Touché, bitches!

Critical Distance recently did a retrospective of BioShock criticism. It was a good post and made me want to go back and play the game. Which I did—for many, many hours when I should have been writing something else. Critical Distance’s (and 2K’s) fault—not mine.

Anyway… As I was remembering the good times and considering some of the fascinating criticism given about the game, I had a thought—I consider BioShock a member of the FPS category of games, but what really is the difference between BioShock and, for that matter, Goldeneye, Halo and Half Life and an RPG. The perspective is different, sure, but that being said, in these FPSs and you play a character who’s given objectives and missions and must accomplish an overarching goal. Read: these are basically first-person RPGs. Well, actually, there are some substantive differences.

Most RPGs have impetus the development of your character. Another difference is the focus on items and skill-building. In many FPS games, your character’s health and weapons kit remains pretty constant throughout the game. BioShock (which I’ll return to), Deus Ex and Oblivion are obvious exceptions to this.

As I said, you’re still playing a character who interacts with other characters and accomplishes quests to achieve end-game. This is the principal of every RPG and many FPS games. So why not, based on this, stuff these FPS games under that same umbrella as RPGs—FPS-RPG, perhaps?

Which brings me to BioShock. By taking substantive elements from both FPSs and RPGs, BioShock fuzzies the boundary between RPG and FPS. In BioShock we develop a character with a range of in-game skills, collect money to buy certain things and hunt Little Sisters to be able to enhance said skills. Yet you wield a weapon like most FPS games. Clearly, the developers refused to be constrained by their predecessors in the RPG and FPS genres; they refused to pick a camp. And this blurring of categorical boundaries is fascinating for the critic and forces us all to ponder what the difference is beyond perspective.

I put forward two explanations for the divide.

The first is quite simple: both genres emerged from difference places but are working to similar ends. The makers of FPS games come from the Wolfenstein and Doom tradition. Certain environmental, mechanical and gameplay features must be present. The same can be said for RPG developers emerging from the backdrop of twelve-sided dice and Dungeons and Dragons. In addition to this, in video gaming both groups aim to immerse the player in a realistic—but not realist—and interactive world where the players becomes a character with goals and aims. I must remind you that I mean FPS developers making narrative-based games. FPS, as I see it, accurately describes Counterstrike and Quake but not necessarily Goldeneye and Half Life.

Now to the second explanation—Central to this is that we may hinge this categorical difference on the idea of character development. In games traditionally classified as RPGs you develop the skill of the character that represents you in the game; in FPS games, it’s your skill in the real world—your first-person skill—that needs to be raised to accomplish harder missions. As your twitch skills and lateral thinking about environments improve in FPS games, you’re more successful. On the other hand, in traditional RPGs, to be more successful you must kill X monsters to gain Y experience to deal more damage and beat higher-level bosses.

I argue we can define these games not just on the grounds of the perspective from which you play the game, but where the skills emerge: in role-playing FPS games the skills develop in the actual player as opposed to the character, like in traditional RPGs. Both types of games reward longer gameplay, but where in RPGs its simple maths—more time grinding means better character—FPSs reward your physical ability used for actually playing the game. A nice case of this might be Counterstrike vs. WoW. My points above are applicable—better CS players have developed their skills where WoW players have developed their character’s skills and attributes.

As I mentioned BioShock takes substantive elements from both camps and can thus be described by both of the explanations given above. This results in a game that forces us to ask the question put forward in this article: what is the difference between many FPS games and RPGs? And, as is the want of this blog, BioShock advocates questions (I am Touche, Bitches! and I am here to ask you a question…) about video game categories and definitions. I recommend looking at the Critical Distance critical commentary for some great sources and discussions.

About a week and half ago, on his blog, Japanmanship, JC Barnett wrote about the response to rape games in and outside of Japan triggered by Rapelay. Barnett places the issue in the context of—as he tells us—a general absence in Japanese culture of Western-style taboos regarding pedophilia and rape. I recommend not only taking a look at the article but also the debate that played out in the comments section.

The whole issue got me to thinking about how such arguments are delineated and resolved in contemporary critical terms; can, in fact, modern frameworks like postmodernism actually produce amiable outcomes? Let’s start by looking at the article in question.

While Barnett asserts that he “no great fan of censorship”, he takes a firmly absolutist tack on the issue:

“[games] have some responsibilities… but it is good to see… that Japan generally is looking into these sticky issues and agreeing a more responsible approach might be required.”

The responses are polarized in predictable ways. Many venture into relativism: what is “right” for one person may be “wrong” for another; such a topic can not contain absolutes. At the other pole are those agree with Barnett: we should, as a society, express our disgust at things like rape and pedophilia. This usually manifests in censorship.

Note: I find it interesting that the idea of these games affecting someone’s tendency to enact the contents was only lightly touched on. I won’t discuss it here because there is a wealth of information in support of the media not being an insidious entity. That is, people won’t kill after playing Doom. Someone who wants to kill might come to Doom, but the game won’t make them want to do it. Anyway, back to it…

Barnett bases his absolutist argument on the idea that games are not art; they are products and therefore have responsibilities beyond themselves. But who’s to say games aren’t art? Surely, at least some part of some games could be considered art? The narrative structure of BioShock, Braid and And Yet It Moves’ environments, Metalgear Solid’s player-game interactions, just to name a few. And perhaps I want to play Rapelay for it’s 3D environments and textures and not for the rape itself (I use this only as an example). I mean, I can appreciate Nazi deco design but be appalled by its content and purposes.

Similarly, the aforementioned camps have murky sides to each of their arguments. Those in the subjectivity camp back themselves into a corner where they, logically, have to be OK with other personally and culturally subjective things like customary law and child pornography. Conversely, those in the absolutist camp are ostensibly advocating censorship. This has its own swag of issues—by whose tastes do we censor video games; yours and mine or a politician’s? In liue of this, I must note that from some of the comments on Barnett’s post, I got the feeling that some people were made more uncomfortable by the idea of censorship than the content of the game. Censorship, I feel, can only be a conclusion from our analysis of the contents but should not inform how we analyze it.

So let’s attempt to abstract ourselves from these viewpoints and the censorship argument. How do most critics do this?—by applying an abstract framework. As is in vogue and the want of this blog I’ll follow postmodern lines and consider the benefits and inadequacies of the frame.

Firstly, we must consider the possibility of multiple readings of the text. Perhaps the developers meant us to consider the rape and the characters as analogous, as representative of something else. Perhaps it’s irony: a massive exaggeration of male-female power relations designed to make us question them? (I don’t agree with this at all, but for the sake of argument…)

This aspect of postmodernism is what gave rise to its push for subjective values: how you and I view corporal punishment may be different from someone else. Read: there are no absolutes under a postmodernist approach.

Obviously this is a slippery slope, for reasons discussed above. But it does highlight some issues associated with censorship. We’d be censoring this game based only on its overt content—we assume. Maybe the developers wanted to convey something more subtle; something beyond what is actually happening on screen? Now, I’m not suggesting this is the case, but postmodernism begs us to consider as much.

The postmodern argument clearly favors those who argue what’s right in my books my not be in someone else’s and thus censorship is flawed. Thus, in its own terms postmodernism works to resolve this issue.

In this case, I tend to agree with this line. But only with a very clear but at the end. No one is getting hurt by simulated rape and I’d rather someone with these tendencies exert them onto a game like this than in reality. But this rule shouldn’t—nay, can’t—be hard-and-fast. Images of real rape and child pornography should not be allowed for many reasons that have been discussed ad nauseam throughout the media (e.g. how can we regulate these things, are all parties consenting, how would it work jurisdiction-wise).

OK, I just outed myself in favor of absolutes. In this sense, I agree with Barnett. But Barnett muddies his own argument by including art. Art is a far too subjective term. Where Barnett says games aren’t art, I might say they are. Besides, the games as art jury still seems to be out and not likely to return any time soon. And it is accepted that the explicit images in art can be offset by what they are trying to say. Hence, a ten-year-old can see nudes in a gallery but not at the movies.

If you subscribe to postmodernism then this debate is quite clear-cut. If you, however, believe postmodernism can ethically take you only so far, then the debate is stodgy and it’s hard to draw lines. I’ll conclude this with some of the questions raised:

• If postmodernism is inadequate here, where is it adequate? That being said, is it relevant to this debate? And, further, if it isn’t relevant here, where is it relevant?
• Is this debate split down censorship lines or ethical ones?
• Should our attitudes towards child pornography and rape extend to simulated versions? If so, why? Largely, this hasn’t been explained.
• How does the games as art affect this debate?
• What other frameworks might resolve the issue more cleanly?

Oh, and do read Japanmanship. I’m quite a fan of Barnett’s writing.

The Path’s postmodern-ness doesn’t end with the comments in my last post. Some other aspects of it are favorable to postmodern critique:

• By consciously lacking a narrative, The Path forces the player to give the event their own reading—how I interpret an event will be different to you. As such, it foregrounds the idea of textual polysemy.

• The Path is also highly intertextual. By overtly incorporating structural elements from Little Red Riding Hood, it identifies that games rely on other texts like books. This is an important element of The Path for us to recognize, too. It helps bring games into a wider critical arena where their elements are considered on par with literature and film.

Again, check out the demo. It’s awesome.

And so the debate rages—is The Path a game or not. Judging from several recent blog posts, people demand that it be one or the other.

See, I don’t agree with this. In fact, I think The Path is so freakin’ postmodern that its whole purpose is to challenge classification. And, therefore, whether or not it’s a game is irrelevant. Let me explain…

We’ll begin this by considering some of the ways The Path differs from “traditional” games. Well, firstly, the game sort of lies to you. You’re told to go to your grandma’s house and stay on the path, but if that’s all you do, it’s GG; you must do the opposite. Secondly, The Path has no clear, overarching narrative. As you explore the woods, gather memories and encounter a “wolf”, you notice that there is nothing clear tying these occurrences together.

So as you can see, there is a tension in The Path between the purported aim (get to grandma’s house; stay on the path) and what you actually have to do (leave path, gather memories). Similarly, its title (The Path) implies some linearity, but there is none—so we can assume, at least, considering there is no apparent cogent narrative.

This tension highlights the boundaries by which players will define The Path. A game, intuition tells us, gives us coherent objectives or, at least, leads us to find them. Likewise, games will tie certain points together and give us some indication of how to make sense of the connections. The Path throws these out the window and challenges our complacency with them. By drawing our attention to how we read and define video games, the contradictions in The Path deconstruct the category “game”—a hallmark of postmodern texts.

Upon playing The Path, no longer can the player take for granted what is and isn’t a member of the category “game”; they must objectify and reconsider. And this, I believe, is a major concern of the game. The developers refer to it as a game thus bringing this notion to the fore: we expect it to be a game and, upon playing, question why it is or is not a game. It is designed to raise a set of specific questions, or at least it does so very well:

• Is the notion of “video game” changing; in the wake of The Path, does it need to change?
• Are our assumptions about “the game” wrong?
• Where are the definitional boundaries of “video game”?

My arguments are supported by the fact that The Path has stirred such a debate. Whether or not I think it is a game is irrelevant, but following on from my arguments above, I don’t think it has to be either—it depends on how you define “game” and interpret The Path itself. And this is the brilliance of The Path—it has involved gamers in a critical debate about video games and forced them to question and justify their own classifications.

So debate-on, my fellow bloggers! I look forward to the weeks ahead.

A demo of The Path is available for Mac and PC. It’s brand new and not actually part of the full version. It’s a prologue.

http://tale-of-tales.com/ThePath/

I’ll begin this by saying something that I know will make many of you scoff at my gaming cred. For many years my main computer-gaming platform was a Mac. That’s right—an Apple Mac! And I loved the beige beast.

“But SystemShock was never released for Mac! How could you possibly know games?” I hear you say. Well, frankly, you can shut up. I also had a PC, but I played more games on Mac because the games had different aesthetics; different priorities. As a young gamer forming his ideas about games, I found the dichotomy between the games on the two platforms fascinating. Plus, I found the simplicity of many Mac games liberating from dungeon-trawling in Baron Baldric: Mystic Towers (1994).

Coming from this background, it strikes me as odd the the debate about games as art has seemingly ignore games developed solely for Mac OS. For me at least, this gives rise to a somewhat hollow debate—simply put, we’re neglecting a part of gaming history.

Granted, Macs were never good for gaming. They lacked power, upgradability and, considering the age of the average gamer, affordability. I think these factors all generated something of a—now institutionalized—Mac-phobia amongst gamers. Even though I run a PC as well, whenever I tell gamers I own a Mac, I get questions like “You heard of this game called Counterstrike? It’s like Virtua Cop but completely different.”

That said, however, most Mac owners weren’t gamers: the people buying Macs were graphic designers, web developers and desktop publishers. But even designers—yes, designers—needed distractions.

Because most Macs were used for work, games made for them had to function as temporary, short-term distractions (at home Mac users were reading Doug Coupland and watching I’m Alan Partridge). The upshot: games developed for Mac had to cater to an aesthetically conscious, casual gaming market. And indeed, many Mac-exclusive games were visually impeccable.

Maelstrom: time for some ‘stroid grinding!

Developers catered to this audience by using the principles of existing games—largely arcade-style games from the 70s and 80s and DOS games from the 80s and 90s—and treating them as a canvas onto which they could build good visual ideas.

A buffet of games emerged that, while simple, looked great. They had lush textures, colorful character and environment design and smooth motion mechanics comparable to many current games.

Nanosaur: in-psycho-credible!

An example of this is Maelstrom (1993) made by Ambrosia software. Flying through sparse space environments shooting asteroids—what more could you want? In the Space Invaders-esque Apeiron (1995), instead of playing a spaceship shooting down alien things, you’re a green spinning cone shooting a caterpillar as it closes-in on you. Oh, and there are mushrooms in your way.

Apeiron: Space Invaders if made by CS Lewis.