Blips: Still a Game

Source: Dungeon Keeper may be a bad game, but it’s still a game
Author: Mary Hamilton
Site: metamedia

It's a bit strange the way the label "game" has taken on certain qualities of the word "art" considering the two's somewhat tumultuous relationship. But that's what seems to be happening in the case of the new Dungeon Keeper game, which some critics and players have denied the "game" label on grounds of quality. We've all heard this similar accusation made about controversial works of art. "That's not art! It's just a bunch of scribbles!" "That's not art! It's pornography!" That's not art! It's just offensive!" There's a notion with art that a work can be "elevated to the level of art," but if that's the case, what was that work prior to that elevated distinction? Just because a game is rotten with microtransactions or deviates wildly from it's series' roots, doesn't mean it's not a game. This is the conclusion that Mary Hamilton has also drawn in the linked article above.

I see where some of these critics are coming from in the case of Dungeon Keeper though, and they're qualms with the game are on a more formalist grounds. The argument is that you don't really play Dungeon Keeper, but pay currency (virtual or real) to not play it, in a sense. While this argument could hold some water if you're expecting this new Dungeon Keeper to be a simple port of the original game, that's just not the case. This new Dungeon Keeper is simply a different type of game that needs to be played in a different way. I have no real familiarity with that series, but imagine I'd be likewise ticked off if say, a new Zelda game was released with similar mechanics. Instead of working your way through dungeons, Link only has the energy to explore 3 rooms in a 24 hour period, but you can pay minions to do that exploration for you. That sounds like a bad game, and by all accounts, Dungeon Keeper isn't too great either. But it is still a game.

Blips: Big Tunes

Source: When you’re playing Titanfall, something might sound different. Here’s why
Author: Dan Solberg
Site: Kill Screen

Last week, Kill Screen published a profile I did on Stephen Barton, composer on Titanfall. I went into this piece looking to learn about the analog recording process he used, since that sounded pretty unique for a video game score where everything just ends up in digital form anyway. While we did touch on that stuff, the primary angle ended up being how he used digital and analog sounds to distinguish the game's two opposing forces. It wasn't an even split between one side being pure analog or digital, but the resulting sounds frame it this way just the same.

Typically these kinds of video game scores aren't my bag, sounding to alike to one another and never something I'd want to listen to outside of the game context. But I think I'm being too dismissive since the reason many of these scores don't resonate for me is because I'm not typically invested in the games. Titanfall does seem interesting though, and potentially more fun than the always-dying nature of so many online shooters. I am a big fan of these atonal orchestral/digital mash-up noises that are so popular these days too, which make for a perfect match to Titanfall's mechsuit aesthetic. So yeah, this ended up being one of those pieces where I came away a little more open-minded than how I went in, which always feels good.

Blips: Positive Development

Source: Static Electricity: On Photography in Videogames
Author: Lana Polansky
Site: Sufficiently Human

With the ubiquity of video capture in the gaming sphere, the screenshot can tend to feel a bit old fashioned. The constant technological progress of games and the media that covers them redefines screenshots as outdated documents meant for use in near-extinct print publications. However, those screenshot tools are now in the hands of players and easier to access than ever before, resulting in an uptick in virtual photographers, like myself. Granted, I've enjoyed real-life photography ever since owning one of those little toy flashbulb cameras back before they sold disposable ones, and much before digital photography was an option. I think much of what I like about photography in general translates to why I like to take pictures in virtual environments: exploring and finding sights rarely seen, transforming the familiar into the unfamiliar, and showcasing aspects of the world that I find interesting or worthy of attention.

In a recent essay, Lana Polansky writes about her own photographic explorations in the game Killing Floor, and what it is about in-game photography that makes it resonate with people. She speaks with photographer Robert Overweg (top image) about his images from Left 4 Dead and Half-Life 2 that focus on glitches in those games. Glithes, Overweg says, reveal the humanity of game design, that games are ultimately made by people despite their often cold and mechanical character. Glitches are the parts of games where someone didn't sew up the seam quite tight enough, and that actually carries an endearing quality.

But Polansky's not just talking about capturing glitches, she sees in-game photography as another way for players to project themselves into virtual worlds. As players and photographers, we take on the role of inhabitants of these spaces, wherein we document our experiences and put our personal spin on the way we perceive them. Many new games are including selfie options for your in-game character. What the selfie option does, as Polansky states, is reverse the long-standing belief that game characters are exclusively opportunities to wear someone else's skin, and instead provide a platform for players to insert more of themselves into the game. I love that games have been more readily offering these photography tools (Gran Turismo 6's photo mode simulates an actual DSLR camera) and have even made a habit of supplying my own screenshots for games that I review. Photography modes acknowledge the architectural aspects of games and allow players to interact with them as such.

Blips: Flap Flop

Source: The Squalid Grace of Flappy Bird
Author: Ian Bogost
Site: The Atlantic

Ian Bogost's treatise on mobile game zeitgeist Flappy Bird isn't the only one worth reading (I quite enjoyed Yannick LeJacq's take on the game too), but it is the one that assumes the widest angle on the game, framing it within centuries of gaming history. As Bogost states early on, Flappy Bird is a stupid game. I haven't played it, and yet I'm still comfortable stating that as fact. I've played enough eerily similar endless runners over the years to know a time-killing mechanism when I see one. The game itself is a visually different version of Copter, where you have to continually tap to prove your helicopter or bird with enough lift to avoid obstacles and navigate the gaps in between. Flappy Bird is exactly that, except it doesn't even have the progressive difficulty curve of Copter, it just is what it is.

This is one of Bogost's main points: unlike masocore games that are a hard-swing reaction against the gradual casualization of difficulty in games, Flappy Bird just "is." It's a game that exists outside the conversation, and is seemingly unwilling to join it despite its astounding popularity. Flappy Bird is a game that makes the mundane actions of game playing grotesquely apparent. Where Kinect games often literally show you how dumb you look playing them, Flappy Bird's stupidity shows through in it's very design. There's nothing to the game other than repeatedly tapping on a small glass rectangle. There's no sense of group effort, story progression, or artistic insight. Flappy Bird is a video game stripped of facade, and it's as pure as is is disgusting.

Blips: Installation Puzzle

Source: The Possibilities and the Pitfalls of the Video Game Exhibition
Author: Nicholas O'Brien
Site: Rhizome

Do video games belong in museums? This is the core question Nicholas O'Brien is asking in an op-ed for Rhizome. I don't see a definitive yes or no answer here since sometimes games can be perfect fits for museums, and other times they aren't. Having seen a few of the bigger, more mainstream museums like the Smithsonian's American Art Museum and the Museum of Modern Art in New York tackle video game displays it varies by game as to how well their approaches worked. When the curatorial approach is to treat games with the standardized format used for the majority of other artistic mediums on display in the museum (work displayed as is with a wall placard of vital stats), certain types of games will benefit, while others will seem terribly neglected.

They say a typical museum-goer averages something like 5 seconds with an individual work. Games born out of an arcade tradition are likely to thrive in a museum environment because they are literally built to attract the attention of passersby, and their gameplay is constructed around an immediate experience that takes only a short time to mechanically comprehend. Control schemes for arcade-style games are also more intuitive for those unfamiliar with a particular game or modern home controllers.

However, this same treatment, when applied to Myst or any other games with layered narratives and puzzles, does the game a tremendous disservice. Even assuming the game is programmed for easy restarting for each new player, many of these games take 30 minutes or more to truly get moving to the point where its core play experience begins. And in some ways this is why we don't see many novels or full-length feature films in general museum exhibitions; the majority of visitors are there for a "museum experience" and that's comes with a certain set of expectations. Typically this involves a desire to see many different works within a matter of hours, and choosing a select few of particular interest to engage with more deeply along the way. The thing is, people like to choose these works for themselves rather than the medium dictating how much time they need to engage with something before it can "click" with them.

I don't think every visitor has to actually play games on display to appreciate them so long as they're able to understand what's happening as a spectator. Still, special attention needs to be paid for certain types of games to make more sense in a museum context, and what this is will vary by game. Not all video art makes sense on a standard flatscreen monitor, and by that same token, though most games to function within a standardized context in a home environment, that universality does not translate to the museum setting. Perhaps this is an area where museums could take cues from gaming trade shows where a "vertical slice" of the game is offered instead of the full article. Additionally, trade shows have attendants on hand to assist players in understanding the controls and ensuring that the installation is functioning correctly (another huge hurdle for high traffic institutions). Or perhaps a totally different type of installation would be more suitable for a particular type of game. How about one that uses a "black box" space to envelop players and spectators in a game's immersive, surround sound environment? That might work for a solemn, contemplative game like Proteus, but might make a lot less sense for local multiplayer games where social interaction with fellow players takes precedent.

I still want that "museum experience" when I go to a museum, and what that means for games is that I'd like my experience with games in a museum to feel unique to the setting. I own copies of several Katamari Damacy games; I don't get anything unique when the museum installation of that game a is a stand-up replica of my setup at home. I can look at photographs of paintings, sculptures, and video stills in books and on my computer, but being in the presence of those actual objects in a museum is a special experience that can't be had anywhere else. This is more difficult with games due to their general status as widely available commercial products, but if museums aren't going to try and make the experience of games in their halls special as well, then perhaps it's best to leave that task for those who will.

Blips: When the Dog Bites, When the Bee Stings

Source: List articles contain a revealing truth about how game journalism works, and why it should change

Author: Leigh Alexander

Site: Edge

I'm as guilty as anyone of making "best of" lists (usually for music), but I think Leigh Alexander has the right idea here: we should be writing not about what's "best," but instead, what our "favorites" are. Now, there's definitely some overlap between the two, as often when I'm saying a game or album is "the best" I'm actually just saying it's my favorite while using the more objective-minded term "best" as a booster to make my preferences seem more definitive. When we're talking about personal lists, I think there's a general assumption that we're looking at a list of favorites, but when a game is touted as The Best by a website or publication, it's taken as a much more objective statement. There's not one person's opinion of the game to justify its placement, there's the opinion of the committee, and the committee has no personality (see Polygon's group review of the PS4, despite the charming page design).

This past December was the first time I voted in year-end lists as part a group of writers, and definitely I lucked out in the blurbs I was assigned. For both this music list for Unwinnable and this games list for Kill Screen, I wrote about my favorite album/game of the year (Random Access Memories and Miasmata, respectively). I wrote about them as if they were ranked #1 on the site, even if they weren't. They were my favorites and I wanted that to show through as much as possible.

Still, best-of lists are a lot like review scores: when readers get bogged down in the numeric minutiae of one game ranked against another, the ranking system begins to take attention away from the actual subject at hand. I've listened to Giant Bomb's "game of the year" deliberation podcasts the past several years because that's the component of their lists that is interesting, and that's where you get to hear the staff speak passionately about their favorite games. The list itself is a byproduct that I couldn't care less about, except for the fact that it prompts such an intriguing discussion to arrive at that point. The more access to the list-making process we can give to readers, the more they'll actually get to hear why we like certain games so much.

Blips: Public Good

Source: Copyright, trademark & money in a creative industry
Author: Steve Gaynor
Site: Pastebin

Lot's of talk about when games should enter the public domain today, sparked by an editorial by Rock Paper Shotgun's John Walker. Walker's stance is that games that are more than 20 years old (or 25, he's willing to haggle) should become public domain and essentially free to access. While I wasn't swayed to Walker's side by his arguments, I understand (I think) where he's coming from. No one should be allowed indefinite ownership over an idea. Where he loses me is we're not talking about putting ideas in the public domain, as he posits, we're talking about games. Games are as much discrete objects as the tables used in Walker's arguments, they just happen to be digital in nature.

It seems as if this discrepancy also struck a chord with The Fullbright Company's Steve Gaynor, who shared his response to the editorial on Pastebin. Gaynor picks apart Walker's metaphors about plumbing and electrical work, showing how those labor practices have almost nothing in common with the exchange of money for goods that occurs in the acquisition of a copy of a game. In fact, the outlandishness of Walker's made-up scenario where an electrician earns royalties every time you flip a repaired light switch, has more in common with actual F2P pricing schemes than it does with the idea of a one-time purchase of a 20 year old game.

One of Gaynor's strongest points is in recognizing how money earned through game sales is distributed within companies, and how it's not necessarily just going into someone's pocket, but often towards new projects through reinvestment. For a company or individual to have a strong back catalog can be a tremendous asset because it has the potential to mitigate risk for more unproven ventures. Walker claims that just because a game enters the public domain, doesn't mean the then-lapsed rights holders can't continue to make money off of it, but why should someone else? And for that matter, if a game is freely available in the public domain, why would anyone pay money for it to begin with?

I'm not talking about remixes and derivative works here, in which I'm in full support of, and video games as a natively digital format seem particularly well-suited to thrive. Gaynor's example of Alice in Wonderland is on point though. The ideas of Alice in Wonderland are indeed free to use, but Disney's film adaptation from a couple years ago is theirs and theirs alone. If not, then someone other than Nintendo would surely be selling Super Mario Bros for iPhones by now. Still, that hasn't prevented every game with user-generated levels from having World 1-1 in it.

I'd love to see Walker write a direct response to Gaynor's points because the questions he set up for himself to answer were just weak, belligerent strawmen, and even still, I wasn't convinced. Some clarity from the pro-public domain side on issues of copyright and trademarks in reference to games instead of ideas would also be helpful in understanding the full extent of this issue. I'm just looking to be informed here. Until then, I suppose I'll just keep having to spend money for old games, though price depreciation and deep-cut sales render most of them near-free as is.