Sometimes, at the end of a long week, the illustrations of Jeff Wildgen, an artist based in Ontario, Canada, capture my mood perfectly.

The Rohrer-Shock Test: An E-Game Designer's Lament

I attended a thought-provoking presentation by game designer/artist and photographer Jason Rohrer a week or so ago at Champlain College in Burlington, Vermont. I’d been eager to meet Rohrer and hear him speak, as I am a big fan of his game Passage. I’ve heard some of Champlain’s most distinguished electronic game students also praise Passage, which is noteworthy when considering the simplicity of the game’s narrative and design—a heavily pixilated graphical presentation the likes of which one hasn’t seen since this was the best the available technology could muster.

Rohrer began his presentation with this question, to paraphrase: Can we save electronic games from the fate of television—that is, from the fate of becoming, to quote the artist directly, “mindless entertainment?” I don’t know how much television Rohrer watches these days, but this familiar criticism of television holds true less broadly, in my opinion, than it once did. Even some of the most “mindless” TV shows on the air and available on DVD today are so well produced, their silly or melodramatic stories so well told, that they compel interest almost in spite of their vapidity. I also had to wonder if Rohrer would be willing to accept a certain degree of mindlessness in electronic games in exchange for, say, the awesome commercial impact and global reach of TV.

Rohrer’s presentation seemed concerned with, among other things, pushing games in a respectable direction, which is to say an artistic direction. While he didn’t define artistic, art, or artful in this context, which would have been helpful, he was unambiguous in asserting that games will probably earn more respect as a medium when they are more worthy of it. He noted the preponderance of games trading in familiar themes and tropes and the relative dearth of anything else in the industry’s mainstream. While game graphics and the resulting sense of immersion advance with technology, he suggested, game narratives have largely failed to mature in concert. He suggested that mainstream media outlets, in turn, might give more attention to electronic games when the games themselves merited it. This comment put me in mind of the few games and game designers about whom I’ve read in mainstream magazines—innovators, all: Rohrer (in Esquire), Will Wright (in the New Yorker and in the New York Times Magazine; pictured below), and Michael Mateas and Andrew Stern and Façade (in the Atlantic Monthly).

Rohrer spent a substantial portion of his talk proposing a return to recognizing and cultivating game auteurs as the industry did in its infancy and as the film industry recognizes directors today. Gone from game boxes, Rohrer observed, are the creators’ names. (He failed to note that television directors are perhaps even less familiar to their viewers than game designers are to their players, at least to hardcore players.) He used the examples of the film Napoleon Dynamite and the electronic game Braid to illustrate how little respect even the most promising game titles garner in contrast to films. Evidently, Napoleon Dynamite was a Sundance Film Festival darling in 2004, snaring its director, Jared Hess, a Grand Jury Prize and a two-picture deal (Nacho Libre, 2006 and Gentlemen Broncos, 2009) with Fox Searchlight Pictures. Neither Braid nor its creator, Jonathan Blow (pictured below), received such support following the game’s splash debut at the 2006 Independent Games Festival, where it won the Innovation in Game Design award. Eventually released through Xbox Live Arcade, Braid has achieved great critical and commercial success.


Honestly, I was less interested in the Rohrer’s Rodney Dangerfield shtick than in something he said about Passage in particular and games in general. He noted that perhaps one of the reasons that Passage has become so popular is that its simple, seemingly anachronistic graphical presentation allows for a symbolic interpretation of game events. The game not so much tells a literal story as conveys a mood through the use of metaphor. If there is a story at work, it is open to interpretation—something about living, connecting with someone, growing old, and dying. I would go so far as to say that there is something profound about Passage. In contrast, he observed, games that employ state-of-the-art technology to render virtual realities with a high degree of verisimilitude must then meet player expectations of how that reality should operate; events must relate logically to each other, or at least in a clear cause-and-effect manner, just as they do in real life. I think what Rohrer was getting at was a distinction between abstract game expressionism and more representational forms.

This idea that metaphor and symbol allow for a deeper, more resonant player experience than highly actualized virtual reality may hold important implications for game designers and writers interested in creating something truly innovative. Surely, indie designers without a lot of resources at their disposal benefit from the less-is-more approach. At the very least, they might begin to think more intently about how they would like their games to speak to players instead of, as Rohrer noted, how many hours they will take to play, with this number being equated, to some degree, with a game’s value.

I’ve heard it said that some Indian filmgoers gauge the quality of a Bollywood flick, at least in part, according to similar terms—minutes of movie per rupee—with the longer films getting the thumbs-up. Maybe this makes Bollywood cinema the more threatening parallel with the electronic game industry if the latter doesn’t grow up: a lot of colorful costumes and gratuitous singing and dancing—a lot of image and action for its own sake—laid over a story we’ve heard a million times before.

Rough Start #2

WORKING TITLE: Come as You Are
A novel

Jesse thinks big, which I admire. But her execution couldn’t be weaker. Rat calls her the Theoretical Girl, since so few of her ideas, no matter their scope, include an action plan. Twice this school year, Jesse has invited the band over to her house in Arlington for breakfast before Saturday practices but neglected to tell her mother that we were coming. So we all show up at the door not just unwelcome—I don’t think Jesse’s mother likes drop-in visitors in general, us in particular—but also expecting breakfast. Awkward. And then we have to practice on an empty stomach.

Rat calls Jesse’s condition the “Elvis Movie Syndrome”: in which a person expects that something requiring considerable logistical planning can be simply willed into being. Rat’s diagnostic term refers to those spontaneous musical numbers in Elvis Presley movies, which I’ve seen many more of, thanks to Rat, than any person needs to. Even one, like Clambake or Jailhouse Rock, is too many. I think I’ve seen five. So I know what Rat means when he says Jesse is pulling an Elvis movie: Start humming a tune and snapping your fingers, and you should expect the whole town to spill out into the street, dancing alongside you, singing the choruses in sweet harmony. If only.

Anecdote, Vegetable, or Mineral: An Informal Analysis of Informal Stories

FIELDWORK DATA — ENTRY NO. 3

ANATOMY OF A PEP TALK

The following describes the structure of a pep talk given recently by the director of a nonprofit center.

The occasion: an impending deadline

The audience: most of the 50 or so employees working on a project of particular importance to the future of the center; average age, 21

Time of the talk: 9 p.m. — significant, as convening for this talk requires something of a sacrifice on the part of all in attendance, which will be a theme of the talk

I. The speaker discusses her individual history with the project; she is its founder.
Effect: This ethical appeal garners respectful attention.

II. The speaker shares a) some common misconceptions of the team she assembled for the project at its outset (including employees in attendance at the pep talk) and b) her refusal to subscribe to those unflattering misconceptions.
Effect: The speaker’s credibility is reinforced in light of her faith in her team.

III. The speaker discusses the broad cultural implications of the team’s work, framing such work as a social responsibility.
Effect: The team members are essentially asked to set aside complaints or misgivings in light of the long-term value of their work — should it be completed on time.

IV. The speaker reminds the team of their deadline and describes what is at stake in failing: essentially, the future of the center.
Effect: This is a bit of a scare tactic, although it apparently does not distort the truth of the predicament.

V. The speaker shifts to a rundown of the project’s accomplishments to date.
Effect: The emphasis shifts to the team’s capability.

VI. The speaker describes for the team what they stand to gain in meeting their deadline: professional survival and the satisfaction of having made a worthwhile contribution to society.
Effect: The mood continues on an upward swing.

VII. The speaker presents statistics on similar projects’ impact.
Effect: The team revisits the value of their work, finding solidarity with others who have worked to see similar work come to fruition, possibly under analogous pressures and constraints.

VIII. The speaker closes by reiterating the deadline but in varied terms — the number of remaining days against the number of tasks to be completed.
Effect: Having been reminded of the value of their work and inspired to reach their utmost potential, the team now regards the deadline as a challenge rather than a symbol of their professional demise.

The team returns to their workstations inspired anew to succeed.

In World Football...

Congratulations, Algeria.

Anecdote, Vegetable, or Mineral: An Informal Analysis of Informal Stories

FIELDWORK DATA — Entry No. 2

Collected: November 15, 2009, 9:50 a.m.

Setting: Golf course

Narrator: Male, 45, Caucasian

Audience: One Caucasian male, 45

Topic Summary: The name of one’s cat

Transition: NA

Opening Strategy: The storyteller proclaims the topic of the story with an arresting statement to the effect of “Here’s what I had to do regarding my cat.”

Exposition: The story begins in the recent historical past, which frames the narrative, with the storyteller relaying the events of a recent visit to a veterinarian with his cat. During the visit, the veterinarian inquires as to the cat’s name, the answer to which becomes the central conflict in this story.

Rising Action: The story shifts to the more distant historical past, and to another state, when the storyteller’s cat was routinely brought to the veterinarian by another caregiver, the storyteller’s romantic partner, who did not share the storyteller’s name. Hence, the cat’s last name is different from its current owner’s (i.e., the storyteller’s).

Climax: The storyteller expresses annoyance that his cat officially has a last name other than his own.

Falling Action: The storyteller announces, with clear dismay, the cat’s official first and last names.

Denouement: The storyteller ends the story with a statement to the effect of “So, this is what I have to deal with.”

Review:
I. Arresting statement
II. Opening frame: recent historical past
III. Central conflict introduced
IV. Rising action in more distant historical past
V. Climax: expression of annoyance
VI. Commentary on the outcome of the climax: dismay
VII. Closing frame: present state of affairs

Paralingual Cues: The storyteller makes frequent use of hands to indicate a general state of exasperation, often directing them, as if accusatorily, at the sky and off in various directions.

Interruptions: NA

Comments: The story seems designed as a report on the teller’s state of mind regarding his pet, perhaps as a metaphorical statement on his condition, and on the human condition more generally, which finds us responsible for pets that, notwithstanding their companionability, remind us of those of our own species who fail us in this regard.

Interactive Storytelling: The Next Frontier?

I recently had the opportunity to meet and converse with pioneering electronic game programmer and designer Chris Crawford. Crawford, who began his career with Atari in the late 1970s, was on the campus of Champlain College in Burlington, Vermont, where I teach interactive storytelling, among other (less amusing) subjects. In an open exchange with faculty, and later in a presentation to the larger campus community, he shared a thumbnail history of the game industry—the “games” (plural) industry, in his words—and his current thinking on where electronic games might be heading.

That’s not entirely accurate. Crawford, at this stage in his career, is avowedly more interested in interactive storytelling than in electronic games per se. And there is a difference, in his view. “Games are about things,” he said. “Entertainment is about people.” He expresses his preference for the latter in his efforts to create, through his organization Storytron.com, computer-based experiences that offer users/players entertaining character interactions in scenarios that develop in response to user/player choices.

That’s the interactive story in a nutshell: The plot, for lack of a better word, evolves in a direction influenced by user/player choice. Many electronic games function according to the same principle, of course, but their plots are encoded along a game “spine,” with the consequences of choices following a narrow range of encoded paths that often lead back to the trunk of the narrative, thereby creating a perceived sense of user/player influence over the narrative’s direction. In true interactive stories, in contrast, the consequences of user/player choice are more varied and more sensitive, propelling the narrative through a more open, less path-bound virtual space or scenario. Interactive stories of this type aim for an experience that more closely simulates interaction with an artificially intelligent character or entity; such interactions are rich, varied, and complex.

Crawford pointed to Michael Mateas and Andrew Stern’s groundbreaking but inchoate project Façade (image at the top of this entry) as the most fully realized example of an electronic interactive story available today. Façade remains in an experimental stage and can be downloaded free of charge. It’s buggy but, in my opinion, fascinating. Indeed, its shortcomings suggest the monumental challenge of creating a mechanism that simulates the wide range and complexity of human interactions possible in even a simple one-on-one exchange.

Crawford’s presentation came on the heels of a stimulating class discussion in which my students and I revisited some of our basic assumptions about such fundamental concepts as game, story, and play. We find the definitions of these words, in the context of computer-based experiences, to be very much in flux. We envision a range of experiences that blend these values in innovative ways. Following Crawford’s presentation, I reminded my students that Crawford sees some applications for interactive computer-based experiences in corporate training as well as in entertainment, although he cautioned that, when one tries to combine entertaining and training, the result is often neither.

I take this warning into my work as the faculty liaison with a game development team creating an electronic game that combines soccer simulation gameplay with an instructional message about preventing violence against women. Save us, Sabido!