What is it about Tetris?

Readings: Excerpts from “First Person, New Media as Story, Performance, and Game”.

Towards Computer Game Studies, Markku Eskelinen
Genre Trouble, Espen Aarseth

Re: Gaming Literacy, Eric Zimmerman (Video Game Theory Reader 2); this will be the last week focused on the older literature.

In this week’s readings, both Eskelinen and Aarseth manage some pretty powerful and potent words (that are not always exactly the most kind) that attack narratology as an acceptable manner to critically analyze and study computer games (etc.). Eskelinen focuses on “aspects of time,” whereas Aarseth explores the story against the game (or game-play), while also discussing the apparent hybrids (IE: Adventure Games). Both make some irritatingly broad statements, though both posit some very interesting points, none of which I feel furthers their particular arguments, but are poignant nonetheless. However, I’m less immediately concerned with their methodologies, which while interesting, might be rendered unhelpful by some problematic assumptions amidst their reiterations that narratology is Not The Way To Go.

There seems to have been a moment in time for many ludologists where the study of the game-play came to override critical analysis of the game artifact, which can complicate game-play as a whole. IE: Yes, Lara Croft’s wiggling butt was a coded, aesthetic choice; the ludic possibility of jumping up on walls (if she jumps, her butt will wiggle), etc. to enjoy the “salacious anatomy” Stuart Molthrop described in his response to Aarseth’s article, made the game memorable for many a player. Aarseth’s response to Moulthrop that Croft’s “polygonal significance… goes beyond gameplay” and doesn’t tell us “much, if anything, about the gameplay,” is frankly dubious. While I can certainly agree that cultural artifacts may have some other agenda besides explaining game-play specifically, when half (if not all) the point of the Tomb Raider experience (the tomb-raiding was arguably superfluous to the ogling) was to manipulate the Croft avatar to perform certain objectives that placed her in tantalizing positions, it seems rather irresponsible to forego or ignore this element as an active agent in participant input… which is, after all, of major importance to an ergodic piece. Unless we’re discussing the machine and only the machine, participant input can be colorful and varied; if we’re to ignore this, I find questionable the commercial or pragmatic significance of any such humanities-oriented (rather than engineering) analysis.

Similarly, there seems to have been a moment in narratology where all games opened up to the possibility of storytelling regardless of their apparent lack of narrative momentum and participant “play”. If I could count on one hand how many times “Tetris” has been unhelpfully cited as an example to empower the questionably extreme viewpoint of either argument, I’d be a mutant with thirty fingers. The idea that “Tetris” has a narrative – even a player-constructed one – seems dubious and even grasping for straws. However, citing “Tetris” as the quintessential answer to narratology is incredibly unhelpful where there are many other games out there (Squaresoft, anyone?) that do, in fact, maintain strong narrative cohesion. Whatever happened to lifting up the best example an argumentative strain and breaking that down rather than lightly gesturing towards a game that does little in the way of explaining how the opposing argument Could work, but doesn’t? And where are examples of international games a la JRPGs (Squaresoft, again, which even has an American branch) which do not necessarily fit Western-produced patterns, but are just as important to the field? I at least appreciate Eskelinen’s conclusion that “there’s no guarantee whatsoever that the aesthetic traditions of the West are relevant to game studies in general and computer games studies in particular”, but no one seems to have gone anywhere with this (as of what I’ve read).

Aarseth seems to move in a more constructive direction with regards to storytelling and narrative when he discusses Warren Spector’s “Deus Ex”, but seems to entirely miss the point when he states that it “contains a clichéd storyline that would make a B-movie writer blush,” after insisting that “Adventure games seldom, if at all, contain good stories”. No one said that a game had to maintain a good narrative to maintain a firm narrative, and why even insinuate that there could be some “good” adventure games out there, when that would imply stand-up storytelling (and thus possibly narrative) is a very real possibility? “The Longest Journey” (of Norwegian development, 1999) already draws this into question. So is it really all about “play”?

On “Play”…

From Aarseth, concerning narrative and stories, “You don’t see cats or dogs tell each other stories, but they will play. And games are interspecies communications: you can’t tell your dog a story, but the two of you can play together.” Am I really playing a game with my dog? Does my dog understand the rules of this game, or are there even rules (and hence, is it even a game)? Here I find an interesting semantic problem. Do games equal play, or vice-versa? Or better: Are all games played, or are they gamed (or some other verb)? Is play really the most appropriate word to apply to game, or is just the easiest, most convenient, or most traditional compatriot of “game” and thus taken for granted in much the same way as the ludologists declare of narratologists and narrative/drama? Is a “play-act” something different from a formal game or “game-participation”, with which Game Studies is mostly concerned? I grant that “game” and “play” are notoriously difficult to define, which seems even more a reason to specify their use.

Backtracking a bit…

In his discussion of “Gaming Literacy” I found Eric Zimmerman’s use of “game” as a verb to be an interesting “play” on with what seems most often understood as a noun. Here, Zimmerman seems to accidentally confound things by using “game” in the same sense as “play”: “Gaming Literacy, in other words, “games” literacy, bending and breaking rules, playing (emphasis mine) with our notions of what literacy has been and can be,” where “play” in this sense also seems to be “bending and breaking” what Zimmerman claims are our “notions” of literacy. With so many authors discussing the ludic necessity of games, it does seem odd to find the word used in a way that insinuates gaming as a rule-traversing endeavor, especially when Zimmerman himself (along with Katie Salen) define a game as “a system in which players engage in an artificial conflict, defined by rules, that results in a quantifiable outcome”. So which is it? Is a game a formal, rule-based system, or is it about emergent experience, in which case the game is certainly manipulated, but as something more than a strictly inputting, experiential process (thus questioning essential, ergodic involvement)?

We could describe the gaming process as below, removing “play” and its baggage entirely…

Games are bounded, cybernetic (machine-human) devices inspired by Espen Aarseth’s Ergodic Literature that require both machine (the rule process; the boundaries; the uninvested actuator) and human input (fuel) in order to create a feedback loop between both. This process does not necessarily dismiss outside knowledge, influence (such as attraction to salacious polygons), and societal norms (and rules), but since the machine can only handle certain kinds of input (that which is defined by a contract between the involved or to oneself, the game’s instructions, and/or the game’s programming) to produce meaningful output within the defined parameters (thus continuing the loop, should the human partner(s) provide more input), the “magic circle,” or boundaries of the game are a certainty because a feedback loop must be maintained in order for the game to continue, and thus the “players” both use (inputting) and participate with (utilizing the output) the game as user-participants. In a game that does not suffer from interactive limitations (the user-participant contract included a clause for rule change mid-game, for example: ie. Calvinball) the rules can maintain sudden transformation without undermining meaningful feedback, but there are still rules (and thus boundaries).

A problem arises when the rules are not well-defined or communicated explicitly enough so that each user-participant maintains a complete understanding that they are still bound by the game rules. In the situation where such a user-participant fails to abide by their contract by performing an action outside of the game rules (and thus inputting something undefined by the system), the feedback loop falters, the magic circle momentarily disintegrates, and the game grinds to a sudden halt (for that user-participant, if not all user-participants) until the rules are amended, clarified, or that user-participant is expulsed (though many games include penalties or other judicial actions to keep players within the game even if they do perform some kind of infraction against the game contract). In the case of Calvinball, where the rules are fluid, the game would demand quick adaptation on the part of the user-participants, though the ensuing arguments between Calvin and Hobbes humorously illustrates how the machine stalls when user parameters go unclarified…

This could define “Tetris” fairly well. It could also define more narrative-inspired games, and makes some allowances for other cultural factors. It also assumes any story-mechanic is included in the contractual ruleset (participate in the story, or at least a version of the presented story), if the story is integral to game-play, as it can be in Adventure games and RPGs (if you don’t follow story branch X, the game will not allow you to move forward). For me, this draws into question such statements as:

Aarseth, “When you put a story on top of a simulation, the simulation (or the player) will always have the last word.” Problem: Where the player can not move forward until certain (story-dependent) conditions are met, as understood in the rule-contract.

Aarseth, “Compared to replayable games such as Warcraft and Counter-Strike, the story-games do not pose a very interesting theoretical challenge for game studies, once we have identified their dual heritage.” Problem: Where story-dependant games offer a variety of outcomes based on user-input, and the amount of possible user input and story variation is immense, but not dynamic in the same sense as simulation (though these games can include elements of simulation, ie: combat; see Neverwinter Nights, 2002).

Eskelinen, “It should be self-evident that we can’t apply print narratology, hypertext theory, flim or theater and drama studies directly to computer games, but it isn’t.” Problem: While all games may not be able to be studied with the tools of literary criticism, and I grant that, those games that do maintain story and narrative cohesion are not self-evidently exclusive to ludological theory.

Eskelinen, “I think we can safely say we can’t find narrative situations within games. (Or if we sometimes do, most probably in “Myst” or “The Last Express”, the narrative components are then at the service of an ergodic dominant).” Problem: In many RPGs and Adventure Games (The Longest Journey), narrative can be a very potent game mechanic (In Star Ocean 2/Chrono Cross, one is bound to choose certain characters based on the story and who else is in the adventuring party, and will miss out on certain others, which can change emotional impact dramatically).

Forgive me if these have been taken somewhat out of context, but my aim is to at least invite questions towards such bold statements, though I essentially agree with both Aarseth and Eskelinen that narratology simply doesn't have the tools to effectively analyze every game out there (though it does have the tools to helpfully analyze some).

So who wants interactive drama anyways?

Readings

Janet Murray: From Games-Story to Cyberdrama
Ken Perlin: Can There Be a Form between a Game and a Story?
Michael Mateas: A Preliminary Poetics for Interactive Drama and Games

In this installment, I aimed my readings towards topics that focused on interactive drama with regards to games, and thus a subject matter that could fall within the realms of narratology. The word to use seems to be “Cyberdrama,” a term coined by Janet Murray to explain the new phenomena of the “story-game”; she recognizes that Espen Aarseth coined the use of “ergodic literature” for ultimately the same purpose without stating much of an opinion with concerns to the latter’s argument. Murray seems to be invested in the production of these cyberdramas to the point of declaring “it does not matter what we call such new artifacts” provided they keep on coming. This seems rather counter-intuitive to me, as defining what they are seems an intrinsic necessity to their study (and demarcating one from another). Further, “Ergodic Literature” and “Cyberdrama” are not the same approach to discussing games-as-text, though they both do demand a certain level of agency – an element that Murray, Perlin, and Mateas all discuss in-depth as an important aspect of the game-story.

Interactivity is a fabulous word that is notoriously difficult to qualify specifically. In the realm of player agency, for a game to afford meaningful experience, it must react to a player’s input, and thus inter-act. Exactly how much a player needs to input and how much the computers needs to react for truly meaningful, interactive experience remains up for debate. Mateas offers an approach based on Aristotelian methods of understanding drama (as does some of Murray’s other writings) to the effect of supporting both “first-person engagement” – the game-player – and “third-person reflection” – the observer, which can also be the game-player after an understanding of game-play has been acquired (usually after participating with the game once-through). The third-person observer can watch a game from afar and realize that a player is being rail-roaded into plot points even if the player proper is sunk deep within the game’s magic circle. Maintaining dramatic force (even for that observer) is a goal that Mateas and Andrew Stern have attempted to display through their creation of the game Façade, of which I’ve seem some reviews.

Façade is an attempt to maintain dramatic force, interest, and stability throughout several game-play experiences. Mateas estimates that the game could be played through perhaps seven or so times, and still provide a meaningful, unimitated experience from the previous run-throughs. From what I’ve seen, the game succeeds in this regard. However, it still seems to suffer from the “sandbox problem,” as I call it, that many MMOs and console games (such as Fallout and Oblivion) continue to experience. Now, “problem” might besomewhat misleading, as this is not necessarily an issue that ruins the Aristotelian immersion so necessary in maintaining dramatic stability, but it does present a situation where possible action becomes enormous, and goal-orientation becomes arguably limited. In Façade, the game is less about the player, and more about Grace and Trip, the co-actors of the piece. While yes, I realize that the game depends on the agency of the player, Grace and Trip will continue to move the dramatic undercurrent of the game forward if the player does not respond in a timely manner. This force successfully circumvents some of the “sandbox problem” I mentioned, by nudging the player in a particular direction, but at the same time, doing so retracts some of the player’s agency, as Gonzalo Frasca argues in his response: “How could you give agency to a player while preventing them from turning peace-loving Gandhi into a Quake-like killing machine?” Mateas responds that the answer is simply to not allow guns or power-ups in said Gandhi game in addition to making weaponry superfluous to the game’s plot; agency is maintained because guns should never be an option, and thus becomes extraneous to the game’s purpose. But is this true interactivity? Is absolute agency really necessary?

Chris Crawford has identified in some of his writings that, at the moment, a game must simply limit itself to certain possibilities to maintain its dramatic fortitude. So in response to the above questions, I posit a difference between “true” interactivity and “efficient” interactivity, where the former implies an impossibly intelligent AI, and the latter implies a system that offers enough to remain interesting. A question worth mulling over, however… how much player agency is really necessary to sustain the game fiction (even beyond the magic circle)? And are players really demanding complete, "true" interactivity? I don't think so. I also don't think conflict (and thus agency to participate) necessitates story, either, but that's an argument for another day.

Onto Ergodic Literature

Reading this week:

Cybertext, Espen Aarseth

Espen Aarseth makes a series of… very compelling arguments in this text, all of which I can’t immediately discuss here, so I’ll begin with my initial responses… such as my immediate inclination to kneejerk at the assertion that cybertexts, as Aarseth calls them, have narrative elements but are not narratives, and should not be approached with the typical theories and aesthetics of traditional narratology. I can grant that new tools need to be discussed for the emergence of these new kinds of texts, and I even agree with much of Aarseth’s argument, but I’m wary on the issue of a cybertext’s essential absence of the unicursal “labyrinth” (or at least, essential inclusion of the multicursal).

For example, if I were to look at a graphical adventure game such as The Longest Journey or its sequel Dreamfall, I would (in my analysis) find a very strong narrative force directing me towards an ends ultimately regardless of any path I might want (or attempt) to take; a current; a flow. Character death could possibly result from any severe deviation, but there is ultimately (to my knowledge) only one real end-point in either game. So while I don’t necessarily disagree with Aarseth’s notion of “intrigue” rather than “narrative,” his further clarification that “intrigue” is “a secret plot in which the user is the innocent, but voluntary, target… with an outcome that is not yet decided,” seems lacking. The outcome is, essentially, already decided; short of stopping mid-play (which may be fine for essentially “unbeatable,” unending games like MUDs and so forth), a game of the adventure variety will eventually end in a particular way. The feedback loop is not as endless as the ergodic system seems to imply for cybertextuality (though it is certainly there, and I doubt Aarseth was attempting to intimate that ergodic texts are essentially infinite), so I wonder if a feedback “spiral” (towards the game’s endpoint) might be a more appropriate metaphor in this case.

I must interject that, admittedly, Aarseth is vastly discussing textual games in his analysis of the adventure genre, which work somewhat differently than their graphical brethren (but I wouldn’t say by leaps and bounds). However, I agree that the positions of the implied author (etc…) are (and must be) very different in a virtual, “ergodic” environments than their “linear” counterparts. These positions, says Aarseth, are essentially: the Programmer/Designer (creator), the implied creator, the voice of the game (the voice or other essential force that pushes the “narrative” forward), the implied user, and the real user.

Still, stating that the user is an “innocent” doesn’t seem as appropriate to me as “ignorant,” since most users know what they’re getting into (though the implied user may not). Regardless, the plot isn’t secret as such, though it may be unknown; most avid gamers would be very aware that there will be some kind of effective story in games that promise intense character development, forward “narrative” movement, philosophical themes, and other similar tropes. Further, what appears to Aarseth as a variety of outcomes appears to me as harsh bumpers and directions to put me (and my character-puppet) back on the appropriate (and sometimes rather predictable path) of story progression, and not so terribly different from hypertext in that regard. Does death represent a true “outcome” in a purpose-driven game, or is it merely a tool to explicitly state to the user that “really, that’s not the way things should be done, try again” while at the same time offering some real adrenaline-pumping consequences to keep the game-play alive? I wonder. It’s certainly far more gripping than clicking the same colored links over and over, though most story-intensive games I’ve encountered follow the “multiple paths to the same end” formula, which isn’t the same as “multiple paths to multiple ends” (multicursal?) or even “one path to one end” (unicursal).

There are games (such as Chrono Trigger) that have offered a real variety of outcomes, but given that Chrono Trigger has been marketed specifically as a unique incidence for its multiple ending scenarios, this bespeaks to me a situation where a wide swathe (if not most) games do not allow for any real, fulfilling outcomes that are not the closure of the end-game (of a single incidence). Does this mean that most games that follow this kind of construction are “linear”? Possibly, but I do think that would be missing the point of ergodic feedback that simply does not exist in traditional storytelling. But can a piece of ergodic literature be essentially linear and still have cybernetic feedback? I think so.

My argument might begin as the following: A user or player of a game is both within the plot proper, and yet without; it is a dual existence that does not inhibit the awareness of either. Focusing within as a player must does not preclude the secondary self or “unplayer” from gathering the elements of story and watching their playing self unfold Aarseth’s “intrigue”. This secondary self acts as the anchor to reality, the archive of social agenda, and the adamantine link that prevents complete self-denial and the refusal of disbelief; hence, “suspension”. Further, with games in the discussed regards, ergodic feedback allows for a powerfully variable environment that may still be wrapped in a greater flow towards a particular outcome (perhaps with a variety of faux outcomes on the way to provide the fear of dramatic consequences, which inevitably drop the player back in the essential flow, which moves ever-forward). I am not, however, suggesting this is true of all games, but merely a nebulous point Aarseth seems to have missed in this original text.

Gaming Literacy

And the second post for this week follows...

Readings:

Getting into the Game: Doing Multidisciplinary Game Studies, Frans Mäyrä
Re: Gaming Literacy, Eric Zimmerman

In chapter 16 of The Video Game Theory Reader II, Frans Mäyrä states in “Getting into the Game: Doing Multidisciplinary Game Studies” that the main argument of his essay is to discuss that “since games involve both representations and actions,” – similar Frasca’s simulation, perhaps (discussed more in detail in the below post), “both variously coded structures and their actual instantiation during the performance of play, there is an inherent need for multi- and interdisciplinary collaboration in the area of game studies.” This is rather refreshing to read.

Further, “Doing papers that are “pure ludology,” or rooted only in the discussions within the core field of contemporary game studies are not necessarily within the interest of any such established discipline.” I'd be curious to see a concrete evaluation of what the "core field" of contemporary game studies are, but I can agree that ludology would be in there somewhere. Mäyrä ultimately (and perhaps someone unhelpfully) concludes that the game studies field “can best maintain its interdisciplinary role by strengthening its disciplinary self-image.” However, Mäyrä also realizes the possible paradox here. Namely, the “discipline” of game studies is not exactly concrete or transparent, as I mentioned a sentence or so ago.

I personally realize and respect that ludological explanations and approaches likely evolved out of a desire to avoid purely literary (post-structural, perhaps?) evaluations of games. There is much to be said concerning formal and rule-oriented approaches towards video games (and thus I simplify ludology terribly), but I wonder if subverting traditional, literary approaches necessitate tossing aside the alternatives (narrative?) completely? In fact, I disagree intensely, though I'm also not about to declare narratology as the complete answer, either.

In the same text, Eric Zimmerman introduces an idea of Gaming Literacy, which “games,” or exploits, taking clear advantage of “literacy, bending and breaking rules, playing with our notions of what literacy has been and can be.” And I agree that traditional methods of evaluation may not be entirely appropriate, though are they really anathema? According to Zimmerman, Gaming Literacy does not address “the meaning that only arise within the magic circle of a game, it asks how games relates to the world outside of the magic circle – how game-playing and game design can be seen as models for learning and action in the real world." Rather than peering so heavily inward, Zimmerman does have a point that selling game studies as something of value may depend on how the game-play as a whole can be explained as a representation of what's going on in the world around the game. Could this be a core aspect of game studies? At the very least, I don't think it should be ignored.

Still, this is a very humanistic approach to evaluating games, and does seem to view them as representational to some degree – but it doesn’t exclude action or simulation either (assuming Frasca's argument that simulation is not representational, which I disagree with; see below). The entire process of “playing, understanding, and designing games all embody crucial ways of looking at and being in the world.” Mäyrä’s point that game studies is preoccupied in attempting to justify itself as a meaningful field is powerful, as is his observation that the field often has trouble attracting funding for “research in theoretically-oriented subjects related to games” because the medium still maintains a questionable stigma as "low" subject matter. Gaming Literacy and interdisciplinary work certainly could be some possible answers to this.

More on representation in gaming.

Two posts this week! (To make up for last week).

This Week:

Re: Simulation versus Narrative, Gonzalo Frasca
Re: Gaming Literacy, Eric Zimmerman
Re: The Video Game Aesthetic: Play as Form, David Myers

With a lot of question and not many answers, I decided to revisit Frasca while glancing over some other articles from last week. So, placing narrative aside for the moment, I think Frasca makes it pretty clear that simulation seems to have a lot of potential for useful (and fun!) application, be it Military or practice-oriented, explorative, or something else. But even these sorts of simulations, I argue, depend not only on a theme or some other immersive undercurrent to retain player interest, but also representation (like narrative, says Frasca). Why are people acting a certain way? What’s the stimulus? What’s reasonable? What’s compelling and believable? These are questions that both a narrauthor and simauthor of games must consider, though the latter should allow for manipulation of these elements (if I shoot the civilian, he will cry out) versus the former, which does not (the protagonist, who is a good person, will choose to not shoot the civilian (regardless of player input), who therefore will not cry out (but probably would have)). Some newer games do blur these lines.

Still, representation plays an important role in both. Regardless, a player’s participation is still necessary in either situation, though more or less is arguable. However, it seems conceivable to me that certain things remain (inarguably) true of a simulation, too. Flying into a mountain during a flight simulation will likely always result in a crash. Sure this may have been player error (or choice), but the point remains that a) despite the player’s interaction, something is still bound to happen, and b) this wasn’t a real experience in flight; it was a representation. The fact that narration allows for less active choice than simulation seems, to me, to be avoiding the issue that either sorts of games are strictly bound in some way, and neither act as the “Real Deal.”

To further this point, David Myers seems to state that simulation utilizes representation as it attempts to replicate human experience. In the Video Game Aesthetic (chapter 1 of the Video Game Theory Reader II), games are an antiform, or a form that “embodies a reference to what is not – or to something other than what it is… When we ride a stick horse, it is not a horse, it is something else – something like a horse, but not a horse: an anti-horse which requires but does not fulfill its reference to a horse. Thus, all forms of play transmit a self-referential message: “this is play,” or alternatively, “this is not real.” If it is not “real,” then simulation may be best described as a “representational” experience. Of course, I will grant the important aspect of simulation in that it can adapt, change, and create to a certain degree, but this is not to say that all narrative-heavy games are incapable of this.

In a tentative conclusion, it doesn't seem to me like the ability to manipulate suddenly precludes something from being “representative.” Is it not, perhaps, the whole point that video games are representational devices, regardless of narrative, simulation, or general rule set? Consider for a moment, Pac-Man. Frans Mäyrä (see my other article today) helpfully states, “It is possible to look at a session of Pac-Man gameplay recorded in video, and proceed to analyze the game on that basis – a storyline focused on a theme of eating and survival would emerge, and a rather stereotypical narrative or cultural analysis would continue from that to discuss this game as a metaphor for consumer society or predatory qualities of capitalism.” However, Mäyrä continues that “when actually played by a researcher personally, the game as an object suddenly gains a different kind of character. The “drama” taking place at the representational level of the maze, ghosts, and hunt does not necessarily vanish, but is displaced or suspended by the dominance of gameplay – all those feelings, considerations, and actions that come along when accepting the challenge of trying to navigate a maze while eating dots and avoiding ghosts.” I agree with Mäyrä that gamers have the ability and often do critique games from a perspective outside the magic circle or the play experience (discussing graphics, audio, theme, story-world, etc.), and still have the capability to do this while they are playing, but they can also become very focused on the game-play itself, and temporarily push that representational layer to the side.

Quoting Mäyrä one last time, who sums up fairly my well general feelings on the matter: “I have named this totality the dual structure of games; as ludic simulations coupled with a digital audiovisual medium, digital games provide players access to both a “shell” (representational layers) as well as the “core” (gamplay)… neither can be ignored.”