Touché, bitches!

It’s a pet topic of certain authors on this blog to talk about a so-called postmodern turn in contemporary games. After reading about postmodernity in gaming on this blog, a fellow reviewer and journalist recommended that I play The Chinese Room’s Dear Esther. As she saw it, Dear Esther incorporates many of the conclusions of postmodernism much like The Path. I played it and agreed with her. But what was it that made her—and me—think Dear Esther would add interesting elements to the pomo argument? It wasn’t the genre-challenging nature of the game. Nor was it the inherent intertextuality. Dear Esther slots nicely into the postmodern argument because it is built around a highly polysemous narrative. In other words, the story is amiable to multiple—if not infinite—interpretations. I’ll begin with a quote from the developer about the game:

‘The user [of Dear Esther] navigates the environment, triggering audio fragments of a narrative which, together with visual clues and codes embedded in the world, build to create a story which is inherently constructed around the innate slippage of meaning and fragmentary nature of interactive experiences.’

Obvious in this quote is that the game was built around this idea of polysemy. In Dear Esther, the player—or ‘user’—is not given a cogent or even seemingly sensible narrative. Via audio of someone reading out letters to Esther and environmental cues like things written on walls or figures in the distance we are delivered fragments of something what we assume is a broad narrative. These snippets are fragmentary and discordant, so much so that the game fails to deliver a pre-determined plot. But this is the intention. Let me quote a commenter on Dear Esther’s Moddb page:

‘Lol. Im to scared to find out the secrets of this island, Can someone please tell me what all the writings are about [sic]’

The discordancy of Dear Esther’s ‘narrative’ is genuinely scary. It’s not because the island setting is grim and deserted. This isn’t enough to scare most gamers. What makes it so scary is our own minds; the way we interpret the cues we’re given in the context of someone wandering a deserted island. I should add here that we don’t know from whose perspective we’re playing. Is it Esther; is it the sender of the letters; is it a ghost; or is it someone/something else?

Anyway—back to postmodernism. Dear Esther is, as discussed above, completely polysemous. Like The Path, there is no set meaning to the text as a whole. Also like The Path, it doesn’t resolve the central ‘plot’ tenets. As such, any reading you give it is correct. Welcome, Postmodernity. Dear Esther successfully utilizes this postomdernist idea of polysemy to create an interesting and absorbing experience (see abiove). It also challenges the taxonomies that be: what is ‘game’; what can first-person games be; can games be art; and what is an ‘interactive story’ as opposed to a game? When you play it you’ll see what I’m getting at and I’m not going into these idea here. I’m going to posit something instead—games bereft of narrative conclusiveness are gaining prominence and postmodernism in gaming can be observed at some level across many modern games.

The Path, Dear Esther, Blueberry Garden, Mad World and many others provide the player with input that we assume is narrative-related. But we aren’t told anything conclusive and thus mould said inputs into something useful. As such, these games are polysemous. Postmodernism is a framework that’s overlaid on texts and not something necessarily inherent in their creation. But what these games do is bring the ideas of postmodernism to the fore and it should be noted that many of these games have other postmodern traits. And it should be noted that by implementing a polysemy in games, developers are acknowledging a dialogue that exists between them—the artist—and players. In other words, they acknowledge that how art is read is not entirely up to the creator and that it is often a compromise between inherent components in the work and the reader’s (player’s) interpretation.

I think it’s interesting how the medium is used to analyze the textual polysemy argued for by postmodern scholars. But not only do I think it’s interesting, I also think it’s very important. These games investigate the ideas scholars have thus-far only alluded to in books, film, music, architecture and art. From an academic-theoretical perspective, this helps to modernize the medium of games and forcibly bring them up to speed with other medias. I’d argue that this pomo turn in gaming is a reaction to the games as art issue—can games be considered art like other mediums? Of course they can. And these games demonstrate this by incorporating features of other types of text.

I encourage anyone who reads this to tell us about any other games that fit this description. I also highly encourage you all to play Dear Esther. It’s an enlightening and fascinating experience that none of us here at Touche will be forgetting soon.

I recently read this post at Sexy Videogameland which made me think about all the old games I played. Consequently, I went around to my parents’ and dug up all the old boxes that belonged to an array of PC, Game Boy, SNES and Playstation games. And this got me to thinking: many of these boxes, particularly PC game boxes, are well designed, embossed, large A4 and look good on a shelf like books do. These days I just download games through Steam or WiiWare or buy it in a standard plastic case. The transition happened without me noticing. So where did the boxes go and why don’t I mind that they’re gone?

There is a debate raging in dorky niche-blogs all over the internet about the death of the book. Not in the video-games-and-movies-are-destroying-books way, but in the e-books-are-cheaper way. People everywhere are worried that e-book readers like Kindle, e-books themselves and print-on-demand services will ultimately result in the demise of the book as an artifact. There seems to be a high value placed on books as objects and I for one can understand why—there is nothing quite like a beautifully designed and printed novel. Here is one example and another.

While there was a similar reaction when music started going digital, there seems to have been no fuss when video games did with the advent of services like Steam. I mean, think about it—books, music and games all manifest in ways that transcend the objects by which they are delivered: books in stories played out in the mind, music in aural and thoughtful stimulation and games in images, narratives and thoughts delivered through the screen. Almost gone are the days when you could buy a game in special edition packaging with embossed titles and shiny foils designed to move more units. I mean, they still exist, but they’re catered to hardcore consumers and have smaller runs than the old Starcraft special edition boxes did. That being said, almost all new games come exclusively via download or in plastic cases pioneered by the DVD and not actual boxes.

Why is this? Why do people on one hand fear the demise of books, records and CDs but barely bat an eyelid when some games become available only online [1] [2]? What’s the difference in these medias that facilitates this?

I personally think all these questions can be answered by considering this last question. Let’s start by comparing books and games. Books as we know them have been around for well over 4oo years when Jonathan was only a twinkle in great-great-great-great-great-great grandpa Blow’s eye. Books, as such, have a heavily ingrained set of traditions and practices associated with their appearance, their production and their societal values and people understandably don’t want to let this go. Once books go E, the printing press will all but disappear, designers will struggle for work as more people use open source layout tools to do it themselves, in lieu of reduced revenue publishers will cut costs resulting in lower quality books.

Video games on the other hand have developed in parallel with the technology that’s said to dissipate the book. Many of us, I’m sure, have downloaded demo games before buying their full-version boxed form. And after all, the packaging is secondary to the game itself. Also, video games are delivered in the same forms either by the internet or on a disk whereas books seem to be damaged by this sort of transmittal.

So why then the fuss about CDs? These arguments made about games surely translate there. Well, we musn’t forget that as music went digital, people weren’t sure about how a variety of other technological factors would impact: e.g. internet speeds, availability of media players. In other words, the associated technology was in a state of flux.

Video games, by comparison, quietly go download-only without anyone worrying about it or caring. It happened gradually as internet speeds went up. Also, gamers are generally young and are quite comfy using the internet. They understand that the media is more useful to them when stored remotely: you can’t lose it and it can’t be damaged or stolen. And I personally would rather see a healthy list of games in my Steam client than boxes on my shelf just as I’d rather see my iTunes library carefully organized than my CD cabinet alphabetized.

Like we’ve seen with CDs and even vinyl, we’ll still be able to find most games in stores and I don’t think any of us will live to see the day when bricks-and-mortar bookstores are boutique. But it is an interesting thought—that games, due to their nature, are manifest in something completely transcendent of their associated artifacts whereas books seem not to be. I argue this is to do with the cultures around them and not the objects themselves. As I mentioned earlier, special edition packaging was used to sell more copies of a game, but perhaps the gradual disappearance of such things suggest that gamers never valued these things like readers prefer a hard cover. That is, it’s a different culture with different prerogatives and a different understanding of the impacts of technology. Finally, I’ll leave you with a question not addressed here:

• How do collectors of cartridge-only games fit into this discussion? Are they analogous with readers? How might Virtual Console and the like affect said people?

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.