Blips: What It Is

Source: No Alternative, 1
Author: Joel Goodwin
Site: Electron Dance

I really enjoyed this piece on Electron Dance about whether certain game developers creating experiences on the fringes of what we consider "games" actually want their works to be seen as games. The reason this speaks to me is because the answers that developers like Ed Key (Proteus), Dan Pinchbeck (Dear Esther), and the Tale of Tales team are the reason I've returned to games with such fervor and enthusiasm. For me, these kinds of games are both the most interesting games and some of the most interesting contemporary art being produced. Part of this reason is the way games are distributed, and their more accessible nature.

Here's the thing; "art" is a neutering label while "game" remains a bit of a taxonomical battleground. Imagine if Dumb Starbucks was considered a game instead of performance art. There's an earnestness to the "game" label, where "art" applied to the same situation is viewed as a hoax (unless you're talking about ARGs, which are more complicated). Not that "game" couldn't become what "art" is now (it actually feels like it may be headed that way), but at the moment, games are seen to occupy a space that has a more open and honest relationship with those who engage with them. It's an ironic twist that when the artists behind horse_ebooks revealed themselves, they essentially "came clean" by releasing an FMV game. For artists, entering the game space is equivalent to "going legit," in that they're deciding to enter a space that is generally regarded as a front-facing commercial enterprise. Public performance art is the game you play without knowing it, but in "games," players are willing participants. It's no mystery which one has greater potential for generating a healthy relationship between artist and audience across the long-term.

Blips: Against the Rules

Source: Reign in Drool
Author: Michael Thomsen
Site: The New Inquiry

Is it accurate to say that we "play" games? The use of the word "play" to describe what game participants do when operating the mechanics of a game doesn't seem wholly accurate to the historical understanding of the term. To "play" is to engage in chaos, to let your imagination run wild, totally ignorant to the constraints of systemic rules. Games on the other hand, are logic puzzles defined by their rules. While the macro activity of participating in a game often aligns with the frivolity of free form play, the act of "playing" in games often feels like anything but.

This is one of many issues brought up in Michael Thomsen in his wonderful recent essay for The New Inquiry's Games issue. He goes on to rail against gamification as taking the complacency-generating aspects of games and applying them to just about anything. Instead of using game mechanics to subversively reflect the already game-like systems workplace and political hierarchy, gamification adds a new layer of abstraction that further distances "players" from the reality of the situation. In games where you play against the computer, where the goal is to win, there is always a power dynamic between the the rules of the game (the master) and the player. Upon beating the game, you've conquered all of the challenges, but you never overtake power from the game. The game allows the player to possess enough power to satisfy, but you can never become the master. Why would we want to invite this kind of system into non-game environments?

Where I'll be critical of Thomsen is in his scope of video games. The term "game" has been going through its own identity crisis as of late with several titles of note leaning away from the traditional goal oriented structures of win/lose scenarios. Ironically these games have been chastised by vocal connoisseurs as not being games at all, but something else. In general, games are in a taxonomical predicament right now, and the most sensible solution seems to be to expand the scope of the word "game" to include all comers. "Games" really are the new "art," it seems. In light of this Thomsen also dismisses the expressive possibilities of games too quickly, which seems shortsighted at a time when developers are making significant strides in that realm.

That said, it's all too easy to get caught up in a defensive position about something that you care deeply about, so I welcome Thomsen's critical look at games and what it actually means to play.

Interaction Design: The Fine Print of MoMA's Video Game Acquisition

There was a lot of fuss a couple weeks ago when the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) in New York City announced they would add games to their collection. The video game community was pumped to see another instance of cultural recognition for their beloved medium. The announcement, penned by Senior Architecture and Design Curator Paola Antonelli, was also viewed as another step forward for the acceptance of video games as a proper art form, with visions of Tetris seated next to Les Demoiselles d'Avignon. Amidst this excitement, a crucial detail of the announcement was largely being overlooked. Video games are not being added to MoMA's permanent collection as artworks, but as design objects, specifically for their "interaction design." Mario and Picasso might not be roommates after all.

From a typical gamer's perspective, the inclusion of video games in MoMA says enough to satisfy on its own, but from an art world perspective, the distinction between art and design is a contentious rift, and labeling a new category of works as one or the other matters a great deal. Reading into the politics of a precedent-setting institution making such a decision about video games, one wonders how the balance of traditionalist push-back and compromise played out to ultimately label games as "design," or if that was the idea all along. Language used for these categorical purposes is always carefully curated, aiming to please as many demographics as possible. With these video game acquisitions, MoMA is looking for the common ground where gamers and art patrons overlap.

The Smithsonian walked the same line last year with The Art of Video Games at the American Art Museum. The main feature of that exhibition was a showcase of console hardware and software, representing 4 distinct game genres across time. The Art of Video Games acted as a display of historical artifacts with explanatory statements justifying each game's inclusion in the exhibition. The blunt title of the show alluded to art, but without directly stating that games are art. In fact, usually when the phrase "the art of" is employed, it's to discuss craftsmanship, a quality that could be attributed to proficiency in most labor requiring a degree of delicacy. The MoMA announcement presented the same mixed message brought forth in The Art of Video Games –a prestigious art institution is willing to use "art" and "video games" in the same breath to draw attention from the game community, but stops short of an actual art exhibition of video games.

It's true that MoMA begins their announcement with the blunt statement that video games are art, but the rest of the blog post runs counter, leaning heavily on explanation of the design criteria and technicalities of acquisition. For an art museum like MoMA to simply state that games are art seeks a kinship with the gaming public. It's saying "we all know games are art so let's just move on now." Yet, the issue of whether video games are art is as heated as ever, turning up just about everywhere that a forum for discussing games exists. The avoidance of the debate about whether games can be considered art is reinforced by breaking them down into architectural design elements. These components could be used as the basis for artistic interpretation, but here they are presented as bullet points for the means to a solution, solutions being a core tenant of great design.

The argument for games as art comes down to interactivity being the distinctive factor that both separates it from other expressive media while also showing the conceptual depth and artistry present in great painting and sculpture. MoMA understands this, but chooses to frame video game interactivity as design, not art, categorizing it in the same realm as furniture, tools, and advertisements. This framing actually suits games quite easily, seeing as game development teams, if job titles are to be believed, are led by designers, not artists. "Game Design" is a field in which one can earn a college degree, and the Lead Artist on a game development team is primarily concerned with aesthetics, not interactivity, though the two are inextricably related. MoMA is merely using the predominant language that already exists for discussing games –one of design.

In many ways, design is the great unifier of video games where even the word "game" itself has become a misnomer at times. A lot of interactive things are termed "games" that behave in wildly different ways than one would typically understand a game to function. If chess and baseball are used as barometers for what constitutes a game, then the episodic exploration and choice-driven conversations of Kentucky Route Zero seem to put it in another category, closer to visual novels, but still uniquely interactive. The term "game" has evolved beyond chess and baseball to include the likes of text adventures and World of Warcraft, but conversely rendering it less useful as a classification. All successful video games display outstanding design though, and that's both a much easier pill to swallow and a convenient safeguard in the event that a great taxonomical dispersion in the future that renders "video game" obsolete.

MoMA's decision to acquire specific video games as examples of superb "interaction design" is less a bold statement claiming video games to be works of art and more a logical next step for a cultural institution looking to expand patronage and continue relevance. That said, final judgements about whether MoMA's initial video game venture shifts the balance in the "games as art" dialogue should be withheld until Applied Design, the exhibition featuring their initial 14 acquired games, opens in March.

Authentic Authenticity

"It's as close to the real thing as you can get without being there!" has become the philosophy behind use of the term "authenticity" as it pertains to video games.  Notably, the word was used as part of a public relations strategy in promotion of the recently released modern military shooter, Medal of Honor: Warfighter (MoHW), which came under fire from critics citing laundry lists of features that detail the gulf between the game and real world combat situations.  Amidst some other PR follies, developer Danger Close set the record straight on what they define as authentic in their game: weapon models, field equipment, and squad chatter, among other largely aesthetic categories.  War games like those in the Medal of Honor, Tom Clancy, and Call of Duty franchises take criticism on issues concerning authenticity, but the vagueness of what makes a game "authentic" is not genre specific.

This semantic gray area is problematic when the word "authenticity" is co-opted for deployment by marketing teams in a fallacious, occasionally hypocritical manner, as was the case with MoHW.  When you see a trailer for a game or hear a publisher's spokesperson hyping their upcoming title, it's in the service of selling a product to consumers.  "Authenticity" is a buzzword, used primarily when speaking about how a game has adapted elements from another work or from real life.  When potential players are told that a game is supposedly authentic, it's easy to react with skepticism.  In most cases, using "authentic" as part of a marketing campaign for a video game either sets up players to think that they will actually have an authentic (insert game inspiration) experience when in fact the game only offers a visual sheen of realistic tropes, or it places the bar for authenticity so low that the game easily hits its mark.  These possibilities will produce players who are either cynical toward game marketing or who develop lowered expectations for what qualifies as authentic, or both.

Contextual authenticity is a crutch when true historical reenactment is an impossibility.  Since history happens one way, even if witnessed from multiple perspectives, it can pose a problem for game developers that seek to offer player agency in historical contexts.  If you're designing a game set in 1944 where players command Allied forces as they storm the beaches of Normandy, you have to challenge players to succeed, but ultimately, a string of very specific actions need to happen for the sake of historical accuracy.  One way to ensure that an event happens in a game is to narrowly script it, taking a certain amount of control away from the player.  Commonly this results in plot devices such as non-interactive cutscenes, areas where you can't draw a weapon, locked doors, and forced prompts.  These moments can add authenticity in a more cinematic execution, but they ignore the strengths of the video game medium.

Video games can present alternate, what-if histories that can offer a degree of insight, via roleplay, into various cause and effect relationships throughout time.  In authentically reenacting history, the Civilization games wildly miss the mark, (Montezuma vs. Gandhi: not historically accurate, turns out) yet they are one of the few go-to titles for social science educators.   All entries in the Civilization series put players into virtual leadership roles, asking them to consider and act upon variables consistent with the depicted eras of history to ensure the continued existence and prosperity of their citizenry.  The lack of real-world chronological beholdenness unchains Civilization's gameplay from following a strict timeline, and instead focuses play on decision points and resource management that actual national leaders must consider, albeit in simplified form.  Civilization has proven that it's not necessary to force a historically accurate narrative in a game in order to say something significant about history.  In contrast, MoHW's use of the word "authentic" rang hollow not because the game lacks realism, but rather, the areas chosen to tout as authentic are ancillary to the nature and quality of the gameplay experience.

Some games merely claim authenticity, but true simulations are most likely to legitimately earn the title of "authentic."  Simulations acquire this status because they focus on authentic mechanics above secondary aesthetic details.  Take the Digital Combat Simulator (DCS) line of flight sims for example.  In DCS games you sit inside a virtual cockpit and must flip all the switches and turn all the dials in the proper, real-world order to get your plane in the air, at which point you fly it using a control stick built to mimic the steering interface of an actual aircraft.  This is an authentic video game adaptation of something that exists in the real world.  You could say the same for the act of driving with a racing wheel in a game like Gran Turismo or even performing classic dance moves in front of a Kinect in Dance Central.

The aforementioned simulation mechanics have the benefit of unique controller interfaces that speak directly to the game experience instead of mapping actions to button presses on a DualShock.  Control schemes are the first layer of abstraction from authenticity that most games have to tackle.  Some players will never make it over that hurdle and will always note the artifice of the controller as an obstacle that makes otherwise realistic stories trivial or unbelievable.  The fact that with standardized controllers the same physical actions are required of the player to accomplish wildly different tasks from one game to the next can amplify the inauthenticity of those mechanics.  If pressing the "X" button means saying "Hi" to a character in one game and "stealth killing" a character with a knife in another, then the potential corollary meaning of pressing the "X" button is negated.

Even if authenticity can be achieved, to what end?  Flight simulations are used to train would-be pilots and the US military has their own crop of combat simulators for tactics and strategy.  There is a very direct relationship between playing a simulation and improving a real-world skill.  The virtual act of killing, specifically gun violence, is at the real heart of the controversy surrounding consumer-ready war games and authenticity, not Danger Close taking some heat for a marketing pitch.

If first-person shooters (FPS) like MoHW were to explore more authentic mechanics they'd risk the ethical dilemma that players could get better at shooting real guns by playing their games.  Light-gun games, which require players to hold plastic firearms and aim them at the screen, have been around for decades, and footage of them, framed accusingly, was included in many post-Columbine media packages about violence and video games alongside the now primitive-looking FPS pariah, Doom.  Light-gun games have the potential to approach more authentic gun-shooting mechanics, but developers usually take measures to assure that the interactivity isn't "too authentic."  In arcades, guns are painted bright colors or have sci-fi twists that serve to break the illusion of holding a real firearm, and the games themselves are comically over-the-top and formatted for short bursts of fluffy entertainment.  No developer wants the kind of critical scrutiny that ends in lawsuits like those filed against id Software (creators of Doom) and other game companies in 2002, and it's clear that producing games that offer truly authentic gun-shooting mechanics would approach an ethical threshold that's yet to be crossed in mainstream gaming.

Without authentic mechanics, MoHW can only get so close to putting players "directly in the boots of the soldier," especially with the inclusion of a multiplayer mode that has more in common with football scrimmages than real warfare.  In these multiplayer modes, the gloss of any overarching narrative or character motivation is replaced with the player's basic desire to win competitive matches and rank up their persistent statistics.  It's much more like a sport than a military campaign.  Modern military FPS games like MoHW succeed or fail at market by their multiplayer modes, leaving the "authentic" single player campaigns to be seen as bonuses, if played at all, by the most ardent of the genre's fanbase.  These multiplayer modes are big business for mega-publishers like Electronic Arts and Activision (this whole discussion came from PR-talk, remember), scheduling new releases annually that only slightly tweak gameplay rather than disrupting the successful formula.  When "team deathmatch" is going to be your game's most popular mode because it was that way last year, not only are you strictly obligated to a very specific control scheme, but it becomes very difficult to paint a picture of authentic, introspective wartime struggle when the most popular, time-engrossing section of your product screams otherwise. 

There is room for games to approach the subject of authenticity from a multitude of credible angles, but above all else, the final product needs to be able to speak for itself and have something worthwhile to say.  Games that are adapted from real life subjects and events, especially those striving for authenticity, should be held to high standards, both for accuracy and for the ethics of their social impact.  MoHW's big mistake wasn't its mixture of real guns and unrealistic mechanics, it was billing itself as authentic and failing to deliver.

 :Reposted on Medium Difficulty: