Michael's Corner: Thorns in the Side, Part II

by Michael Harnest

It seems appropriate to reiterate that my goal here is not to slander the gaming medium, but to make note of flaws encountered within the current model of game design in order to analyze them, draw conclusions on how they can be fixed, and as a result, increase the proficiency of the medium's product. If a dream of the entertainment software industry is to create a rich new format to engage and enlighten its audience at an artistic level (and to some facet, it must be), then it is important that we be critical with the current method of doing things, or to at least be aware of the possibility that there is room for improvement. Stopping dead in our artistic tracks is certainly not an option.

There are many noticeable errors in today's games: graphical glitches, misspelled words, not-so-epic quests, confusing interfaces, poor writing, childish scenarios, and game design not wary of the fact that it is supposed to entertain the player, among many others. These are all essentially negative spin-offs from a lack of fine-tuning. The industry is relatively new (approximately 20 years now), demands a unique collaboration of talented people in polarized fields, and is pressured rigorously by events outside of developers' control (Christmas, simultaneous movie releases, proper season for sports games, etc.). The jumbled result is not only natural, but the accepted norm. For now, anyway. But these detractors are rather trivial. The medium is growing up, has not had the chance to fully define itself, and when it does, the small things will presumably be tended to without a hitch. To some extent, this is the category where the save feature hindrance belongs, though I would argue (and did in Thorns, Part I) its hazard is harmful enough to warrant more attention, and this hybrid nature of the problem made for a suitable introduction into the series. The more serious problem areas, however, have far more to do with the fundamental approach to interactive storytelling.

One of the more contradictory concepts within an emergent narrative is the nature of the player avatar, who or what the player embodies to manifest themselves in the game world. More to the point, as game narratives increase in complexity and depth, and likewise the games' cast, a dilemma arises that begs the question "who does the player make story-affecting decisions as?" Early story-based games had an easy solution. Members of the role-playing genre were very strictly role-playing games; the player was not a witness to, or a support system and influential factor in a story, but was very much the game's heroes; no personality clashes, no relatability issues. You did as you saw fit when you saw it was fit to do so. A "role-playing game" now, largely a misnomer, has a predetermined cast, unique (sometimes) with their own personalities and value systems to bring into the mix, and presumably make decisions that reflect these qualities. Of course, as discussed in Part I, it is a gamer's response to in-game events that is at the very heart of what makes interactive storytelling an art form worth exploring. The paradox is apparent. The expectation is that a gamer, pushing buttons that cause a character to react, is to make decisions. The all-important question is how do you approach these decisions within the current model of interactive storytelling? As you yourself would, or as the character you are controlling?

A valid argument is that this really has not been much of a problem in most, if any, games released to date. I would argue that this is simply reflective of how much more growing up the subject matter of our games has to do; the decisions being made are trivial enough not to develop a player/avatar moral debate. But to say that this oxymoronic relationship will not rear its ugly head in the future, when gaming narratives do grow up, is setting yourself up for confused gaming. We are already seeing the early warning signs. A real world example is the mixed reactions to Squaresoft's Final Fantasy VIII. There are objective flaws within the game, a tedious method of accumulating magic, a largely one-dimensional supporting cast, a misguided final act, but they hardly justify the extreme negative reaction of some gamers. The primary innovation within the game is its dealing with the characterization of the main characters. If this is not enjoyed, then the entire game falls apart. One predominant feature in this regard is determining many of (the main character) Squall's verbal responses to questions and comments posed by other characters. Generally the choice options are reactionary opposites; one would be sympathetic and encouraging, the other alienating and reclusive. This is where the player/avatar dilemma arises. On one hand, the player could assume the role of Squall and act as he or she thinks that he would. In terms of Final Fantasy VIII, this leads to the more interesting of the two approaches. Early on, Squall is defined as a "lone wolf," very self-conscious, untrusting, and antisocial. As the story progresses, however, he becomes dependent upon other characters, and even comes to regard them as friends. As this affection towards others grows, to a player making decisions as Squall would, the decisions, subconsciously, become increasingly more difficult. As his character develops and matures, there is no doubt his responses would become more sympathetic. This creates an interesting gameplay dynamic in the intermediary stages of his development ("gameplay" is wrong here, as this example of interaction is not to do with the game aspect of the game, but the narrative), and adds an important layer to the game that makes it a far more engaging, and enjoyable, experience. Contrast this to the experience endured upon taking the other option. If a player responds as they themselves would if they were in Squall's situation, the selecting of the responses would become redundant, and more importantly, the experience of an intended dramatic element lost. Perhaps one player is wholly compassionate, or another a player who likes to stir up trouble; either way, the same emotional response is given every time, respectively: the compassionate player always selects the compassionate answer, the disrupting player always selects the disrupting and unsociable answer. This becomes boring, and also kills the positive experience, one which was at the very root of the total game experience, of watching your character grow and, in turn, growing in the game world with them.

To build on this example, I will refer once again to the abortion scenario laid out in Part I (fifth paragraph, for reference) to illustrate how this kind of paradox will affect the matured emergent narratives of the future, where the artistic integrity and cultural relevance of the medium itself is at stake. To address the scenario, where the interactive decision between aborting and having a child had to be made, what if through the back-story revealed earlier in the game, the player learns that the two characters had previously aborted a child? What if they had aborted three? Does the player make the decision as if they were the characters, which would presumably be to abort again, or do they stick to their own guns and react as he or she would in the same situation, which could be either? In each case, this very literal conflict of interests has a huge detrimental effect on Coleridge's "willing suspension of disbelief," which unless you are Jean Luc Godard, is your ultimate goal to propagate and maintain. Pertaining to gaming, as an interactive medium being utilized artistically, a designer may want the gamer to react as they would if they were in the situation, or they may want the gamer to react with the character's personality as a filter. Both have their artistic benefits, this is not a debate between which response is better, but the benefits are fundamentally different, and after the decisions have been made, there is little way to distinguish between which approach the gamer took because so much of it happens subconsciously.

The answer to this dilemma is not nearly as simple as that of the save feature, and I would be lying if I said I knew of a wholly successful compromise or penultimate solution. One option, adopted from the real-time strategy genre, would be to give the player an in-game persona separate from the visible characters, where they are given the role of a commanding figure (king, army general, rebel leader, wife) who makes critical and definitive decisions for the major players in the cast. A similar solution that has been implemented already is the use of a silent character that represents the player in visible form. You must be careful here, though, as in the case of Chrono Cross, where the degree to which the plot was dependent on Serge, the player's said representative, and the events of his young life affected the ability of the gamer to easily allow an in-game personality substitute. When handled correctly, though, this solution can prove effective. No matter the method, the goal is to at least guide the player to the way in which they are expected to respond to decisions, be it subconsciously or not. The two above examples very openly put the player's reaction to the forefront; they are not expected to think as a character would. This gives the gamer a path to follow, and informs observers how the decision-making was approached, and therefore, in what way it relates to the player. To allow the reverse is infinitely more difficult, and may seem unnatural to even try to implement. But, as with Final Fantasy VIII, it can be used to make aspects of a gaming experience more interesting. Since a gamer's fundamental values are unlikely to change over the course of a game, and a character's are, posing similarly-themed events and story-affecting decisions throughout a game does little for a player value-driven interactive narrative (unless done precisely right), but adds an entirely new level to a character value-driven one. The trick is to subtly absorb the player into the narrative and act as the character without disrupting the famed suspension of disbelief. Here, the field is wide open. Solutions are out there, but they depend on looking at the gaming medium outside of just an interactive visual narrative and on the creation of a whole new beast (more will be discussed on this in Part III). For now, it has to be noted that designing games involves player empathy; the player is supposed to be aided by the designer through the interface, presentation of the story, and the implementation of the varying modes of play (battle, racing mini-game, etc.), and not challenged by them in terms of poor interface and game design. This includes how they are told to react to the narrative, and subsequently, their presented avatar.

There is no doubt about it, the gaming industry is growing. It is best to tackle what will evolve into future problems now, so as to aid it in its growth. Interactivity is by far the pride of the industry, and it is that this is unique to us that makes it new to work with and easy for problems to arise. It is also this exclusivity that makes it so crucial for us to attempt to perfect it. If we are not utilizing this ability with the intent of seeing it through to maturation, then there is little reason to show it to the world in the first place, let alone brag about it. One element in this process is dealing with the player avatar and clearly defining how it can and should be used in particular gaming circumstances and why. I realize I pose more questions than I answer, but that is merely because this is a collective goal, not the daunting task of a few individuals. Games are great; we will make them greater.