Mass Effect 2's (the) Illusive Man.

Shout-out!

It seems that some people out there have found reason to sympathize with Mass Effect's Cerberus and The Illusive Man (TIM). We find it absolutely genius on part of the game's writers that players can be seduced by TIM given the compelling (if subtle) evidence that he's an attractive, smooth-talking, 'I'm your good friend really' manipulative bastard who is a rampaging douche whenever you're not looking (and sometimes when you are).

And yet, some players still wonder what everyone has against Cerberus. Genius. For those of you who are curious about TIM's mastermind machinations (and don't mind spoilers), make sure to read the Mass Effect novels and comics for the full story.

xxxSPOILER ALERTxxx
Kartikeya has decided to replay ME2 to catalog some of TIM's best nuggets, and shall post her findings here whenever she gets around to it.

No really, games are a compound enterprise.

Readings

Narrative, Games, and Theory, Jan Simons

This is somewhat of a new evaluation of the narratology/ludology issue (circa 2007) that essentially promotes what I’ve been saying from the beginning: They should work together. Simons utilizes Game Theory (in the economic, political, war games sense) to justify the existence of narrative as something beyond a descriptive element that can always be superseded by simulation, since Game Theory is most interested with the choice and reasons behind particular actions, rather than the alleged rules that contain and modify them. It seems that Simons is essentially claiming ludologists entered the field already on the defensive, and this particular attitude has prevented them from realizing that while rules constrain players in certain ways, players are not observers to their game; the act of playing and the act of watching are distinctly separate experiences, as Mayra also suggested.

“The trick of the trade of game design is indeed to make the player believe they are in control,” Simon offers, echoing some of Chris Crawford’s sentiments that complete agency is technically inefficient at the moment. The controller may offer the illusion of control, and in most cases does offer the player power over the game, but in truth, it is the player’s belief, modified by the game experience, world, and understandable rules that grips the player into becoming immersed into what is offered. A game need not manifest complete agency to keep a player entertained, and in practice, no game does. Any argument that suggests narrative is too limiting seems to be forgetting that rules do the same by their nature, and even so, emergent behavior (such as the subtle rules undefined by poker ‘a poker face’) continues.

Further is the point that ludologists draw on the existing tools of the humanities (narrative theory and so on) to create their own, doing little to sever the umbilical, and yet denouncing it (as applicable to Games) while still attached. Simon declares that this in addition to strict categorizing and distinctions are an obsolete and sterile game nobody can win. ‘Games’ by the nature change by nature of their participants and perspective, and so the definition (as many scholars have realized) is generally fluid and malleable, and constantly redefined for a variety of purposes. Additionally, attempting to appropriate and monopolize objects of study away from the narrative fields is no less “imperialistic” in manner, and is again a game itself that has less scholastic payoff than suffering a compromise and agreement that there is no one “right way” of analyzing games, just as there is generally no one “right way” to play them, given the variety of perspectives and philosophies players bring to their entertainment media.

Characters and EQ

Nick Yee, Befriending Ogres and Wood-Elves: Relationship Formation and The Social Architecture of Norrath, Game Studies

This is a slight departure from the normal discussion on narrative, with a continued focus on character and social development. Yee focuses on a discussion of how the design choices of EverQuest fostered an environment that essentially forced players to get to know each other in some manner, and fostered altruism and other acts of kindness given the fairly harsh consequences of death (etc.) that the designers implemented. World of Warcraft did not necessarily share this philosophy, as soloability (the ability for a single character to progress without too much need for assistance) was increased to the detriment of necessarily inter-class dependency that demanded social interaction for any character-players to make meaningful progress.

I singled out this particular article because it also deals with character progression of a kind. Rather than insisting that characters necessitate a story, Yee’s article describes how the EverQuest philosophy and design features demanded interaction. Interestingly, however, much of Yee’s evidence is anecdotal, as described in a story-manner by players with regards to their experience. It thus seems that Janet Murray’s point that games can equal story is merited in this regard, and so is the idea that character development necessitates some kind of event structure and happenings that can be described (and perhaps experienced, especially for the role-players) in a story-like way. However, do games in this way necessitate drama? Or is it true that players create this drama for themselves?

Regardless, I don’t find that narrative, itself is an essential factor in MMORPG creation, though I think The Old Republic might be putting a spin on that…

JRPGs, Redux

To further my criticism of the JRPG absence in game studies, I partially crafted the following explanation which argues that narrative (linear or no) is an important element of game design, even if may not not always be the dominant element. Thus, it seems a distinct disservice to the industry to ignore the creative elements JRPG have to offer.

For this purposes of this examination, I will be evaluating the imported-from-Japan Persona 4 (P4) by Atlus studio with a focus on the game’s narrative dimensions. Using the typology of characters as provided by "Understanding Video Games" (Nielson, et al.) as a gateway, and following with a general evaluation of narrative “do’s and don’ts” as offered by Jordan Mechner, this brief paper will explore the success of P4’s narrative and tentatively determine whether it enhances or disrupts the gameplay experience. Specifically, the following question will be addressed: Is narrative necessary to the gameplay experience of P4?

The nature of P4 is an experience that partially aligns with Espen Aarseth’s evaluation in the “First Person” anthology that “games focus on self-mastery and exploration of the external world, not exploration of interpersonal relationships (except for multiplayer games”. He continues that “or when they do, like the recent bestselling games The Sims or Black and White, it is from a godlike, Asmodean perspective” (Aarseth, 2004, p. 50). In strict opposition to Aarseth’s claim, the major aim of P4 is indeed to explore interpersonal relationships from the protagonist’s perspective, but more on this below. What aligns more with Aarseth’s claim is that P4 is “not about the Other” as Aarseth explains of all games, but is instead “about the Self”, which does not seem as mutually exclusive with regards to narrative as Aarseth seems to imply (Aarseth, 2004, p. 50).

Interpersonal relations in P4 are both necessarily developed by the story through story-centric “Cast Characters” as described by Nielsen, et al. (often offering dramatic tension as Murray would be quick to point out), and optionally developed through a variety of other “Cast Characters” that are not immediately pertinent to the story, but incredible helpful to the protagonist’s journey (Nielsen et al., 2008, 178). All of these are called “social links” by the game, and each is governed by a particular Major Arcana tarot card, each of which acts as a kind of Jungian archetype to establish the essence of that link. Ludically, the level of these social links directly influence combat by adding power to the protagonist’s (“Player Character”) various associated Personae – his psyche – that manifest as mythical/monstrous creatures he can call upon in combat (Nielsen et al., 2008, p. 179). In the game, these Personae are qualified as the “façade to overcome life’s hardships”, and so, like a mask, can be taken on and off (though one must be ‘equipped’ at all times). Only the protagonist’s persona is variable; all of the other story-centric characters maintain a singular persona, for reasons explained in the game, and not immediately pertinent here. What is pertinent is the nature of the game’s thematic tension: Accept the Self, or be destroyed be the Self. The protagonist is both a player’s guide and their agent in this exploration.

So how does this exploration relate to narrative? The narrative of the game follows a linear day-by-day calendar progression that is rather deceptive. Though certain days have hard-coded events that can be missed (optional events that may last several days, but only on certain days) or story events that will happen regardless of player choice, most days are vastly left up to a player’s purview, the bulk of which must be spent in improving the mentioned social links. Character progression is a ludic necessity, as a player must “level up” social links if that player wishes to ever make any meaningful headway in the game. Essentially, a player is forced to partially co-create the narrative by determining which social links to pursue, which love interest to tackle, and having a variety of situations where multiple dialogue options are offered that can guide the course of these social links for better or for worse.

This does not seem to reduce dramatic tension, as P4 fairly well follows the chapter model of interactive fiction. There are of course arguments against this model, such as the “solving” of the story rather than active “creation” of a story, but P4 navigates around some of these concerns by a) claiming outright that there is indeed a mystery to solve (the resolution being the climax of the story) and b) focusing its story on its characters, and even transferring this theme into the design decision of incorporating character progression into gameplay (Nielsen et al., 2008, p. 182). The point is granted that a finite number of options exist through dialogue selection and so on in the elaboration of the cast characters; this is a problem which is bound to concern the sensibilities of simulation-oriented ludologists – but Chris Crawford addressed this issue as far back as 2003:

"Some object that [finite choices are] too great a constraint to place upon the player; players should be free to express their creativity, to input choices not anticipated by the storybuilder. While this certainly represents a noble goal, it is out of the question; free-form input from the player requires an infinitely large set of dramatic options. Moreover, the laws of drama do not permit arbitrary behavior; they constrain the actions of characters in stories to a tiny set of choices… that incorporates such laws naturally… without appearing intrusive or overbearing" (Crawford, 2008, p. 263-4).

This ultimately begs the related questions: Then why bother with drama? Is it true that Aristotelian ideals are not only ancient and antiquated, but inappropriate for the gaming models? While I leave a firm response to the latter question to writers such as Janet Murray, a return question might be: Why would anyone assert that cast characters offer dramatic tension, and why bother having this tension implicit in characters at all? I might respond: Because game designers interested in narrative intend for certain characters to be identified with, or at the very least, demand some kind of investment which performs a secondary duty of involving players in the story of these characters. However, Nielsen, et al. make an interesting point that “the stronger the personality of the character, the easier it is for a player to feel alienated from it” (Nielson et al., 2008, p. 181). P4 avoids the issue by making the character a “silent protagonist,” where his output is essentially the player’s input; he is a variable shell for the player’s own persona.

However, I do not feel this is a point worth ignoring, because even if the P4 protagonist was not a shell of sorts, the importance of character to story would remain essential, as it is a major hook of the game. Rule #4 in Jordan Mechner’s “The Sands of Time: Crafting a Video Game Story” clarifies that in the experience of the Prince of Persia franchise “The gameplay and the character of the Prince were inseparable. Together, they constituted our “hook.” A weak hook – one that players don’t get excited about – can doom an otherwise excellent, well-reviewed, heavily marketed game to the bargain bin.” Further, “If the purpose of story is to reveal the gameplay in its best light, then the purpose of the cast of characters is to reveal the hero in his best light” (Mechner, 2007, p. 113-4). I would argue that if the gameplay is dependent on its character hook, a story expands that hook, and thus expands gameplay, creating a cyclical notion of interdependency where none are dominant over the other. I am not remiss to state that characters can be made appealing in other ways beside story (such as Lara Croft’s sex appeal), but with concerns to that, other questions arise: Is it the gameplay experience of Tomb Raider that the vast majority of players really aim for, or is it the experience of viewing Lara Croft’s “salacious anatomy” (Moulthrop, 2004, p. 47)? Still, Lara Croft offers a counterpoint to the idea that all characters necessitate story, and thus it is not my aim to claim that they do.

However, for games that do involve some kind of story, characters are necessary to the elaboration of that story. Thus, in a character-oriented in game like P4, eliminating the story as an essential aspect of the game (to influence and embellish the large cast of characters) seems an absolute disservice. Further, if even one game can manage to incorporate the story as a game-defining endeavour (to the point where story equals character progression, and character progression becomes ludic necessity), a precedent is set that necessarily announces how there might be other games that do the same. This seems in direct confrontation with the ludological (Aarseth, Eskelinen, et al.) standpoint that all games can only be evaluated with the tools of ludology, when it seems fairly clear that both ludological and narratological concerns are interrelated and pertinent to many games. Thus, this paper concludes with the assertion that narrative is very much necessary to the gameplay experience of Persona 4, as it is to many other (if not most) role-playing games.

Aarseth, E (1997). Cybertext: Perspectives on Ergodic Literature. Baltimore: The John Hopkins University Press.

Aarseth, E (2004). “Genre Trouble: Narrativism and the Art of Simulation.” First Person: New Media as Story, Performance, and Game. Wardrip-Fruin, N., Harrigan, P., eds. London: The MIT Press.

Mechner, J (2007). “The Sands of Time: Crafting a Video Game Story.” Second Person: Role-Playing and Story in Games and Playable Media. Wardrip-Fruin, N., Harrigan, P., eds. London: The MIT Press.

Moulthrop, S (2004). “From Stuart Moulthrop’s Online Response [To Aarseth].” First Person: New Media as Story, Performance, and Game. Wardrip-Fruin, N., Harrigan, P., eds. London: The MIT Press.

Murray, J (2004). “From Game-Story to Cyberdrama.” First Person: New Media as Story, Performance, and Game. Wardrip-Fruin, N., Harrigan, P., eds. London: The MIT Press.

Nielsen, S. E., Smith, J. H., & Tosca, S. P. (2008). Understanding Video Games. New York: Routledge.

Crawford, Chris. (2003). “Interactive Storytelling.” The Video Game Theory Reader. Perron, P., Wolf M. J. P., eds. New York: Routledge.

Briefly: JRPGs and linear narrative.

Epic Spacialities: The Production of Space in Final Fantasy Games, William H. Huber (Third Person)
The Sands of Time: Crafting a Video Game Story, Jordan Mechner (Second Person)

A brief, but poignant article this week to get back into things after break. My concern manifests from this quotation by Huber: “Japanese role-playing games have generally been treated simply as linear stories driven by various role-playing mechanics.” This is related to a rather vocal concern I have that JRPGs and other Japanese games are rarely discussed, or at least have been noticeable absent from game studies scholarship over the past ten years.

My overwhelming response to the above quotation becomes: So, what? Is the point of concern that JRPGs don’t sell? Because that’s hardly the case when Final Fantasy VII is arguably known as “the game that sold the playstation,” and if not that, still sold millions of copies on its own, not to mention the enormous gross profit the entire franchise has accrued worldwide. Apparently something is being done correctly.

Huber’s article is not arguing against JRPGs, however, but rather offering a different method of analysis through ideas of “space” to challenge the traditional disregard often offered towards “linear narrative” in games. Without getting too much into the meat of Huber’s article (which draws heavily on David Harvey’s geographic discussion on space), Huber describes how the Final Fantasy games offer a variety of spatial methods for navigating gameplay that serve to push story, emotion, and act as a way for players to become invested in the experience. Like revisiting the geographical space of a traumatic memory, so can games in this way compel a player to emotionally involve themselves in the game-realm.

An alternate method of dispelling the ambivalence towards “linear narratives” is to discuss cast characters as important storytelling media. While “Story is Not King” is the second rule in Mechner’s point-by-point suggestive list of how to manage storytelling in video games, the bulk of Mechner’s article claims that the storytelling experience is an important one in games, though it must be seamlessly woven with the actual play experience, or it risks eliminating tension, agency, and fun. See the following article for more discussion of this.

So feel the question is begged: If JRPGs can manage a well-woven story-play architecture, why do they continuously seem pushed aside because of this? There have been many criticisms that Final Fantasy X suffered from an overabundance of cutscenes, yet this game, too has sold millions of copies. This does make me wonder how much of this is the franchise, and how much is actual merit towards the game, itself. Did the Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time sell gross as much as FFX? It certainly received immense critical acclaim. However, in this field, it seems that critical acclaim does not always equate to gross sales. Regardless, it seems fairly evident that there are a variety of ways to weave story into games, and there doesn’t seem to be a particularly correct way of doing so, thus, why ignore such a large portion of the gaming industry?

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.