.