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Finding the "right" way to play Dark Souls II...and life

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*Minor boss spoilers ahead

I step into the fog gate for the ninth time, with my maximum health locked off to about ⅔ of the full bar. Two hits and I’d be dead. The eerie strings pick up, and the Pursuer lashes out. I dodge to the right, get one or two hits in with my Fire Longsword, and get ready for the next attack. The pattern continues from there. I’ve finally gotten a hang of the timing and get the Pursuer down to ¼ health in several careful, heart-pounding minutes. I mess up at the edge of the arena, the fiery sunset overlooking the sea on my character’s left side as I dodge just a little too late and wind up in the radius of The Pursuer’s sword in the last of his series of swipes. I hold my breath trying find an opening to heal with an Estus Flask before plunging my sword in the Pursuer’s armor-clad shins several more times. With a roar, the Pursuer levitates in pain, disappearing in a cloud of dust. While wiping my sweaty hands on my shorts, the words “VICTORY ACHIEVED” appears in gold lettering across the screen.




These moments--moments when you’ve mastered an area and boss after struggling with what initially seemed impossible--are when you feel best about both yourself and the game while playing Dark Souls. A gradual transition from powerless and confused to empowered and experienced gives you hope to continue your journey in a cruel game world that is mostly ambivalent to your successes and failures. But you can only feel this level of satisfaction when you figure out effective techniques and stumble upon shortcuts and useful items on your own.


Dark Souls is one of my favorite games ever, and my experience fighting the Pursuer and going through the Forest of Fallen Giants in Dark Souls II mirrors my encounters with Gwyn, the Four Kings, and some other bosses in the first game. But for every area and boss I worked through myself in Dark Souls and felt accomplished about afterwards were a few where I feel I cheated my way through. Some areas like Blighttown and some bosses like Ornstein and Smough just seemed insurmountable. I read walkthroughs for a lot of areas to find rare items and secrets to help make areas easier to traverse, and I called upon other players and NPCs to assist in boss fights. The former lessened my sense of discovery and the latter my sense of achievement. I also read tons of information on the general mechanics of Dark Souls, item uses, covenants, and upgrade trees online.


Some of this help I found absolutely essential to finishing the game; I’m not that hardcore a player to spend hours manually figuring out differences in weapon damage and experimenting with different items when I don’t know what they do. Some areas and bosses seemed built for jolly cooperation, and I had some great experiences of teamwork with other players. But sometimes extra assistance, both offered by the game and by the internet, seemed to be ruining parts of the experience. I knew what was around the corner from a walkthrough, so there was no tension whacking at a chest that I knew would come alive to try to eat me. Some co-op companions were so skilled, they essentially let me “skip” the bosses by doing all the work.    


I knew what I was doing was dulling my time, but the temptation to ease the burden of brutal encounters, obtuse levelling mechanics, and other stunts to progress that would force me to spend hours in tedium was too much. I blame myself rather than the game because I knew with more patience I could get through rough patches. I rushed some areas; for example, I attempted to defeat Centipede Demon only once before summoning someone to throw lightning at it, killing it in less than a minute.


With the sequel, I planned to get rid of these shameful tactics in order to have a purer experience. I tried to find a balance between receiving useful help and trudging along in stubborn solitude to both reduce tedium and confusion and make my successes my own. I found this balance sometimes, and other times I fell into the same traps. Overall, I played more honorably in Drangleic than in Lordran, so even though I think Dark Souls II isn’t as excellent as its predecessor (for a few reasons I won’t go into here), I had a better experience with it.
   
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Dark Souls II offers many ways to go about journeying across Drangleic as a “bearer of the Curse.” Allowing you to equip yourself with whatever weapons and armor you come across and level up stats individually, you can mould your character into a sturdy knight, nimble bandit, skillful spellcaster, or a mix of traits. Most approaches prioritizing either melee or ranged attacks are viable; often dumping souls into one or two skills makes some areas/bosses easier and others harder. You can also explore the several paths branching from the hub of Majula in any order you choose, with seemingly impossible areas indicating you should explore elsewhere and come back once more powerful. So there is no “right” way to play Dark Souls II in regards to character customization, and the “right” way in regards to progression through the game mostly makes itself apparent (with a few exceptions; see “6” for guides below).


But Dark Souls II also offers different ways to tackle specific challenges that appear insurmountable. And here’s where the different options can affect the quality of the experience as recounted above. Do you use your finite number of items to boost damage? Do you keep repeating sequences until you just get it? Do you summon NPCs or other players to deal with the bulk of your troubles? Do you look up the bonfire locations? Do you walk around the corner, shield up, hoping for the best? At different times each decision can be appropriate and rewarding, but sometimes the question becomes do I make this segment annoyingly tedious or do I make it unfairly easy? We all want that middle-ground of challenging yet surmountable, and a complex web of past decisions on equipment, levelling, item-searching, and multiplayer involvement can affect how individual players should act to reach that ideal difficulty.




With the rest of this piece, I aim to suggest how to deal with situations in order to find that happy medium. Take note that there honestly is no right or wrong way to play Dark Souls II; it depends on what you want out of it. Purists with the time and willpower to go alone all the way through find the intense trials what makes the game so special, while others may just want to play the entire game in co-op to enjoy more large-scale battles with other players. Some players want to explore on their own with the potential to miss things, while others want to make sure they find all the right secrets to be able to experiment with different equipment, covenants, and items. Players like me sort of want all these things. Any play style can cause you to love or hate Dark Souls II, and different people are suited to one or another. But denying help and going in over your head can cause needless frustration. So just imagine this guide like one of the many NPCs you meet in Drangleic: uncertain about his own advice and ambivalent towards your own motives and decisions. Though obviously more verbose.


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I want to talk a little bit about the unique nature of Dark Souls because I think some people have a hard time swallowing pride to use walkthroughs and online tips. Despite the intense loneliness Dark Souls evokes, it is a fundamentally communal experience. Dark Souls and its sequel are single-player games that constantly remind you that other players are experiencing the same trials grappling with an indifferent world that obscures information while throwing you into cruel situations. The connections between the worlds of other players via messages and bloodstains suggest that our individual struggles in Lordran and Drangleic are connected in a collective effort to maintain sanity and find the will to continue. Though other players can either help you or harm you, the sense of community is an integral part of the experience. Players uncover the secrets of the world together. You learn of a secret platform watching a phantom drop off a cliff and land safely in darkness. You learn the chest is a trap by touching a bloodstain and watching the player’s ghost die while opening it. You learn about a secret bonfire behind a wall from a message reading “illlusion ahead.” And you leave these clues yourself, consciously and unconsciously. If there’s a wrong way to play Dark Souls II, it’s offline. In fact, I imagine it’s near impossible playing the entire game without looking up any information about its mechanics, level design, etc. while also forgoing co-op. Dark Souls may dare you to complete much of it alone, but, remarkably, it also dares you to work with others.


This communal aspect of Dark Souls exists beyond the games themselves. The obscure nature of the series gets people talking online in order to speculate the truths of its cryptic lore but also to spread knowledge about the games’ item functions, secret areas, and covenants. Like Super Bunnyhop, I think the difficulty might have been designed for this community to form. Otherwise, how am I supposed to know what a Soul Vessel does or where I can use the Ashen Mist Heart without spending hours in aimless confusion? Just like I’m supposed to magically piece together the story through terse item descriptions on my own?


My point is, if you’re just getting into a Souls game, definitely use the online community to your advantage. Read up on the basics here. You would spend hours in hopeless drudgery without understanding the levelling system, upgrade system, status effects, online functionality, and other essential mechanics and item uses if you don’t inform yourself. You’ll also need to use this guide to learn about how to join certain covenants and secrets that ease repetition. The trouble with these wikis and forums is that you might read every little detail and miss out on surprises the game has for you within the level design. To avoid being sucked into looking at the computer every time you beat a few enemies, here are when you SHOULD look at a guide:


1. In the beginning, to learn the essentials as I mentioned (and later on if you need to be reminded of something).


2. To take note of where important items are, such as Estus Flask Shards, Titanite, Pharros Lockstones, and various keys (type in the item name on the search bar of a wiki).


3. Maybe you’ve gone a long way and haven’t found a bonfire. You might have missed one. Use control+F on a walkthrough to see if you passed that one bonfire under the stairs by accident.


4. You meet an NPC. Sometimes you can expect him or her to give you an item. There’s one woman that relocates after you exhaust her dialogue and opens up a new path. Look them up in a wiki to see if they have a questline (questlines are never explicitly written out) and act accordingly if you want to follow it. Good thing I looked up Mild Mannered Pate because I almost missed getting the White Sign Soapstone (used to summon players/NPCs) from him!


5. Maybe you’ve made it through an area once but want to make sure you got all the treasure. Use a guide to see if you want to return to grab a rare item.


6. You have no idea where to go. You received an item from a boss or NPC at the end of the area, but you have no idea how it works or where to use it.


You’re doing yourself a disservice if you read a guide beyond what you need to, as I have. As a completionist, I want to make sure I see everything and collect every item (also without dying much). So I ruined levels like Lost Izalith in Dark Souls and Earthen Peak in Dark Souls II with that obsession. The less you read of an area the more you’ll enjoy it. I’m so glad I went through the Gutter without a guide, which is probably the place most players would want to use it. You must use a torch in one hand to see while walking around wooden platforms in the abyss. So you’re unprotected if the torch replaced your shield. Without a guide, it was easier to focus on taking in the atmosphere of enveloping darkness and feel the fear in trying to decide whether or not to risk dropping down to the ledge that leads to a concealed path. It’s easy to appreciate the game’s design and your own learning process when you fail to see the exploding mummy on the bridge the first time but conquer it on your return.




Now, on to co-op. Naturally, it is much more fulfulling to help others than it is to be helped. That’s why the “Sunbro” covenants are so popular. Getting a thank-you on PSN from someone I helped defeat the two Dragonriders in Drangleic Castle was one of my best experiences in multiplayer in any game. If I use co-op to beat a boss for the first time, I try to undo that moment of weakness by putting my own summon sign down before the fog gate. If you’re on the other end, though, make sure you only call in players when you NEED to:


1. Summon when your type of character is not suited for a fight. For example, as a melee build, Ruin Sentinels were just too hard for me alone. Spellcasters might not be suited for fast bosses in small arenas like Smelter Demon.


2. Summon NPCs to continue questlines. This goes along with looking at the guide and deciding for yourself if it’s worth it. Sometimes summoning NPCs is really tempting because you think the game might reward you. Don’t expect it to; that’s how I effectively skipped Mytha, the Baneful Queen, a boss a good friend told me was “awesome.”


3. You’ve died a dozen times and not once had the boss down to half health.


4. When the area before the boss is too annoying/hard to repeat many times. Note that you may want to use the black separation crystal (which sends the summoned back to their worlds) before the fog gate if you think you can take the boss on your own. For me, that was with the Executioner’s Chariot (though I wish I had thought to use the crystal). I felt the same about the area before Smelter Demon, but that was a boss I needed a buddy to beat.  


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The Souls series is an interesting and important one because not only does it use its interactivity and obscurity to make players figure out its systems and story, but it also forces players to find out how to make it fun, how to make it valuable. Dark Souls is this scary, beautiful metaphor for life. You have all these options of play in front of you, but no matter what path(s) you choose, you will at times get frustrated and you will get stuck, likely pissed at both the system and yourself. I think that, as a high school graduate since three weeks ago, my anxieties about finding the right career and making decisions that won’t fuck up my life bled into and maybe even defined my time playing Dark Souls II. Maybe I’m so concerned about finding the “right” way to play Dark Souls II because I’m so concerned about finding the “right” way to go about my life. All while this concern swells as someone interested in doing games writing learns that many writers I admire are basically unemployable and starving despite their seemingly endless talent. All while being interested more in ideas, thoughts, and emotions yet getting a math award at graduation.


Of course, I speak from a largely ignorant, young, privileged perspective, but my thoughts echo universal desires for comfort and happiness. Naturally, I want the best Dark Souls experience just as I want the best life experience. The pressures of multifaceted choices and risks permeate both, and maybe I subconsciously think that any poor choice I make in the game followed by devastating consequences foreshadows a life-changing mistake in real life. Thus, I try to avoid those by reading guides and using co-op.


And that’s where the conflict comes in; getting too much outside help is where I feel I don’t own all my successes. Maybe Dark Souls is trying to teach me a lesson, or maybe Dark Souls is the vessel with which I’m trying to teach myself a lesson. You invariably cannot live life totally independent of other people, and you cannot have other people do all your work for you. Emptiness seeps in either from being smashed by the Old Iron Kings of life over and over again on your own or from choosing not to overcome the slow, weak hollows without holding Lucatiel of Mirrah’s hand. But combining our individual efforts and calls for help in some magic formula can give us the healthy qualities of self-worth and sense of community/appreciation of others we need in our lives.



Based on the design of the difficulty, the mechanics, and the story, the Souls games’ themes touch on existentialism (which many more qualifiedpeople than I have written about regarding the series). But, if I have the gist right, there’s something beautiful in a game that says that even when everything is sucky, painful, and stuck in a futile cycle of sucky painfulness, we can overcome the shit life throws at us, partly on our own and partly together. Even if we can’t find an innate meaning or purpose, maybe we’ll at least have fun trying.

Machoism and Tonal Inconsistency in DmC: Devil May Cry

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There’s edgy industrial electronica music playing over images of women pole-dancing, sporting angel wings and underwear, fading in and out. The blue strobe lights are intermittently filtered by an other-worldly red hue that seems to reveal some people in the club are crying tears of blood or something. A pervy smirk appears on screen, and the rebooted Dante brings two women back to his trailer parked in the middle of an amusement park on the boardwalk. Swaying overhead lamp, squeaky bed spring noises, shaking camera. More images of women in underwear fading in and out. Late title card.




Until now, I’ve never played one of those games in which you beat up hordes of grotesque creatures in order to have words like “VICIOUS,” “SAVAGE,” or “SADISTIC” appear on screen next to a number. I chose to play DmC: Devil May Cry after hearing praise from outlets and friends and learning of the low barrier to entry. I also like weird, over-the-top silly games, so I was drawn to the edgy premise of a banker-demon-illuminati conspiracy and the laughable “fuck the police” attitude. For whatever reason, I like the idea of stylish combat behind teen angst-ridden political commentary meant to push buttons instead of being thoughtful or nuanced. Though I love many serious games, it’s been too long since I’ve gleefully yelled at my TV, “this is outrageous!” (a thing I did playing DmC) for visual and narrative bombast. Also, this game’s title spells out its own acronym, and that acronym flips the bird (intentionally?) to Grammar People by refusing to capitalize “m.” How audacious! I thought to myself how much of a dumb, fun ride this game would be.


And I was right for the most part. I especially enjoyed the parts where the game let me interact with it. The combat is snappy and elegant, and fighting demons large and small becomes a creative process of establishing stylish techniques, using different ranged and melee weapons, and choosing which abilities and combos to unlock. Traversing through the varied, surprisingly colorful environments of Limbo, the game’s demon-infested alternate reality, is also fun despite slightly unwieldy jumping controls. Flinging through levels with a grappling hook while the environment distorts and crumbles creates a sense of momentum in between combat encounters. DmC is a power trip with flair and a great game product thing with interesting difficulty modes, collectibles, and secret challenges rooms.




I get a little disappointed when the game strips control from me though--not because the game shouldn’t. I’m not one of those “cutscenes are bad” people who think games should only do interactive storytelling. It’s that the game isn’t always so tongue-in-cheek when it tells its story.


There is some really great silly stuff (did I mention SPOILERS yet?), like in the beginning when Dante walks out of his trailer naked to hear an unintroduced (and totally unphased) hooded woman warn him of this “Hunter Demon.” Then the sky gets dark and red, the demon appears, and the bright morning on the boardwalk turns into a hellish fever dream. The intense techno-metal blares up as Dante dives into his trailer slo-mo and clothes himself mid-jump, with an airborne baseball bat and pizza slice conveniently covering genitalia. This sequence is so rushed and goofy you’re left wondering what the hell is happening before you can even ask why. And that’s exactly the kind of lunacy I want in games every so often. But DmC doesn’t always commit to this over-the-top vision. At times, it tries to sell genuine emotion by using boring tropes and foreseeable twists (more on that later). DmC doesn’t quite know if it wants to be off the walls or grounded in a serious conflict.


But it does know that it wants to be masculine. The sweaty formula of a pure male power fantasy is made with the ripping through of demons by a combination of brute force and artful finesse, all while men characters are elevated at the expense of women in the narrative. We’re talking about a game in which one of the first things a woman says is, “The world is at last your bitch, as am I.”


There are some unique aspects of the power fantasy like the explosive Combichrist soundtrack that thunders with “dark” machoism. And never has a game let me murder a Bill O’Reilly parody in cyber space before. But the game also retreats to traditions of this type of game that are clichéd and somewhat problematic. In a game in which a giant demon bug lady screams “FUCK YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!!!” while puking acid, you might be able to forgive its missteps. But DmC does one unpardonable thing: it asks players to care.


Early on I thought that Dante would have a hard time caring about the situation with the evil, brainwashing demon 1% throughout the entire game. He even says, “What makes you think I give a shit?” to his focused, idealist brother Vergil regarding mankind. But, after the second level, which is a retreading of Dante’s childhood home in which he experiences flashbacks, he learns that Mundus, the head honcho demon who you instantly know will be the second-to-last boss, killed his mother and separated his family. So now Dante is totally on board with fighting the demons to fulfill a revenge quest. Clearly, DmC does not really care about its leftist themes and iconography because the main incentive for the protagonist is just a woman in a refrigerator. This trope can work in other stories (e.g. The Last of Us) but doesn’t here because Eva, Dante’s mother, is a concept rather than a character, so learning of her murder has no emotional impact. And from then on, the game alternates between the aforementioned fun ridiculousness and self-serious, ineffective emotional manipulation that asks you to relate to the characters.


DmC uses a woman to make Dante care about fighting the demons, and it also uses a woman to make him care about the future of humanity. Leigh Alexander wrote about our women heroes problem in which she discusses that while men are portrayed as independently hard and “badass,” women must be “traumatized” to become heroic. She brings up women in refrigerators as excuses for men’s adventures, while women must have been broken or vulnerable themselves before their own quests. Alexander says, “It seems that when you want to make a woman into a hero, you hurt her first. When you want to make a man into a hero, you hurt… also a woman first.”




Usually, you only see one or the other of these devices in a game, but in DmC there’s both! Kat, the aforementioned hooded woman, is Vergil’s human assistant who often guides Dante through levels from her perspective in the real world and uses spray paint to allow Dante to interact with environments in Limbo. Kat is hesitant to talk about her past with Dante. You see, Kat’s foster father was a demon, who trapped her in nightmares. Vergil found her in Limbo and rescued her. He taught her how to kill the demon haunting her, and now she wants to “deal with them all.” Of course while she had to be traumatized by a man and rescued by a man before she could become useful to the Order, Dante and Vergil found their own ways out of their nightmares. Late in the game, Vergil tells Dante he learned hacking as a way to build a “sense of control,” something the twins never felt, while Dante’s release was “killing demons and getting laid.” Classy.


Men in this story also establish control using women. Kat becomes a half-baked love interest for Dante, and naturally, she becomes damseled in the latter half of the game. More shocking is how the game presents the kidnapping. The screen goes black and white, and a sad, tinkly piano tune plays over the muffled sounds of Kat being shot by the demon police and dragged away. The scene is terribly out of place and is the most insulting thing DmC does, asking me to care about simplistic characters in a silly game about evil demon bankers controlling the world through debt.


What follows is Dante--yes, the one who said “What makes you think I give a shit?”--flips out about Kat’s abduction, wanting to save her along with the rest of mankind. Surprisingly, I relate to the early-game Dante more, or at least I buy that character. Mundus sends a clip to Vergil and Dante offering to trade Kat’s life for Dante’s. Of course the men, realizing that they’re men and not objects to be traded, decide to hunt down Mundus’ mistress Lilith to offer instead.


Vergil: “Why would Mundus care about one of his whores?”
Dante: “Because she carries his child.”


So, really, the game and its characters, without comment, treat Lilith as a talking vessel that holds Mundus, Jr. and not as a person (demon) with value. After Vergil kills Lilith during the uncomfortable “trade” cutscene, characters only refer to the death of Mundus’ child. Even the boss is called “Mundus Spawn” and not Lilith. At least she has the agency to run her own demonic club? Phew, aren’t sex workers so well represented in games?


At least at the end, Dante insists that Kat was an essential part of the triumph over Mundus when it turns out Vergil is actually evil and thinks humans are below him (after looking up stuff on other games in the series, fans must have seen this twist a mile away and even newcomers like me could see it coming, I mean do you see what he’s wearing?). But this comes long after the game has stopped being “self-aware.” Of course when we say a game or a piece of media is self-aware, we mean that it doesn’t ask you to take stupid shit seriously. I could probably reconcile troubling narrative decisions if the game was consistently a giant disingenuous middle finger.




All of the cringe-worthy self-serious instances of DmC make me rethink the entire experience. I wonder if the developers aren’t cackling with me at the game’s stupidly cheesy ending--if they’re not in on their own joke and think it’s genuinely good writing.The lazy tropes and poor attempts at emotion draw me out of the surreal Limbo and back to reality: somewhere, some kid is watching the intro I described in the first paragraph of this post and unironically thinking, “Wow. This is so cool. Dante is so badass.” There’s an uncomfortable cloud that hangs over DmC: Devil May Cry, reminding you that its vulgar, juvenile disposition might be sincere. That cloud too often prevents me from fully loving a game that is more often so fun, so imaginative, and so dumb in the best possible way.  

I admit, though, I do like it quite a bit.

The Average Emiles of War

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There are many video games about war, and most have similar elements. How controversial to say, right? Obviously most war games, including both those that treat the subject carefully and not, involve the player shooting a lot of people. But also, nearly all of these games have characters with the same status in society. They’re all career soldiers thrown into combat with experience. Some, such as Captain Walker of Spec Ops: The Line and Commander Shepard of Mass Effect (yes, we are going to call that series “war games”), have chosen to enlist in the military to serve their respective country/political entity or for some other, perhaps unexplained, reason. Others, like Solid Snake of Metal Gear Solid and Nomad of Crysis, are specifically raised, even manufactured, to be the perfect soldier.




In stories dominated by military jargon and political melodrama, players are put into perspectives separate from “regular” civilian lives. If a personal conflict is portrayed in a war game, it usually regards the toll of combat on a character’s mental and physical health or relationships between other soldiers and military figures. Even though these protagonists and supporting characters might make a passing reference to a spouse and kids, players primarily observe them as members of a military before members of a family. They may be developed with an emotional depth and range and appear to behave as believable human beings, but they are consistently portrayed as exotic compared to everyday citizens.

By portraying soldiers primarily as combat experts and potential heroes, games create a divide in their worlds between those soldiers set to save the world, galaxy, whatever and civilians cheering or suffering on the sidelines. This dichotomy perhaps reflects the modern all-volunteer militaries of many western countries. The US military has been active in conflicts around the world in recent years, but civilians haven’t been conscripted to the service since 1973, during the Vietnam War. The characters in video games about war echo the soldiers of our time: freely choosing to enlist for practical or ideological reasons, perhaps being a part of a family with a history in the military. So video games, often so wrapped up in the high-stakes action of combat and politics of war, rarely explore how people ambivalent or opposed to conflicts are swept up in them.

Putting soldiers on a level different from “normal people” plays into the common nature of games as power fantasies as well. In a typical war game, players can assume the role of essentially a superhuman: a soldier capable of defeating waves of enemies to resolve an intensified crisis vaguely similar to what western players might hear on the news but never come close to experiencing. In most cases, this soldier is disconnected from pedestrian thoughts and actions, aside from briefly grieving a lost comrade or once mentioning a longing for home. Though it may be farfetched to say that many people will interpret the action and stories in these games as realistic depictions of war, I wonder if civilian players can internalize the idea that “there are soldiers and then there are us” through these games. That’s not exactly a great mindset in a society that wants to eradicate war and one that already struggles helping soldiers adjust to civilian life after combat.

One game travels back a hundred years, to a war in which civilians were drafted, to show that soldiers are indeed one of us.

Ubisoft Montpellier’s Valiant Hearts: The Great War opens in the French countryside in 1914. After the outbreak of the war, Karl, a German citizen and farmer, is separated from his French wife and their son after being expelled from the country and forced to fight for Germany. Soon after, Karl’s father-in-law Emile is called to join the war effort for France. Meanwhile, Anna, a young Belgian woman studying to become a veterinarian, goes on a journey to find her father who the Germans had captured to exploit his scientific research to create new weapons. She decides to use her healing gifts to nurse all those in need along the way, regardless of uniform. Emile soon meets Freddie, an American who willfully enlists in the French army to avenge his wife fallen to a German bomb. 

 

The player switches between these characters throughout the game to solve 2D point-and-click style puzzles. These characters are ordinary people disturbed by this conflict and thrown into it, and even though Freddie’s story follows a tired trope, he eventually learns his hunger for revenge is not worth the cost of war. Valiant Hearts is little interested in the international politics of World War I and rather focuses on the war’s effects on individuals and groups of people. With these simple characters trying to outlive the war in order to reunite with their displaced families, the game posits that there are no good guys or bad guys in war, just victims of a political climate beyond their control. (At the same time, though, Valiant Hearts is awkwardly allies-normative, betraying its message by pitting the heroes against an evil caricature of a German baron for much of the game.)

Valiant Hearts’ gameplay focuses on environmental puzzles that often require players to find items to repair machinery, trade with NPCs, or blow open new paths with explosives in order to progress. The little direct violence in Valiant Hearts involves a sequence shooting down enemy planes from a tank and the occasional knocking of opposing soldiers over the head during stealth. There are also a few light-hearted sequences in which the player drives a taxi while avoiding obstacles and bombs in time to “Flight of the Bumblebee” and other classical pieces of music. And the story takes its liberties separating and bringing the characters back together over an enormous battlefield and conveniently saving characters from imminent death. No, Valiant Hearts is by no stretch a “realistic” depiction of combat or the events of World War I. But it doesn’t have to be.

The elements of the game that resemble a Saturday morning cartoon, including its cutesy art and whimsical segments, while occasionally jarring (e.g. the baron), more often endear players to the characters, making the story’s many crushing moments of loss and hellish images of corpses and destruction more impactful. The player yearns for more infectiously  gleeful moments during the disheartening and tense ones that are inevitable in war. The urgency of battle scenes in which you charge amidst artillery fire particularly stand in stark contrast to the giddy taxicab sequences. Unlike many other pieces of war media that drown in their tension, horror, and nihilism, Valiant Hearts’ lighter side recalls the positive emotions of a joyful world to be cherished, a world that war does a terrible job protecting. 



While the game’s cartoonish depiction of WWI plays loose with details to demonstrate the war’s toll on its fictional characters, Valiant Hearts’ excellent system of collectibles and historical facts reminds players that this was a real conflict that affected real people. At the start of every level, the game provides optional historical tidbits to read accompanied by photographs in its menu, often about the location of the level, the event that took place there, and different aspects of combat and civilian life during the war. The game provides short accessible descriptions of tunnel digging strategies, living conditions, dog tag systems, and occasional statistics through these facts. Throughout the levels, players can find items that when examined in the menu, give even more information on their uses or the events and people associated with them. Players can pick up a rag to learn about soldiers covering their faces in urine-soaked rags to protect themselves from chlorine gas and a metal cross to learn about the importance of religion to many during the war. The most powerful moments of the game occur when players connect the trauma of the individual characters to the realization that those characters aren’t alone in their struggles. Through the game’s mini history lessons, players see that the war affected millions of people, not just soldiers but the entire European society and many other parts of the world. The facts acknowledge the contributions and sacrifices of Indian soldiers, all-black regiments, women joining the workforce, women tasked with writing letters to soldiers without families, prisoners of war, and of course those hopelessly adorable dogs of war. 



A lot of people have noted that Valiant Hearts breaks the mould as a war game that doesn’t focus on shooting, where the player’s actions are more often benevolent than harmful. But I’m more interested in that Valiant Hearts recognizes and commits to showing that many different ordinary people participate in war and are affected by it. So why can’t war games set in modern times in conflicts fictional or otherwise do the same? Though the world’s conflicts today are largely without drafts and not on the scale of World War I, the military personnel and civilians caught in them have lives outside the storm of political turmoil, or at least dream of them. Why don’t games show a variety of these perspectives? And if players must take the roles of typical gruff white guy soldiers, why don’t games explore their lives before and after war, their reasons for enlisting, their hobbies, their vulnerabilities, their fears, hopes, and thoughts? Why don’t games go beyond the insights of Mass Effect 2’s loyalty missions or the recollection of Cole Train’s thrashball days in Gears of War 3? Why do so many soldiers in war games appear extraordinary, distanced from the civilians they might save?

Perhaps the answer lies in the distance between real soldiers and civilians and the barriers of communication between them. The cultural elevation of troops in the US forbids civilians from asking about their experiences out of respect, forcing veterans to hold in memories without being understood. Perhaps developers refrain from overly personal storytelling in war games out of respect and fear of misrepresenting soldiers’ personal experiences that civilian players “couldn’t possibly understand.” So instead they get not-even-close representations in action game fantasylands that end up playing it safe in their distance from intimate emotions and introspective storytelling.

In the article linked above, former Marine Phil Kay writes, “You don’t honor someone by telling them, ‘I can never imagine what you’ve been through.’ Instead, listen to their story and try to imagine being in it, no matter how hard or uncomfortable that feels.” What better way is there for civilians to “imagine being in it” than using interactive media? With care and nuance, video games could start chipping away that barrier between soldiers and civilians, delivering stories and experiences sometimes too difficult to articulate and too personal to ask about, which some games like Dys4iaare already doing.

And they should start by treating soldiers like human beings.

My Sword and My Shield

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Oh my god, where IS she?


I’ve been waiting at the entrance to this cave for about five minutes. The orchestral strings slowly swell and recede as I pan my view across the bluffs, paths, and hilltops barely visible in the blinding snowstorm. I’m starting to get anxious. Am I really going to have a reload a save from twenty minutes ago again? Then finally, a blurry figure appears over the hill, sprinting down the slope. As it approaches, crunching footfalls get louder with every step. A familiar face appears under a Forsworn headdress I gifted. Phew. There she is.


Lydia.


Hey, look, a cave! I wonder what’s inside.”


---




The companion AI in The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim is notoriously awful. If you decide to sprint through any tough terrain, or sprint at all, you run the risk of losing your partner, momentarily or forever. She may be determinedly running into a bush, unable to decide how to go about moving the twenty feet to where you are, as you imagine your character impatiently tapping his foot, arms crossed. She might decide not to risk a two foot drop and take the long, long way around a main path, and before she reaches you she might get attacked by an ice troll. Traversing Skyrim with a follower means stopping and turning around every few seconds to make sure your partner catches up with you. It feels like what I imagine escorting a toddler through a zoo or shopping mall must be like. And I don’t think I want to be a parent.


Companions really slow down your progress in Skyrim. I attribute my having played Skyrim for 128 hours and having only finished the main quest, the Daedric quests, and the College of Winterhold questline, while many other players finish most or all major questlines in that time, to Lydia’s curious and frustrating behavior. So why did I play so much of the game with a companion that made exploring the wintry landscapes of Skyrim actively worse in most cases? I tolerated Lydia blocking narrow passages in dungeons and making me grunt at the TV, “Lydia, MOVE!” because she became part of my adventure, my story, and I soon found that I couldn’t finish the game without her.


---


Of the many characters who offered to follow me on my adventure through Skyrim, I chose Lydia to accompany me because she was probably the first person in the game I felt I could trust. She was assigned to be my housecarl after I was titled Thane of Whiterun for defeating my first dragon in the fields outside the town. Though a patriotic Nord (whereas I was an outsider Argonian), she seemed above the shady politics of Skyrim’s civil war, simply ready to serve as my trusty housecarl. She looked tough and capable with her steel armor and had a pleasant voice with an air of genuine righteousness. I figured it would be a depressing existence for a dedicated housecarl to sit in town while I was out adventuring. So I asked her to follow me, and off we went into the harsh wilderness.






Lydia proved to be both frustrating and useful, and I quickly grew attached to her quirks. She was a fearless warrior, rushing to my defense against bandits, giants, and Falmer, without regarding the safety of her own life. She almost got herself killed multiple times charging at enemies from high drops (of course she’ll run off cliffs in combat but won’t climb over a hill while exploring). And she often sent her arrows too early, foiling my attempts at sneaking. Lydia always managed to stand her ground, though, and fend off a bear by herself while I was preoccupied by a troll.


But certain enemies were too much for Lydia. She was knocked down by giants, mammoths, and some late-game bandits. But her one true fear, her one kryptonite, left Lydia vulnerable and frightened every time we encountered them: stationary boulders. There are traps in many of Skyrim’s dungeons, and most frequently in Draugr tombs, a group of shin-high boulders will roll down a slope after you when you trigger the trap by stepping on a panel. After easily dodging the rocks, they will rest at the bottom of the slope for you to walk over/around them. I did so, expecting Lydia to follow behind. But instead I heard the typical “ow” and “ugh” of Lydia being attacked, so I figured a Draugr must have been following us or got trapped in geometry until now. When I turned around, I saw Lydia repeated run into the short boulders and recoil from damage. You could tell she was getting frustrated. She was yelling, “Damn you!” at the boulders, and I was laughing. But when I approached, her health bar appeared and showed a sliver of health left. She hit her shin on a rock one more time and fell to her knee. I mashed buttons as quick as a could to equip the Grand Healing spell to revive her.


“A healing spell! Are you a--”


LYDIA, DON’T YOU EVER SCARE ME LIKE THAT AGAIN.


With Lydia, a small annoyance could become a grave danger, and I guess that’s what made having her around fun.


But Lydia was genuinely charming and interesting in her own right. Though she simultaneously endeared and annoyed me with recycled dialogue of “I am sworn to protect you” and “Honor to see you, my Thane,” she was steadfast to her principles. I could typically instruct her to stand somewhere or attack something, but when I pointed at citizens and non-hostiles to assault, she always said something to effect of, “I would never do that!” Yet she remained loyal to me throughout it all, never bothered by the request, or my occasional unsolicited violence against town guards, or later in the game, my cannibalism. She never told the authorities about my behavior, but she probably wanted to... I always wondered what Lydia thought of me; my character was exceptionally creepy. Perhaps she simply learned not to judge those in authority and to instead remain faithful to her duties as housecarl.


But it was apparent that she thought something of me. I went through a phase playing Skyrim in which I would collect all the books I found, planning to store them in my home to read some day. Of course, these books were too heavy to keep in my inventory while exploring, so I simply gave them to Lydia to hold. Her exasperated tone when she remarked, “I am sworn to carry your burdens,” every time I dropped books in her pocket meant that she knew I would never read them and was just wasting our time and inventory space.


Lydia also seemed to have some secret desires and interests. Even though she was trained to be a warrior, she seemed to enjoy using magic when given the opportunity. Though her primary weapons were the glass battleaxe I gave her and her standard bow, she would often pull out the magic staffs I would have her carry for me. She loved resurrecting wolves and shooting lightning at spiders, and I had to remember to recharge those staffs with soul gems regularly. I imagine that growing up as a Nord, Lydia’s parents shunned the idea of magic, but maybe she was always drawn to it. And I finally gave her the tools to explore a long-forbidden obsession with sorcery and necromancy.


The beauty of companion characters like Lydia is that they have just enough personality to be endearing but are also empty husks, allowing the player’s imagination to fill in the rest of the characters’ history and traits. When Skyrim first released, players talked about their experiences of “emergent gameplay,” all of the funny or cool things they saw or did that not everyone does, including epic battles between dragons and giants, goofy glitches of mammoths falling out of the sky, and pedestrian tasks of trying to properly set a table, cook a meal, and serve the food. These moments make every player’s story in Skyrim just a little different. But the random nature of Skyrim’s world alone doesn’t make our stories personal. How we frame events, decisions, and characters in our own created context, whether our imaginations be playful, serious, or cruel, allows us to co-author our (mis)adventures.


Lydia became an integral part of my adventure, but before I realized that, I tried to get rid of her. I was so frustrated by her consistently bad AI, and after losing her twice in the icy waters above Winterhold (forcing me to reload), I decided to send her back to my Breezehome residence in Whiterun. I felt liberated. I sprinted across the terrain, defying physics on steep inclines and jumping over rocky cliffs without having to worry about separating from my follower or having herself get killed. I could focus on the game’s lovely atmosphere and environments. But, something was missing… 




There was no one to say, “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” when I approached obviously dangerous areas, like when I entered the Draugr catacombs. As I went through the dungeon, the totally not-scary Draugr sent shivers up my spine every time they aggro’d with that creepy cough as they climbed out of their tombs. These low to high level enemies ganged up on me, freaking me out a little too much with their crazy blue eyes. So I ran the hell out of there before I died and back out the entrance. Looks like I needed Lydia after all.


For all of her silly actions and sayings, Lydia is at her best when she echoes the wonderment of discovery in exploring Skyrim.


“I have never seen anything quite like that.”


Lydia, we cleared out this Dwemer ruin last week.


“I am your sword and your shield.”


*rolls eyes* Oh, Lydia.


---

This blog post was written for Critical Distance’s Blogs of the Round Table June-July Topic on memorable experiences with non-playable characters.

My Depression Quest

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TRIGGER WARNING: Discussion of depression

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It’s your first day of high school. Coming off the back of a cliquey class of 26 in a Catholic grade school, you feel unsure about your future friendships, that is, if you’ll even have any in this new environment. Your regard your friendships in grade school as worthwhile but in some cases fair-weather or limited. You didn’t seem to fully fit within any group at that school, yet most of them accepted you at one point or another. And like all middle-schoolers, you didn’t really know who you were at the time.

Now you do, or, at least you have a pretty good idea. In the beginning of eighth grade, you met some really cool people from the blogging and forum-posting community of a popular video game news website, and it turns out you totally can forge meaningful, lasting friendships over the Internet. Those “weirdos,” as you sister calls them, besides making you laugh and talking to you about video games, made you mature and realize what kinds of things you care about and the kinds of things you like to see in people. But how to “sell” yourself, your personality, to strangers in the “real” world. Do you even want to do that?

It’s dark at 6:15 a.m. in September, as you wait on the corner of your bus stop. Out of the fog comes the bus, hissing and roaring its way up the street. You hop in and find that the bus is nearly empty except for one girl in the middle. You slowly make your way down the aisle, and as the driver puts on the gas, you nearly fall into seat 11.

You’re practically shaking in your seat, creeped out by the darkness and the musty smell of the bus. You consider saying hello to the girl, just one seat in front of you and across the aisle, but maybe she doesn’t want to be bothered…

What do you do?

Introduce yourself.
Wait for more people to get on the bus and try talk to them.
Put your iPod on, and stare out the window.

*click*

You look around you, an old Muse song buzzing in your ear, the bus filling with bodies and noise. You glance at each kid as they board the bus before quickly shifting your gaze back out the window. You hear slurs from the back of the bus and giggles from the front. In the middle where you are, most are either sleeping or quietly staring. You’re feeling very tense and uncertain.

After 45 minutes you arrive at the school. Your bus is the first to make it. A group of upperclassmen are outside welcoming the freshmen. Your neighbor who’s a senior offers you and the kids cookies. Obligingly, you take one, even though you’re uncomfortable eating around strangers. The cookie is like a puck anyway.

The kids from your bus are filed into the gym for a welcoming before homeroom and classes. But your bus is a good 50 minutes early, so you’ll be waiting for a long time, even for another bus to show up. A group including someone from your grade school to whom you’re ambivalent decides to sit on the bleachers, while a few outliers, including another grade school classmate, drift near the entrance.

Time to meet new people. Join the group on the bleachers.
Say hi to your classmate near the entrance.
Pretend to use your phone.

*click*

You scroll through your contacts, finding nobody you normally text except your mom, dad, and sister.

“Hi, Dan!”  

“Oh! Hi.”

Your friend from grade school says some random things about starting high school and laughs obnoxiously. But you just kind of smile and shrug him off, not knowing what to say.

You go back to pretending to text people, feeling really awkward and transparent.

“Hey, no phones out in school.”

You immediately tense up. It’s your other grade school classmate calling from the bleachers, with everybody watching. Your heart starts to beat fast. Why do you have to be put on the spot?

“Who are you texting?”

“Just… a friend.”

“Why don’t you come sit with us?” 

You head over ready to make some friends.
Out of obligation, you make your way to the bleachers.
You politely decline the invitation.

*click*

You hesitate. You know you’re not going to be able to talk to these people; they’re talking about celebrities, rap music, and sports, which you know nothing about. You start to say that you’re fine where you are, but you realize that’s pretty rude and head over.

Your classmate’s friends introduce themselves and ask you a series of questions. They keep telling you to speak up, but you’re too nervous of saying the wrong things. You eventually compare rosters with everyone, and you don’t have classes with any of the guys in the group but two with one of the girls.

You sit in silence as the gym finally fills up with more freshmen, some of whom sit with the group around you. As noise fills the gym, you feel your face getting hot, wishing you could just turn invisible. You feel sweaty and like you might throw up, but no one’s even talking to you.

You sit through the welcoming in extreme discomfort, and afterwards walk to homeroom in an anxious haze. The rest of your day is better; you meet some nice people in your classes, including your lab partners for biology and the girl who sits in front of you in homeroom. But once you get home, pressures from many different places hit you. How exactly are you supposed to go about this high school thing? You’ve been hounded by your mom all your life about homework and grades (an extension of the guilt of her mistakes in life), so you’ve developed this perfectionism involving schoolwork. But you also want to be liked and have fun with friends in school. And you especially want to take care of yourself, enjoy your hobbies and the friendships you already have both online and off.

You’re being flung into high school with a lot of expectations put on you and your experience. They say to get good grades so you get into college and get a job and don’t die. “You’ll do great!” and all. They also say to enjoy the best and easiest four years of your life.

How do you spend that first one?

Talk to anyone and everyone. Get involved around the school and hang out with your classmates. Schoolwork is an afterthought.
After meeting some cool people in class, balance schoolwork and friends.
Spend a lot of time relaxing at home, playing video games, chatting with your online friends.
Stress about your schoolwork. You must get nearly perfect grades.

*click*

You do really well. You get high 90’s on almost every test. Your lowest grade for a marking period was a 92 in biology. Teachers commend your work but wish you would participate more.

You also hate life.

Your focus on school not only prevents you from meeting new people, but also prevents you from spending time on your already developed hobbies. You live in a constant state of terror in which you panic every time you’re assigned a new project, lab report, or paper. Your work must be perfect, so you spend far too much time on it than necessary. The workload itself isn’t that much, but you swamp yourself by agonizing over it. Your stress is compounded by your mom’s constant pressure to get certain numbers on report cards and to stop being so lazy.

You’re assigned a five-page short story due by the end of the week. You have no idea what you’re going to write about.

Hunker down and get to brainstorming. You’ll finish the draft in no time.
Think about every word you put down, every story detail. You want your first draft to be phenomenal.
You’re stressed, so just wind down for a bit. Take a nap, and then you’ll be able to work.

*click*

You get maybe a paragraph written an hour. You start with an idea in your head and quickly reject it. After a half an hour you come up with a story detail you like but take another half an hour to put it into words. You lie on your back in between phrases to stare at the wall for ten minutes at a time. At dinner, your mom asks you how you’re coming along with the paper. You can’t even find the strength to respond, feeling panicky and useless. She starts to get upset and tells you to get back to work right after dinner.

Eventually, it gets too late to finish the draft, but later in the week you get it done to your relief. You hand it in and get and excellent grade. But you don’t think the number was worth what you did to yourself.

This sequence becomes more and more common as you’re given assignments throughout the year. You end up stressing about your work for far longer time periods than actually working, usually while staring at the ceiling or burying your face in the pillow. You also find it increasingly difficult to interact with anyone. Every time your family tries to talk to you, you either don’t respond or get unreasonably mad and flee to your room. And while you enjoy your friends from grade school who sit with you at lunch, as well as some new friends from the tennis team, it’s hard to really connect to people. You feel distanced from others and from your own emotions. You beg your mom to let you skip school every single day, but you end up getting perfect attendance at the end of the year.

You feel worthless most of the time. You tell yourself you could never be successful and never add anything to the world because you’re so slow to work, lazy, and unsociable. Many times you just want to lie down in bed and never wake up again. You don’t believe it’s worth living in this world. You feel extremely guilty about these thoughts because you know your family loves you and that there are people who have it so much worse than you. That just makes you feel worse yourself.

Explain these thoughts to your therapist.
Explain these thoughts to your parents.
Explain these thoughts to an online friend.
Keep these thoughts bottled up inside you.

*click*

The comfort of being behind a keyboard to gather your thoughts before communicating lets you open up to an online friend about your struggles in school. Though you have trouble explaining everything to him, especially your more darker thoughts, he listens with compassion. You feel a little better every time you talk to him because he responds with empathy and patience towards your venting.

Your therapist has also been trying to help you. You’ve gone to him on and off since you were six years old for behavioral and sleeping problems. He’s a great person and therapist, who recommends you all the right things to calm you down, even if your anxiety is too much at this point for those tips to have long-term impact. But when it comes to adults, you struggle to mention the worst because you’re afraid of not being taken seriously--that you’re just an angsty kid going through a phase, that it will all just go away with age. You don’t exactly believe this to be what your therapist would say to you as a professional, but for some reason you can’t get that fear out of your head. You’re also scared of medication.

---

Fast forward to February of junior year. Many things have changed. You’ve learned to control your emotions for the most part. You realize anxiety disorder and depression run on both sides of the family, so you’ll likely be dealing with it in some capacity forever as a hereditary part of your brain chemistry. Researching anxiety and depression has helped you understand yourself a little more and how to minimize their control over you. But you still get into demoralizing funks sometimes. You still freak out about schoolwork, and this year has proven to be the most challenging yet. But therapy has helped both you and your mother, so neither yourself nor she hounds on you nearly as much. Your confidence to participate in class and speak your mind has also risen. Just last week you wrote a risky, provocative essay for AP English that got you positive comments from all your classmates and your best grade of the class.

You also have good friends in school now. They have been trying to get you to go to the weekly meetings for the literary magazine for weeks, but you’ve been busy, without a ride home, or just not interested in going. You promised them you would go this week, but you inexplicably feel terrible in the middle of eighth period. You have a lot of homework. You’re tired. You want to go to this meeting, but you suddenly just feel nervous and sick.

The bell rings. You meet your friend in the hall, and he asks if you’re headed to the classroom where the meeting’s held.

Cheer up. You won’t let this random emptiness stop you from enjoying an afternoon with your friends. Tell him of course you’re going.
Tell him you’re going to the meeting even though you’re anxious. You don’t want to let your friends down.
Tell him you don’t feel good, so you’re just going to head home.

*click*

Your friend is really disappointed you can’t make it and tells you to feel better. You thank him and get on the bus.

You’re upset you had to ditch your friends again, but your need to go home reminds you of something you’ve wanted to do for a while. Apparently, a few weeks ago this game called Depression Quest came out. You initially thought the game was some indie dungeon crawler with title referring to some esoteric mechanic rather than the illness. That’s just your expectation of games right now. But you read that the game actually portrays depression, the kind you’re familiar with. You read nothing but positive remarks from journalists and critics on the game, about how it could help sufferers with depression realize they’re not alone and friends and families of sufferers better understand depression. Tonight, reading a little more about it, you learn it’s free and short. You’ve got another hour until dinner, so you decide to play it.

You breath deepens and slows at the game’s first piano chord. You play as a character pretty different from you. You’re not in the so-called “real world” of adult life, searching for a fulfilling job. You’ve never had a significant other. But all the same feelings are there. You decide to answer the prompts as you would in your freshmen-year mindset.

In the game, you feel too anxious to go out to a party with your girlfriend. You’re reluctant to talk to your parents and friends about your feelings. You can’t make an appointment with a therapist because you’re too afraid to use the phone. The character shows many of the same emotions/symptoms you’ve had: wanting life to be good but lacking motivation, being too exhausted to focus, self-hate for being unproductive, shame for these feelings. The game starts limiting your choices based on your level of depression, using a red line to cross out options that your character just can’t find the strength to do. Those options remain readable, meaning that the character knows that the healthier choices are available but just can’t do them, something you haven’t thought about much but definitely matches your experience. You end up taking the character down a dark path that gets progressively worse.

At one point, you just start crying. And crying. You realize that the reason you’ve come so far with your depression--the reason you haven’t gone down the spiral your character in Depression Quest has--is the people in your lives who care about you. You wouldn’t have gotten better if your mom didn’t love you enough to get help for the both of you. You wouldn’t have gotten better without people like your sister and your online friends you could reach out to. You’re feel so privileged to have the people around you. You wish others could have the same support network as yourself. You’re still sad at the fact that others have it worse. You’re sad that your character finds himself seemingly defeated by depression at the end of the game.

But you feel better about yourself for eventually having had the strength to talk to people.

You feel like you can do anything, like you can get even further away from your anxiety controlling your life.  

---

College is right around the corner. You’re super nervous. You don’t know if you’ll have issues living on your own or if the work will be too much.

But mostly you’re afraid of a repeat of freshmen year in high school.

You know you’re much better now with people, with yourself. But you can’t help fearing a big change like this might make you dig yourself back into that nightmarish hole.

Soon enough, it’s opening weekend on campus, and so far you’re doing okay even if you’re a little uncomfortable. Your roommate’s really nice, but you haven’t met any close friends yet.

You open your suite’s door Sunday morning and find a crowd of people on your floor’s lounge, some of whom you met briefly throughout the programs of the weekend. You want to involve yourself, but you have some reading to do for your first class on Tuesday. You could also be playing a game or maybe start a blog you’ve been thinking about for a while. Oh, and you’re unsure if you’ll say a word if you go in the lounge.

What do you do?

Head out to the lounge and try to talk to people.
Finish the book for class.
Start playing Knights of the Old Republic
Stay in your room and stare at the wall.

*click*

You quietly introduce yourself to the group and climb into a chair. You’re curt and anxious the whole time, and everyone comments on how quiet you are.

But you end up staying in the lounge for five hours, and you slowly but surely come out of your shell. Your RA pulls out a Wii and Super Smash Bros. Brawl, and suddenly you feel pretty great.

Before you know it, you’re a month into college. You’re friends with pretty much all the freshmen on your floor. You have movie nights in the lounge, play cards and games a lot, explore downtown, and meet for lunch and dinner at the dining halls every day. You’ve only been here a month and you feel that some of your friends are closer to you than people you’ve known for a decade.

Sometimes you just have those days when you’re a bit overwhelmed with work, trying new things, meeting new people, and that looming “real world” that you’ll be faced with in a few short years. But for every instance of anxiety there’s about ten moments of joy. You feel more confident than you ever have.

You’ve come to a point where you feel pretty comfortable with talking about your time in high school and have a lot you want to express so you can fully move on from your painful experiences. You find an opportunity in a blog post to write about the past four years. But you’re unsure if you really want to go through with writing or publishing it. You might not have the time to write, and publishing this personal stuff seems sort of self-indulgent to you.

Put the post up. You’ll finally get some closure for yourself.
Write the post, but save it for yourself. Why should other people care about your past issues?
Maybe put it on the backburner. High school wasn’t that long ago, so maybe give yourself some more distance from it first.
Don’t bother. Your writing’s shit and no one will read it anyway. It won’t even really help you.

*click*

---

This blog post was written for Critical Distance’s Blogs of the Round Table August-September Topic on cathartic experiences with video games.  

Last Chance Supermarket: Control and Capitalism

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Sebastian Lague’s game Last Chance Supermarket is a goofy little satire on consumption during the holiday season. It’s Christmas Eve and to make your family happy, you have to go out to purchase inexplicable numbers of printers, orange juice, cooking books, et al. But this pedestrian act of shopping quickly becomes a deadly race between shoppers to grab items before they fly off the shelves. You’re put into the high-strung perspective of an avatar who can’t stop--can’t even slow down--until every last item on his list is somehow stuffed into his cart and he’s made it to the checkout. The game raises the stakes by limiting the your control to only the direction of the shopper’s movements and limiting your spatial awareness to the first-person perspective. The speed of the character and the high probability of another shopper ramming into you around the corner creates a frenetic tension that clashes with the game’s simple but cute aesthetic, much like seeing my frenzied mother in the kitchen on Christmas Eve listening to “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” or in the mailroom scene in Ron Howard’s live-action How the Grinch Stole Christmas. Last Chance Supermarket deals with capitalistic Christmas angst much more cynically than my mother or the (super weird) adaptation of Dr. Seuss’s children’s story. For Last Chance Supermarket, the holidays end in the loss of control, the erasure of identity, and the illusion of happiness.

You steer the shopping cart with the mouse in order to get as close as possible to the items on the shelves before pressing the space bar to add them to the cart. But the avatar runs through the store indefinitely, so there’s a ridiculously small time window for you to grab anything. This means that you must mash the space bar as you run parallel to the aisle, picking up extraneous items in order to make sure you gets the one on your list. Glancing at your list for more than a second likely causes you to crash into another shopper or a shelf, which instantly kills you, ruining Christmas for your family. No, this game doesn’t represent how people shop in the real world, but that’s obviously not the point. 

sebastian.itch.io


Zolani Stewart’s piece on Expressionism and Sonic Adventure 2 applies analysis of expressionist art to games, particularly Sonic Adventure 2, in which spaces use “abstraction [to communicate] larger ideas and perspectives about [their] settings.” I know very little about art criticism or history, but if I understand correctly from Stewart’s post, expressionism distances depicted objects from reality through exaggeration to comment on what’s beneath the surface of realistic representations. Last Chance Supermarket follows this principle. While Sonic Adventure 2 uses “structural impossibilities” in its level design of Mission Street and Radical Highway to emphasize the decay of structures caused by militarism, Last Chance Supermarket puts unrealistic restrictions on the player in a bizarrely set-up supermarket to comment on the pressures of delivering a good Christmas through spending.

The absurdity of the game’s premise that coincides with the absurdity of the conception that a good Christmas requires consumer products runs through both the gameplay and the aesthetics. The avatar’s endless sprinting through the store suggests a blind sense of urgency that not only doesn’t stop to shop more precisely but also doesn’t stop to consider the dehumanization of the practice. You run over dead bodies with cubic, faceless heads in the aisle without a care as you fling 4 mini Christmas trees and 6 muffins trays into your cart. All of the shoppers look just like one another, and you’re just another eager body ready to shell out while risking death. The blocky facsimiles are robotic representations of people who are so enraptured by the need to fulfill a standard for holiday “joy” that they don’t realize that the other shoppers are in the same boat and will happily snatch up items they don’t need in order to ensure that shallow ideal of a perfect Christmas. After you fall dead, a message pops on screen reading, “You died in a shopping cart accident. You family was mortified, and Christmas was  a flop.” The importance is placed on the failure of Christmas rather than your death, with “flop” connotating disappointment due to missed potential rather than a family tragedy. In this surreal world, your family cares more about products and purchased happiness than human life.



No, Last Chance Supermarket is not subtle (see big sign in the store reading “You’ve only got ONE chance before the year’s end to prove just how much your family means to you. SO DON’T SKIMP ON THE EXPENSIVE STUFF”). It’s also not particularly nuanced. I even worried for a while about whether or not the game contributes to the culture of shaming low-income shoppers who can only afford holiday deals for luxury items. The shoppers in this game are dehumanized as I already mentioned, and their deaths are portrayed as funny in their absurdity. But I think the game is at least a bit sensitive to the cause of the frantic, dangerous shopping scene even though it focuses on depicting an exaggerated effect on the shopper instead. The reminders in the store about the pressure to please your family (while overbearing) indicate a surface-level critique of the promises of consumer spending. And the deaths in the store are always caused by accident instead of volitional violence, suggesting the shoppers are more victimized by the system and cultural messages rather than each other as “materialistic savages.” Still, I think it’d be more interesting for a game to examine where those cultural messages come from and why people believe them, especially since everyone already knows that the holidays are hectic and stressful. Regardless of what Last Chance Supermarket doesn’t do, it’s a simultaneously fun and unsettling little game with a simple message about the commodification of holiday joy. 

Simulated Anxiety in Creatures Such As We and Queers in Love at the End of the World

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Earlier this month Cara Ellison wrote about two romance games (as Cara Ellison does): Lynnea Glasser’s Creatures Such As We and Anna Anthropy’s Queers in Love at the End of the World. I played these games after reading herwords about them, and both games, though very different in what they try to accomplish, put me in unfamiliar situations that evoke familiar, old feelings brought about by social anxiety--feelings and fears that still haunt me though more irregularly and less potently.

Creatures Such As We is a piece of interactive fiction that I recommend taking the approximately two hours to play. In Creatures Such As We, the AAA game-within-the-game’s emotionally disatisfying ending hangs over your head before you go back to your job. You’re a tour guide for the moon, and today you happen to be guiding the development team of said game on a lunar retreat. Besides having a chance to ask the designers about the game in order to come to grips with its ending, you can also romance one of the several developers. Creatures Such As We has a lot of good thematic meat wrapped in well-written science fiction. Even though the characters talk about the themes so directly to a fault, the game asks questions with nuance about the nature of romance in games and the inability for non-playable characters to consent, whether the author or the audience controls meaning in art, the pros and cons of indie vs. AAA development, and death and failure. There’s a lot to delve into, and I’d like to maybe later on take a closer look at Creatures Such As We after multiple playthroughs and exploring different paths, but in the meantime Cara Ellison (linked above) and Emily Short provide good overviews of the game and analysis of its metanarrative.

As for how the game incites anxiety in me, it presents choices of interaction in a way much closer to reality than other games I’ve played. It’s not through any particularly groundbreaking system, but whereas most mainstream games with NPC interaction allow you infinite opportunity to get to know a whole cast of characters or even an entire population of a town, Creatures Such As We forces you to choose who you hang out with in the plot’s linear, unstoppable flow of time. Early in the game, once you meet everyone in the development team, they invite you to join them for lunch. But you must choose between two tables to sit at (or decide to maintain a professional distance [more on that later], which, if I was roleplaying myself, that’s what I would have done, but who wants to do remain distanced in a dating sim?). And immediately I’m whisked back to the beginnings of high school, wondering what table I should sit at. At this point in the game, much like that first day in high school, you’ve gathered some cursory details about the personalities of some people, including James’ frankness, Ren’s focus, and Diana’s curiosity. But that’s not enough to determine who you’re going to want to spend time with, and so you start to panic. What good times am I going to miss out on if I go sit with this group over that one? Can you really trust the people at this table? It’s obviously not healthy to obsess over these thoughts, but with social anxiety at its worst, they can seize you up frozen, preventing you from connecting to anybody as you continue contemplating your decision after you’ve already sat down.

Of course I didn’t reach this extreme over the fictional characters, but I did feel a twinge of these old anxieties that led to a vivid recollection of them when presented with certain choices. And the game seems to build on these symptoms of social anxiety through the tension caused by the player character’s duty to perform a role for these characters vs. fulfilling personal needs and desires. You’re supposed to be a professional tour guide and help make sure everything runs smoothly for the guests and be a good employee, but you also want to get away from the loneliness of the job, speak the truth about the whole operation, and understand more about the ending to that damn game. When I first sit at a table, I am asked uncomfortable questions about the facilities and the company’s practices and motives as well as philosophical questions about game design and art after inquiring about their game (I said they were direct). I answer vaguely about my work and my employer and say clichéd things about games and art, so I get a lukewarm reception from the characters. I feel like I fail at performing both as a good tour guide for allowing to guests to air and perhaps reinforce skepticism of their retreat and as a potential friend for being blasé and detached. It’s exactly the sort of experience people who long for friendship but are hindered by anxiety have.

Creatures Such As We evokes a sense of anxiety because it doesn’t cater to the player like games such as Mass Effect, a series the game heavily invokes with its game-within-a-game that makes players feel entitled to a satisfying experience only to have them let down by a “bad” ending. In a playthrough of Mass Effect 3, you can go through pretty much your whole crew’s dialogue. Having a conversation with Mordin on the Normandy doesn’t exclude you from a conversation with EDI that should be happening at the same time. According to Bioware, the player should be able to see everything if she wants to. Despite the urgency of your mission to save Earth from the Reapers, you’re free to run the Citadel dry of inconsequential side quests and have idle conversation with all of your crew members in between missions. Time in the Mass Effect universe is controlled by you, the player, as time only passes when you want it to--when you decide to trigger the main plot events. This freedom to essentially stop the clock allows you to experience all the content (that word) the creators put in the game. Therefore, the anxious question of “who am I going to hang out with today?” doesn’t hang over your head because you’ll be able to talk to everyone. In Creatures Such As We, you have a limited time with the designers, and every interaction you have with the game progresses that time. This approach to narrative design is conducive to the anxieties of “missing out,” the fear common to real life that your actions might not be leading to the best outcomes for either yourself or others. 

I realize that Creatures Such As We might not be special in this case because I haven’t played many dating sims before. Would Hatoful Boyfriend evoke anxiety in me through similar means? If I ever take a closer look at Creatures Such As We I’ll do more research on dating sims to find out.

I’d also just like to say that Creatures Such As We may also contribute to anxious feelings with its use of ChoiceScript, which uses fill-in bubbles for your options in the game, which makes playing the game feel vaguely like taking an online standardized test or filling out an application of some sort. Heh.  

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While Creatures Such As We simulates anxiety about who you interact with, Queers in Love at the End of the Worldfocuses on how you interact. Unlike Creatures, Queers has already decided who you’ll spend time with, but you have to choose how you’re going to spend the last ten seconds of existence with your lover. Once you begin the game, a timer ticks down as you click the text to choose what to do with or say to your lover. When time runs out, the screen of text you’re reading is cleared and “Everything is wiped away.” You’re able to restart the sequence again and again indefinitely [insert Groundhog Day reference].

Your various options for physical intimacy, proclaiming your love, and revelling in seeing the end of oppressive systems are bittersweet because the happy moment is far too short before the world ends. It’s impossible to savor the overtly emotional, breathless writing in the game because it’s gone in an instant, most likely before you get to the end of a particular narrative branch. The utopic scenes in Queers are such fleeting teases that playing the game feels like a nightmare. The timer tells you that you need to act NOW to make this moment good and special for you and your partner, but there are so many options and so little time that you don’t know if you can do one thing meaningfully with your lover let alone everything. So much for taking twenty minutes to decide the future of the Geth in Mass Effect without anyone batting an eyelid.

The game is like the anxious indulgence that nearly everyone takes part in of replaying a real or imaginary scene in your head, wondering how different actions you could take might affect the situation. It’s an activity you can easily get wrapped up in despite its glaring vanity. In Queers, like these agonizing moments of angst in the shower or in bed, you start to worry about the minutiae of your possible actions. Should I kiss her softly or fiercely?On the lips or the forehead? You don’t really have the time to consider, to over-analyze these things. The end of the world doesn’t give a shit about your anxiety. Time passes. You play the game again. Was simply holding hands enough? You tend not to think so. You play the game again and again and again, but nothing seems to really be enough. You want to do everything with your lover, and you want the moment to last forever, or at least long enough.

Cara Ellison writes in her verse about the game:

I want to destroy the game
I want to get inside Twine nodes and fuck with the script and dismantle the timer
I want to kick the shit out of it

Time is the anxious person’s mortal enemy (or at least one of them). Not only is there not enough time in the day to do everything you want to do, there’s not enough time to be anxious about everything you want to be anxious about. While games like Mass Effect remove the element of anxiety caused by the progression of time in order for players to enjoy their constructed worlds, Creatures Such As We and Queers in Love at the End of the World embrace time as a successful narrative device. Creatures uses the progression of time to posit that games that don’t cater to the player may make her uncomfortable, but such stories that don’t center on the player are worth telling. Queers uses the limitation of time to emphasize the need to take action to communicate and express with your lover (and to destroy your heart). Anxiety is the aftermath that makes you obsessively question if what you did was “right” or “the best” of if you ever could have done what was right or best.

In Queers you kiss your partner hungrily, thinking that this intimacy is healing both your wounds and hers. But--

“Is this healing?

Yes.
No.”

The world ends. 




End of the Year Awards!

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I've been thinking about how to go about a Game of the Year list for a while since I played a lot of games this year that didn't come out this year and don't really like the idea of ranking games. It'd also be too hard to choose from just a few to talk about. Then Merritt Kopas compiled for her curation site Forest Ambassador a game award list featuring every game posted on her site this year with awards given out by anonymous users via Google Docs. I thought that was a really cool, fun way to do an end of the year list for a ton of games. Since I kept track of all the games, regardless of release, I played since January, I've decided to shamelessly copy the format to that list of games. And of course, these awards are all ones that I've given out personally because selfishness, the biggest reason this list could never be as good as the Forest Ambassador one. Forest Ambassador has been a hugely important source of great games for me this year, so a lot of games on this list I first found through the site. You should consider supporting Merritt Kopas and her work here.


The Last of Us - Best Use of the Tired Zombie Apocalypse Trope and Accompanying Themes


Brothers: A Tale of Two Sons- Best Bros/Best Button Press


Animal Crossing: New Leaf- Snarkiest Citizens


GTA V- Most in Love with Itself/Best Social Media Simulation


Luigi’s Mansion: Dark Moon- Best Vacuum/Best Game to Actually Turn on 3D function on 3DS


The Last of Us: Left Behind - Best Photobooth


Assassin’s Creed II- Most Distrust of Authority/Weirdest Mario Reference


Dark Souls II - Most Improved Multiplayer/Best Dragon Level


DmC: Devil May Cry - OMGWTF Award for Outrageous Nonsense/Provolone Award for Cheesiest Writing


Valiant Hearts: The Great War - Best Treatment of Soldiers as People/Most Loyal Doggie <3


Child of Light - Coolest Hair Physics


Dys4ia - Best Imagery as Speech


Alpaca Run - Best Song/Most Uplifting


Talks with My Mom - Best Use of Text in Dream Bubbles


Patatap- Most Mesmerizing


Nihilistic Acid Oppression- Most Oppressively Nihilistic/Lowest pH


The Citizen Kane of Games- Best Search for Games as Art


Catachresis - Best Walking Animations/Scariest Apocalypse

Sacrilege - Sexiest Gospel Evangelists


Oh No! - Best Escape from Hostile Disembodied Head


On August 11, A Ship Sailed Into Port - Silliest Listicles


Other Side- Loneliest Game


Mainichi - Most Uncomfortable Walk to a Coffee Shop


Problem Attic - Best Glitches


Probe Team - Best Robot Noises


Electric Tortoise - Best Cyberpunk Game


The Faeres’ Curse - Most Orange


Bite Me - Funniest Attempt to Escape Death


I’m Really Sorry About That Thing I Said When I Was Tired and/or Hungry - Best Daydreams/Most Recollective


Social Justice Ice Cream Shoppe - I Need It Award for Game I Want to Become a Thing in Real Life or Place I Can Go in Real Life/Best Ice Cream Flavors


brick [brick smash] smash - Coolest Meta-bricks


Last Chance Supermarket - Most Dangerous Shopping


Enviro-Bear 2000 - Smartest Bear Driver


BrokenFolx - Loveliest Hearts


Curtain - Best Use of Space


Glitchhikers - Most Interesting Strangers/Most Introspective


Gone Home - Most Riot Grrl/Most Joyful Ending


Quing’s Quest VII: The Death of Video Games - I gave the award at Forest Ambassador “Best Dancing that Kills Video Games,” which is unwieldy, so maybe “Best Weaponized Dance Moves” is better


Coming Out Simulator 2014 - Most Clueless Parents


Realistic Kissing Simulator - Most Tongue-y


Dee’s Big Night - Best Toying with Player Expectations


How do you Do it? - Best Childhood Confusion


Five Nights at Freddy’s - Scariest Animatronics


Chef - Best Eyebrows


Tampon Run - Best Weaponized Tampons


Super Smash Bros. for 3DS and Wii U - Best Game to Play While Listening to the Isometric Show/Best Fanservice


Super Meat Boy - Best Wall Jumps/Most Meaty/Most Spinning Saws


Wunderheiler - Best Investigative Medical Care


reProgram - Best Look at Self-Care


The Uncle Who Works for Nintendo - Most Disastrous Sleepover


Sonic Adventure 2: Battle - Sonic the Hedgehog Award for Best Sonic the Hedgehog Game/Weirdest Replay


10 Seconds in Hell - Most Urgent


Parable of the Polygons - Most Educational


Creatures Such As We - Best Metanarrative


Queers in Love at the End of the World :) - Most Upsetting/Most Short-lived Moment


Pornography for Beginners - Most Rules About Pornagraphy


Cis Gaze - Best Use of Colored Text


Capitalism - Most Coins/Least Apples


A Pretty Ornament I Made - Most Stressful Christmas


A Bird Story - Biggest Paper Plane


Okami HD - Most Inciting Anger at Education System for Leaving You in the Dark about Eastern Culture/Cutest Animals You Can Feed <3

Signal Boost: A Year of Reading Games Criticism... and Twitter

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So yeah. 2014. It’s done. This year saw a lot of pain for a lot of people and the larger culture. Personally, I’ve grown so much this year, and so many positive things have entered my life. I exited my awful high school (though parts of me probably still linger there). I started a blog. I got my driver’s license. I met tons of new friends in college who I love. I, in general, feel more confident, despite making some mistakes.

I also learned a lot about video games and culture this year--things that, no matter what happens to me in the coming years, will make me a better person who’s more aware of things happening around me. And for that, I have many people to thank. I’m using this post to talk about people whose work has been enjoyable, challenging, and/or informative for me, your local internet rando, to follow this year.

I’ve been following Carolyn Petit’s work since she first joined GameSpot, the site I read the most through high school. She was probably the first writer I’ve read in games who seemed completely honest and sincere. She brings such a warmth to her writing and a genuine desire for games to do better that I admire so much. This year she was laid off at GameSpot but continues to write at her blog A Game of Me. I really hope things fall into place for her in 2015.

Anita Sarkeesian’s Tropes vs. Women in Video Games challenged me in a time when I considered myself a feminist “ally” (ew) instead of a feminist, late in 2013. Living around toxic people had made me ambivalent towards her work, when so many label her as “extreme” or whatever and say literally ANYTHING to try to discredit her. But actually engaging with her work has been sort of a springboard for me into reading other feminist critiques of media and social critiques in general regarding the issues marginalized people face. Her work has been essential for me to understand the more challenging things I try to read now. In some ways her work is mostly 101-level and very accessible, which is a good thing, because everyone has to start somewhere.

I don’t remember the Leigh Alexander piece I first read. It was probably on Kotaku before I started following her on Twitter. It was probably very good. I love just about all her writing, especially her ability to show that the people who make games, who play games, and who write about them, are people, not soap opera characters airing 24/7 on Twitter. Some of her writing feels especially tailored to me, someone interested in getting into games (whatever that even means) while realizing some of the ugliness in the industry, in the culture. My favorites works from her this year are her piece on the closing of Irrational Games, her short fictional story The Unearthing, and her wonderful book Clipping Through, all personal (one speculative) experiences detailing flaws in the industry as well as the space’s brighter side. She clearly wants games to be better, and reading her work makes me want games to be better too for all the good people involved in them, even if we can't in some ways. Check out the rest of her work this year in her year in review.    

In a strange twist of fate, I met Amanda Lange’s husband at a university I was thinking about attending during my college search. He took students interested in Communications as a major into a classroom to discuss the university as well as writing. He asked us all what we wanted to do of course, and I said “game critic,” a deviation from my usual procedure of dodging the funny looks by saying a generic “writer.” He laughed, which made me very nervous, but then said his wife was a developer and critic. He took my e-mail and later Amanda sent me a very nice, detailed, and honest message about writing about games for a living. She also recommended I read the essential site Critical Distance and start this very blog. That’s a big reason for where I am in terms of reading and writing now! She writes cool reviews, impressions, and interviews with developers around the East Coast at Tap-Repeatedly and writes about game dev and other criticism while advocating for women and girls in game dev on her own blog. If I ever want to make a game, I’m sure I’ll be asking her some questions (maybe a goal for 2016?).

Kris Ligman is the senior curator of Critical Distance, which curates significant works of writing about games. It’s such an important source to find cool, weird, and interesting things people think about video games, and it’s where I found the writing of a lot of people on this list. Reading Critical Distance has all but changed the way I think about games and continues to do so. The site has also featured my submissions to its Blogs of the Round Table, which I greatly appreciate. I need to go through This Year in Videogame Blogging to see what good stuff I missed. The site has reached an important goal on Patreon recently, but only just barely. Kris and their contributors need and deserve all the support they can get for their awesome work.     

Closely tied to Critical Distance is Critical Proximity, a conference about games criticism organized by Zoya Street and held right before GDC. The talks archived on the blog are super good and formative, and I will probably take a look at them once a year. I’ve already linked a few in this post.

If Anita Sarkeesian made me question and think about gender more often, reading Jenn Frank made me get it. Her piece from two years ago I Was a Teenage Sexist was revelatory for me when I read it early this year. As was this piece from this year that settled my cognitive dissonance about wanting diverse businesses while thinking it’s best to hire by “merit,” an illusion that doesn’t take into account “institutional and internalized” biases. Furthermore, I could only dream to have Jenn Frank’s clarity, ease, and cleverness in her writing. She also wrote an excellent post on Tomodachi Life and our personal conceptions of others this year. Unfortunately, Jenn left games writing because of GG being terrible, and I was PISSED. Pissed at what happened to her but happy that she didn’t feel “beholden to video games” anymore. She is, however, in some capacity, writing about games, particularly Second Life despite her fears.

Cara Ellison kicked ass this year. Besides Critical Distance’s This Week in Video Game Blogging, Cara’s Embed With series (which you could support here) was what I would most anticipate reading in a regular rotation (the end of every month). Those posts are so important and so good, opening me up to creators, scenes, and ideas I didn’t know about before. The Embed Withs have a Disney-like magic to them (while being much more punk than Disney) that make them such a joy to read. I need to read the new one right after I post this! Her column on Rock Paper Shotgun S.EXE, on relationships and sex in video games is also excellent--insightful and fun. I also loved her game from last year Sacrilege.  

Maddy Myers is such a sharp writer that I went back to read a large portion of her work from her portfolio after I first came across her blog about Powerful Games Journalist Men. Sadly these “angry” posts are her most popular because “controversy,” but she does a lot of awesome work at Paste Magazine as well. HerGDCDiaries are great, she wrote a fun piece on Biocock Intimate and the portrayal of Elizabeth and a piece on the potential for Metroid and Alien to be more than superficially influential to new video games. She also did this helpful talk on the pretty sad state of games journalism.  Maddy is also a part of the Isometric Show, a lovely podcast with Brianna Wu, Steve Lubitz, and Georgia Dow that I listen to every week while playing Smash.

Speaking of Paste Magazine, they’ve been my favorite publication this year, featuring pieces on fashion by Gita Jackson, NPCs, race, and class by Austin Walker (who also made a cool cyberpunk game), and solid reviews by Javy Gwaltney, Carli Velocci, and Jed Pressgrove.

I also really like the Chris Franklin's very smart video essays. Ones I especially enjoyed this year were on Assassin's Creed: Freedom Cry, Civilization, and Valiant Hearts. You can support his work here.

I enjoyed Cameron Kunzelman’s series of blog posts on the Assassin's Creed series, and I also played a chunk of his games, my favorite of which was Alpaca Run. I backed his new game Epanalepsis on Kickstarter and am excited to play it. You can support him on Patreon here.  

Samantha Allen did the music for Alpaca Run (which is AWESOME) and also wrote cool stuff in 2014. She did the talk I linked a little earlier in this post. She also wrote a great piece about how playing games can become second nature until you have to teach someone. It definitely resonated with my experience trying to teach my niece how to play Kirby. Samantha unfortunately quit games writing because, again, gamers are terrible. She instead writes insightful pieces about gender and sexuality that you can find from her site. This post on Times’ terrible “Worst Words” list is something I should probably show to my college friends…

Brendan Keogh has toomanyblogs. Am I missing one? Anyway, I really like his list-style Notes reviews, like this one on Alien: Isolation, which can help unpack a variety of observations and interpretations in a sort of messy but easy-to-read form that seems to have its uses over focuses, formal essays. I’ve been thinking about adopting the approach myself if I’m ever inspired by a game to do so. I need to reread his letter to Susan Sontag on video game criticism, in which he is infectiously excited about the whole poking at games thing. One of my favorite sentences of games writing this year has been, “So if you want objective games journalism fuck off and read a calculator or something.” He also started critical Let's Plays this year of games such as Max Payne 3 and Modern Warfare, which you can support on Patreon. I also bought his book Killing Is Harmless recently (finally) but sadly haven’t found the time to read it yet. Hopefully soon.

Ed Smith writes with righteous snark that takes video games to task for, well, not always being so hot. Okay, sometimes he praises games, but his most memorable writing is his passionate call-outs and hilarious shots at game culture. One of my favorite posts this year was his retelling of Red Dead Redemption. I also thought this was a really interesting close-reading and interpretation of The Last of Us’ ending.

In 2015 I’ll be going through the archives of Mattie Brice's blog. She’s another woman who exited games this year because GAMERS and because she is not supported institutionally.  She’s written a ton of criticism as well as useful pieces about criticism itself as well as game design. I liked this post on games criticism in relation to academia, which makes me think about the impact my current education is having on my writing. She’s still around writing, and I also liked her thoughts interpretation over judging. Take a look at her year in review and consider supporting her on Patreon.

Stephen Beirne consistently challenges my perspective of games, such as in last year’s piece on the Last of Us and this year’s defense of loneliness in Final Fantasy XIII and Mass Effect 3, which I really appreciate. He has also done an extensivelook at camera and composition in Final Fantasy VII. I haven’t played Final Fantasy VII, so I’m afraid to read it yet, but the idea of an in-depth look at how artistic techniques inform an interpretation is really cool. He also makes great header images! You can support his work here.

Lana Polansky is using techniques from different art forms and criticisms of those forms (such as digital art, literature and even photography to inform her development and criticism of games, which is super important in getting games out of this weird space in which it pays attention to nothing but games and nothing outside of games pays attention to it. She’s made several games this year, including this interactive poem and this lovely ice cream shoppe. She also wrote about the poeticsof play and most recently "the author is dead, but the work is very much alive"regarding the tendency for games (and criticism) to put the player at the center. You can support her work here.  

Zolani Stewart takes a similar approach as Lana Polansky does in terms of looking to other mediums to talk about games. They even have a rad podcast together on Lana’s site in which they do close-readings of small art games, something I’d like to see more of. Zolani did a talk on Arts Criticism for Arts Games (you can view the well put together and very clear slides), which outlines his critical approaches and the need for games to branch out. He started a magazine for this kind of criticism called The Arcade Review, which I really need to read in 2015. You can support the magazine here. He’s also a Sonic the Hedgehog scholar and wrote one of my favorite pieces of the year on Sonic's spectrum between mascot and character.

The fashionable Austin C. Howe tweets a lot about metal and JRPGs. My favorite piece of his is on intertexuality and games about games, considering that intertextuality was one of the first approaches to literary criticism I learned and that I’d like to see more writing do closer intertextual analyses of games and also works across other media.

I first became aware of Katherine Cross and her work after watching this great panel at GaymerX about “Internetting while female,” which featured her as well as Carolyn Petit and Anita Sarkeesian. It became clear to me that she is very smart and very funny. She did a lot of great work responding to the Hash-Slinging Hashtag and also looked at the character Oh Eun-a from Christine Love's Hate Plus.

Jetta Rae DoubleCakes did an awesome series of interviews on women and gender non-comforming people in games. Those not listed elsewhere in this post are Christine Love, Soha Kareem, Toni Rocca, and Aevee Bee.       

I saved composer, artist, game designer, and critic Liz Ryerson for last because yesterday she posted this piece on being a marginalized creator on the internet (read it). I’ve been wanting to do this little roundup thing on writers I enjoyed reading this year for a few weeks now in part to document what I found relevant or affecting to me this year as I progressed in knowledge and in part show support for people whose work is often undervalued. A grim reality I learned this year is that (well, I knew but didn’t really know it until this year) is that (gaming) institutions do not care about the lives of marginalized people; they care more about maintaining and are scared of their audiences. Because there is no money in the games writing, especially for marginalized people and people interested in alternative ways of making and engaging with games, these people become direct competitors with each other on Patreon, competitors for visibility in order to get money from a dedicated readership. As many people have made it clear on Twitter or in their work, this system is not sustainable (though as Liz writes, it has allowed people to survive and remain in homes). This means that in order for some people to stay afloat as a marginalized person, according to Liz, they must “perform that action of being an important voice of outrage whose existence offers comfort to other people - and you might receive some kind of material or social support for that.” This leads to, as people have been saying on Twitter (I fucking hate Twitter by the way, hate all the voyeurism, need to take a break from it), to the “commodification” of marginalized voices in which they are only acknowledged when they write about their own marginalization. I think it was Zolani Stewart who questioned if marginalized people would only be remembered for being SJWs.

Liz goes on to say:

“sometimes it's hard to decipher whether someone is fundingmy Patreon because they want me to keep talking, or if it's that they think the money will finally satisfy me enough to shut me up from being challenging to my audience, or talking about issues that make them uncomfortable.”

This really hit me. Because you know what. I do want Liz to stop talking in certain ways because they do make me uncomfortable. That’s not to say she or we should ignore gross, abhorrent video game industry and culture shit, but to say that I want the bullshit to just go away, to not have to think about it ever again. That’s what we all want really. Those who write about these issues keep saying they want to stop writing about them.

I want Liz to keep talking because I should be uncomfortable, I deserve to be uncomfortable. I need voices like hers to challenge me, a relatively heteronormative, very white, very middle-class, naive, insecure, overly sentimental dude.

But. That is the most fucking selfish thing in the world.

Liz’s and everyone else’s “voice” are so much less important than the people behind them. These people deserve to eat, deserve homes, deserve emotional support, deserve self-care, and everything everybody else in the world deserves. Obviously.

It’s breaks my heart that video games are broken. But even more so because these people show up anyway. I don’t know whether to think that’s beautiful or ugly. Despite the haters, despite the exploitation, everyone I’ve mentioned here and so many more that I’m sorry I didn’t include, kicked fucking ass in 2014. I’ve learned so much this year at the expense of people's pain, of people'serasure. I don’t know how to easily respond to that. “I’m sorry” and “thanks” both sound hollow. Anything seems hollow really (also weird), especially considering I don’t even know these people (besides Amanda Lange being nice via e-mail and Austin Howe being nice on Twitter), and they sure as hell don’t know me. I, at least, hope that in 2015 I can engage with people’s work more seriously. I know everyone else is gonna kick ass again in 2015, and though I still suck right now, I’m gonna try to kick ass too.

I don’t know where I’m going or what I’ll be doing in any number of years from now. I might not “get into games” (seriously, again, whatever the fuck that means), find a way out before it’s too late (or just because I’m not good at it). And I’ve got plenty of time. But in the meantime, anyone who puts love into their work regarding games or art or, like, anything: you’re awesome. Sorry I couldn't include everyone's name here.

Here’s to 2015. 

Thoughts on "Post-cutscene" and Ludonarrative

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So a recap of This Week in Games Twitter features lots of talk from critics about critical approaches regarding the alleged separation of “mechanics” from narrative in games. You should essentially read this storify of the conversations and this piece by Lulu Blue, as well as this. Basically, the discourse was framed around exasperation of essentializing “mechanics” and “systems” in games while ignoring or trivializing the other more abstract or “non-ludic” elements of games in an approach Austin Howe called ludocentrism and an ideology Stephen Beirne called ludo-fundamentalism. I agree with Stephen Beirne in that a ludocentric approach is not really the problem as much as the idea of valuing the “game” parts of games over everything else is, because, as Lana Polansky says, these parts are all “inseparably bound by context.”


So an example of ludo-fundamentalism is Chris Franklin's video essay on The Last of Us, an otherwise really good critique that criticizes the game’s “oil and water” structure of separating gameplay and cutscenes in the way that AAA games have done for years, suggesting that The Last of Us thinks that story and gameplay “have nothing to do with one another.” He says this even though he acknowledges that the gameplay is consistent with the game’s aesthetic and tone:


“Resources are scarce, punishments are swift and harsh, you feel a little underpowered, and the gun sway and clunky animation driven nature of melee combat all intentionally convey a sense of tension and of desperation. It’s actually a really cool use of mechanics to build texture in the narrative, but unfortunately that’s really all they do for the narrative.”


The mechanics of The Last of Us complement the characters’ context in a harsh, brutal world with combat that is harsh, brutal, slow, and methodical. I did not find playing The Last of Us fun; I found it stressful, coinciding with the stress and tension shown by the characters in the cutscenes. Franklin and I would probably disagree on the fundamental merit of The Last of Us’ combat because I don’t believe it plays anything like Uncharted. But Franklin’s problem is that the “powerful...quiet moments...only really exist in the cutscenes.” I would firstly disagree with that (a scene that shows Ellie’s childlike excitement that Joel can hardly keep up with), and I just don’t buy that every interaction needs to build the characters or progress the story. I think that a cohesion with context does the job no matter the method of storytelling and avoids *sky darkens* ludonarrative dissonance *lightning strikes behind the window*. There are different methods for storytelling and narrative structure, and cutscenes can be useful.


This leads me to Zolani Stewart’s recent thoughts on defining a recent trend in AAA games he calls "post-cutscene," which he defines as:


“[rejecting] the ‘game->cutscene->game’ structure of mid-2000s AAA, instead strives for the ‘seamless’ experience”


So here are games opposed to the structure of games like The Last of Us (though it’s significant to note that The Last of Us does have post-cutscene bits, including the scene I linked as well as exploring abandoned communities and collecting artifacts). It seems that the kinds of games Zolani is talking about are games in which the narrative (generally) “happens” (even though the narrative is always “happening”) while you are still in control of either the player character or at least the camera. These games can also tend to have a heavily controlled aesthetic that works towards cohesive “environmental storytelling.”
Games like Bioshock, Portal, Half-Life 2, and even Skyrim and Dark Souls fit this bill.


I argue that the “post-cutscene” design ideology can work wonderfully for some games and some situations and fail miserably in others. In games like Bioshock and Gone Home, post-cutscene design works well with the sense of mystery those games evoke. Poking around environments slowly fills you in on details of the game worlds as you try to piece together what exactly happened to Rapture and where everyone went in the Greenbriar house. Environmental storytelling is great for building a sense of intrigue in places where important events already took place, but please, no more obvious graffiti.


Post-cutscene design also works when dialogue comes from disembodied voices or unique characters who are moving individually and separate from you. Again, Bioshock, Portal, and Half-Life 2. It also works in stealth games like Dishonored, in which you feel very clever and sneaky for eavesdropping on conversations from vents and keyholes. The problems and limitations of post-cutscene design seem to arise when designers populate an area with non-essential NPCs to add texture to an environment. Yesterday I started playing Bioshock Infinite (I know, I’m so sorry), and the beginning section when you explore the July 6th fair before the first gunfight is just a mess. I walk up to citizens, triggering set dialogue in which the NPCs talk amongst themselves. Once the dialogue is finished, the NPCs stare idly and loop through their animations, not acknowledging the player character’s awkward proximity to the group during personal, private conversations. Rarely an NPC would say ‘good morning’ to me, but after one did, his unblinking face would simply follow my gaze until I walked far away enough for his animation to reset. In a corner behind some stairs, a man stands legs crossed and leans in to kiss an uncomfortable, frightened woman who pushes him back. I get real close to them, but the animation just repeats. They don’t notice me as I’m on top of them, and I’m unable to stop this creepy scene from playing out again and again. It’s a frustrating and also freaky effect. On top of that, you can trigger dialogue from far away and not hear it well or know where it comes from. In the main square where tons of groups of people enjoy the activities and demonstrations, you have know idea where to turn, and subtitles just make the area more confusing by displaying what’s being said from far away rather than what’s close.


Games that employ post-cutscene design ideology tend to be marketed as “immersive experiences” with “living, breathing worlds.” Bioshock Infinite is not a living, breathing world; it is a flashy museum with freaky animatronics (and literal animatronic horses). Skyrim suffers from similar problems, but at least it acknowledges the player. Again, it’s not a living world, but it is a fun playground that you can poke and prod at, whereas Infinite is a museum that might as well have signs reading “don’t touch.”  
  
Zolani Stewart went on to say that post-cutscene is a response to ludonarrative dissonance. But The Last of Us doesn’t really suffer from ludonarrative dissonance; it simply separates gameplay bits from story bits (sorta). And Bioshock Infinite creates its own dissonance (not ludonarrative) in its poor attempt to tell me that people live in Columbia, that it is a lively city. And of course, we all know the claims for Bioshock's ludonarrative dissonance. So this movement to “seamlessly” integrate mechanics and narrative is false in its ludo-fundamentalism. I think that games should continue to experiment with the way they’re structured, and there are some excellent AAA post-cutscene games. But adopting this design ideology solely because a game must be a game first is not going to make better games. Designers should attempt to figure out how to structure games and their “systems” in a way that best coincides with context: when it’s appropriate to use cutscenes, when to use exploration, and when to use text.


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I’m sorry that I used “ludonarrative dissonance” in this post. I’m sorry that I talked about The Last of Us and Bioshock Infinite in this post, because the world totally needs more words on those games… Have a nice day.

On Virtual Bodies, Aspirational Projection, and (Kin)aesthetics of Power Fantasy

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[This post contains mild spoilers for Metal Gear Rising: Revengeance]
[TW: discussion of violence, references to depression, homophobia, sexual objectification]


Talking about games as “power fantasies” is certainly a rhetoric that videogame critics have indulged in for quite a time now. The context for labeling games as such often involves criticizing the overabundance of AAA games centering on violent modes of interaction and simplistic narrative tropes with conservative gender politics (e.g. the powerful male hero defeats other men in combat to save the damsel in distress). Critiques invoking “power fantasy” often go along with calls for games with warmer, more pedestrian stories and a diversification of authors and subject matter. “Power fantasy,” for good reason, is often a derogatory term to describe a game that doesn’t engage with anything outside of typical, thoughtless, and often masculinized systems of violence that the mainstream game industry consistently regurgitates at us. But lately, instead of outright dismissing power fantasies, I’ve been thinking about how even though a focus on violent power fantasy limits games, their aesthetics of violence can be quite diverse, and categorizing all power fantasy as worthless and homogenous is reductive. I’ve been thinking about how individual players react differently to different kinds of power fantasy and what that might say about our relationships to games and our desires and ambitions. And no, I’m not talking about some primal lust for violence or other such nonsense. Luckily for me, last month (as I was finishing up Bayonetta), smart critics were exploring similar threads.


Kaitlin Tremblay wrote about different motives for choosing character classes in videogames, including how we as players see ourselves or want to see ourselves in the real world. Tremblay says that she plays “loud, boisterous, overly hulked up man characters”--Brick and Salvador in the Borderlands series--because they “unapologetically take up space,” something Tremblay strives to be able to do in her own life. She says that in real life she tends to stay out of people’s way as if invisible, but in games, Brick and Salvador present a power fantasy that allows her to assert a presence and strength that she aspires to. For Tremblay, playing big bulky men allows her to perform a physicality and personality that she doesn’t typically experience in real life. And that’s just what power fantasy lets players do--perform what we don’t or can’t in the real world in a controlled environment in which the consequences for “fantastic” behavior are mitigated.


Like Tremblay, I too tend to stay “small” and out of the way. I feel like I’m always the person waiting in a line in a cafeteria or dining hall who people walk in front of to get to the hamburgers on the other side of the line. But unlike Tremblay, in videogames, I tend to identify with characters who coincide with my smallness or my short and skinny body. Playing the huge characters with brute strength often doesn’t feel “right” to me; their typically slow movements and largeness means they’re more vulnerable to attack. Even though these types of characters are usually able to take more damage than other classes, I prefer feeling safe in smallness or the ability to escape or avoid danger.


My favorite character in the new Super Smash Bros. is the Villager (particularly the girl with pink hair and sparkly eyes). She’s a tiny, adorable, harmless-looking cartoon who destroys fools with pedestrian objects like gardening tools, umbrellas, and turnips. Her attacks with strong kickback and good range subvert the expectations of her cutesy aesthetics. Part of the power fantasy is this aesthetic subversion; I like the idea of disrupting people’s expectations of me based on past behavior. I resent my social anxiety and shyness mostly, but I sometimes get to surprise people for it with some enthusiastic outburst or intense drunken dancing. A lot of people were surprised when I dyed my hair pinkish red because my “small” behaviors similar to Tremblay’s description of her own led others to believe I wasn’t “outgoing” enough for a distinct appearance. On the Gaur Plains stage, I like to play the small, quiet Villager standing on a platform right below the top of the screen and jump up to whack unsuspecting or distracted opponents with my turnips. Dirty, I know.



My other strategy with the Villager is pretty damn cheap. I tend to spam Lloid rockets at my opponents while dodging behind a tree I plant as enemies get close. That “FUCKING TREE,” as my friends call it, does incredible damage when I chop it down and let it fall on an opponent, launching her across the screen. It’s a lot of fun frustrating my friends with the rockets and punishing them with the tree if they dare get too close, all while the Villager sports that morbidly innocent grin. It’s also probably unfair. Over at Offworld, Aevee Bee wrote about a similar playstyle using the character Ramlethal in Guilty Gear who keeps opponents at bay with huge airborne swords that allow her to become “someone who controls the conditions of touch.” For Bee, the power fantasy Ramlethal provides involves the power “to hurt but not be hurt” as a metaphor for protecting her gains towards “being happy in a human body” while the stakes are so high as long as everyone threatens to invade either physically or emotionally. My own practice with the Villager represents to me my need born of anxiety to create a comfort zone that pushes people out and my ire at those who would threaten that comfort by getting too close. This power fantasy, unlike Tremblay’s choice of Brick and Salvador, is not an aspirational projection. I don’t like this behavior of mine. Without my knowing, I made someone I thought was nice and cool think I hated them. Even some of my best friends say they’ve wondered if I even like them. My one friend calls me “cactus-y.” My strategy with the Villager represents some of my current problematic tendencies rather than ones I aspire to.


Aevee Bee’s great piece was the first that helped me understand how violent power fantasy can craft a language in which we project our emotional struggles of real-life interpersonal conflict on to the physical struggles of virtual bodies. The aesthetics of the characters we embody and the enemies or obstacles we face, as well as the kinaesthetics of combat, piece together some warped mirror that reflects back some aspect of ourselves, an aspect we wish to see in ourselves, or a mix as Todd Harper's "Lady Boss" character in Saints Row 3 does for him. While the Villager is a more reflective power fantasy for me, my aspirational ones involve a unreal physicality that can perform speed, nimbleness, and perfect acrobatics. With characters like Sheik, Fox, Zero Suit Samus, and Meta Knight in Smash, I like to maintain an aggressive unpredictability. These characters can run across the map, deal out damage in swift combos, and dart away once things get hairy. Their attacks and movements display a mysterious and unreal dexterity that allows them to juggle opponents with ease and dodge their attacks. There’s a chance that these characters can be perfect in their performance, as Bee says: “untouchable.” The big, slow characters like Ganondorf and Bowser will necessarily be hit, but they can take it (Ganondorf can charge his warlock punch through enemy attacks), while the characters I usually play should be dangerous forces that gracefully avoid other dangers. To look at games outside of Smash, here is another example of this physicality: 



The first time I saw this cutscene I thought about how cool it would be to be able to perform that sort of physicality in real life--to perfect this deadly dance of flips, kicks, dodges, sword slices, and various contortions. Near flawless skill in the face of danger. A few years after I first played Metal Gear Solid 4, I was able to perform this physicality in a virtual body in Metal Gear Rising: Revengeance. Now, I’ve already talked about how aesthetics in character design and kinaesthetics of combat affect how we perceive the power fantasies we consume. But we also can’t neglect the importance of narrative context in shaping our understanding of why we use such powers in a diegesis.


Metal Gear Rising invalidates the “coolness” of the power fantasy by having Raiden self-categorize as a monster whose only skill is hurting people. The pain of his past as a brutal child soldier and his guilt at his continued violent tendencies makes him a somewhat uncomfortable character to inhabit, especially after he embraces his “Jack the Ripper” persona. He resolves to save others, especially children, from turning into killing machines at the hands of tyrants like he was. It’s a self-deprecating sort of power fantasy about feeling worthless--like some inhuman cyborg--while trying to redeem yourself by preventing others from experiencing the same pain. Raiden performs a perfect physicality of precise movements and strength so that no one else should have to. He’s a Christ figure of sorts who instead acts as a negative example to his followers--he reprimands George for wanting to be a powerful cyborg like him. (I don’t know consume much superhero media, but I could guess that this sort of thing is a trope for the genre.)


Much like the average videogame player (presumably), Raiden has a problematic relationship with violence (virtual in the player’s case), but genuinely cares about the world and the people he is close to. As Aevee Bee concludes in her Offworld piece, “It’s not that I want to really hurt anyone. I just want to speak with the language of that power.” Raiden seems to think that physical violence is the only language he can use for his purpose--to keep people safe--just as the videogame industry often appears to think violence is the only way to let players interact with games. While I don’t know if Raiden has a feasible alternative to violence, I know that videogames can give players a language other than violence to interact with their worlds and build meaningful experiences. But as myself and other critics have made clear, violence in games can be an effective way to explore ourselves and project our conflicts onto situations in a controlled environment.


Lastly, I want to talk about Bayonetta. Bayonetta is, as Todd Harper suggested after reading Bee’s piece, another example of an “untouchable” character. In between punching, kicking, shooting from her stiletto heels, and occasionally turning into a panther, a crow, or a group of bats, she does tumbles and flips around enemies. At the precise moment before being hit, she can dodge out of the way, slowing down time to recover and dole out swift combos summoning demonic appendages made of her hair. Her acrobatics are flashy, graceful, goofy, and famously (or infamously) sexualized. She flaunts her body at the camera, teases characters in the cutscenes, and exudes a cool attitude and nonchalant swagger, all while beating the crap out of fascist angels.


The power fantasy of Bayonetta resonates with me as I struggle to come out as bisexual to my friends and family. Besides a simple desire to be able to feel sexy, snarky, and mysteriously powerful, I project my aspirations of confidence in my sexuality onto Bayonetta. I want to be able to express my sexual identity casually, with a boldness that is threatening--like how many perceive Bayonetta’s own sexuality as “threatening”--to those who might throw emotional abuse my way. I want to feel comfortable about myself in an arrogant way that scares people who would threaten my comfort by invalidating my feelings and trying to reshape the narrative of my identity, like the hierarchy of angels planning to usher in a new world order by remaking the universe in their liking. I’ve been wanting to take on this attitude for months, but I’ve only been able to enact it through Bayonetta.


But I feel uncomfortable with my indulgence of Bayonetta’s power fantasy. While Bayonetta lets me play as a sexually arrogant character without an annoying hypermasculinity (such as Dante’s in DmC: Devil May Cry) as this metaphorical power fantasy of partial liberation from the closet, some women find the character an example of harmful sexual objectification. I have no intention of interpreting the game’s gender politics because they are very complicated, and I have no stakes in the conversation. But my enjoyment of inhabiting Bayonetta’s body remains in the face of that same body being upsetting to others. Todd Harper, again, wrote about the same discomfort regarding his enjoyment of women avatars in general, including Dragon Crown’s problematic female characters:
“In a way, it worries me that the gaming bodies I often feel most comfortable in are exaggerated and sexual stereotypes of women, because I don’t identify as a woman, or as having a woman’s body, and that puts me in the uncomfortable position of arguing for characters that I enjoy even while recognizing their potential harm to others. To put it another way: can I only enjoy these characters because for me as a cis man, the rhetorical stakes are so low?”
A full-fledged discussion on “consuming media responsibly” in regards to inhabiting virtual bodies different from our own is beyond the scope of this post, and I just don’t have the tools to think about it. The oversimplified, vague answer is to think about everything with nuance, and maybe that's the right thing to do, even if leaving different experiences and opinions in contradiction feels unsatisfactory.

The violent power fantasies of videogames can provide us an impactful way of thinking about the conflicts in our lives. But I don’t know if we can or if we should even try to reconcile the value of virtual violence with our general distaste of violence in the real world, especially when, for some people, violence feels inescapable everywhere. Games have done valuable things as power fantasies (even “male” ones), but games can be and are more than empowerment through violence. And I don’t know how to negotiate the way certain virtual bodies can be gratifying and empowering for some and hurtful and triggering for others. All I can do is speak to the truth of how I project my own experience through the language that games provide.

On Minkomora

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Kikopa Games’ Minkomoraplaces you in a strange world of bright colors and abstract shapes forming a myriad of creatures, characters, and environments. You start in the small, modest home of your character and head out to explore. Outside your house is a message reading: ”Don’t be afraid of dying or missing out” and a hint to press Enter to find your way back home. This world is full of red triangular things surrounded by a squiggly red aura that affects the music while turning your character’s face red and distorting the screen when you stand near it. The world hosts plenty of other figures, some that seem to represent people, others that seem to represent plants, and others that represent…um, I don’t know--blobby things. Or at least I didn’t know what those blobby things were until I read the game’s digital manual.

Minkomora can be played in-browser and comes with a pdf download of a manual with instructions of the game’s controls alongside beautifully drawn art of the characters and a detailed map of the world as well as descriptions for each of the places you can visit and the creatures you can meet. The manual communicates the games values, which are directly in line with merritt kopas’s Soft Chambers, a design philosophy emphasizing warm introspection, emotion, and explorations of caring relationships. The manual gives life, detail, and meaning to Minkomora’s world, depicting the obscure, blobby characters of the game with clear shapes and physical attributes not seen in the game. You can identify immediately which characters correspond to what in-game representation, but the manual’s art fills in the gaps of your imagination. For example, we recognize the player character in the manual from the moon-shaped mark on its face that also appears in the game. But during play, we see the character wearing an ambiguous purple outfit, while the manual depicts the character in a sweatshirt-skirt combo.

I learn through the manual that the “red triangular things” are plants called Kitagona that emit heat that may feel pleasant to some and overbearing to others. I learn that each of the characters represents a intrapersonal or interpersonal temperament or behavior, and the manual suggests how these traits might make one feel and asks what I think and how I relate to them. The manual tells me I deserve care, reminds me that some creatures need time to develop trust in others, and asks me how extreme dedication to a task can be dangerous.



I’m too young to have any meaningful nostalgia for videogame manuals. The only manuals that I have a memory of looking at are Sonic Heroes’--you know, the one that describes Eggman as a feminist--and Jak and Daxter’s fold-out map and guide that I ripped because seven-year-old boys have no patience with folding. But Minkomora’s manual invokes such a nostalgia, as Leigh Alexander and Mike Joffe note. The game, however, doesn’t incorporate nostalgia to indulge in past gaming memories, as Joffe also mentions, but rather to subvert our expectations by providing a guide for a game space that is safe and welcoming rather than one that is hostile and demands to be mastered or conquered.

Minkomora is much like the original Legend of Zelda. In both games, you play as a silent protagonist thrust into a strange world with distinct areas that you’re free to explore. You encounter indecipherably designed creatures with weird names and have to figure out how your character relates to them. Of course this is where the two games branch off. In the Legend of Zelda your relationship to the strange creatures is one of aggression, in which the crude sprites attack you and throw shit at you on sight. The solution to their assault is to fight back, you find, since pressing A causes you to thrust out a sword. Your relationship to the game world, then, is based on mastery of the combat so that you can navigate the environments safely, discover new areas, and face more challenging foes. Minkomora, in implicitly acknowledging its similarities to Zelda, lets you know up front (even without the manual) that in this world you don’t need to employ the violence you’ve been habituated to use in games. “Don’t be afraid of dying or missing out.” You cannot be killed in this world, and you can always come back. You can’t thrust out a sword or throw bombs or shoot arrows; you can only walk and sit. Minkomora only asks that you take in the sights and sounds of a place and that you think about how that place makes you feel.

Unfortunately, on my first run, I didn’t know how to feel about Minkomora.

The game’s itch.io page reads: “You can read the manual first, keep it with you while you play, or play first and compare your interpretations with those in it later.” I tend to want to dive into a text with as little influence from what’s outside the text as possible, aiming for a “pure” initial response that can be challenged through reading reviews, criticism, and other examples of what I recently learned is called paratext after engaging with a piece of media. For example, after finishing a game, I often type its title into the search bar of Critical Distance to look for pieces that either articulate and clarify abstract feelings I have about the game or provide a perspective I haven’t even considered. Though I couldn’t and didn’t want to avoid the paratext of Minkomora’s web page, I decided to avoid the manual at first because it involves direct interpretations of the game world and the objects represented in it.

The first time I took my character out of its home was a confusing experience that left me anxious and disappointed in myself. While roaming around the world of Minkomora was somewhat pleasant with its bright colors and cute music, I was unable to meaningfully engage with the game because I was too wrapped up in finding a meaning to the objects in the space that I could test against the manual’s interpretations. I wasn’t emotionally connecting with the space because I was looking for an immediacy to the answers about why the characters exist and the reasons for their designs, and I didn’t want to rely on the authors to give me those answers. I wanted to come up with them on my own and have my own thoughts, at least before reading the manual. But the focus on this self-indulgent, shallow end goal of “figuring out” Minkomora in order to feel smart damaged my experience with the game. In my impatience to understand the game’s meaning, I failed to heed to the latter part of the game’s message, “Don’t be afraid of...missing out.” 



In both my schooling and in the criticism I read, I am told patience and visiting works multiple times are very important in engaging with art and in meaning-making, and while I’ve definitely gotten better at working slowly towards understandings of works, my experience with Minkomora shows I still have a long way to go. I still sometimes feel an urgency to know what a text is saying and doing without taking the time to put the work in. Part of this impatience is certainly caused by critical inexperience and immaturity, but I think another part is pressure in critical spheres to be the person who can consistently say the Smart, Interesting, and Correct things about art--a pressure that you must always be on the ball and have the answers and wisdom ready to be imparted onto others, especially readers. This pressure can motivate me to go for the A in class and try to get more pageviews for this blog, but I think it also prevents me from not only enjoying art but also from developing a healthy pace to think through difficult or more obscure work and from thinking about how a work makes me feel.

I’d also like to tackle another reason why I didn’t read the manual before playing: the idea that the author’s intent should not matter to the player, who can and should form the meaning of the text on her own. While I still believe that an audience member’s interpretation that diverges from the author’s intent is 100% valid, to dismiss the author’s words on her own work entirely seems just as arrogant as the author irritated at her audience for not “getting it.” Shutting out conversations between authors and audiences only seems to limit our understandings of what we create and what we engage with. My fear was that Minkomora’s manual would try to dictate the game’s meaning to me and spoil whatever my personal experience would bring to the game, but the manual’s writing couldn’t be any less didactic. The manual constantly asks how you feel about the game’s characters and its spaces and wonders contemplatively about them rather than mandates concrete meanings. While I’m sitting here fretting about what these horseshoe-looking shapes are, Minkomora’s manual wants to foster a friendly, relaxed discourse about a world surviving on care. 



For me, reading Minkomora’s manual turned the game world from a disorienting space into one I actively want to inhabit and explore. I’ve returned to the game several times after having read the manual, and those experiences have been much more enjoyable than the first time I played the game. I like hanging out with Kotnakon, a spider creature who carries me around the map out of its love for helping others but needs to rest after working too hard for others, reminding me of my plans to focus more on myself next semester. I like swimming alongside Nurek in the lake, though I never manage to lose myself so completely in my strokes as it does. The game’s manual gives me a way to relate to its world in a beautiful way that I probably wouldn’t have found even if I did have the patience to thoughtfully engage with Minkomora’s imagery on my own. The manual shapes my view of the game’s world as a friendly and mysterious place while at the same time letting me come to my own conclusions about how my character relates to the others and the areas outside its home. The manual is cute, charming, and opens up Minkomora’s world, and the game is certainly better for it. Next time I play an artgame like Minkomora, I just need to swallow my pride, stop worrying so much about my interpretive abilities, and stop being afraid of missing out. I'm never going to have all the answers, and I'm probably not even supposed to.

Invisible Harnesses

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Last week a friend and I decided to spend an afternoon on an elaborate obstacle course suspended by ropes and cables from trees. We shimmied across platforms circling tree trunks, balanced on suspended logs, climbed a cargo net, and slid across several zip lines. The physical actions required to complete the course reminded me of the platforming and set pieces of the Uncharted games and the Tomb Raider reboot. After finishing the Tomb Raider reboot last month, I thought that those sections failed to provide tension despite entire architectures crumbling and rock structures caving in all around Lara. Escaping from a burning monastery just felt like going through the motions to me. But walking along the tightrope on the course with ropes to hold on to and harnesses hooked to a safety cable felt pretty scary. Obviously, a physical simulation of traversing a dangerous environment is going to be more frightening than a virtual simulation in which you sit on the couch with a controller in your hand. But I think my experience on the course reveals how these games try to compensate for the mundane safety of your own body by putting your virtual body in spectacular danger. Sadly, this contextual approach of raising the stakes to create tension doesn’t always work because harnesses more foolproof than those of the obstacle course are baked into these games’ design.

It seems that the physical game and the virtual one must aim for opposing aesthetics to make each experience fun and engaging. Because the obstacle course involves risk, however minimal, of injury and death (according to the waiver we signed), the course needs to feel safe in order for people to comfortably zip across 250 feet of cable several stories from the ground. Bright red landing pads indicate the platforms you zip to and soften the impact if you’re unable to break properly, carabiners on your harness clip onto red safety cables throughout the course, instructions and tips litter each platform, and guides follow you on the course to make sure everything goes smoothly. The course in its reproduction of actually hazardous environmental conditions has to compensate by reassuring you of your safety. The course unfortunately only accommodates able-bodied people of certain body types and also failed to reassure my friend who is a bit more scared of heights than I am and who chose to get down after the first zip line. Videogames like Uncharted and Tomb Raider need to instead make players on their comfy couches feel like they’re in danger and that they need to take urgent action. The games rely on visual spectacle and dramatic scenarios to try making holding up on the analog stick and pressing X more intense and interesting, like this:

Source: venturebeat.com


I think Uncharted 2 was my first photorealistic AAA action game, and I was very impressed by this scene and all the other climby bits back in 2009--the bombast of the visuals, the way the ledges and platforms crumble and disappear the moment you jump to the next, and Drake’s great animations and weighty kinaesthetics. But after playing both Among Thieves and Drake’s Fortune a few times, the illusion started to break as I became more aware of the harnesses. By the time I played Uncharted 3, these set pieces still looked remarkable, but they didn’t really offer any surprises or true moments of tension. I realized that every climbable ledge stands out in the environments because of its shading, there will always be a climbable ledge when Drake is in danger, and Drake can safely stand still in a burning ruin forever or hold on to a ledge without getting tired. Drake will always survive these perilous platforming sections because 1) such a death would be “anti-climatic” by these games’ standards and 2) game narratives built around controlling a singular protagonist can’t really afford their deaths. Drake will leap across impossibly wide chasms, as the game wills it. If Drake jumps on a platform that breaks, Elena will save him just in time, as the game wills it. If you, the player, mess up and deviate from the game’s script, and Drake plummets down a bottomless pit, the invisible harness will catch him, respawning him just a few seconds before the failed leap. You come to realize that not only is your own body always safe when playing Uncharted, but Drake’s body is ultimately safe too.

The physical strength and dexterity required of the difficult parts of the obstacle course are in and of themselves the course’s source of fun and engagement. But in the games all you have to do is move the stick in certain directions and press X at the right time or perform a simple quick-time event. To make platforming sections feel more like rewarding labor, the games emphasize the hazards, make the jumps wider and the stakes higher. While the obstacle course designers want to make their users feel safe, the game designers want to make their players feel in peril, and both sometimes fail. My friend was too scared of heights and too short to easily reach the wire to slow down when on the zip line. The platforming set pieces of Uncharted and Tomb Raider, with their toothless threats to your character’s safety, are often no more exciting than your local playground and jungle gym.

I think these action games are starting to realize that these set pieces aren’t very affecting. The Last of Us replaces most platforming with the frankly quite worse ladder puzzles, and Tomb Raider tries to go beyond Uncharted by forcing the player to watch needlessly gritty, horrible cutscenes of Lara’s death, often by impalement, perhaps to make players feel more pressure to perform well so as to not have to see such obnoxious, gross images. There is one sequence in Tomb Raider, however, that is fairly successful: when Lara climbs the radio tower. The scene requires the simplest interaction of all the set pieces--holding up to climb the ladder. But in context, this scene is essential to Lara’s character progression. Everything relies on this moment. Successfully climbing the rusty, extremely tall, and partially broken tower in the chilling wind not only means that Lara and her friends might be able to signal for help and safely get off the island but also that Lara can start to believe that she is capable of overcoming incredible odds in order to survive the toughest scenarios. The way the wind whistles ominously and the camera pulls away from Lara and back towards her suggests that this is a pivotal moment and that tragedy could strike at any point during Lara’s climb. Her palpable trepidation as she ascends the tower and her immense relief as someone responds to her distress signal at the top make for an tense, emotionally powerful moment.



via user TRStrider74




This scene in Tomb Raider is successful mostly because the action of climbing becomes significant to the character and the narrative context, which these set pieces rarely are. Platforming seems to be used primarily as a device for pacing. We scale a fortress wall to give us break from shooting dudes in the face. And that works for the most part; those sections lack the stress of combat, even though they should probably include the stress of physical exertion on our character. But Lara will never tire out climbing up a rope that she used as a zip line like I almost did on the course when I took the wrong zip and had to turn back. She’ll use a single climbing axe to scale rock walls (I’m not sure how that’s even possible), but there are no contingencies in which she slips or the axe falls out. These gameplay sections that would be incredibly difficult and petrifying to perform in real life are usually taken as a breather.

I don’t really have a solution to the problems of the platforming bits in Uncharted and Tomb Raider and other action games. Besides, they do work well to control the games’ pacing, and it can be fun to perform the acrobatics amidst the spectacle of things exploding, collapsing, burning down, etc. Despite their benefits to the games’ structures and how they always look incredible, they often don’t evoke much of anything and appear little more than excessive showcases of technology. I realize it’s not really news to anybody that an aspect of Uncharted has become rote and that the main purpose of whole parts of games is simply to mix things up for the player or show off a game’s engine. I just want to suggest that climbing, shimmying, balancing, and zipping could be actions that excite and engage players and provide a challenge that’s meaningful to the characters that players control. How, exactly? I don’t think I can fumble through armchair game design advice on this topic, but perhaps the radio tower scene from Tomb Raider is a start. Ultimately, though, I can only leave you hanging (sorry) with these observations.

Life is Strange: More Thoughts on Time, Consequence, and Anxiety

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[Spoilers for Life is Strange Episodes 1-4]
[TW: references to domestic abuse]

I can’t fucking wait for school to start again. I’m writing this just a few days before I go back to college, and I’m really excited to live with my friends again and take interesting classes. Every day the past few weeks, I’ve been saying to my parents, “I want to go to school,” or, “Can’t I just be at school now?” which is beautifully and horribly ironic considering that just a few years ago, I would say to my parents every day, “I don’t want to go to school,” or, “Can I please just not go today?” (Of course I went every day in high school and got perfect attendance despite the daily grievances.)

In these last few weeks of summer before my sophomore year, I’ve been keeping myself busy playing through Dontnod’s episodic Life is Strange. While I’ve been anticipating a variety of social situations among friends, strangers, and university faculty in the upcoming weeks, I’ve been experiencing both the mundane and spectacular situations that high school senior Max Caulfield finds herself in at her school Blackwell Academy and the surrounding small town of Arcadia Bay. The game revolves around Max’s newfound power to rewind time to redo events, make new choices, and fix mistakes. 

Gamespot.com
Max’s superpower is an excellent premise for a young adult videogame, not only because of games’ history with rewinding time as a mechanic (e.g. Braid and Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time), but also because most people fantasize about going back in time after saying something they regret or missing out on a opportunity, especially teens with naive wishes for perfect, easy lives in which everybody likes them. I can think of so many situations when I would like to use this power. Like in class when the teacher asks a question I think I know the answer to but am too afraid of answering in case I’m wrong, only to feel salty after another student confirms my guess. Or when I definitely know the answer to something, perhaps with more detail than the teacher, but I don’t want to seem like an obnoxious know-it-all, so instead of answering, the class sits in awkward silence for a minute before the teacher disappointedly continues the lecture. Or the times when I’ve thought of a great joke after the window in which it’d be appropriate to use it. And as a queer person, I’d feel a lot safer flirting with a boy at a party if I could rely on a rewind power if he gets wigged out or becomes threatening. But with my social anxiety, I’d be rewinding most often after I’ve omitted doing something rather than after speaking or acting.

Last December I wrote a post about how Creatures Such As We and Queers in Love at the End of the Worlduse time restraints to create anxiety in the player, inciting her fear of missing out, fear of not being perfect. But with the power of time at her fingertips, Max can eliminate the anxiety of missing out. Life is Strange caters to the player like Mass Effect in that you’re free to walk around the environments, look at objects, and talk to people at your own pace even when the narrative says you should be urgently focused on a task. The Earth is burning, but it’s, like, totally fine that Shepard chills on the Citadel for a few days. An anxious Warren waits for Max in the parking lot, but it’s, like, totally fine that Max talks to everyone on the quad first and even lets Daniel draw a detailed sketch of her. The dissonance takes you out of the experience, but it’s less of a problem than in Mass Effect because it reinforces that since Max has all the time in the world, she’s free to see everything and assess accordingly.

Max’s new power naturally gives her a new sense of confidence, which the game implies during Max’s first confrontation with Juliet in Episode 1. Juliet is confused by Max’s newfound upfrontness, wondering why she would suddenly care enough to approach her about her problems. Totally weirded out by Max pushing into her personal affairs, she says to her, “You never talk, just zone out with your camera.” It’s clear that Max was a socially awkward and shy girl before she got her powers. Before she realizes her powers, she walks the halls of Blackwell with headphones in her ears after Mr. Jefferson’s class, choosing to see but not engage with anybody in the hall. This scene seems a lot closer to my experience of high school than Max walking up to everybody to check in on their lives and intervene during situations after she gets her powers. Max’s rewind ability is a clever means to let you play as an awkward, shy teen without having to deal with the baggage of existence as an awkward shy teen who is unable to talk to anyone ever. 

wethenerdy.com

Max’s newfound confidence comes from not having to worry about the finality of her choices right away. Every choice you make that has a consequence later comes with a chime and a flapping butterfly icon on the top left of the screen, signalling you to rewind if you want to consider a different option before moving on. I always rewind in the case of diverging paths, even when I know my first decision is the one I wanted to make, just to see what happens. I want to see the different outcomes of different possibilities to 1) see which actions and dialogue choices work most in my and my friends’ favors and 2) test these against what I feel ethically comfortable doing (more on that later). Because Max can only rewind about a few minutes at a time, you can only see the immediate results of your actions; you can only guess the long term effects. Most decisions have potential negative results, which Max will voice as she asks herself if she should rewind. Though Max has time on her side, my anxiety about the choices is often worse in some cases because even though I now have the power to potentially be “perfect,” I still don’t know the future. Since I have the opportunity to change my choices, the pressure is on to get it right. I see that letting Chloe keep the gun she stole from her stepdad prevents her from feeling betrayed by me, but I don’t know if it’ll get her into trouble or danger later on. Thinking about the possibilities with my expanded control over situations actually heightens anxiety because now I feel even more culpable for the consequences of my actions.  

I’m thorough in my playthrough both because I want to see all that the game offers and because I want to make sure I’m being as perfect as possible. Most of the time I rewind after optional conversations with no effect on the plot just to ensure that I both see everything and I choose the dialogue path that presents more authentically what I would say or what my intentions are to the other characters, regardless of whether or not their reactions are essentially the same either way. When snooping around a person’s room, I rewind so that it was as if I never looked at certain things, even though the game wasn’t going to punish me for snooping in the first place (though it sometimes does). After a classmate didn’t let me fly her drone, I searched her bag and found the model number, rewound time and impressed her with the information I pretended to have already known. But after she let me fly the drone that time, I felt guilty and rewound as if I had never approached her. I became so obsessed with some of my choices that it was hard to progress through the game. Most of the episodes took me 5 or 6 hours rather than 3 as most reviewers say.

I find it hard to feel like I’m ever doing the right thing while playing Life is Strange.

Mari of Geek Remix made an excellent video analyzing the morality of Max’s use of her superpower:

 

As Mari details, because of her rewind ability, Max never has to take responsibility for any of the short term consequences of her actions. Instead of apologizing for upsetting someone, she can just rewind and comfort them instead. She can use information gleaned from conversations gone south to her advantage after she rewinds. In real life, if people were rude to or made fun of me for not knowing about drones, skateboarding, or obscure photography facts, I would not want to engage with them. But Max doesn’t have to accept the fact that some people don’t like her and can instead manipulate people using time to say the right things and make friends with everybody. Sure, it makes all parties involved feel better about each other, but those Max uses her powers on don’t really know who the real Max is.

Max is able to make several choices all in one scenario, but she can rewind so that she can only be judged for one of the choices she makes. In one scenario, Chloe’s stepdad David gets ready to barge into her room while Max is present. She can choose to face David with Chloe or hide in the closet at Chloe’s request. When David finds weed in Chloe’s room, you can either take the blame, deny your involvement, or stay hidden if that applies. When you refuse to intervene from the closet or take the blame, David ends up slapping Chloe across the face, but not if you make a different choice. I saw all of the different scenarios play out and made my final choice to hide in the closet, then intervene and take the blame for the pot. But I had still witnessed David slap Chloe, which colored my impression of him for the rest of the game. I choose to judge David as an abuser even though he technically didn’t slap Chloe in the universe I chose to move on in. But no one has to judge Max for any of the awful things she does in alternate universes. I want to be clear here - I’m not saying we should give David a free pass, because he did hit Chloe in an alternate universe that does exist. But Max acts horrendously in plenty of alternate universes, but she faces no judgment for those actions. I made fun of Victoria after splashing her with wet paint, let Frank and his dog get killed almost a dozen times, tried to shoot Frank myself, and watched passively when a friend got bullied, but it’s all fine because I rewound time to erase those questionable decisions. It’s unfair that Max can see and judge everyone’s shitty actions that don’t necessarily come to pass, while she can essentially get away with anything and does in some cases. If growing up is about making mistakes, then Max can never grow up as long as she holds on to her superpower.

I did a bad thing last semester. Without going into too much detail, as housing selection for the fall drew near, my friends and I bailed out on another friend, who was under the impression that we were definitely planning to room with him, a week before the housing applications were due. To make matters worse, he found out from someone else we had told. I felt like such a horrible person and cried about it because I thought our decision meant he’d be alone for a whole semester and because I know I would have felt betrayed and devastated if I was in his place. Of course I wanted to rewind the whole week and a) convince my friends to room with him, b) call him earlier to tell him of our plans, or c) make sure the person who spilled the beans keeps their mouth shut. But I don’t have Max’s powers, so instead I apologized. And, yeah, he was mad at me. But he eventually found a new roommate and the whole deal blew over with everyone being okay. But Max never has to process or own up to her mistakes; she only has to rewind and make it seem like things never went out of equilibrium, like when Dana catches her snooping in her room, as highlighted by Mari’s video. Sure, she still feels anxiety over making big decisions with unclear, lasting impacts, but she never has to engage with regret after immediate consequences. 

Tough decisions abound. | Gamespot.com
In her video Mari reasons through rewinding time while playing as Max:
“...I want to have a perfect game, a perfect playthrough, a perfect life. I want people to like me, I don’t want my friends to die, I want to get good grades, and I want all of that to come to me easily. I want that so bad that I don’t think about the possible consequences in the future. I’m willing to break the universe, let my body get ruined, and betray all sense of morality in order to be perfect, no matter how many warning signs I get. And isn’t that the entire psyche of a teenager?”
One of the best things about Life is Strange is its characterization of Max is relation to her rewind powers. Clearly, Max has a good heart despite the poor morality of her actions. Max is legitimately trying to be a good person and make things better for both herself and others around her, but in her quest for perfection, she fails to see the benefits of owning up to her mistakes and learning from them. The game even implies that she has a sense of awareness about her actions. When you look in a certain mirror, Max will wonder whether she’s a superhero or a total hypocrite. She feels like a real teenager with all the right intentions just trying to get everyone to like her. She just has to learn that it sucks to be a person and live in a world where you have to deal with your flaws, and if being perfect means having to constantly manipulate the world and deceive other people, maybe it’s just best to be yourself.

So it all comes down to the final episode. Will Max finally have to confront the dubious ethics of her abilities and choose to relinquish them? Will Episode 5 finally explicitly depict queerness, or will the game go down in history as a particularly egregious example of queer baiting? And what exactly happened to Rachel Amber and Kate Marsh, who is responsible, and why? And finally, why did Max receive her powers in the first place?

I’m almost as excited and anxious about the possible answers to these questions as I am about starting my sophomore year and my last eight months of living as a teenager.

2015 Retrospective

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So, 2015. While I feel kind of weird about looking at years as comprehensive “units” of our lives with their own trends, themes, and personal developments separate from other years, I also think these indulgent retrospectives are useful. They help us organize our thoughts on where we’ve been and where we’re going. They help us track our successes and failures and decide how we might improve for the future. It’s easy to be cynical about this kind of “New Year’s Resolution” rhetoric, laughing at the cliched influx of gym memberships at the start of January that don’t get used past March. But this kind of reactionary, patronizing cynicism is the exact thing I want to further cut out of my life, and other end-of year retrospectives I’ve read have echoed some similarsentiments. You could also argue that we should always be reflective of ourselves and set out to improve. But I find that self-reflection takes a massive amount of energy, and it’s hard to change or improve when you’re questioning every life decision or situation ad infinitum without actually acting (which is what the majority of this year has been for me). And the holidays momentarily remove us (at least partially) from the hustle and bustle of work and school, giving us some breathing room for this kind of reflection. Writing this is an indulgence for sure, but I think it’s a healthy one that I want to use as a tangible thing to hold me accountable for better behavior and attitudes for next year.

2015, for me, was kind of like this

Yay.

2014 saw me climb out of the abyss after graduating from high school. It was the year I started to read and write more about games and developed great new friendships during my first semester at college. 2015 saw me struggle to stay afloat during an okay second semester, a long, lonely summer, and a kinda bad fall semester. Whereas I started doing so many things I thought I could never do in 2014, which hugely boosted my confidence and mental health, I feel like I stagnated in 2015.

But I should acknowledge that my stagnation in 2015 is largely a perceived one. I did somewriting that I’m proud of. I was on a panel of young videogame critics alongside wonderful folks as part of ADAF. I feel like I’ve learned a lot in some of my classes. I came out as queer/bisexual. And though I failed to grow much externally, various challenges and failures this year made me grow internally.

I’ve tried to write some more about my feelings on 2015, but I haven’t liked any of the attempts I’ve put together. So instead, I’m going to write about the works of art that have impacted me the most this year to talk more about those feelings in a different context.

Before I do that, I just want to acknowledge the awful tendency I’ve had this year to try to play/read/watch everything I possibly could. According to a Google Doc I updated throughout the year, I played 104 videogames in 2015. That’s more than I ever have in a single year before, much more than the 60 I played last year. Granted, a lot (maybe even the majority) of those games were short, less than half an hour long #altgames. But my distanced imbibing of all those works has really hindered my abilities to focus and reflect on the games to get the most out of them. I approached games this way with a desire to be literate about as many games as possible. This approach failed wildly though; I probably couldn’t tell you much about a good chunk of the games I did play this year. What this behavior did was turn engaging with art into a mindless, endless cycle of consumption. I treated art the exact way that “cult-of-the-new” technocapitalism wants us to. Consume, discard, do not look back. Steamroll through game after game, TV episode after TV episode, book after book. Being on Twitter often exacerbates this type of problem--with everyone sharing articles, games, controversies, shitposts, and a bunch of other things all at once. It’s very distracting! So there are some things I want to try to do to build healthier relationships with the art I engage with. For example, next year I’m forbidding myself from moving on to the next videogame on my queue before writing something--anything--about the last one. Not all of this writing will necessarily be published, and I might make exceptions for games I’m planning a longer piece for or allow myself to play 3 short games before writing my impressions. I hope this method helps me develop more intimate connections with what I play, allowing me to bring more to the works and get more out of them. I’m hoping I don’t play more than 50 games next year. I’m also going to try to establish more specialized interests within games. I want to focus on a few key AAA series (Okami, Metal Gear, Bayonetta, Metroid Prime), genres (hack ‘n’ slash, interactive fiction) and topics (relationships, anxiety, bodies, violence). This doesn’t mean I’m just going to stick to certain kinds of games, and what I’ve listed here might not even be what I decide to focus on. But it would be more productive to develop deep knowledge about a few subjects than vague understandings of everything.

Okay, so let’s get on with it. Here’s some cool stuff I looked at in 2015:

Grimes - Art Angels

I don’t really follow music, but it seems that every six months or so I find an artist or album that blows me away so much that I stop listening to everything else for a while. Grimes’ Visions was one of those last year, actually. But for the past two months, Art Angels has been all I listen to--when I wake up, in the car, in between classes, before I go to bed. I’m listening to it now! Listening to Art Angels is sort of like a “centering” activity; it simultaneously relaxes me and pumps me up. I just love Grimes’ vibrant bubblegum sublimity. I love the confident, high-energy “Flesh without Blood,” about realizing the need to cut a fairweather, false friend out of your life and “Kill V Maim,” about a genderfluid space vampire Al Pacino. I love the more mellow yet optimistic “REALiTi” and “Butterfly.” Parts of Art Angels are about dealing with friendships that may be enticing but either damaging, fake, or falling apart (“Flesh without Blood,” “Easily,” “Pin,” “REALiTi”), and a lot of it is about asserting a self (through music) amidst a lot undermining noise (“California,” “Belly of the Beat,” “Butterfly”).

I find myself relating a lot to the content of Art Angels, remembering the better times of the end of 2014 as certain relationships seem to fall apart around me in 2015. In particular I really like the way the album ends: “If you’re looking for a dream girl / I’ll never be your dream girl.” In “Butterfly,” Grimes presumably sings this lyric to a fanbase who often wants very specific things from her and her music. She rejects those impositions in order to develop herself and her sound on her own terms, a butterfly of her own creation. It’s a song about not being able to please everybody and accepting that. I often feel like I’m being pulled in different directions--between my “normal” friends in real life (read: “straight” and “““apolitical”””) and the volatile spaces of the games community. I often think I don’t fit in with either crowd, nor can I adequately perform for either. And I think I’ve figured out that that’s okay! And moving forward, I want to surround myself with people who’ll support me for being myself and for developing in ways I want to see myself grow.

Why you looking for a harmony?
There is harmony in everything
It’s a butterfly who waits for the world
To fly away.

Anyway, I love the shit out of Art Angels and definitely want to bring its cathartic energy with me into 2016.


J Bearhat’s zine Gay Apathy is earnest and hilarious and also sobbing softly in the corner next to an empty bottle of tequila. It’s also probably one of the best things a babyqueer like me can read. It expresses the anxiety of belonging to an identity fragmented beyond any stable recognition, one that’s become repurposed, repackaged, and redistributed alongside Gay Rights victories and cruising apps in the hellscape that is late capitalism. It features dream dates with boys behind your supermarket counters, a list of the freshest and totally-not-demoralizing gay aesthetics, Unresolved Gender Issues, Absolut Vodka, and Ellen Page!!!! It is very much a zine about a disconnect from the myths of The Gay Experience™ and a disconnect from other gays, and it’s beautiful.

Seriously, go check it out. J Bearhat’s other zines are also great. I especially enjoyed Date a Boy Who Travels and Corporate Interiors. Their work on itch.io is pay-what-you-want!   

Buffy the Vampire Slayer

I understand why a lot of people don’t really like Buffy; it has a lot of representation problems (especially re: race). And some of its ideas about sex are questionable at best. But it turns out that if you put likable teens in your show and have them face Teen Things as well as campy vampires, I will like it. I spent my entire summer working my way through the seven seasons of Buffy, and I came to really love the charming characters and sometimes cheesy, sometimes brilliant writing.

This summer I felt pretty isolated from people as I simply cycled between being at work and being at home most of the time. After a month, I desperately wanted to go back to school to be with my friends. As Jackson Tyler says on the Metal Illness and Games panel for ADAF, watching TV/film (especially shows with ensemble casts) can be isolating because you’re explicitly distanced from the relationships that develop between the characters. It’s easy to look at connections and friendships on TV and go, “I want that!” That was very much my experience watching Buffy both because of the context of my summer and because, ya know, high school was Bad. I have really weird, uncomfortable feelings about my relationship to the show--how I projected myself onto the characters (especially Willow) as a sort of fictional replacement for my mostly empty real teenage experiences. This kind of relationship to a media object seems unhealthy to me, but a lot of people seem to inevitably develop these kinds of relationships to characters. In 2016, I’d like to try to understand more about why that is and how to negotiate the weird feelings I have about these kinds of engagements.

Anyway, it’s easy to become passionate about a show like Buffy--the characters are so likable that you want to see them written well. I think the show is more interesting for fumbling with themes and representations sometimes and succeeding at other times; its unevenness encourages the audience to discuss it more, which is probably why academia dotes on it. Willow is also probably one of my favorite characters of all time, rivalling Bayonetta for the title of favorite witch. :)

(Season 2 is my favorite, Season 5 is the “best,” Season 7 is the worst, and Season 6 is way better than people give it credit for okay bye)

Life is Strange (spoilers follow)

Life is Strange has all of the problems Buffy has, particularly for being a story about teenage girls created by mostly straight white dudes. It’s been rightly taken to task for its depictions of disability, race, and queerness (spoilers). But like Buffy, Life is Strange has great characters and an earnestness that I appreciate; it’s definitely a game that deserves nuanced conversations. Nobody else in the AAA space even tries to make young adult games about high school, so I’m happy Dontnod made a memorable attempt that got people talking. And I loved Life is Strange’s rewind mechanic that changes the dynamic of player choices.      

I played the first four episodes of Life is Strange right before I went back to college for the fall. I expected a semester in which everything would fall into place for me. But most of my relationships and plans didn’t meet those expectations, largely because I acted as if conflicts and desires would sort themselves out on their own. The happenings (and often, non-happenings) of this semester started to deteriorate my mental health, and I played the conclusion to Life is Strange over Thanksgiving break--when I was at my worst this year. And I still don’t know if I’ve processed the ending right. The game’s ending is cheap, emotionally manipulative, and judgmental, but it is also the logical development of the game’s plot. You can see the final choice coming probably by the end of Episode 1. So why was I so upset about it if it was everything I expected? I guess because it was the most explicit time the game looked me in the eye to say that the way I wanted the world was wrong--that if I wanted to have my way, natural forces would destroy the world for everyone else. Life is Strange tells me I’m selfish for wanting to be happy, and I’m scared that it’s right. And I want to be able to accept that since I’m usually on board with games that decentralize and deny the player’s wants (MGS2, Stanley Parable, Spec Ops). But Life is Strange seems more like a personal accusation than those other games. I guess that’s because MGS2 and Spec Ops say it’s bad to want to be a videogame war hero, an idea I can get behind, whereas Life is Strange says it’s bad to want to be gay in love. Obviously that’s reductive--obviously that’s not what Life is Strange is trying to say. The game wants to say that you can’t have a perfect life, and trying to control the world and other people to have a perfect life is wrong. But to stake that conflict entirely on a queer relationship? Maybe it’d be less of a problem if more games had diverse queer representations to begin with, but really--


--it just makes me feel like the Devil. Life is Strange makes me feel like the Devil, and shames me for it.

We Know the Devil makes me feel like the Devil, and loves me for it.


Out of everything I played, watched, and read in 2015, I’ll remember We Know the Devil the most. It’s far and away my favorite game of the year and could easily be considered one of my favorite games ever. I really appreciate that this game exists as I ride out these last few months of being a teenager.

We Know the Devil is a visual novel different from the more traditional Western magical girl stories of Buffy and Life is Strange because not only does the world hate its teens, but the teens hate themselves. They’re not even really trying to save the world either--they’re just trying to survive it.

I went to Catholic school all my life, so being queer was essentially not an option, what with people around me saying that being gay is at best something to be controlled and repressed and at worst just inhuman. And I was very good at repressing queerness in high school (so was everyone else it seems--I don’t know if anyone else in my class was out at the time), even though that must have compounded my self-hate back then. The characters of We Know the Devil also live in a world where being queer means being the devil, and the trio struggles to hold their friendships together amidst their self-loathing and shared isolation. I see a little bit of myself in all the characters’ responses to their pain. Jupiter tries to hide her desires by trying to be perfect, Venus hides her fears by being a pushover, and Neptune hides her pain by being cold, bitter, and mean. There’s a character who I identify with the most, but I’m, uh--*snaps hair tie against wrist*--not telling. Just go play the game.

The three protagonists of the game are all lovable, and the dynamics between them are hilarious and heart-wrenching. Aevee Bee’s writing is consistently amazing, maneuvering flawlessly between passive-aggressive jokes and tender heart-to-hearts. Mia Schwartz’s character designs are beautiful and fit each character’s personality wonderfully, and Alec Lambert’s soundtrack flits between warm and harrowing synths.

You play the game by pairing up two of the characters in different scenes, and the one most often left out is taken by the devil at the end of the game. The game depicts how friendships often unintentionally come at the expense of other friendships, and the final scene is a metaphor for being left to deal with your pain and unfulfilled desires on your own. This system makes playing the game so guilt-ridden because none of the characters deserve to be pushed out. The game’s three endings simulate some of my experiences of loneliness this semester. I’ve several times been upset (along with drunk) about feeling unable to share feelings or Real Shit with certain people. Because the few times I have, I feel like I’ve been either hand-waved or met with little reciprocating honesty. It’s the worst feeling in the world to have people you trust shut you out like that, and I’ve sort of “lost it” a few times. Someone has videos of me babbling about subjectivity and yelling about “what’s wrong with me!” and being a “negative ball of negative awfulness” ~to no one in particular~ at 2 AM. That’s what being the Devil is. The Devil’s the only one who’ll hold you in those situations.

But the times that friends have taken care of me this year have meant the world to me. The game’s “true” ending shares the beautiful possibility of a community of friends in which no one gets left out. It’s presented as an ideal that takes work and effort but certainly isn’t impossible. That ending inspires me to put in that work both for myself and others in 2016--to love myself and find others who can know the devil with me. It’s not going to be easy, but I’m definitely going to try to be better to myself and the people around me.

I just heard it’s on Steam Greenlight. Please go vote for it!

Honorable Mentions

Bayonetta 1 & 2
Jessica Jones/Daredevil
Metal Gear Rising: Revengeance
Splatoon
FKA twigs- M3LL155X
The Beginner’s Guide

In between semesters, free from a good deal of responsibilities, I have all this energy re: making 2016 better. And I don’t want this energy to die out by the time I make it back to campus. So I really want to hold myself to higher standards, to improve my craft, my relationships, and my self.

Thanks to everyone who’s been awesome and supportive this year! Here’s to building something great in 2016.

Metal Gear Villains: An Introduction

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Metal Gear is a beautiful goddamn mess.


I replayed most of the series (Metal Gear Solid 1-4) this winter break in preparation to play The Phantom Pain once I get a PS4 in the summer. I also wanted playing the games to accompany my reading of Jackson Tyler’s excellent, fun Metal Gear Diaries over on Abnormal Mapping. And I’m planning on replaying Revengeance before Heather Alexandra’s upcoming book comes out. Metal Gear is a series I’ve loved since I played MGS4 four years ago (a confusing entry to start with, sure--but I did love it!), but I wanted to remind myself of why. I also played the games in a strange order: 4 first, followed by 2, 3, Peace Walker, and Revengeance. I had never played the first game, a sin to many, especially for experiencing Sons of Liberty without the essential knowledge of the first game’s framework.


Not only did I replay Metal Gear to rectify those sins, but I also I wanted to see how it evolves its narrrative, aesthetics, and gameplay over the course of a decade. And playing the games one after the other and seeing those changes--changes in both technology to make the games and narrative tactics to address political shifts over the decade--has given me a strange sense of history that continues to develop in me as I age and work through my degree. Metal Gear helped me realize that I’m as much a subject of historical changes and circumstances as the series is. I’ve been alive for nearly 20 years, long enough for tons of cultural, political, and technological shifts to occur all around me, such as the rise of an Internet culture, economic crises, the War on Terror, radical social movements, and reactionary social movements. It’s not that I wasn’t a subject of history before and that I am now. It’s the shock that I was always interpellated in ongoing social and historical transformations. These changes were occurring while I was in diapers, while I was practicing penmanship in second grade, and are continuing as I type this post. Elementary and high school education seem designed to make students feel distant to history and cultural processes, but the Metal Gear saga is intentionally designed to foster this kind of self-awareness in its audience. Metal Gear is a series about legacy. It consistently asks us how we’re going to live in the present and what we’re going to pass on to future generations.


But of course, Metal Gear will challenge its audience to reflect on their relationship to technology and culture and, in the same breath, say “Look at this Hot Babe--press R1 to see titty.” Metal Gear is a series of contradictions--a series that constantly flits between brilliance and stupidity. It’s a series so dense and convoluted that it’s hard to know where to start talking about it. It’s a series about what it means to be a Soldier. It’s a series that sacrifices subtlety for sincerity when delivering its anti-war, anti-nuclear, anti-capitalist critiques. It’s also a series about bisexual vampires and photosynthetic snipers and anime robots and homoerotic fistfights on top of those anime robots. It questions whether love can bloom on the battlefield in the most ridiculous, ill-conceived, and often sexist ways. It’s a series about videogames--its sequels are about videogame sequels. It tackles player entitlement and videogame power fantasy way earlier and often more elegantly than many of its more recent peers. Nuclear war, cultural indoctrination, and mass exploitation and murder threaten the Metal Gear universe at the whims of the characters’ melodramatic interpersonal conflicts and identity crises. It’s a series with horrendous representations of gender, race, and sexuality, a series with awkward moment-to-moment dialogue, a series with incredibly disorienting pacing. Most design decisions from the camera to the level design to the shooting mechanics seem to work towards a singular, cohesive vision for each individual game. But the series’ canon is constantly rewritten, and our understanding of characters, plot points, and even entire games are constantly called into question and reconfigured.

The Cobra Unit - (metalgear.wikia.com)



There are so many approaches one can take to Metal Gear and so many aspects of the games one could focus on--to praise it or to tear it down. But in this blog series, I want to focus on Kojima’s villains; they’re an interesting and essential part of the series for many reasons. MGS boss fights are some of the most renowned in videogame history. The villains are noteworthy because:


  1. The boss fights are interesting pieces of game design. Encounters are often like puzzles (some better than others). As a whole, they require a variety of tactics from the player, and individually, tend to offer multiple approaches to “solve the puzzle.” And of course, some are famous for their fourth-wall breaking techniques, which are always more than mere gimmicks as some players might argue.
  2. They’re the epitome of capital-R Romance in the games. The villains’ supernatural abilities and over-the-top, campy appearances establish them as other-worldly. Their “magical” affect contrasts to the very real threats of nuclear proliferation, information control, and political disenfranchisement wrapped in a narrative that references real events, real people, and real concepts in its strange alternate history. The fantastical elements of the bosses remind the player that this is an entertaining fantasy (a meaningful function in itself), but they also highlight the dehumanization of war that turns its subjects into literal monsters. The characters’ obvious animal names and motifs further play into this idea.
  3. Metal Gear’s narrative uses the bosses to question our very conceptions of heroism and villainy. Most of its villains are treated as victims of war and humanized as much as Solid Snake and his support team (with some gross, complicating elements, especially in Guns of the Patriots). Furthermore, Metal Gear often uses its villains to interrogate the ethics of the protagonist’s actions, calling into question how different the series’ heroes and villains really are. Metal Gear’s complex, nuanced depiction of ethics and human motives place certain characters in heroic roles in one game and villainous roles in another. The series shows that people’s morals or means to follow such morals are not always fixed, but subject to context and circumstance often beyond any one person’s control. The boss fights often act as cathartic violence that frees the villains from the burdens of the battlefield. The villains more often end up as tragic figures who have done terrible things rather than vessels of pure evil.
  4. The villains are sometimes connected to the games’ main themes as stylized by Kojima--GENE, MEME, SCENE, and SENSE--each word corresponding to the theme of each game in order from the first to the fourth.


For a while, I struggled to figure out how to structure this set of posts. As I mentioned before, Metal Gear has a habit of radically transforming our understanding of events that take place in the series timeline, including the characters’ motives during those events. Sequels even undermine themes presented in the previous games. For example (spoilers for MGS1), at the end of the first game, Snake and Meryl set out to enjoy a life free from genetic determination that would have Snake tied to war, violence, and the player’s control forever. But a few years later, after establishing possibilities for its characters to defy their genes, Metal Gear Solid 2 releases, with Snake back on the battlefield, clearly no longer together with Meryl, again living the life that’s been dictated by his genes. Kojima’s recurring reluctance to make Metal Gear sequels might explain the frequent retcons. (He's not gonna have to worry about that anymore!) But it seems clear that each game has its own thematic vision, so I’ve decided to focus on the villains as they’re presented in each individual game rather than the series as a whole. The one conspicuous exception to this approach, however, is Ocelot, my favorite Metal Gear boy. He’s the only villain in almost every game (bar Peace Walker and Revengeance), and our understanding of him as a character goes through such complex, interesting transformations. I’d like to unravel them in a single post dedicated to Ocelot after I play The Phantom Pain.


---


So I think an understanding of the games’ villains can lead us to an understanding of Metal Gear--the good and the bad. This is probably going to be a long and strange journey, as tackling Metal Gear tends to be (just look at Jackson’s Diaries that I mentioned). I’m about to return to school, so I’ll have little time to form these posts in quick succession. I’m aiming to release at least one entry per month. You can expect the post on Metal Gear Solid 1 pretty soon.

Thanks for reading, and look out for the next piece where we examine the lanky psychics, thirsty snipers, and shirtless twins (and more) of Shadow Moses.

Metal Gear Villains #1: FOXHOUND Pt 1

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Kept you waiting, huh?


If you’re unfamiliar with this blog series on the villains and bosses of the Metal Gear Solid series, check out this introduction.


In this post, I’m going to be looking at the villains of the first game--the members of the rogue Special Forces unit FOXHOUND that leads the Genome Army in a revolt against the U.S. government on Shadow Moses Island. Note that this post uses the content from the original Metal Gear Solid re-released on the PS3 and not The Twin Snakes. Obviously, spoilers follow.


The Shadow Moses Incident


Before the Shadow Moses Incident, veteran Solid Snake retired to Alaska to hang out with and mush dogs all day to recover from the trauma of fighting at Outer Heaven and Zanzibarland--in other words, the events from Metal Gear and Metal Gear 2: Solid Snake. With FOXHOUND threatening the world with nuclear war, Snake is brought out of retirement for a solo sneaking mission to save the day. Snake’s objectives include finding and rescuing the DARPA Chief Donald Anderson and ArmsTech President Kenneth Baker as well as stopping the terrorists from launching a nuke.


Little does Snake know about the government’s top-secret development of Metal Gear, nor does he know that he’s been injected with a virus called FOXDIE (a ridiculous narrative convenience) meant to kill FOXHOUND and Baker when he makes contact with them. In Metal Gear Solid’s critique of nuclear deterrence, American foreign policy, and its complication of war heroism, the true nature of Snake’s mission is hidden from Snake and the player for the majority of the game. And both the terrorists and the U.S. government play the undiscerning Snake and the player to their own advantages. Because the terrorists do not discover the PAL key codes that would activate Metal Gear REX from Donald Anderson and Kenneth Baker, they trick Snake into activating the bipedal nuclear weapon for them. For the majority of the game, Snake believes that the terrorists are capable of launching the nuke and that he must use the codes to deactivate REX. But Master Miller, Snake’s old mentor and part of his support team, turns out to be Liquid in disguise, who leads Snake to accomplish exactly what he and the player want to prevent. Meanwhile, the government’s true mission is to acquire Metal Gear REX for their own purposes. Because Snake ends up destroying REX, Secretary of Defense Jim Houseman decides the bomb the facility, destroying any evidence of and witnesses to what really happened (a pretty ineffectual method of cover-up if you ask me). No, the U.S. government is by no means represented positively in Metal Gear Solid.


As Snake and the player mindlessly follow the instructions given to them, they become the tools and unwitting agents of parties with agendas not their own. Nearly every character lies to Snake. The artifice of a straightforward “good guys vs. bad guys” military operation comes crashing down when Snake learns that Naomi Hunter injected him with FOXDIE and altered the Pentagon’s plan for the virus by programming it to kill Snake as well, that Colonel Campbell has been withholding key information about the mission for the entire game, and of course, that Miller is really Snake’s evil twin.


Behind the conspiracies for world domination lies a story about “genes”--how genes might determine the fate of its inheritors and how people might resist such genetic determination. Nearly every character struggles with his or her genetic fate. Snake’s genes, as a clone of legendary soldier Big Boss (and in another sense, as a videogame protagonist), would have him stuck in a cycle of violence on the battlefield and under the control of a videogame player. Meryl joins the army to be closer to her deceased father but finds out that she doesn’t exactly make a good soldier. (In fact, in an alternate ending we learn that Roy Campbell is her real father.) Otacon continues his family’s history of developing nuclear weapons, but he resolves to resist that history after he learns that his work has been appropriated and that nuclear deterrence is a sham. And Naomi Hunter gets into genetic research out of an obsession to discover “who she is,” since the parents she never knew died in war. For a more comprehensive analysis of Metal Gear Solid’s methods of communicating this theme and disassociating Snake from the player, read Austin C. Howe’s essay Free Will and Defiance. Some of his interpretations will inform my readings of the game’s villains.   


Metal Gear Solid 1 perhaps presents us with the most material for this blog series. The first game in the saga includes at least one monologue per boss fight, and nearly all of the villains are given the chance to reveal their motivations and backstories to Snake and the player.


Decoy Octopus

"EURRRRRGHHH!!!!!"      cinemorgue.wikia.com

Decoy Octopus is the exception to the typical form of Metal Gear villains--he’s no loquacious ideologue. He’s the villain we know the least about because he never speaks to Snake as himself and dies minutes after meeting him. We learn much later from Vulcan Raven that the man we thought was Donald Anderson was really Decoy Octopus in disguise. Snake unwittingly kills him with FOXDIE after he sets Snake on his journey to activate Metal Gear REX with the card keys. That he’s a master of disguise is Octopus’ only character trait; in fact, he’s so dedicated to deceiving Snake that he drains the blood of Donald Anderson (after Revolver Ocelot “accidentally” kills him in interrogation) and infuses it into his own body.   


Decoy Octopus ultimately has no identity because he’s too busy assuming those of others for Liquid’s efforts. He dies without fighting Snake in a cathartic episode that reveals and reconciles his true story, a privilege afforded to the other members of FOXHOUND. He dies, not as himself, but as a facsimile of Donald Anderson. The implicit criticism here is that war robs people of their identities, purposes, and intentions. Other villains in the game claim that they have no name and that neither does Snake. The game suggests that soldiers like Snake lose their individuality once the state or other party imposes its will onto their actions.


The death of Decoy Octopus suggests that playing a role that’s not your own negates your potential to meaningfully transform yourself or atone for your sins. Decoy Octopus may have had Donald Anderson’s blood in his veins, but FOXDIE wasn’t fooled. Octopus could not resist his genetic fate just by donning a masterful disguise. The game even makes sure to tell us later that Donald Anderson was never a target of FOXDIE because he was a friend of the Secretary of Defense. Just as Octopus plays the roles of others, the player plays the role of Solid Snake; furthermore, many videogame players of the industry’s target (male) audience want to be Solid Snake. Much of Metal Gear Solid’s audience wants to be the manly war hero who can take down a tank by himself, get the girl, and save the world, regardless of whose agenda they might fulfill in the process and what psychological toll participating in combat might have. Metal Gear Solid, as Howe details, continues to remind players that they are not Snake and cannot be Snake. Through Decoy Octopus, the game criticizes its audience for not wanting to be their own persons, a theme the series revisits time and again. Metal Gear consistently tells its audience to “live” at the end of its games, but more importantly, it says to live as yourself and to live outside the text. The fantasy of Solid Snake is something you neither should want nor can have. The game reminds you that only by living as yourself can you be free to control your destiny and leave a legacy of your own, unlike Octopus who dies an early imposter’s death.


Psycho Mantis

"That's right this is no trick! It's true power!"   villains.wikia.com


Psycho Mantis is the first manifestation of “magic” that Snake and the player are aware of in the game. He’s considered one of the most powerful psychics in the world. He can see into the future, read people’s minds, and manipulate objects with telekinesis. He has brainwashed the Genome soldiers to cooperate with Liquid’s revolt. After being unable to read the minds of the Anderson and Baker thanks to their “psychic insulation,” he comes up with the plan to trick Snake into activating REX.


When Snake first encounters Mantis, he seems to take control of Meryl, who fires a thousand rounds at Snake as she boards the elevator, a haunting contrast to minutes earlier when her hands shake as she points her gun. He appears after the elevator door shuts, suspended in midair in his Very Evil trenchcoat to say, “Good girl, just like that” and disappear in a flash.


The next time you encounter Mantis, he uses his creepy, non-diegetic organ tune to take control of Meryl once again. Under hypnosis, Meryl attacks Snake, pointing a gun at him while imploring him to make love to her. Psycho Mantis flashes in and out of view behind Meryl as she approaches, and finally, her voice changes to Mantis’ as she mocks Snake: “What, you don’t like girls?” It’s a strange pre-fight cutscene for a lot of reasons. Of course, it damsels Meryl so that Snake can rescue her from shooting herself under Mantis’ control. It also suggests that Mantis is reading the developing romantic feelings between Snake and Meryl. He initially perverts this sexual tension by amplifying Meryl’s thirst to nonsense degrees (which apparently shouldn’t be possible since Meryl said she had “psychotherapy to destroy [her] interest in men,” which is fucked up and not really acknowledged by the game as such???) Mantis’ seemingly homophobic remark could be read straight (hah) as a way to taunt Snake, but it can also be read as an expression of Mantis’ jealousy of the two or as Mantis’ honest psychic interpretation of Snake’s sexuality. According to Gaby of Girl from the Machine, most Metal Gear villains can easily be read as queer, and Snake has some “ambiguous relationships” with men himself. But as Gaby details, queerness is mostly relegated to vague subtext or manifestations of villainy. This instance with Mantis can be read in a number of ways, but I wanted to note it because many boss encounters in Metal Gear Solid feature some form of eroticism, some played up more than others. These expressions of or references to sexuality might connect the fights to catharsis, emphasize the material bodies of enemies about to destroy each other, or simply mean to titillate or mock the player. But the varied tone of the eroticism presented in each boss makes the intentions harder to pin down--it’s perhaps a mix of all these possibilities. Sexuality in Metal Gear deserves much closer analysis and attention as in Gaby’s piece, but I will continue to reference it in this blog series when relevant.


Psycho Mantis is most famous for reading the player’s save data and memory card data, moving the controller “by the power of [his] will alone” (i.e. vibration), and requiring use of the second controller port to beat him. He told me on my playthrough that I’m a very poor warrior and that I’m careful to avoid traps based on my performance in the game. He also told me that  I’m very meticulous because I save the game all the time. It’s a goofy, fun moment that was unprecedented (and probably freaky) in 1998. But Austin Howe notes that it’s more than just a fourth-wall-breaking gimmick; it’s the moment when the game recognizes the player distinct from Snake. You could say that the entire sequence from entering the commander’s office up until the end of the boss fight is primarily a direct encounter between Mantis and you, the player, rather than between Mantis and Snake. The boss fight itself is rather unspectacular. You recognize Mantis’ attack patterns as he flings furniture and paintings around the room and sometimes throws balls of energy at you. After you change the controller port or slot to 2, Snake doesn’t really do anything different than when he attempts to beat Mantis on controller port 1.  


In the diegesis, Snake is a “normal” soldier compared to the bosses with their supernatural abilities. Snake may be an excellent warrior, but the fight with Psycho Mantis proves that he actually has his own “magic” to match the psychokinetic power of Mantis: the player. No normal soldier, no matter how skilled, should be able to take down a tank single-handedly using only grenades. Nor should the soldier be able to take someone on with the powers that Mantis has, and he can’t! Not without the player’s help. Snake beats the incredible odds because he’s controlled by someone with a top-down view of the action, someone who can freeze time in the game to heal Snake’s wounds and switch his weapons, someone who isn’t a predictable AI, someone who can reload the game when Snake dies. And if the villains’ “magic” affords them their monstrous power to wreak havoc on the battlefield, is it the player that turns Snake into a monster too?


In his post-fight monologue, Mantis laments that he couldn’t read the future, to which Snake replies, “The strong man doesn’t need to read the future; he makes his own.” It’s an ironic statement considering Snake certainly isn’t making his future; he’s making Liquid’s and U.S. government’s futures by blindly following orders. Mantis says that in all the thousands of minds he has read over the years, he’s found the “selfish and atavistic desire to pass on one’s seed.” He continues that “every living thing on this planet exists to mindlessly pass on their DNA. We’re designed that way. And that’s why there is war.” It’s a glaringly heteronormative thing to say “we’re designed that way,” and there’s plenty of room for a queer reading as to why Psycho Mantis is so disgusted by his claim and and why he tells Snake that “we’re different.” But he also discusses his past trouble with genes. The mind he first read was his father’s--a mind full of hatred for a son whose birth brought the death of his mother. Mantis thought his father would kill him, and in a frenzied panic, he set his village ablaze either to “bury [his] past” as Snake suggests or as an accident. Mantis’ refusal to accept his past turned him into a monster bent on killing as many people as possible, not really caring about Liquid’s goals for world domination. His father’s judgment determined his life just as Big Boss’s judgment of Liquid determined his (which we’ll get to later). But Mantis is a murderer with no ideology. He’s less like Liquid and more like a videogame player who indulges in some violent power fantasy without thinking critically about it. When Mantis says “We are truly the same, you and I,” he addresses both Snake (for killing his father just as he did) and the player (for going on killing sprees in virtual worlds without a defined purpose--perhaps to escape from a past?).


Mantis’ “we have no past, no future” rhetoric is not just a criticism of the player, but also a criticism of war. Trapped on the battlefield, these characters’ lives become determined by The Powers That Be, whether that be the state or some rogue ideologue like Liquid. When Mantis says that Snake is even worse than he is, he might mean that Snake and the player continue with their mission without even being aware that they’re being played, a reality Mantis has accepted long ago and died for.


Psycho Mantis also reflects Snake’s solitude and isolation. Mantis reveals that he wears a mask to block out other people’s intrusive thoughts that find their way into his mind. His final request is to have his mask put back on, to be “left alone in [his] own world.” He turns all his rage and frustration inward and retreats. Snake, just like Mantis, lives for himself; he expresses that his only interest is survival. But Mantis tells Snake that Meryl has a large place for him in her heart, affirming those developing romantic feelings. But Mantis doesn’t know if their futures lie together--that depends on how Snake changes from here. Mantis dies alone but reveals the alternative: Snake’s potential to live for someone besides himself. With Psycho Mantis’ lesson, we get the second half of Metal Gear Solid’s thesis, alongside the first half learned from Decoy Octopus. Metal Gear Solid’s call to action is to live as yourself, for others. Not the other way around. And that might be the main thematic message of the entire series, not just the first game.


Psycho Mantis dies after opening a hidden passageway that eventually leads to Metal Gear REX’s underground maintenance base. His last words claim that it’s the first time he has used his powers to help someone and that it feels nice. Of course, Mantis’ final words are put into question when we learn that Mantis was the mastermind behind getting Snake to activate REX. Was he simply pushing Snake towards fulfilling Liquid’s plans, or did he foresee a future where Solid triumphs over Liquid? I like to think the latter.


Gray Fox


"A cornered fox is more dangerous than a jackal!"    giantbomb.com

I didn’t necessarily have to include Gray Fox in this series because it is clear from when we first meet him that he is not acting under Liquid’s orders. He’s not a part of FOXHOUND, but he used to be. He has his own boss battle and becomes one of the most important characters to the game’s plot and themes, however. Fox is, as he says, “neither enemy nor friend,” but is the roaming ghost of Shadow Moses.


Gray Fox is Solid Snake’s old war buddy, who helped him out in Metal Gear but defected to Big Boss before Metal Gear 2. Snake had crippled him in Zanzibarland, where he should have died, but the government recovered his body and revived him. They fitted a prototype exoskeleton onto his body as he went through extensive gene therapy. The government’s experiments gave Gray Fox his enhanced abilities as a cyborg ninja, but the drugs and experiments deteriorated his mind. His memories are fragmented and his mental faculties unstable. When Snake encounters Gray Fox, he often has to flee after episodes of intense pain and spasms caused by damage from the experiments. He’s one of the government’s “dirty little secrets” that helped them create the Genome Army.


Two years before the events of the game, Gray Fox killed Dr. Clark, the scientist who “made” him, which Naomi covered up as a lab accident (with details about this event retconned in Guns of the Patriots). He enters Shadow Moses looking for a fight to the death with Snake, and he first appears after Snake’s fight with Revolver Ocelot. He cuts Ocelot’s arm off with his blade--an act that eventually leads to Ocelot grafting Liquid’s arm to his body, a silly and hilarious and great piece of Metal Gear plot nonsense. He then acts as anonymous informant to Snake via Codec under the alias “Deepthroat.”


During Snake’s multi-phase boss fight against Fox, Fox tells Snake things like “Make me feel it. Make me feel alive again” and “I’ve been waiting for this pain” and later “Hurt me more!” The two characters put away their weapons to heighten the physicality of their fight. The obvious homoerotic S&M undercurrent in the battle is played straight, probably meant to emphasize Fox’s “craziness” and post-traumatic stress. These lines also hint at his longing for the life he felt in Zanzibarland as opposed to his continued existence as a husk. As a child soldier, participating in war is all Fox knows; he takes great pleasure in fighting a warrior that matches his skill, a pleasure that becomes almost sexual. In this instance, the game frames its critique of war by linking a perverse joy of combat and death with queer kink. Metal Gear Solid plays on assumptions that homosexual BDSM is “other” and weird and perverse and establishes that bloodlust in war (and videogames) is similarly wicked. This exploitative, damaging commentary repeats itself in other encounters with villains throughout the series, and such techniques unfortunately become expected of a series whose gender and sexual politics are consistently in the toilet.


Metal Gear Solid 1 includes the most horror tropes in the series. Its setting is a cold, dark, and sterile weapons facility under a night sky. The game’s camera purposefully obscures enemies and other threats off-screen. Snake’s footsteps echo as he crosses the catwalks, the Alaskan wind whistles outside, and industrial crashes ring out throughout the facility. The game opens with chilling Gaelic opera, and foreboding organ riffs punctuate the soundtrack. The game’s ambient sound design and the dull bluish-gray hues of its architecture contribute to the creepiest atmosphere of the series. And Gray Fox is the apex of Metal Gear Solid’s horror. He bloodies a hallway in his search for Snake, ripping Genome soldiers to shreds. The corpse-ridden hallway is an intensely harrowing image for videogames of 1998. Fox’s stealth camouflage even makes the guards mistake him for a real ghost.


But the guards are hardly wrong. Gray Fox haunts the battlefield, a dead soldier denied rest. Stuck in his constructed body and sustained by drugs and nanomachines, Fox kills people with little rhyme or reason as he waits for a warrior strong enough to finish him. Gray Fox is also haunted himself--haunted by his guilty actions on the battlefield. He murdered Naomi Hunter’s parents in the Rhodesian Civil War. He was young at the time, and he couldn’t bear to kill her too. So he decided to take Naomi with him and raise her as his own. Naomi thinks of him as a brother, and she eventually reveals her entire motivation in this operation is to avenge Gray Fox by altering FOXDIE to kill Snake and stick it to the government. Fox requests that Snake tells Naomi the truth about who killed her parents, but at the end of the game, Snake instead tells Naomi that Fox said “to forget about him and to go on with [her] own life.” I don’t believe that Snake should have disrespected Fox’s final request and withheld the truth from Naomi, but the game would rather see Naomi forge her own path than obsess about where and who she came from.


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One of my favorite moments in the game is when Otacon witnesses Snake and Fox’s bizarre exchange before their fight and says, cowering in the corner in a puddle of his own pee, “What’s with these guys? It’s like one of my Japanese animes.” Besides providing some comic relief, Otacon’s line reveals the horror of fantasy. In fact, watching anime gets Otacon interested in developing Metal Gear in the first place. But Otacon’s indulgence in his fantasy of building cool anime robots leads to him to unwittingly develop a weapon of mass destruction--a weapon with material consequences for his real world. Likewise, a videogame player might like to embody the likes of Snake or Fox, a fantasy super soldier and war hero or a cyborg ninja with cool armor and stylish acrobatic skills. But Metal Gear Solid wants its audience to realize that no one should want to live out this fantasy, given its prices. No one should want to suffer the trauma of war, to become tools of other people, to be robbed of agency, life, and even death by parties who view their subjects as commodities or lab rats (perhaps not far from how major publishers in the games industry view their audience).


Gray Fox’s dying words address this reality directly: “We’re not tools for the government or anyone else. Fighting was the only thing [...] I was good at, but… at least I always fought for what I believed in.” Gray Fox’s final words partly inspire Snake and Otacon to form Philanthropy, the anti-Metal Gear organization, before the events of Metal Gear Solid 2.


Gray Fox dies a hero, sacrificing his life to destroy Metal Gear REX’s radome, allowing Snake to finish off the mech with Stinger missiles. Before Gray Fox dies, he orders Snake to fire a missile at Metal Gear’s open hatch, his broken body just feet away. The game switches to the first-person perspective of Snake aiming the Stinger. When the player hits the fire button, Snake refuses to obey the command. “I can’t. I won’t do it,” he repeats in his head. He won’t kill his friend during his final monologue, for god’s sake! It’s the game’s most explicit severance between the player and the independent character of Snake. You may not care about Gray Fox and see the opportunity to defeat Liquid once and for all, but Snake, a character who has previously been portrayed as a cold, detached anti-hero, actually cares enough about his friend to override your control.


Before Fox is crushed by REX, he says that “[a]fter Zanzibar, I was taken from the battle… neither truly alive nor truly dead… an undying shadow in a world of lights…
His rhetoric of “shadows” and “lights” is reprised by Big Mama’s final words to Snake in Metal Gear Solid 4. She tells Snake: “You and the beasts are no different--scorched shadows born into this world. When a beast steps into the light, unless the light is put out, the shadow cannot be erased.” The shadows are the soldiers and victims of war unable to face their pasts or leave the battlefield; they are Snake and the bosses. The lights are the forces who create those shadows and turn them against each other; they are the state, the Patriots, competing ideologies. Metal Gear Solid 1 mostly teaches the player about the shadows, while the rest of series reveals the faces of the lights--the Patriots and their transformations over half a century.


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Well this endeavor has exceeded the scope I had planned. Over 4,000 words into writing about Metal Gear Solid 1, and I’ve only covered half the villains! So I’ve decided to split the post in two. You’ll see the next part of the series, on Vulcan Raven, Sniper Wolf, and Liquid Snake hopefully in a few days. I’ll likely have to do the same with my writing on Metal Gear Solid 2, but I’m not sure yet about 3 or 4. Thanks for reading, and stay tuned!

Metal Gear Villains #2: FOXHOUND Pt 2

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Kept you waiting, huh?

If you’re unfamiliar with this blog series on the villains and bosses of the Metal Gear Solid series, check out this introduction.
You can also check out my words on the other villains of Shadow Moses. .

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In Part 2 of our look at the members of FOXHOUND, we find a lot of villains poorly dressed for the Alaskan climate!

Vulcan Raven

"The raven on my head thirsts for his blood."    metalgear.wikia.com

Vulcan Raven leans into the animal motifs more than any villain in Metal Gear Solid. When Snake first meets him in the snowy canyon, he emerges from the M1 tank’s hatch sans shirt to taunt Snake: “This is ravens’ territory. Snakes don’t belong in Alaska.” Of course, Raven means that not only does his bird namesake find habitat in Alaska, but that he’s an Alaskan native himself. His portrayal probably relies on racist assumptions that exotify Native American spiritualism and the concept of “spirit animals.” He’s also a shaman, and like Psycho Mantis, is a kind of predictor, but Raven’s predictions and abilities are more spiritual in nature. Vulcan Raven’s deep, booming voice and slow rhythm of his speech further characterize his animal metaphors as cryptic and sublime. Warning Liquid and Ocelot not to underestimate Snake, Raven tells them “In the language of the Sioux people, ‘Sioux’ means ‘Snake;’ it is known as an animal to be feared.” This awkward, passive, long-winded phrasing needlessly mystifies Raven’s character and his culture (not to mention that this line leans into viewing Native Americans as monolithic).

The first fight with Vulcan Raven in the tank is the first of three silly and ridiculous battles in which Snake, a one-man army, fights giant weaponized machines. Snake runs around the tank (almost comically) chucking grenades in the open hatch. His victory should be impossible, but Raven’s tank is only meant to test Snake! Raven notes that “in battle, it is as if he [Snake] is possessed by a demon.” Raven may be the first character in the game to acknowledge Snake’s moral ambiguity as well as his “magic” that Psycho Mantis proves to be the player. This interpretation, then, has Raven equate the player’s control of Snake to demonic possession, further developing the player as a corrupting force over Snake and necessitating the gradual separation between the two.

Before Snake’s second fight with Vulcan Raven in the underground warehouse, Raven spiritually reads that “blood from the East flows within [Snake’s] veins” (which the canon hints at but is unclear about where this heritage comes from). He compares how their lineages both include ancestors from Mongolia, claiming that “Inuit and Japanese are cousins to each other.” When Snake downplays their shared ancestry with a quip, Raven concludes that “[i]ndeed, ravens and snakes are not the best of friends.” Raven calls into question the relationship between war and ethnicity, but it’s hard to determine the game’s position. Metal Gear Solid might champion an erasure of cultural distinctions between different peoples (a view often expressed in the West within white liberalism) by characterizing Raven’s distinction between “raven” and “snake” as his fatal flaw as a villain. But the game might point to a more nuanced understanding. Raven reflects on the basic fact that, if you look back far enough, many different peoples come from the same origins. But the present distinction between “raven” and “snake” remains, and the first fight between the two characters starts when Snake encroaches on “Raven’s territory.” The game perhaps hints at a necessary dual-resistance to the similarities and differences of our genes. The game might imply a need on one hand to remember what human beings share as a species and a need to respect differences to prevent conflict. This idea goes hand in hand with Metal Gear Solid 3’s primarily neutral portrayal of capitalism and communism during the Cold War. Metal Gear deserves a much closer analysis of how these ideas manifest within the series and how they can or cannot be reconciled with the series’ noted pacifism. I will say, however, that in my experiences of Metal Gear Solid 1-4, the series is almost radio silent about racism.

Raven compares their upcoming battle with the Ear Pull contest of the World Eskimo-Indian Olympics, in which two opponents pull each other’s ears in the bitter cold to test spiritual and physical strength. This comparison offends Snake--the stakes in this battle are between life and death, not pride and humiliation. “Violence isn’t a sport!” says Snake. Replace “sport” with “game,” and you’ve got yourself a more characteristically unsubtle form of Metal Gear commentary about videogame violence. But Metal Gear Solid came out in 1998, and other parts of this blog series so far have shown that this game has far more than surface-level metatextual finger-wagging like, say, Hotline Miami, a game that came out in 2012.

After judging Snake to be a true warrior, he uses the raven marking on his forehead to curse Snake with the “mark of death.” Besides showing off Raven’s supernatural powers, it’s unclear what this curse is actually meant to do. Is Snake marked for death at the hands of Raven--a curse that Snake defies? Or is Snake marked for a future of bloodshed and murder, as Raven predicts after the battle:
Snake! In the natural world there is no such thing as boundless slaughter. There is always an end to it. But you are different [...] The path you walk on has no end. Each step you take is paved with the corpses of your enemies. Their souls will haunt you forever… you shall have no peace...“   
At the end of the game, Snake seems to defy this prediction, with plans to live a new life with a new purpose. But the series as a whole seems to confirm Raven’s prediction, as he returns to the battlefield time and again until he’s old and withering. Of course, Raven’s prediction is not merely about Snake as a clone born to be the perfect soldier, but about Snake as a videogame protagonist. In the real world, violence causes death, a permanent end. But Snake has infinite lives in a videogame that players can reload and experience an infinite number of times, massacring virtual bodies again and again to their hearts’ content. But videogame players may fail to acknowledge that engaging with combat mechanics they can comfortably enjoy takes a traumatic toll on Snake, who views those enemies as a part of his real world.

When Vulcan Raven says that Snake and Liquid are “from another world [...] that [he] does not wish to know,” he means that he does not want to know a world where one’s existence is determined by someone else’s will. Snake and Liquid live because the government wanted to create the perfect soldiers, tools for their agendas and operations, just as Snake lives as a tool for the player’s entertainment. Raven talks of death as “returning to the natural world that which is not needed.” His death by consumption of his ravens is seen as transcendent, a “return to Mother Earth” in both body and spirit, but it’s a death that would be denied to Snake and Liquid as long as they are controlled by outside parties, their genetic fates, and the player. It’s a death most explicitly denied to Gray Fox, as the government sustains his tortured life just to create the Genome Army. In fact, Raven foreshadows Gray Fox’s heroic sacrifice that would grant him his long-overdue rest. When he tells Snake about the role of ravens as scavengers in the circle of life, he says “[ravens] even attack wounded foxes.” Of course, an understanding of Raven’s death as “natural” is complicated by the fact that he dies because the narrative no longer needs him, a death contrived entirely by an outside force.

Sniper Wolf

"Okay, hero. Set me free."      metalgearinformer.com

Sniper Wolf appears at the point when Meryl decides that she does not make a good soldier. Her genetic fate as passed on by her “father” may suggest that a career on a battlefield is her path, but she finds herself increasingly frustrated as a rookie and a liability to Snake’s mission. Sniper Wolf shoots her down without killing her to draw out her true prey: Snake. Of course, with so few women presented as soldiers in the media, it’s easy to guess that the game swaps a genetic fate for a gendered one--that Meryl’s status as the child of a soldier means nothing, yet her gender precludes her from being a good soldier. She wants to be Snake but can only be a love interest and a damsel. Yet right after Meryl is shot down, and Snake finds a sniper rifle to retaliate, you meet Sniper Wolf. One of the first things she tells Snake is that two-thirds of the world’s greatest assassins are women. Later, during the second fight with Wolf in the Snowfield, she says that women are naturally better soldiers. She explicitly contradicts everything the narrative implies about gender with Meryl’s character. She’s the great misandrist villain, an accomplished sniper who complains about the men who “never finish what [they] start.” The game implies that her extraordinary patience, which allows her to wait for weeks to line up the perfect shot (provided she stocks up on diazepam), is attributed to her gender. But of course, the game concludes that Wolf’s belief is its own form of “genetic” determinism, so the narrative punishes her. Snake inevitably defeats and kills Wolf with her own tactics--sniping from afar while popping the diazepam. Snake disproves her view that women make better soldiers by defeating her with the very tactics she has developed for much of her life.

Metal Gear Solid could have easily decided to dismantle the widespread and materially damaging view that men naturally make better soldiers, but instead, the game sees misandry as the Real Threat. Sniper Wolf’s character may suggest that Meryl’s deficiency as a soldier has nothing to do with her gender, but the portrayals of both Wolf and Meryl simply recycle other gross assumptions about women--that their roles are either lover, damsel, or dead. For a series founded on a theme of resisting biological and ideological fates, Metal Gear too often assigns such fates to women that blatantly reaffirm the status quo. It’s a baffling, stupid quality of the series that severely undermines its effectiveness as a revolutionary text.

Furthermore, Sniper Wolf’s version of Metal Gear boss eroticism is her tendency to become obsessed with her targets before she kills them. She calls Snake her “special prey” as she caresses and scratches his face. After she rests her hand on Snake’s polygonal abs and calls him “handsome” in the torture room, Revolver Ocelot whistles and tells Snake that she often falls in love her with prey. Her “love letter” to Snake is a bullet in his heart. Wolf is a black widow, a vintage trope that represents fear of an aggressive feminine sexuality that the game characterizes as deadly--a fear that women afforded sexual agency will turn men’s horniness against them. Thus, Wolf’s character design aims to titillate. Wolf is a tall blonde woman with an unzipped jumper in most scenes (even her first appearance out in the cold), revealing her blurry polygonal cleavage. She looks like a low-poly version of EVA of MGS3, whose character recycles a similar understanding of women’s sexual agency as predatory. The camera focuses on shots of her chest in the torture room and follows her ass out the door. It’s a shame the game pulls this stuff because decontextualized from how the narrative’s gender politics, Sniper Wolf is a great character and one of the best villains in the game.  

Then there’s Otacon’s nonsensical love for Sniper Wolf. Otacon tells Snake that when the terrorists took over Shadow Moses, Wolf prevented the soldiers from shooting all the wolf-dogs around the facility. Wolf lets Otacon feed her dogs while he’s being held prisoner. Her mercy and dedication to her “family” wins over Otacon, to which Snake dismisses as Stockholm Syndrome. Otacon’s love is just a nerdboy obsession, but it’s unclear if that portrayal was intentional or not. Otacon concludes Wolf “must be a good person” and implores Snake not to hurt her, and while Wolf’s acts of mercy humanize her character, Otacon fails to understand the moral complexity of Wolf. He can’t understand that Wolf, an elite operative involved in a terrorist plot, could both protect the innocent and viciously attack Snake. Then of course, neither can Snake. While Otacon can only see Wolf’s acts of kindness, Snake can only see her acts of violence. The fight in the Snowfield complicates both of the male characters’ understandings of her. Otacon tries to intervene in the fight, but Wolf tells him to stay out of her way. And after the fight, Snake learns Wolf’s backstory and that she spared Meryl because she doesn’t kill for sport. Her death initiates the Otacon Fridge Saga throughout the series, in which women Otacon love die to develop his character. At Wolf’s death, Snake returns her handkerchief that helped him escape the torture room because he “[doesn’t] have any more tears to shed.” Such a tragic death is commonplace for Snake, but Otacon’s whole perspective is shaken up. He yells after Snake, desperately asking him what she was fighting for, what Snake is fighting for, and what he himself is fighting for. Otacon resolves to search for a new purpose, one that doesn’t compromise his morals as Wolf’s were in Liquid’s revolt.

Like many villains throughout the series, Sniper Wolf was born on the battlefield. She is a Kurd who grew up with the sounds of war as her lullabies. Wolf describes her early life full of displacement and violence, while world governments ignored her people’s suffering. Big Boss eventually saved her, and she became a sniper. From the distanced perspective of her scope, she saw the horror and futility of war, the worst of mankind. She joined Liquid to take her revenge on the world and its governments for perpetuating this meaningless violence but in doing so becomes a monster herself. Sniper Wolf is swallowed up in Big Boss’s vision: a world where soldiers have a place in society, uncontrolled by the arbitrary wills of governments. She reveres Big Boss so much that she refers to him as Saladin, the famous Kurdish Muslim sultan of the Crusades. Her explanations humanize not only herself but also Big Boss, who in the MSX games is mostly a cartoon villain. Clearly Big Boss rescues victims of war with the intention of saving them from the system, but his form of resistance produces more violence that, instead of healing victims of war from their pasts, subsumes them in a cycle of terror. Metal GearSolid establishes a series staple theme of the difficulty and complexity of resisting the system, revealing that not all alternatives are necessarily good ones.

As Sniper Wolf lies bleeding and dying, she says she has shamed her people for joining Liquid in the name of vengeance. She has lost her honor and purpose, now merely a dog instead of the noble “Wolf” she once was. But Snake is more forgiving of Wolf. He refers to mercenaries like them as “dogs of war,” but he tells Wolf that she’s “different--untamed, solitary” and concludes that she deserves her noble namesake. Losing her sense of reality, Wolf asks Snake if he is Saladin, not only calling attention to Snake’s physical resemblance to his father but also his charisma. But Snake is different from Big Boss; he’s the “hero” Sniper Wolf has been waiting for--the hero to kill her. Snake can save the victims of war in a way that Big Boss never could. Snake provides the villains a cathartic final fight in which they come to peace with their pasts before dying, finally free from the battlefield. But Metal Gear Solid does not simply mean that victims of war should be put out of their misery. In a broader sense, Snake is the hero Wolf’s been waiting for as long as he can follow his own path and escape destiny, liberating himself and others before they’ve been shackled to the battlefield as the members of FOXHOUND have. For FOXHOUND, the only alternative to the battlefield is death because they never engage with their past in order to meaningfully move on in their lives. War becomes a part of them, as Sniper Wolf reaches for her rifle and calls it a part of her. She dies embracing the gun, content with Snake giving her a final rest. “Everyone’s here now,” Wolf says, finally at peace. It’s the most powerful death of the game and Metal Gear Solid’s most explicit complication of villainy and heroism.

Liquid Snake

"Snake! Did you like my sunglasses?"        metalgear.wikia.com
The Big Bad of Shadow Moses is my least favorite villain in the game because his motivations to threaten the world with perpetual war boil down to “daddy didn’t notice me.” Regardless, he’s as fun and campy as the rest of the villains, if not more so for his over-the-top arrogance and famously sneering “Brotherrrrr” at Snake all the time.

Liquid Snake’s disguise as Master Miller works because “Miller’s” character seems sketchy from the start of the mission. His “support” for Snake provides nothing more than bland truisms about survival and confidence. At least Mei Ling’s proverbs were interesting and poetic. A neat bit of foreshadowing is that the only piece of advice that Miller gives that actually helps the player is during the Gray Fox fight. He tells Snake to unequip his weapon, a requirement for the fight against the only villain not a part of FOXHOUND. And Miller’s intense suspicion of Naomi Hunter is suspicious itself, considering how detached he seems from the rest of the characters before he voices his concerns to Snake. As a side note, one of the series’ only mentions of racism occurs in Liquid/Miller’s discovery of Naomi’s lie. She claims her grandfather was Japanese and part of the FBI in New York investigating the mafia. But Liquid/Miller figures out that the chief of the FBI during the time was incredibly racist, and there were no Asian investigators at the time. Not only that, but investigations of the mafia started in Chicago, not New York. It’s an effective distraction that allows Liquid to funnel Snake into finally activating REX.

Of course, Miller is not really Miller--he’s Liquid. And Liquid Snake is, naturally, Solid Snake’s evil twin and another clone of Big Boss. He’s the least sympathetic of the villains because he embodies the ridiculous genetic deterministic ideology the game rails against. He resents Solid Snake for having Big Boss’s dominant genes, while he’s stuck with his recessive genes. (I’m not a science person, but I’m 99% sure that “recessive” genes are by no means considered “inferior.” I think someone should tell Liquid this.) Liquid believes that the only reason for his existence was to enable the creation of Solid Snake, the perfect soldier and the “favorite” of Big Boss. Liquid comes to believe that he is “garbage since the day [he was] born” and that Snake stole his “birthright,” not only for having Big Boss’s dominant genes but also for killing Big Boss, robbing Liquid of revenge on his father. But at the end of the game, Revolver Ocelot reveals in his conversation with the President that Liquid held the dominant genes of Big Boss. His genes never really matter and don’t determine Snake’s victory of Liquid. The idea of his genetic fate controls Liquid’s life and decisions, including his willingness to throw the world into chaos to fulfill Big Boss’s dream and surpass his origins. Liquid is just a bratty kid who fails to realize how his motivations boil down to the same “petty revenge” he acknowledges in Naomi Hunter.  

Liquid, for all his cartoonish villainy, is a shrewd revolutionary willing to pit the superpowers of the world against each other to leverage more control over the global political climate. He wants to combine the forces of the Genome Army with Sergei Gurlukovich’s Spetznaz army to turn Shadow Moses into a new Outer Heaven. His demands to the world’s governments include handing over a recurring MacGuffin in the series--the DNA of Big Boss--as well as one million dollars to save the Genome Soldiers. The Genome Soldiers are digital progenitors of Big Boss and his “soldier genes” through technology developed through the experiments on Gray Fox and soldiers of the Gulf War. But according to Liquid, the soldiers (as well as Liquid and Snake) suffer from a disease due to genetic similitude for which Big Boss’s DNA will reveal the magic cure. Liquid teaches Snake about “Asymmetry Theory” (which I Googled and is probably fictional) which holds that nature favors genetic diversity and kills off species with too much symmetry. (Speaking of fictional Metal Gear concepts with ridiculous names, nothing beats the process that created Liquid and Snake--the Super Baby Method. Big thumbs up to the writers on that one.)

Asymmetry Theory is the game’s way of homogenizing videogame players. Players inherit the cultural “genes” of the 80’s action hero as embodied by Big Boss, but they can’t properly replicate his achievements nor can they sustain a society with the values accrued from such media objects. The Genome Army are a complete failure, and their link to videogame players is one of the game’s heaviest indictments of uncritical gamers. Snake, Liquid, the soldiers--all these characters need to choose their own paths to survive in this world. It’s an incredibly individualistic message, but Liquid’s own reasons for wanting to cure the Genome soldiers complicates the game’s relationship between individualism and collectivism, just as Psycho Mantis’ death does .

Liquid claims he wants to cure his “family” because his genes tell him to, invoking a real selfish gene theory. He warps his “altruistic feelings” for the Genome Soldiers by arguing that aligning his interests with those who share his genes only means to further replicate and pass on those genes. Liquid’s view turns communal goals into individual goals, denying any sentiment in favor for mere biological motives. Everything for Liquid boils down to a goal of passing on one’s genes, an ultimately arbitrary motive devoid of meaning or consideration of others, not to mention an impossible goal for Liquid considering he and Snake are sterile. Liquid represents the Worst Game Player, one with a crippling sense of entitlement and desire to repeat the same violent narratives without an understanding of material consequences.

But of course, Liquid turns the tables on Snake and the player, famously accusing both of “enjoy[ing] all the killing.” It’s the game’s most direct and inelegant criticism of the player, but one probably necessary for those who don’t understand how Metal Gear creates and tears down its own artifice. Liquid claims it’s the reason why Snake and the player are here, sneaking and killing through the facility. He implies that the two could hardly care about the fate of the world or its people; they just want some shooty fun. He suggests that’s why Snake and the player carry on with their orders blindly, even though the game heavily foreshadows betrayals and complications at every corner.

After Snake activates REX, Liquid inexplicably loses his shirt, and before their fist fight on top of Metal Gear REX, so does Snake. Besides being a ridiculous way to dramatize their final encounter, their toplessness highlights the “symmetry” of Snake and Liquid’s low-res bodies. The natures of both Snake’s mission and Liquid’s plan are laid bare just as they are. But for being genetically the same (which is retconned in Guns of the Patriots), Snake and Liquid are shaped into completely distinct people by circumstance. Snake’s deadpan gruffness and American accent contrast sharply with Liquid’s campy overconfidence and British accent. A lack of knowledge defines Snake’s character for most of the game, while Liquid holds all the cards and influence over Snake, the Pentagon, and Gurlukovich. As the two characters’ physical similarities are emphasized, their abstract differences represent the stakes of the fight. Though Liquid’s plans are foiled by the destruction of REX, the fight determines whose ideology will hold out. At this point, we can assume that Snake resolves to forge his own path after the betrayal of the government and his support team, and his free will defeats Liquid’s genetic determinism. But not at the end of this fight.

Liquid has a nasty habit of surviving certain death. He lives through the explosions of both the Hind D and Metal Gear REX, a fall from the top of REX, and a jeep crash. He dies neither from Snake’s punch nor his bullet; he dies from Snake’s virus. FOXDIE kills Liquid just as he aims at Snake and Meryl outside the tunnel. FOXDIE operates on no consistent logic. It kills Decoy Octopus and the ArmsTech President. Its non-effect on Psycho Mantis and Sniper Wolf are waved away by Mantis’ mask and Wolf’s diazepam addiction. And Ocelot has a vaccine as a double-agent of the President. But Liquid doesn’t fall to FOXDIE for a very long time after contact with Snake. As Austin Howe says, this conveniently robs the player of personal victory over Liquid. This narrative convenience allows the player and Snake to have a dramatic battle with Liquid but also externally punish Liquid for his deterministic ideology. Since Liquid decides his fate is controlled by his genes, then such a fate comes true! He doesn’t escape his genetic destiny of FOXDIE. But FOXDIE spares Snake, according to Naomi, as long as he has the will to live. As long as Snake resists fate and lives for his own purposes, for the willful benefit of others, his genes don’t matter. Magical virus be damned.

Metal Gear Solid jumps through a lot of nonsense narrative hoops like FOXDIE to deliver its thematic messages, but its earnestness and clever synthesis of postmodern tension between audience and text with larger political significance make the first entry and the rest of the series remarkable. And of course the nonsense is entertaining.

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I’ve decided to suspend this blog series for the time being. My semester is heading into full swing next week, and I don’t want to be bogged down with a project of this scope. During the semester, I’d like to move on to smaller games to write about. Don’t fear though; Metal Gear Villains will return eventually!

Travelling through Twine #1: "it is better to know"

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Hello and welcome! This is the first post in a (hopefully biweekly) series of short reviews and reflections on works in Twine. I’ll be taking a look at any game new or old in Twine that I come across on Twitter or itch.io, whether it be serious or silly, or simple or complex. Each post will feature 1-3 works of Twine.

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Lana Polansky’s latest Twine poem is in part a response to an eye-rolling statement made by popular indie game “genius” Jonathan Blow. In an interview with the Guardian, he said, “I want to make games for people who like to read [Thomas Pynchon’s] Gravity’s Rainbow.” In context, Blow means that he wants to bring the influence of other forms of art to videogames, after suggesting that game narratives are weak because their only reference points are too often other games instead of a wider range of art and media. Which is largely true and echoed throughout games spaces ad nauseum! But that’s what a lot of folks are already working towards in the margins, with Twine, with Unity, with #altgames. But Blow represents something different--a perfectionist approach to artful games that requires a massive budget and wide visibility to sustain such high-gloss projects that would take 7 years to complete, the outcome of which certain critics find dubious at best and stupid at worst. Blow’s quote about games and Gravity’s Rainbow is tinged with an anti-populist intellectual elitism and a latent classism that ignores the artistic experimentation in videogames made by the poor and the marginalized, diverse work that ranges from accessible to esoteric.


“i want to make games for people who read” starts by taking the first part of Blow’s statement and swapping his choice of the complex, supposedly “high art” novel Gravity’s Rainbow for objects associated with everyday commercialism: “the backs of shampoo bottles,” “the labels on their pre-packaged health food,” “the ads on bustops." The poem dissociates reading from its conception as just an intellectual activity. It conjures an audience of average people navigating late capitalism rather than the specificity of stodgy lit professors that Blow’s quote might bring to mind. In fact, though this imagined audience represents a likely broader group of people than Blow’s Gravity’s Rainbow-readers, they’re always embodied in some specific way in the poem. The audience is defined not just by what they read but also by where or how or why they read. The people reading the shampoo bottles are in their bathrooms, perhaps looking at the labels during their showers. The people reading the food labels do so with a “cynical curiosity,” probably about the food industry’s (in)ability to deliver healthy nutrition while being sustainable, ethical, affordable. And the people reading the ads on bustops do so to distract themselves from a long wait and perhaps the possibility of an irate boss at their late arrival to work.


The poem then expands “reading” to include not just of written text but also the mundane yet intimate ways we interact with others and the world through our interpretations. The speaker wants to make games for people who read the “gestures of strangers,” inevitably inventing a personality or past that might explain their behaviors or mannerisms, regardless of their imagination’s accuracy. I think of seeing someone with her arms crossed, backed against a wall at a party and thinking about how she might have social anxiety or that she might have just broken up with her boyfriend or had an argument with a friend. But maybe she’s just cold. Polansky particularly emphasizes people who read faces and eyes, looking to see if another’s words match their physical expressions, trying to get inside another’s head, to see their thoughts, their motives, their souls.


We all do this--we’re always reading people--often unconsciously. We’re constantly trying to make, or find, meaning in others and ourselves. We read because we’re human. The poem imagines a desired audience who reads because they are humans, because they must, while Blow’s statement implicitly points towards an audience who reads Gravity’s Rainbow because it is an intellectual object, for the cachet of reading a complicated book. Blow’s statement neglects to question how one might read Gravity’s Rainbow and why one might like it, beyond that it is a book that doesn’t “hold your hand.” The important thing is that this audience has read it, has marked it off their lists of Smart Things To Read. I would say that Jon Blow might as well make games for robots who read Gravity’s Rainbow, but he perhaps deserves at least a little slack for what was likely a quick, undercooked interview response (plus, robots might be good readers too!).


“i want to make games for people who read” doesn’t simply replace an anti-populism with an anti-intellectualism. It seeks an audience of people who read “slowly, deliberately”--people who want to engage and be engaged. It seeks members of an audience with their own indulgent idiosyncrasies, like reading under the dim light of a candle “because it’s sometimes comforting to feel like an anachronism.” Each line of the poem includes bright green text that, when clicked on, reveals the rest of the words in its line and a new neon green phrase to tease the next line. The phrase “it is better to know” glows thrice in a row at the poem’s end, in lines invoking those who read a variety of things--both what they love and what they hate--to better know the world. This audience, finally, reads their own reflections because “it is better to know thyself.” This reference to an ancient Greek maxim establishes this act of reading as timeless, universal, an act that tends to improve us.


The poem’s final line reads, highlighted in a pale pink: “This passage does not exist: The True Ending.” The pseudo-error message recalls an ending to another of Polansky’s Twines, .error404. In “i want to make games for people who read,” the “error” suggests that we never stop reading nor do we ever stop needing to read, to make meaning and to make sense of the world and ourselves. The poem not only establishes reading as a continuous personal process but also implies that reading is a continuous social process that transcends history. “i want to make games for people who read” constructs an audience through warm imaginings of real people, contrasting to the cold hollowness of Blow’s stated ideal audience. But even without the context of his frankly goofy quote, the poem stands on its own as a remarkably evocative reflection of what it means to read and how to make art with an audience in mind.

Travelling through Twine #2: "Your Name is Now Excuse Me"

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No one working retail has a story. They have ten stories. They have twenty. For all the mundane tasks it requires, high stress it imparts, and low pay it offers, retail labor exposes you to the myriad faces of the subjects of late capitalism. A spot behind the cash register is the place for surreal encounters with strangers, exchanges with both the frustrated and the friendly. I can only think of a thousand stories between myself and my retail-working friends. There are some common experiences. Couples simultaneously shoving credit cards in your face, their competing expressions of love inevitably leading to an argument with you in the middle. The blood-curling screams of children whose parents can’t afford the stuffed koala. The bardic customers sharing their life stories while you nod politely and anxiously eye your growing queue. Favorite regulars who actually know you by name. Tears and gossip in the break room. And that’s not even scratching the surface.

Your Name Is Now Excuse Me” is a Twine by Jacob Gooch, based on his and his friends’ experiences in retail, submitted in My First Game Jam earlier this year. It’s a game that explicitly sets out, in “empathy game” rhetoric, to show how retail workers are often mistreated and dehumanized by customers and a system that requires them to act (and react) in specific ways. But instead of simply portraying negative experiences between customers and workers, the game portrays a range of interactions, including helping grateful customers, comforting or arguing with co-workers, and getting reprimanded by a supervisor.

You start the game by entering your name, which, in accordance with the title, the game denies before rechristening you “Excuse Me.” The sequence is unfortunately too obvious and heavy-handed, as your new “retail name” is explicitly mandated by an abstract narrator. Since we easily get the joke from the title itself, the game shouldn’t have to explain it to us. The game could have retained its ironic power by jumping right into scenarios of customers addressing you as “Excuse Me” right after entering your name. But I do like that your co-workers address you by the name you entered in the beginning. A lot of times fellow co-workers seem like the only people who’ll treat you like a human being at retail jobs, shared experience helping with the empathy.

“Your Name is Now Excuse Me” doesn’t have much in the way of in-depth characterization but instead structures itself through simplistic vignettes of the different kinds of interactions one might face working for a department store chain. The game features a diverse group of people regarding race, gender, and religion both working and shopping in the store, even depicting the specific struggles certain marginalized people might face there. For instance, a woman worker is poked in the chest by an irate customer, and a Muslim worker is insulted by customer who speaks in Urdu about her dress.

The game offers choices regarding how to behave to customers and co-workers, and though these choices don’t present particularly difficult moral dilemmas, you’ll want to see the different repercussions. A customer might be angry regardless of how sincerely you try to help her. You might get in trouble with your boss for comforting a downtrodden co-worker in the break room when you’re supposed to be back on the clock. None of the choices have consequence beyond the isolated incidents within the game, and you can’t get fired. The game does a good job of portraying the stress of specific moments in retail but misses an opportunity to show how anxiety about dismissal hangs over your head after multiple infractions.

The best thing about “Your Name is Now Excuse Me” is how it balances out the poor experiences working retail with a few heartwarming interactions. The game ends with a mother buying Star Wars merchandise for her daughter, who, if you ask, will tell you how Rey is her favorite and that she’s so excited to dress up as her. It’s in these rare occasions when customers open up some part of their humanity to you that retail work can be rewarding in its small way. Growing up with social anxiety, finding myself able to help people at my first job gave me a lot more confidence in interacting with strangers. Certainly, “Your Name is Now Excuse Me” could have included many more kinds of horrible situations, but it could have some more pleasant ones too.

“Your Name is Now Excuse Me” is admirably earnest but to a fault, leaning too hard into “empathy game” rhetoric in a needless epilogue. The plain expression of its vignettes should be able to speak for itself, evoking empathy because it’s a game not because it’s framed to do so. But for its simplicity and its faults, “Your Name is Now Excuse Me” is pretty impressive for a first Twine game that succinctly captures the turbulent world of retail.

For further reading about retail labor, I highly recommend J Bearhat’s zine "Corporate Interiors." 
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