EXP Podcast #71: Hostile Forces

For a medium designed to entertain and even calm, videogames can be surprisingly frustrating. Intense hostility can be elicited by games, be they single-player or multiplayer. This can result in high blood pressure, loud swearing, or even the destruction of property. Chris Lepine of The Artful Gamer inspires the podcast this week with his post on angry gamers and a shattered six-axis. Join us this week while we discuss breaking controllers, 8 bit anger, the calming affects of transparency, diverting hostility, and adversarial gaming. We encourage you to read Chris's original article in the show notes and leave your thoughts in the comments section below.

Discussion Starters:

- What games have really pissed you off? Have you destroyed anything because of a game?
- Why does it seem modern games evoke less animosity than their predecessors?
- How do we account for potential hostilities when designing single-player and multiplayer experiences.

To listen to the podcast:

- Subscribe to the EXP Podcast via iTunes here. Additionally, here is the stand-alone feed.
- Listen to the podcast in your browser by left-clicking the title. Or, right-click and select "save as link" to download the show in MP3 format.
- Subscribe to this podcast and EXP's written content with the RSS link on the right.

Show notes:

- Run time: 36 min 26 sec
- "The Angry Gamer," by Chris Lepine via The Artful Gamer
- Music provided by Brad Sucks

Heavy Rain's Death Dilemma

Warning: This post contains spoilers for Heavy Rain.

Prior to the release of Heavy Rain, I was quite excited about the prospect of character death. I liked the idea that death in games could be re-imagined as more than a minor inconvenience, a temporary punishment. I have written about death in games on several occasions and return again now with Quantic Dream's creation. Heavy Rain is interesting not because it is an outlier, there are a few games that kill off lead characters, but because it displays quite clearly some of the serious barriers to the narrative success of in-game mortality.

Permanent player-character death in games is incredibly rare. Most of the time when it occurs, it takes place at the end of the game, capping off the entire experience. One occasion where a protagonist's death occurs mid-game, the nuclear explosion scene in Call of Duty: Modern Warfare, still acts as the complete narrative conclusion to that aspect of the story. Sgt. Jackson is fated to die, he becomes a narrative tool to heighten the game's serious tone.

Heavy Rain is exciting because the character's life is in my hands. Whether or not one of the lead character's dies, the story continues. Like Fable 2, which incorporated "death" within the narrative and mechanics of the game, Heavy Rain promised to do the same. In many ways, Quantic Dream successfully created mortal characters whose deaths would not interrupt the story significantly. Yet for many players, the death of lead characters is unsatisfying.
There are four playable cast members in Heavy Rain, of which two can die as a direct result of player failure. Ethan and Shelby can only die at the end of the game, and Ethan's deaths are only indirectly the result of player mistakes. Jayden and Madison can die several ways, most directly connected to the player's decisions or indecision. Their deaths are the least satisfying specifically because of this player involvement.

Compelling personal death is hard to pull off because of the unique perception we as players have towards our avatars. As I discussed once before in The Tragedy of Videogame Heroism, "countless videogame heroes and heroines suffer the fate of the playable character. Story elements that players do not actually interact with are largely abandoned. The role of the videogame hero is to enact their agency upon the environment, not immerse themselves within it." When our protagonist dies, this connection to the game world is severed.

This Ernest Adams quote appeared in my previous post on player-character death and is once again appropriate:

"The main character is an extension of ourselves, a sort of prosthetic limb reaching into the game world. If he 'dies' before the end of the game, it's irritating, frustrating perhaps, but we know in our hearts that this was not the way things were Supposed to Be."
As avatars in the game world, player failure is punished, frequently by a game-over screen. Fable 2 removes this screen and punishes the player by giving their character a scar. Players still learn from their failures. There is no doubt Madison, in Heavy Rain's case, dies because the player makes a mistake - the red flashing button icon is a testament to that. However, we are to believe an equally valid story continues. What lessons, then, are we supposed to learn?

Mechanically speaking, there is no value in death in Heavy Rain. We do not reapply new knowledge to the same experience, we never try the encounter again. Only the basic lesson of "be more careful" can be brought over to the game's future trials. The narrative value is potentially weakened by the strange relationship we have with our protagonists. More often than not, PC death is noble. Death becomes the ultimate sacrifice to achieve success. The player is rewarded for the adventure.
Heavy Rain offers only tragic death. Madison is burned up in an apartment, murdered by a psychopath, or falls from a window to her death. Jayden is stabbed to death, or falls into an industrial slicer. None of these deaths are willing sacrifices to achieve a greater good. They are sudden consequences to circumstances not under the character's control.

Players are also, not given a chance to mourn their passing. Without an adjustment period, the severing of player agency from avatar can be jarring, enhancing the feeling the experience was unfair or useless. Heavy Rain does not include funeral scenes to dead characters, offering only somber moments at the graveyard to remember those who died. In the scene below, a reporter shrugs off Madison's death like any other. Perhaps her death would have been more powerful if the mourning process has been interactive, putting player agency into the mourning process.
Of course, one can argue most people do not like sad or depressing endings, which could explain why someone might dislike the "bad ending" of Heavy Rain. In which case, a happier ending cut scene may calm animosity towards player death. While possible, more interesting to me is the hostility we feel when our PC dies. Even if our anger is quickly followed by a melancholy acceptance of the story, the death of a protagonist is still a uniquely unsettling experience.

Successfully conveying the simple and meaningless death of a player-character in a game is tremendously difficult to accomplish. Our protagonists are separated from the world, imbued with our agency, enacting our wishes upon their environment. The undignified death of an avatar is incompatible with their specialized role within a game's universe. For some, Heavy Rain tells such a tale. Of course, one can argue most people do not like sad or depressing endings, which could explain why someone might dislike the "bad ending" of Heavy Rain. This is a barrier we must overcome. There are still powerful stories to be told of real world death, including those ignoble, sudden, and emotionally painful aspects of death.

Propping Myself Up

I have a role-playing problem. It's not the kind of problem that creates photos that earn me weird looks at work; it's actually the exact opposite. In a world that seems to be moving towards increasingly character-driven games, I rarely feel compelled to role-play.

This probably became apparent to folks who read my article criticizing Uncharted 2 for haphazardly modifying its rules in service to its plot. The Drake I played as clashed with the character the story wanted him to be. As many folks pointed out in comments, sometimes freedom and improvisation must be curtailed if the game's goal is to create a single narrative experience. It is not an actor's place to challenge every word in a script, so perhaps I should make more of an effort to work within a prescribed in-game role?

Over the past few months, I played a series of games in which I found myself role-playing more than usual. These games have almost no thematic or gameplay similarities, and my personal connection to them was not inspired by any particularly deep characters or interesting plots. However, they all shared a much more tangible aspect that helped me think of myself as an actor, rather than a director: props.

While there have always been alternatives to the game controller and mouse/keyboard setup, the past five years have seen a proliferation of plastic gadgets baubles clutter up homes. While many of these peripherals are written of as gimmicks, I have found that they help me connect with certain games in a way that makes me feel like I am performing a role rather than exploring a system.

I named Wii Fit Plus as one of my favorite games of 2009 and I stand by that choice because it was one of the few games that succeeded in shutting down my analytical mind. It's hard to carefully dissect a system when I am desperately flapping my arms in order to fly my chicken-avatar over a blimp. While the game is basically a Pilotwings clone, its use of props facilitates my suspension of disbelief and my willingness to take part in its absurdity. Intellectually, I know that flapping my arms does nothing except create the illusion of flight. The real input comes from the way my arms force my feet to rock back and forth on the Balance Board. Theoretically, I could just simply manipulate my heels and probably get a better score than when I do my best chicken impression, and the game would certainly control more precisely with an analog stick. However, maximizing the system is not the point: the chicken game, and the Wii in general, is a social role-playing experience.I have written before that Beatles: Rock Band is as much a "Beatles simulator" as it is a rhythm game. Playing the game allows me to temporarily assume the role of cultural legends. With a little help from prop instruments, I am able transcend what is essentially a game of "Simon Says" and briefly conceive of myself as a rock star playing in front sold out audiences. While it might be cheesy, the plastic guitar forces the players to physically approximate the actions they see on the screen. Even the most relaxed session of Rock Band necessitates a prop that gives the player a more clearly defined role than a controller could ever give them. Players have no choice: they must role-play as The Beatles at a basic level.



Silent Hill: Shattered Memories did offer some choice as to whether to use props to facilitate a performance. The in-game mobile phone is used as an interface to receive audio messages, puzzle hints, and plot details, and much of its sound and functionality is controlled via the Wii Remote. By default phone calls and voice mail is played somewhat quietly through the controller's built-in speaker. Although I had the option of increasing the speaker's volume or transferring it to my larger TV speakers, I chose to keep it in the controller. Soon, I found myself holding the controller up to my ear like a real phone, aping the movements of Harry Mason, the game's protagonist. When I was not using the Wii Remote as a phone, it became my flashlight and my only steadfast companion in that haunted town. The prop's physicality helped me empathize with Harry's situation: like him, I only had a few tools with which to fight through the nightmare.


If the success of games like Uncharted 2 is indication, the trend towards cinematic, character-driven, single-experience games will continue. The capacity for a player to accept structural inconsistency and gameplay limitations will stem largely from their ability to see themselves as performing a strictly defined role as opposed to fashioning a completely unique experience. Flagging Wii and rhythm game sales make the future of prop-driven games less certain, but the impending release of Microsoft's Project Natal and Sony's PlayStation Move suggest that they will be around for some time.

Plot and character-driven games are the perfect venues for unique peripherals. Without a physical tool to facilitate role-playing, cinematic games easily become dull versions of good movies. Without a meaningful context in which to use them, peripheral-based games become the ludic equivalent to a Carrot Top routine. Together, the two styles create a role worth playing.

EXP Podcast #70: Silent Hill Sound Off!

It's easy for games to get lost in the crowded winter season, when huge games like Mass Effect and Call of Duty dominate dominate both sales charts and critical conversation. This week, we have an in-depth discussion about a game that has been quietly lurking in the shadows: Silent Hill: Shattered Memories. The most title recent in a long-running series, Shattered Memories re-imagines the first Silent Hill to provide both a unique gameplay and storytelling experience. In addition to upholding the sense of dread and horror from the previous games (seriously, try playing this with the lights off!), Shattered Memories has some narrative twists that set it apart from most other games.

Jorge and I made sure to keep the first half of our talk spoiler-free before getting down to specific plot points. Despite (or perhaps because of) its rough edges, we both highly recommend the game. Just don't blame us when you're huddled beneath the covers at night, afraid to turn the lights off. Finally, the in-game psychologist told us its healthy to share your feelings with others, so feel free to jump in with your comments.

Some discussion starters:

- For those of you who played the game, what did you think? Had you played other Silent Hill games before? How did your puzzles and stories differ from ours?

- The game claims "to play you" just as much as you play it. For those of you who played it, was this accurate? What other games "play" their players, and how do they do so?

- Is there room on the market for "double-A" games like Shattered Memories? Is this a meaningful distinction? How should we evaluate games with experimental concepts but less polish than blockbuster titles?

To listen to the podcast:

- Subscribe to the EXP Podcast via iTunes here. Additionally, here is the stand-alone feed.
- Listen to the podcast in your browser by left-clicking the title. Or, right-click and select "save as link" to download the show in MP3 format.
- Subscribe to this podcast and EXP's written content with the RSS link on the right.

Show notes:

- Run time: 44 min 23 sec
- Music provided by Brad Sucks

The Sensationalist: Controlling Emotions in Heavy Rain

This post is part of "The Sensationalist," a continuing series here at Experience Points in which we examine games' abilities to evoke emotions and sensations in video game players. Please have a look at the series' introduction as well its previous entries. As always, we welcome your thoughts on all the matters we discuss, and look forward to analyzing one of gaming's most powerful, yet intangible, abilities.

Warning: Very minor spoilers ahead!

In a recent GDC interview with G4, Quantic Dream's David Cage revealed that describing the experience of Heavy Rain to people over the last two years has been his personal nightmare. Each button on the PS3 controller corresponds to different actions at different times, so it is difficult to assess what is "done" with any consistency. Yet the game does explicitly seek to evoke a wide range of emotions from players with these controls. What players "do" or "should do" is have an emotional connection to the story through interactivity. My goal with this post is to explore this attempt at evocative player inputs.

I should start with a few caveats. There has been some debate about how suitable it is to call Heavy Rain a "game" at all. David Cage himself calls it an "interactive drama." The distinction, as I see it, is utterly pointless. If you thirst for more debate, I cede the floor to Chris Lepine of The Artful Gamer who recently posted an excellent piece on the subject. I am also steering clear of plot criticisms, including the affect player death has on the experience. That being said, story elements will arise whose effectiveness you question. In which case, consider my arguments on controls indicative of what QD would have achieved with better storytelling.

In response to those who criticize Heavy Rain as a glorified collection of quick-time events, I side with Mitch Krpata of Insult Swordfighting on this when he says "This is factually true, and experientially insignificant." Like all game interfaces, the input options are abstract symbols for what appears on screen. I take as my assumption the legitimacy of Heavy Rain's input design choices and go from there.
To begin with, there are a few important differences between the types of player interactions. A vast sum of the game is spent maneuvering characters about their day to day lives, participating leisurely in the mundane. Actions are contextual. Opening a door might require moving the thumb stick right. Alternatively, swiveling the thumb stick might turn a car's key in the ignition for example. Gentler tasks require slower actions, and sustained effort might require tapping on a button repeatedly. More difficult tasks, such as climbing a muddy hill, might require the player to hold down buttons in a particular order. Lastly, during particularly fast-paced scenes, quick button presses play out quick-time events.

There have been some criticisms levied at Heavy Rain for its interactive tedium, particularly the game's slow start. It does seem a bit ludicrous to brush someone's teeth with the thumb stick. Some of these early scenes, however, can be quite emotionally affecting. During the game's early moments, Ethan has a mock sword fight with one of his children. The battle prompts the player to parry and strike to win. You might, however, resist all your gaming knowledge and intentionally lose, ignoring the on screen instructions, to be a better father. As such, Heavy Rain conveys "failure" as a legitimate narrative outcome. More importantly for this scene, player input defines the emotional weight of the on-screen father-son relationship.

Additionally, the game's basic interactions are designed to contrast with the game's high tension moments. Theoretically, partaking in Ethan's daily routine of caring for his son emphasizes his normality. Fixing your son something to eat before bed time is a far cry from the heroics of champions traditionally found in videogames. Therefor, we should empathize with him more easily. To some extent, this interactive banality also maps the human body across situations. We are reminded that the same limbs, or controller inputs in this case, we use to kick a ball might, in the right situation, save a life. The realism this conveys stresses the emotional level non-normative scenarios evoke.
When tied to narrative outcomes, implementing the now normalized controller movements correctly suddenly becomes very important. In one dramatic scene, Ethan is giving CPR to his son Shaun. There were numerous moments when I, and Ethan by extension, had messed up basic everyday things, like carrying groceries. So, when a life depended on success, the possibility of failure was almost palpable. My only thought was "not now. Don't mess up now." The sense of tension and worry was far more powerful because my input mirrored routine interactions practiced earlier in the game.

This same relationship plays out on many occasions. When FBI agent Jaden is reeling under the effects of Triptocaine (or ARI?) withdrawal, button options vibrate violently and blur. Players are met with the same disorientation Jaden is feeling, making success that much more difficult. Complex actions require complex button sequences as well, mimicking the concentration and contortion required to pull something off. At one point, I was holding down the left trigger with my lip.

Similarly, when Madison is being assaulted with a bat, the appropriate button to dodge is actually attached to the object. Interpreting and acting upon this button display requires quick thinking. By contextualizing interface placement and adjusting its appearance based on character emotions, Heavy Rain creates stronger sensations of anxiety and tension. Our interactions with the game become colored by the emotions of the players, the actions on screen, and our own building distress.
Some have criticized the game for this behavior, suggesting this design choice breaks immersion, requiring the player to think only of the controller. I do concede there is some preparatory controller memorization during some scenes. However, I equate such behavior to a goalkeeper mentally concentrating on their body, muscles, and inevitable movement seconds before a penalty kick. It is unfortunate, in this case, we concentrate so heavily on a controller, but the reason is the same. We mentally prepare ourselves to act correctly and efficiently during moments of high anxiety, which Heavy Rain successfully creates.

There is one scene that is particularly evocative, which also collects input options successfully. One of Ethan's trials to save his son involves chopping off his own finger. Ethan may collect various items to prepare himself for the amputation. If they so choose, players follow Ethan, moving the six-axis controller to pull a knife out of the wall, rotating the thumb stick to heat up an improvised cauterizing iron, or slowly moving the stick up and down to regulate breathing and slow Ethan's heart rate.

If players do this, they partake in a ritual of sorts. While it calms Ethan, it actually builds up tension for the player, asking them to imagine themselves in the same scenario. Each mundane task carries greater weight because each step brings players closer to the horrendous act. The scene creates a sense of determination, resolve, and disgust.
Even if the only interaction the player indulges in is sawing through finger bone, the controller movement approximates and emphasizes the actual act. Players are encouraged to ponder the dilemma, stew within the emotions it creates, and face the grotesque challenge. Despite its digital nature, the sequence of events is incredibly cringe worthy. This scene epitomizes Heavy Rain's attempt at developing emotions with their game mechanics.

For many people, Heavy Rain fails to evoke anything but frustration and disappointment. The way players interact with the game is partially to blame. It is not always clear why certain actions are mapped to certain inputs, or why that mapping changes during a scene. Undoubtedly, the interactive tedium also confounds the emotions players are supposed to feel during high tension situations. While the game is not perfect, it does tread an innovative path with its controls. David Cage intended to make an emotionally dramatic interactive experience. Regardless of its success, the attempt is an intriguing and commendable addition to emotional and sensational gaming.

The Sensationalist: A Melodramatic Fantasy

This post is part of "The Sensationalist," a continuing series here at Experience Points in which we examine games' abilities to evoke emotions and sensations in video game players. Please have a look at the series' introduction as well its previous entries. As always, we welcome your thoughts on all the matters we discuss, and look forward to analyzing one of gaming's most powerful, yet intangible, abilities.

I listened to both the Giant Bomb and Gamers With Jobs podcasts week and both shows had some of their hosts describing their experience with Final Fantasy XIII. Inevitably, the question of "Should I play it?" came from the cast members who were still apprehensive. The answer was basically another series of questions: "Do you really like the Final Fantasy series? Do you have time to invest at least ten hours before the whole battle system is unlocked? How do you feel about the characters?"

This seems like a long way from the kind of reverence the series got in the late 1990s. In 1997 (and perhaps even today) the answer to the question "Should I play Final Fantasy VII?" was commonly "Do you own a PlayStation? If not, get one and then play it."

I think that melodrama is one of the major reasons why so many folks, including myself, have such strong emotional ties to the game. As Michael has written, melodrama at its most basic level is using music to heighten the impact of a story. Final Fantasy VII, devoid of the benefits and pitfalls of voice acting, uses its music to convey its story on an emotional level. The overworld map music is a prime example of how Final Fantasy VII uses music to communicate its themes while also retaining its importance to a huge number of players.

Before I go any further, I will offer a disclaimer: I am no music critic. Possessing only the scantest bits of formal musical knowledge, I aim only to fumble through and describe the sentiments and feelings of the music. For more refined and (let's face it) qualified analysis, I heartily recommend visiting Dan Bruno or Ben Abraham.

Distilled to its most basic structure, Final Fantasy VII's convoluted plot is one that stresses mutuality. It is a story in which the entire planet is threatened with destruction and the solution to this threat is the interconnectedness of life itself. Regardless of allegiance, belief, or geographical location, each character in the story is invested in stopping Sephiroth. In a story that would probably please Al Gore, all the planet's inhabitants, and even The Planet itself, unite to face a challenge to their collective existence.

The game's overworld music constantly reminds the player of their mission and reinforces the theme of unity:

Unlike many other Final Fantasy overworld tunes, the song has a slow buildup. While the overarching melody is introduced in the first ten seconds, the subsequent measures mirror the ambivalent, apprehensive state in which the player finds themselves upon hearing the song for the first time. The initial hours of Final Fantasy VII take place in Midgar, a huge industrial metropolis whose grand scale and internal politics make it feel like a world unto itself. After a dramatic escape, the concept that Midgar is but a small part of the world is daunting. Even more frightening is that the evil encountered within the city gates is not contained within them, and in fact has already spread across the world.

At the one minute mark, the melody is formally introduced in a relatively straightforward, as if to ensure that that we remember its basic form. Cloud, as well as the player, has a basic idea of what must be done, but the scope of the mission and the size of the world is still shocking for someone who spent spent so much time in the city looking at the small picture.

At about 1:55, the song goes on a bit of a tangent: while it retains the hints of the melody in the background, sharp keyboard strokes allude to one of gaming's most beloved characters: Aeris.

Aeris represents the countless individual sacrifices made throughout the struggle, and those haunting keystrokes speak to the frailty of one individual against an overwhelming force. After her sacrifice, Aeirs lives on through her friends as well and the many anonymous people that join in the communal struggle against Sephiroth.

At 2:40, the world map music provides a grand reintroduction to the original melody. This time, the full orchestra is brought in to reveal the narrative's broad scope and the myriad of people all fighting towards a single end. Over the course of the game, Cloud and company traverse the entire world exploring everything from Gothic mansions to beach resorts. Every corner of the map contains people whose lives were touched by the growing threat. Whether soaring over mountains with a would-be astronaut or visiting the salt of earth at an old mining camp, Final Fantasy VII's world is full of unique people with a common goal. Their diversity of experiences and the grandeur of their mission is mirrored in the music's crescendo, and their shared existence is echoed in its familiar melody.

However, victory is not assured The song retreats from its bombastic statement at 3:50 to remind us of the planet's tenuous state. At 4:10, a slow, ominous rhythm kicks in to warn us of the creeping, mysterious evil working its way across the globe. Sephiroth might not always be present, but the sense of doom he spreads is a constant undercurrent that provokes a sense of urgency, even in times of relative peace. The threat will not yield or rest, and so neither must Cloud.

At 5:15, the melodic forces of hope, grandeur, and destruction collide. The outcome is neither triumphant nor tragic; it is more inquisitive than anything. Strains of the original melody trail off, as if they are possibilities rather than eventualities. Success for Cloud and the player hinges on their ability to marshal all of the world's energy to complete the task at hand. Despite its magnificent variety, the world and its inhabitants are ultimately a vast network with a single future. Success is uncertain, and it relies on facing the danger together.

Final Fantasy VII is a story about how, even in a complex world, people are fundamentally connected to one another. This is a powerful lesson, and often comes as a profound revelation as people transition into adulthood. The game remains important not only because of its technical and gameplay accomplishments, but because it told a story that coincided with the coming of age of a generation players who now find themselves in a world that is both profoundly troubled and increasingly interconnected.

Final Fantasy VII's story is melodramatic in the best way. Time is often cruel towards games; graphics, game mechanics, and storytelling devices are easily worn down over the years. By crafting a musical version of its story, Final Fantasy VII uses melodrama to insulate it from the ravages of time. Just as John Williams' score helps Star Wars retain its impact, Nobuo Uematsu has given us music that that both burnishes and perpetuates Final Fantasy VII's popularity. The music encompasses the game's themes and provides players with an anthem that simultaneously appeals to their individual and shared experiences.

EXP Podcast #69: The Finish Line

This past weekend concluded the 2010 San Francisco Game Developers Conference, which brought together developers from around the world to discuss all aspects of the games industry. Numerous talks were held covering a wide range of subject. One particularly interesting talk, embedded above, was by Chris Hecker, who called on designers to "finish" their games. Fittingly, we called on game developer Krystian Majewski, creator of the IGF Award nominated Trauma, to offer his professional wisdom. Join us this week while we discuss missing deadlines, game depth, charismatic marketers, and the importance of wacky ideas. As always, we encourage you to leave your comments below.

Discussion Starters:

- How percentage of games would you actually call "finished" according to Hecker's definition?
- Should indie developers have different responsibilities than AAA devs?
- Is there a place for weird and unfinished games in a health games industry?

To listen to the podcast:

- Subscribe to the EXP Podcast via iTunes here. Additionally, here is the stand-alone feed.
- Listen to the podcast in your browser by left-clicking the title. Or, right-click and select "save as link" to download the show in MP3 format.
- Subscribe to this podcast and EXP's written content with the RSS link on the right.

Show notes:

- Run time: 38 min 05 sec
- "Please Finish Your Game," by Chris Hecker, via ChrisHecker.com
- See Game Design Reviews for more information about Trauma and Krystian Majewski
- Music provided by Brad Sucks