Easing Up

At this year's Game Developer's Conference, Sid Meier gave a keynote titled "Psychology of Game Design: Everything you Know is Wrong." While I disagree with the vast majority of what Sid had to say, one of his statements did pique my interest. "I once gave a talk on how games should be split into four different difficulty levels." Meier said. "I was wrong. Now, Civilization V has nine difficulty levels."

Nine might sound a little preposterous. What could possibly be different to justify nine separate ranks of difficulty? Most often, changes in difficultly affect a few specific and easily predicted game elements. This is unsatisfactory. Meier might be on to something. While there is no game mode magic number, tiers of difficulty should still be far more varied and much more transparent than they are.

Different modes of difficulty exist, understandably, to account for the numerous levels of player experience. An easy task for a gamer veteran could be extremely arduous for someone new to the medium. Accordingly, we adjust how forgiving the game is for these inexperienced players.

When we talk about difficulty, we are really talking about one aspect of pacing. Players should progress at just the right speed. Depending on the feelings designers are trying to evoke, players should feel challenged but also empowered to overcome these challenges fairly. They should also be learning, and applying their knowledge to the obstacles ahead. Good narratives, be they story or mechanically based, should feel rhythmic and natural.
Difficulty is subservient to pacing. Take a look at Super Meat Boy or its Meat Boy predecessor. These games are brutally difficult. Surpassing a level is a personal feat of epic proportions. Regardless, the pacing is superb. When Meat Boy dies, he starts at the beginning of the level. But all the levels are incredibly short, never longer than thirty seconds. He also respawns incredibly quickly, letting the player kill off her Meat Boy hundreds of times in just minutes.

For the Meat Boy games, one difficulty is fine. But for longer titles, particularly story driven affairs, more is better. As it stands, there are usually three to four ranks - easy, medium, and hard, and occasionally hardest. Medium is the norm, what players familiar with games usually select. Hard is an extra challenge for the most experienced player. Hardest is mostly for those so enamored with the game, they will play through it twice. Which means of the four levels of difficulty, only one is meant for anyone with a skill level below the gamer average. That does not seem exactly fair, does it?

Rock Band offers an interesting ideal, despite having only four levels of difficulty. Easy and medium use three fret buttons - green, red and yellow. When compared to the same song, the latter is significantly harder, with a higher note count and increased complexity. Moving to hard is an even greater leap with the addition of the blue fret button. Again, moving to Extreme does it again with an extra orange button.
Rock Band is a useful example because, although the basic idea is the same, the play experience is so drastically different between difficulties. It is absolutely reasonable for someone who has never played a videogame in their life to play Rock Band on easy. At the same time, higher levels on extreme are nearly impossible for even the most experienced player. Also, progression through the campaign on each difficulty is well paced enough to encourage players to move between ranks.

What would such variance look like in a traditional game? It would have to fundamentally change how the game is played. So in New Super Mario Bros. Wii for example, the easiest mode might remove player collisions, allowing players to stack up on each other. Or, perhaps a first-person shooter of your choosing would give the newest players infinite ammo, or provide more cover objects during difficult scenes. As it stands, most FPS games just make enemies easier to kill and slightly increase player health.
But that would change gameplay completely you might say. So what? Understandably, vast changes require careful implementation and playtesting. That aside, what should we be so concerned about? Both console versions of Dragon Age: Origins and Red Faction Guerrilla create distinctive play experiences on easy, and are better for it. Their stories are better paced, opening the adventure to more players.

If the pacing ever becomes too fast, a player can easily upgrade to a higher difficulty. It should also be feasible for any game to naturally usher a new player into its harder levels. This upgrade should be completely transparent. Players should know exactly what "slightly harder" actually means. "Only for the most hardcore l33t players" is just not descriptive enough. I commend Heavy Rain for so explicitly tying the game's difficulty to familiarity with the PS3 controller..

For the most part, game difficulty rankings are not representative of many potential players. They are primarily designed for those already playing the game, offering minor adjustments to keep frustrated players appeased. They actually offer an opportunity to teach and provide a variety of play styles, becoming more inclusive of the non-gamer community in the process. Seizing that opportunity is worthwhile, no matter the difficulty.

Walk, Don't Run

In last week's article, I argued that, when comparing video games to staged theater, game players should assume the role of both the director and actor of the performance. Whereas theater generally distributes interpretive and performative duties across a number of people, game players are responsible for both a performance's original vision and its subsequent reinterpretations.

Those who stage a play do so within the boundaries of an overarching structure laid out out by the playwright. The script, with it's dialogue and stage directions, forms the theoretical limits of the piece. For games, we can substitute the playwright for the developer, and the script for the game's rules. Just as certain scripts specify distinct dialogue queues, character movement, and set design, some games have more prescriptive limits than others. However, when different in-game rules function as contradictory stage directions, it serves to undermine the trust of even the most enthusiastic players.

Like many scripts, video games often front-load their stage direction at the beginning of scenes. Players, assuming the role of the director/actor, experiment with the constraints of the scenario. For example, in Uncharged 2, we could consider the stage directions to be the rules governing how Drake moves, how the environment works, and the way NPCs factor into the gameplay dynamics. The player is given the beginning and the end of the scene and is then left to enact a performance: completing a level.

Unfortunately, certain scenes in Uncharted 2 employ extra, contradictory stage direction that overrides the game's overarching rules. Take the Tibetan village scene that Jorge discussed: I was one of the people frustrated by the mandatory walking imposed in that scenario. Not being able to run was not annoying in and of itself, but the fact that the scene contradicted the game's meta-rules created a dissonant effect.

The established rules (stage directions) based on all the previous situations were that, in a three dimensional environment in which Drake is on foot, the player (in the role of the actor/director) can choose the speed at which Drake moves. This scene breaks that agreement without any explanation.

Rule contradictions pop up in other parts of the game as well. During the scene in which Drake must align mirrors to reflect sunlight around a room, there is a point in which he is hanging off the side of a ledge. Instead of being able to shimmy back and forth, climb up, or jump off, all control is removed save for the aiming and shooting controls. This was likely done to funnel the player into the puzzle's solution, but the act of such a dramatic rule change was jarring and confusing.

Similarly, the game sets out the basic rule that guns have a limited amount of consumable ammo. However, when the player performs the Yeti scene, this stage direction is forgotten and Drake somehow possess a magical pistol with infinite ammo. Again, this rule change was more confusing than anything: I initially started scrounging for bullets after I emptied my first clip because I had already internalized the rule that guns need ammo. It was not until I desperately tried to re-load an empty gun that I realized that, in this specific scene, the established stage direction for guns should be disregarded.

The theatrical equivalent would be like performing Glengarry Glen Ross and abruptly coming to a stage direction that said "The two characters never pause, stutter, or interrupt each other" even thought the script still contained Mamet's unique writing quirks. This stage direction would undermine previous directions and established characters, just as sudden rule changes undermine scenes in Uncharted 2.



Of course, "consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds," and there are times in which it makes sense to contradict established rules. It is much easier to accept modifications to overarching rules if they are diegetically justified. Uncharted 2 shows us how this can be done during the scene where Drake helps carry a wounded man to safety. The player is placed in a three-dimensional environment, on foot, surrounded by hostile NPCs, which suggests that they should be able to run, jump and shoot as normal. However, the scene-specific stage direction of having to carry someone logically prevents the player from directing/acting as they normally would.

Diegetic band-aids could have easily been applied to the aforementioned village, temple, and Yeti examples. An injury could have justified Drake's inhibited movement (although this would not explain why he could still leap off of ledges). The paralyzing ledge in the temple could have been transformed into a normal ledge that triggered an audio or visual hint from Drake to point the player in the right direction. During the yeti battle, there could have been a crate of ammo lying around, functioning as a de facto source of infinite ammo. Its appearance as a crate would suggest scarcity (even if such scarcity was an illusion), and forcing the player to make periodic mad dashes for ammo would have added another a layer of gameplay sophistication to the scene.

Just as a playwright uses stage directions to define the parameters of their work, a game developer uses rules to define the boundaries in which players must fashion their experiences. The guidelines found in a single game simultaneously immerse some players while chafing others, and the developer can do relatively little about personal taste. Despite this, it is possible to at least provide a solid foundation on which the player constructs their performance, should they choose to play the game.

By forcing the player to walk after telling them they can run, games flirt with abandoning that which separates them from other media: player freedom. Unless the point of the experience is to present some Takahashi-esque "non-game," we should be wary of mixed messages within our stage directions.

EXP Podcast #68: Naked Ambition

As games evolve, more mainstream titles are incorporating elements of nudity. This raises the question of nudity's importance. In one sense, its value is derived from what it represents in terms of the story or the characters. Nudity is also useful for examining wider societal issues and cultural norms. But what if we had to assign nudity an actual economic worth? Does $3 sound about right?

This week, we discuss G. Christopher Williams' article about nudity in The Saboteur. The game represents an intersection of monetized, optional, and artistic nudity, and is an interesting case study for how mainstream games deal with exposed flesh. We share our thoughts on the game's approach to bare bodies and then trade ideas about what the future holds for digital nudity. Feel free to share your thoughts in the comments (clothing optional).

Some discussion starters:

- What are the implication of having monetized nudity?

- Do you think there is a difference between cutscene and interactive examples of nudity from a moral/ethical point of view?

- Can you think of any games in which nudity was essential to the complete experience? Are there games in which nudity ultimately weakened the overall experience?

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: 30 min 09 sec
- "The Value of Nudity: Considering the Saboteur," by G. Christopher Williams, via PopMatters
- "In the Nude for Games," by Jorge
- Music provided by Brad Sucks

The Gamer's Dilemma

As if just for me, James Madigan of The Psychology of Video Games, and frequent contributor to GameSetWatch, has written The Glitcher's Dilemma, an astute analysis of the social dilemma, or "prisoner's dilemma" as it relates to videogames. The prisoner's dilemma is a popular scenario in political science and numerous other disciplines that I find incredibly interesting. By expanding James' approach and problematizing the prisoner's dilemma from a political science perspective, I think we can glean some design lessons that may help to minimize poor in-game behavior in the future.

I recommend readers take a look at the original article as it offers some interesting analysis I will try not to repeat here. For the benefit of those unfamiliar with this scenario, however, I will follow James' lead with this description of the prisoner's dilemma from psychologist Robyn Dawes:

"Two men rob a bank. They are apprehended, but in order to obtain a conviction the district attorney needs confessions. He succeeds by proposing to each robber separately that if he confesses and his accomplice does not, he will go free and his accomplice will be sent to jail for ten years; if both confess, both will be sent to jail for five years, and if neither confesses, both will be sent to jail for one year on charges of carrying a concealed weapon. Further, the district attorney informs each man that he is proposing the same deal to his accomplice."

The scenario mapped above is relatively simple. If the goal of each criminal is to minimize the length of time spent in prison, the most logical decision is to confess. The confessing prisoner will either free himself entirely or mitigate the potential result of even more time spent in jail while his partner goes free. In this scenario, two rational actors reach sub-optimal outcomes.As James mentions (see his image above), this situation mirrors numerous videogame dilemmas, from javelin glitching in Modern Warfare 2 to Zerg rushing in Starcraft 2. Every time a potentially fun environment is ruined by gamers exploiting glitches or loop holes the dilemma is played out on a small scale.

For many political scientists and peace theorists, the prisoner's dilemma is incredibly problematic as a predictive tool. To many, exploring its efficacy and overcoming its parameters is of great importance. After all, this simple scenario has been used by some to justify nuclear arms buildup and preemptive warfare. Despite the frequency of cooperation, and the irrationality of human beings, many people point to the prisoner's dilemma to explain why people do not get along.

Cooperation does occur, and is more frequent, as Jame's rightly points out, when players participate in an unknown or infinite number of games. Over time, despite the tit-for-tat scenarios discussed in the original piece, cooperation tends to normalize between actors. Theoretically, this scenario is met while playing any online game. There is no way to tell if you'll meet the same group of players during online matches, or to know how many matches you will play with those same individuals in the future. Yet the dilemma still occurs with startling frequency. Why?
The answer might lie in another critique of the prisoner's dilemma. The scenario as described by Dawes is predicated on neither prisoner being able to communicate with the other. At least on the international stage, this is unrealistic. The significance of communication is simple. Most actors, be they nation states or gamers, are not so irrational as to pursue sub-optimal outcomes for cruel or vindictive reasons. People, in general, actually want to get along. Rather, without communication, misperceptions occur.

Let's take the current Starcraft 3 beta for example. The dominant strategy plaguing the beta is early rushing, not allowing the opponent to experience all the game has to offer. Rushing is the most certain way to win a match. Now imagine two players who would rather play a longer, more fulfilling game. They want a good match, but above all else, they do not want to lose against a rushing opponent. Despite shared interests, they both believe the other's goal is merely to rush and win.
This same scenario can be applied to nuclear armament. Psychologist Scott Plous does just that, calling the situation the "Perceptual Dilemma." Incorrect perceptions create poor decisions and sub-optimal outcomes - which is why communication is so important. Talking is a way actors inform others of their intentions and preferences, dispelling misunderstandings.

Which brings me to an interesting question. Can the prisoner's dilemma occur in single-player games? Certainly not by traditional definitions, but the theory still holds when one-sided exploitation occurs. Imagine if a player found a way to cheat in Braid, beyond just looking at a manual. This hypothetical exploit could diminish the game's impact, worsening the experience for the players.

On the other hand, a frustrated player may misunderstand a puzzle, perceive the game itself as being unfair, and act upon a misconceived slight. I do not think it is much of a stretch to draw comparisons with the perceptual dilemma here. In this case, unclear communication between player and developer is to blame. The player chooses sub-optimal outcomes for themselves because they consider the game intentionally and resolutely unfair.
So what does this mean for game design? First, and most obvious, games should not be built with fatal exploits. Secondly, anonymity is undoubtedly a factor. That being said, the effects of anonymity are diminished when online identities are permanent. With permanent online identities, players will know when they interact with the same individuals.

Similarly, mutual enjoyment is also more likely when players interact with one another repeatedly. I think designers are under the assumption that more players, and bigger player pools, is better. In actuality, we can diminish poor decision outcomes within smaller pools of player interaction, not more. Perhaps massively-multiplayer games should be less massive.

Above all else, games should foster communication. This includes single-player games. Player's should know why sub-optimal outcomes occur, be it from they computer or player based. Many online games limit communication between enemies for a myriad of reasons, some of them justified. However, we should find ways to foster communication between players before, during, and after a competitive match. This can take the form of text or voice chat, easily understood symbols or gestures, a mailing system, or even a streamlined messaging UI. It may open the door to a few bad apples eager to verbally assault other players, but it is better than the alternative.
This is the ultimate source of paranoia. Many gamers have come to fear online play because of a handful of immature and irrational players. The mass exodus of reasonable players from this online space, to some extent, exacerbates rude online gaming culture. Many of us now associate competitive online games as venues for immaturity.

We continue to fuel our own perceptual dilemma's by giving credence to extremist players, the few who actually enjoy traditionally sub-optimal outcomes: griefers. Third parties and ban-hammer wielding moderators can handle some of the worst offenders. In a transparent environment free of irrational actors, with open channels of communication, it becomes easier to mitigate the prisoner's dilemma. Nation states do it every day, why can't we?

Self-Directed Play

Jorge and Denis make convincing arguments for conceptualizing game players as actors. In many ways, this is an apt comparison, as a player performs a crucial role within a game, imbuing it with a personal touch. More broadly, it is often useful to view theater and video games as evolutionary cousins; both formats are about exploring a given set of parameters and iteration between performances. Because of this, it is tempting to directly transpose the role of theatrical actors onto players and the role of theatrical directors onto game designers. However, doing so oversimplifies the distinction between the media and the distinct role a player assumes within a game.

Unlike theater, video games collapse directing and acting into a single role. While playing a game, the player continually synthesizes directorial choices and acting interpretations. Even basic decisions, such as how to manipulate the camera or control an avatar, begin as theoretical visions and are subsequently tested within the game's rules.

Just as directors and actors combine their talents to create scenes, the melding of player intention and player execution yield in-game events. The two sides are not always in agreement: no matter much I visualize the perfect route in Mirror's Edge as a player/director, my abilities as a player/actor yield unexpected results. Sometimes this means falling off a roof (thereby ruining the scene) and sometimes this means accomplishing my goal by straying from the original plan (improvisation).

The game developer acts as the scriptwriter and technical crew by designing rules and environments. As the player/director, I produce an interpretation of the "script" by exploring the rules. This leads to individual characterization in even narratively linear games such as God of War. Will Kratos rely on his magic or use only brute force? Will he engage the aerial enemies with long range attacks or by climbing onto a platform? Is Kratos cautious and prone to defensive moves or is he a berserker who wades into the fray regardless of his health? Does he stride triumphantly through the door to Olympus or does he roll like an idiot because it gets him there faster? The answer to these questions hinges on synthesis of my tendencies as a player/director and player/actor.


We are currently seeing some high-profile games that seek to tease apart this internal relationship, which serves to make the distinction more apparent. Games like Mass Effect 2, Dragon Age, and Heavy Rain all de-emphasize player/actor agency in favor of a more directorial approach.

When we call Mass Effect a "role-playing game," it is implied that the player is acting in the role of Shepard. However, because of the way the game handles choices and conversations, the player's "role" often resembles that of a director much more so than an actor. Take the following scene as an example:

This sequence puts great emphasis on the player/director dynamic and weakens the player's grasp on the player/actor dynamic. The player has little control over Shepard's actual performance and instead functions as a guiding force in shaping the scene. As often happens in theater, the actor in this scene listens to the director's instructions and then adds his personal touch.

At 2:30, when Jack says: "You eyeing me up? Because if this is just about sex, maybe you should just fucking say so," the player/director instructs Shepard to communicate "No, I want to get to know you." As a director, I read this line to mean that Shepard was interested in Jack in a platonic way. However, the in-game Shepard imbues latent sexual interest into a potentially non-sexual response by saying: "I'm in no hurry. I want to know what makes you tick first." Saying "I'm in no hurry" and qualifying his statement with "first" implies that, while he may not be in a rush, a sexual rendezvous with Jack is his ultimate destination. It is as if Shepard and the player are two different people, each with their own interpretation of the scene.

Similarly, at 3:05, the player/director responds to Jack's offer with the "Yes, I want you" dialogue option. However, Shepard communicates this by saying "I'd be lying if I said no. You're different." The directorial choice available to the player is a bold, lusty statement, but actor's execution is more guarded and coy. While the director's option puts Shepard's wishes at the forefront, Shepard's performance humbly shifts the focus back to Jack's personality.

A dialogue sequence in Mass Effect 2 is not an acting role, but a directing one. Creating a Shepard at the beginning of the game is an exercise in casting more than anything else, as the player has only partial control over how the actor will ultimately perform. During the dialogue sections, the player exerts a loose, thematic control over "actors" whose actual word choices and body language, along with their accompanying ramifications, remain mysteries until they are performed.


Ironically, the closest the player gets to controlling the acting in Mass Effect is when they dispense with words and communicate with their weapons. In combat, the player/director is free to formulate plans of attack, strategy, and thematic vision in the battle and the player/actor gets to engage with these ideas directly. Is Shepard a caring teammate who looks to limit casualties, or is he blinded by rage during battle? Does he seek to destroy enemies in face to face combat, or is he characterized by trickery and subterfuge? Does he kill out of necessity, or does he enjoy hearing the cries of the fallen? These questions and answers are both supplied by the player, and significantly add to the character, albeit in a less readily apparent way than the dialogue sequences.

Depending on their design, games force players to strike different balances between the player/director and player/actor roles. Regardless of the balance, all games share this exceedingly rare trait: they allow the player to both direct and perform a creative work. And unless, you are Clint Eastwood or Llewellyn Sinclair, that is a rare opportunity.

EXP Podcast #67: Late for a History Lesson

It is hard to look away from the onslaught of newly released titles, which time to pique our interest with all these "fresh" ideas. But games have been around for a while now, and not every game is a glistening display of pure innovation. We have old roots that are worthy of exploration. Or, as Evan Stubbs suggests, those seeking to expand the medium have an obligation to reexamine older titles and put modern day gaming in its historical context.

Join us this week while Scott and I discuss stealth mechanics of the past, the art of building upon genre, the Beatles, Braid, and the risks and rewards of gamer time travel. As usual, you can find Evan's original article on the subject in the show notes. We also encourage you to leave your thoughts in the comments section below.

Some discussion starters:

- Do developers have an obligation to contextualize their work in a historical context?
- Does the historical knowledge of a medium or genre improve or diminish your play experience?
- Is effective to read about old games versus just playing them? Or do we need a hands on experience to appreciate gaming history?

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: 28 min 51 sec
- Learning from History by Evan Stubbs, via RedKingsDream
- Music provided by Brad Sucks

Rehearsing Movement

A recent article on Vorpal Bunny Ranch caught my attention with a compelling perspective on the role of players. In his piece, All men and women are merely players, Denis Farr discusses the act of play as a sort of theatrical rehearsal. The bounded space of a game is the stage, script, sound, and lighting all in one. The actors are the players and the developers are the writers and directors. Cooperatively or otherwise, players explore the limits of the production while experiencing the narrative along the way.

Denis goes on to extrapolate his approach by describing a scene in Mass Effect in which an unknown Asari touches his character, an uncomfortably forward gesture. The result is an act of narrative wrangling, in which Denis justifies the action on screen the way an actor may justify disagreeable commands from the director. In this case, how a scene resonates on screen is dependent on blocking. It is this often unappreciated artistry that interests me today and the inherently difficult production of realistic blocking.

For those unfamiliar with theatre, blocking is a term referring to the placement and movement of actors during a performance. It was coined by W.S. Gilbert, who moved blocks around a miniature set to represent actors maneuvering on stage. This act is similar to playing a game where, for the most part, we control our avatars around an established environment. Successfully appeasing players while relinquishing them of control, perhaps necessary to sensibly block the movement of characters on screen, is an impressive feat of design.
It is interesting, then, that Denis uses Mass Effect as an example. Mass Effect 2 improves on the conversation animations from its predecessor immensely. I have become so accustomed to conversation in which all parties just stand there staring at each other that ME2 was a shock. NPCs react to conversation queues, backing up, walking about, leaning against a railing, or turning around for example. Shepard and her crew are particularly mobile, displaying a range of gestures, from hugging to hitting. Sean Sands of Gamers With Jobs puts it well when he states:

"Scenes aren't just set up as instances of action and inaction, so much as they are directed and framed in a theatrical sense. Staging and blocking are considered during crucial interactions, and characters are framed in ways that add weight and tension."

The ability to make Paragon or Renegade decisions during dialogue, immediately interrupting a scene, is a clever way to add player agency to these scripted events. To follow the theatre example, it provides more room for actor exploration. Conversations in ME2 are only slightly interactive, yet still compelling, in no small part due to realistic blocking which adjusts according to player decisions.

When blocking is constrained in some other games, however, the audience can be less than forgiving. Uncharted 2 features a scene in which Drake walks around a Tibetan village high in the mountains. The game forces the player to walk, not run. Continuing with the rehearsal analogy, limiting player movement is one way the developer controls blocking. There are those who criticize this scene for exhibiting too much authorial control. While that may be the case, it can be difficult to find ways to overcome the problem. There is a fundamental conflict between realistic blocking and player agency.

The rehearsal analogy may help explain why limited movement in games irritates some players. Prior to the Tibetan village, there is a reasonable assumption on part of the player that the rules of play will not change. They have already been established by the developer and clearly communicated to the player. Drake can run, period. Therefore, running is part of the actor's available repertoire. Removing the ability to run is akin to a director suddenly asking her performers to hop on one leg. Hopping may fit the scene, but it severely inhibits the understood parameters by which the actors explore the stage. It comes off as cheap and unfair.
It is actually more palatable to impose blocking during non-interactivity, primarily cut scenes. Cut scenes are just not as riveting as participation however. Fortunately, Bioware designed the dialogue system in Mass Effect 2 such that player agency during conversations is predicated on relinquishing blocking to the developers. All the communication options reflect the player's general sentiment, not the exact words Commander Shepard will employ. These abbreviated options signify to the player the agreement between themselves and the creators. In exchange for dialogue exploration, players relinquish control of blocking to the game's creators.

Unlike UC2, ME2 appears fair because the actor and director are conversing and exploring the scenes together. The Renegade and Paragon options cleverly assuage any residual tedium from interactivity, giving the player/actor another tool to engage with the scene. The environment Bioware creates is much more akin to a rehearsal than the performance demanded by UC2. Naughty Dog's decision was made with good intentions - sensible blocking is crucial for developing compelling in-game scenarios. It just so happens the top-down production of realistic blocking inherently conflicts with player participation - the one way a player/actor explores a performance. Most players show animosity towards undue interference, just like most actors. Developers need to stage scenes accordingly.