Monthly Archives: April 2011

Podcast Spotlight: Comedy Death Ray Radio

Original posted at Digital Hippos

In recent months, podcasts have become something of an obsession of mine. My consumption of the medium has hit such a fever-pitch that I’ve begun listening to podcasts to the exclusion of watching television or movies, or listening to music. In fact, my iPod easily spends more time now playing podcasts than songs. Continue reading

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Rant: Story vs. Theme in Call of Duty

(Originally posted at Digital Hippos)

I only just finally got around to playing Call of Duty: Black Ops and I was surprised to find that I really enjoyed it. In the past I’ve been extremely hard on Modern Warfare 2, mostly for its poor level design, but also for its absurd story, wherein a supervillain tries to take over the world with his private military. Black Ops’ story of Soviet conspiracy, brainwashing and dissociative identity isn’t much more grounded, yet I was able to invest in it completely.

I think that the reason why Black Ops’ story worked so well for me was because it was completely upfront about exactly what its major theme was: Cold War-era paranoia.

Protagonist Alex Mason wakes up in a dark room, tied to a chair, being interrogated by the mysterious, distorted voice of a distant shadow. He’s being tortured in a vague way, hallucinating and suffering total-recall flashbacks while numbers count off in his head. Right off the bat, Treyarch establish a tone of exaggeration and fiction; this isn’t the typical obstacle-course tutorial commonplace in the franchise.

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Rant: In Medias Res

(Originally posted at Digital Hippos)

I want to talk more about something that I touched on in my blog entry about Fable III that was my first post here at DH: in medias res storytelling in games and how the device so rarely accomplishes what it’s meant to.

For those unfamiliar with the term, in medias res (Latin for “in the middle of things”) refers to a narrative device wherein a story begins in its second or third act (or partway into its first act).

Dragon Age 2 is probably the most recent example of a game using in medias res, as it picks up midway into the Hawke family’s story. Their peaceful time in the village of Lothering leading up to the Blight and the Darkspawn’s attack on the village all occur before the start of the game, which catches up with the Hawke family mid-flight during their escape.

This technique is employed often by game designers because it allows them to get right to the action. According to traditional three-act story structure, the first act consists of a calm, gradual introduction to the protagonist’s life and world. The introduction of conflict generally doesn’t occur until towards the end of the first act, when the protagonist’s happy little life is reversed.

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Game Diary: Arx Fatalis 03 — Answering the Call

(Originally posted at Digital Hippos)

Tragedy. Ascending back up the goblin gulag hits me with one of the stranger bugs I’ve ever seen: the opening of the game repeats itself. I’m struck with the blue light, dragged away by the goblin and wake up in a jail cell. Only, something’s different…. Continue reading

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Game Diary: Arx Fatalis 02 — The Envy of Kings

(Originally posted at Digital Hippos)

Emerging in the sub-(sub-sub-sub-sub-)-terranean tunnels beneath the goblin gulag, I find something I’ve been waiting for for far too long: pants! They’re being worn by a skeleton — not an undead monster skeleton, just a regular pile of bones — but they’re perfectly good pants and there’s no reason to let them go to waste, especially when this corpse doesn’t even have any legs. Continue reading

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Game Diary: Arx Fatalis 01 — No-Name

(Originally posted at Digital Hippos)

After a brief scene where I’m struck with blue light and dragged off by a goblin, I wake up to a familiar sight: a jail cell. But that debilitating glow had another effect: I can’t remember anything! Or was it the knock on the head from the goblin? Either way, it landed me right here, where I’ve so often found myself in the past: an imprisoned amnesiac.

Around me are the usual trappings: dank stone, dirt, a bare wooden bed, and a skull. Whether the skull is the last remains of a former prisoner or just goblin decor — there’s really no way of knowing.

This is my fellow prisoner. I don’t remember his appropriately convoluted fantasy name, so I’m just going to call him Wuzzles. I can tell from the way that he’s holding his midsection that he has really bad tummy ache, so it’s up to me to free us from the goblin gulag. Prying a loose rock and bending some bars (really shoddy workmanship, goblins) frees me from captivity, while a conveniently-located bone gives me the beans to bludgeon our goblin gaoler’s brain into putty.

Freeing Wuzzles, he gives me a new name: Am Shegaar (I think that’s how it’s spelled). It means … one who has no memory. Or is it one who has no name? Either way, it fits, but I think it’s going to be weird when I introduce myself to someone as Nameless Amnesiac.

Wuzzles tells me that he’s a member of the Traveller’s Guild. He says the the sun of our world fizzled out a long time ago. Since then, humans, goblins, trolls and dwarves have lived underground, while the surface has become a frozen wasteland. The Traveller’s Guild are the only people with the means to survive on the surface and travel between the various disparate subterranean settlements.

And with the obligatory world building exposition behind us, Wuzzles seneds me through a sewer grate to find a way out of the goblin gulag (I’m going to keep calling it that). His timmy hurts too much to follow, so it’s up to me to find a way out for the both of us.

Next time: rat-eating, spider-bludgeoning, glitched-elevator-dodging, and the triumphant return of Wuzzles — pugilist extraordinaire!

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Player Agency and Relationships

I almost never pursue romance options in RPGs. At their worst, game romances are sensationalistic, meant to appeal to the 14-year old boys in the audience. At their best, they’re cliched, ceremonial, dry, and potentially disturbing. In either case, they say nothing about the human condition, the sole reason why we connect with stories about relationships at all.

I recently replayed Dragon Age: Origins and I ran into an identical problem in this, my second play through, that I ran into in my first: an unwanted love triangle.

Basically, by just treating my companions with respect and not acting like a dick to the world at large, I’ve somehow managed to get a few of them to fall in love with me (Leliana and Zevran in my first play through, plus Alistair in my second, which I guess makes this one a love square?).

One of the big problems for me is that I haven’t pursued any of these relationships; I’ve done no flirting; I’ve made no come-ons. Repeatedly sending signals that just about any adult would pick up on in real life (telling Leliana what a good friend she is; telling Alistair how much I appreciate our friendship) effectively just delays the inevitable; it nudges their approval meters up by a point or two, instead of the 10 or so if I’d said something flirty.

Over time, those points add up and none of the context or meaning of my dialogue with these characters makes a difference. They forget the things I’ve actually said and only remember the approval numbers derived from our conversations.

By just role-playing my avatar as a decent human being, I now have to deal with a whole mess of drama that comes off as arbitrary and immature. Because of reductive math — a number scale of how much someone likes me — I’m involved in an annoying situation that drags the game down and brings the pacing to a halt. Even though I’ve spent the entire game saying that Leliana’s religion is bullshit, she doesn’t seem to care, because the numbers still manage to add up in my favor.

I’m not convinced that stories about relationships work when left to player agency. And I don’t just mean romantic relationships; I mean relationships with other people, period. Typically, companion characters’ personal politics are black and white, their emotions are extreme and their lives are completely dependent on the player. They’re less like people and more like robots reacting to whatever stimuli the player creates through the choices he/she makes (actually, I guess that’s literally what they are in terms of the programming). They don’t even have relationships with each other, much less with the world around them. They’re just narrative devices; foils to help expand the story of your hero.

Basically, this all comes down to a storytelling vs. agency issue, and the conflict that can arise between the two. What makes for better storytelling might not be what the player wants. And that can be a problem.

A good relationship story, in my Dragon Age case, could have been the triangle of unrequited love I accidentally fostered. God knows, looking back at my earlier youth, I sympathize for every girl I knew who had to delicately balance my crush with our friendship. I didn’t make it easy for them. But, at the very least, those relationships had an arc to them, and we all got stories out of them (some better than others).

Unfortunately, the lack of a relationship between party members causes this potential story to break down. Their only interaction with each other is through me, referencing my other relationships. The story lacks conflict.

The story of a single, unrequited love could have been interesting. However, that particular story always conveniently ends when I say, “thanks, but not interested.” Allowing for player agency, the player can turn someone down and continue with the game, unburdened by the optional relationship side plot. In this case, the story lacks a proper end or even a middle. The end isn’t so much that my character rejects another character, but moreso that I, as the player, say “stop” and the game itself obliges by flipping a switch. The relationship plot goes from on to off without any further exploration.

Then there’s the story of any one of these relationships. Unfortunately, all have to allow for any number of variables based on my choices. And, of course, there’s that pesky math. My relationship with Leliana could have been a beautiful tragedy; something with a lot of potential that falls apart because I can’t accept her religion, of all things. POW! Now that hits on all cylinders; scorned lovers and religion … I dare you to invent juicier conflict.

But of course, the story never plays out that way. Our disagreements gain some negative points but our positive points outweigh those, so … it must be true love, right? After a lengthy talk about “us” and how great “we” are, the virtual avatars get down to the physical act of love, as awkwardly and unsatisfyingly as only masses of pixels can. And afterwards … well, that’s it. That’s the end of the story; the ultimate reward for the relationship side quest: sex. Because, as we all know, a relationship just stays frozen in time once sex gets involved (please note my sarcasm). That’s a lot of ceremony for such a weak payoff.

But what if the game didn’t have to account for as much player agency? What if there weren’t several options for relationships, but only one or two? And what if the player’s agency, like so much of the genuine roleplaying that’s so successful in recent BioWare releases, simply boiled down to conversation?

The relationship happens, as a core element of the plot, and your agency is in how you handle it: what you say; how you treat the other person; the effects of your other relationships; the effects of the romantic interest’s other relationships; the kind of person you choose to be and how it affects both you and your significant other? What if all the time, energy and resources that go in to fleshing out a lot of optional side plots went into writing this one story and its very limited number of branches?

And again, these ideas don’t just apply to romantic relationships.

I think the most I’ve gotten out of Dragon Age 2 so far has been my (well, Hawke’s) relationship with my brother, Carver. We’re family and we’re rivals. He looks up to me at the same time he grows jealous of me. He’ll defend both my life and my character to the bitter end, but never without a constant voice of doubt in the back of his head. We fight like dogs and stick together like a pack. We both, at least partially, blame each other for our sister’s death. Our strained relationship is a constant source of stress for our beleaguered mother; in fact, most of our fights revolve around her. That’s downright Oedipal.

Ultimately — and I know this isn’t a popular opinion among the “hardcore” crowd these days — I think story-based games, particularly RPGs, are going to need to become more linear if they want to tell an emotionally satisfying story. That’s not to say completely linear, like a first-person shooter, but player agency, or actual roleplaying, is going to need to come down to smaller, but more personal choices; choices that affect character development and provide the player with an opportunity to more thoroughly explore a game’s themes, rather than high-concept plot points that add nerd-coveted “replayability.”

To get off the RPG track (and, let’s face it, give poor BioWare a break), I think Heavy Rain is an example of a video game with an open-ended narrative driven by the player’s choices where the optional romance — and all of the relationships — work, largely because of a certain degree of linearity.

The relationship that develops between Shelby and Lauren always ends tragically, regardless of how the player chooses to handle the moments that lead to that tragic conclusion. Nevertheless, the impact of the relationship has greater meaning for me precisely because of how I handled those moments. And it would work just as well for anyone else who might pursue it differently. The majority of the plot is linear and scripted, but the meaning it has on the player is informed by the player’s small, but emotionally relevant choices.

Similarly, even though Madison feels completely superfluous to the overall plot of the game, and even though, in my play through of the game, I didn’t have Ethan pursue a relationship with her, I can see how that potential relationship sub-plot could be incredibly satisfying.

Madison isn’t simply reacting to the things Ethan says, or vice-versa; instead, their individual paths cross, they spend time together and, eventually, possibly come together (please don’t take that out of context). The relationship feels like it’s actually built on a foundation that continues to develop over the events of the game’s plot, as opposed to flipping a switch because some background math finally tipped the scale to one side. It’s spontaneous but not random, exactly the way a relationship is.

(Originally posted at digitalhippos.com)

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