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Misogyny, Sexism, And Why RPS Isn’t Shutting Up

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A Mission Statement

By John Walker on April 6th, 2013 at 3:00 pm.

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There were two sessions in a row on Wednesday afternoon at this year’s GDC. The first was a panel of women in the games industry, discussing the causes and results of the #1ReasonWhy and #1ReasonToBe phenomena – the reasons to be and not be in the games industry. The second was Feminist Frequency’s Anita Sarkeesian, talking about the positive and negative consequences of her Kickstarter campaign, and the way forward from here. I came out of the first – vivid, passionate declarations of purpose from the likes of Leigh Alexander, Mattie Brice and Brenda Romero – feeling certain that the industry and its audience was on a wave of significant change. An hour later I came out of the second – Sarkeesian’s challenging and demanding story of recent horror – re-grounded to the current reality, introspective, and further determined.

There is a clear message: Rock, Paper, Shotgun will never back down on the subject of sexism and misogyny (nor racism, nor homophobia, for that matter) in games, the games industry, and the games journalism industry. Good times are ahead – we can see them.

PREFIX

To remove the accusations of “linkbait”, I’ve put a complete version of this article on Pastebin – people are welcome to link to that instead should they wish to complain about it without providing us hits. And with this specific article you’re welcome to copy and paste the words anywhere you want, to avoid having to direct any traffic toward us. This is the best method I can think of to get away from the accusation. I want to communicate, not garner some hits on a graph.

PART ONE – IT MATTERS

Many women are mistreated and misrepresented within the games industry. It’s not a matter of opinion, a political position, or claim made to reinforce previous bias. It’s the demonstrable, sad truth. Ask women in the games industry – find out. That you may not perceive it does not mean it doesn’t exist. That you may not perpetuate it doesn’t mean it isn’t relevant to you. Whether you are male or female or identify anywhere between does not exclude you nor repudiate you from the matter. The amount to which you think it doesn’t exist is directly proportional to the amount to which you do not care that it exists. If you don’t care that it exists, I hope you are willing to be open-minded enough to try to empathise with others that do – at least give that a go. And if you care passionately about it, and feel offended by the tone of this piece as if it doesn’t acknowledge you, then I apologise, and hope you understand why.

I want to try to break down why people object to the discussion, why there is a concerted effort to deny the need for the discussion, and to explain how my own tangential role in it all has affected me. I want to do this because I want to dispel myths, raise awareness, and encourage others to speak out. For those who think such articles are “preaching to the choir”, were that true, I certainly want that choir to be bolstered, encouraged to sing louder and truer. Sadly it’s not entirely true, as is evidenced by the responses any such article receives on RPS. I want to speak to those people too.

So briefly, let’s observe the pervasive nature of sexism and misogyny (and we’re not going to get distracted by the debate over which is which) in the games industry, and in the reporting of it, with two examples from just the last fortnight.

There’s the ludicrously overt. Like a video from the 4th April by Machinima (this mirror now deleted due to “copyright”), featuring two women in skimpy outfits being electrocuted and spanked as they play Rock Band, described by a lecheroineineus narrator as “girl on girl action”, and showing their pink ass cheeks at the end. No, really. After outcry it was taken down by Machinima, but that doesn’t change that this is an industry in which such a video can be conceived, scripted, filmed, edited and produced, then uploaded, without anyone effectively challenging it. These extremes are not rare, not particularly unusual.

Then less in-your-face, arguably more insidious, is an article like Complex Tech’s “The 40 Hottest Women In Tech“. It is the most peculiar of pieces, seeming to want to appear as if it’s all a big misunderstanding, that by “hottest” they just meant, “ones to watch” or similar. Its introduction presents a straight-faced façade of how the technology industry has been a “boy’s club” for so long, thanks to an “unfortunate repercussion of the patriarchy”. “Here are,” they explain, “40 women we admire doing work in the field of innovation.” Oh, so the title was just a misunderstanding?! First entry, picture of Marina Orlova in a bra. Third, a shot looking down Courtney Boyd Myer’s bikini top. Jessica Chobot is described as “daringly beautiful”, whatever the crapping fuck that means. And the sum total of her achievements described are that she’s “proof that gamer girls are just as sexy we envision.” Jade Raymond is “The Canadian gaming beauty.” It’s language that would of course never be used when writing about men in tech. No man in the field is called “daringly handsome”. None is ever introduced based on their aesthetic appeal, but rather their personal achievements. This is the very patriarchy the article pretends to lament.

Both these examples are demonstrative of what a hostile, alienating industry gaming can be to so many. I think it’s interesting how the first example is more likely to be accepted by people as an example of something that’s unacceptable, and that the second is more likely to be dismissed. But both are equally powerful in communicating a simple message to women: this isn’t your place. Whether it’s being put off by the suggestion that a woman’s role in gaming is to be a physically harmed victim, or told that in order to be acceptable in tech you must first be “beautiful” – or at least be photographed in your underwear – the message is loud, and all-permeating. If you can’t see how it’s a problem that needs discussing, then you simply don’t give a shit. I’m asking people to start giving a shit.

PART TWO – PERSONAL THOUGHTS

More disclaimers are likely necessary here. Reasons why I’m writing this? Because I care about it. Because I am a part of it. And because it damned well matters. Reasons that aren’t why I’m writing this? A need to get laid, a desire to be liked by women, because I think women need me to defend them, and to win the approval of others. And for clarity, I’m using “gaming and women” as a short-hand term for “gaming’s representation of women, the industry’s treatment of women, and the media’s reporting of matters related to women”, and “women” to mean “anyone who identifies as female, no matter their biological sex.” Understood? Great.

Over the last six years of RPS, and in years previously for other publications, I’ve both given thought to, and written about, the subject of gaming and women. While my understanding of the subject remains severely limited, I’ve learned a fair amount over the fourteen years I’ve been doing this, and while I feel certain I’d be very embarrassed by how I’d have expressed things years back, my position is much the same: I like people, and I like it when people are treated well. I abhor it when people are treated badly. The root of my caring about this subject isn’t any more sophisticated than that.

In having written about the subject of women and games over the years, I’ve received a significant amount of abuse. (I’m not going to fret about saying, “But of course not as bad as…”, because of course it’s not as bad as…) Most of the abuse I receive is lazy insults, and until recently I tended to assume them fairly innocuous. Some has been extreme, such as forum threads dedicated to associating my name with acts of child molestation to skew Google results, personal threats, and deeply personal insults. All of it has one purpose: to intimidate. Whether the purpose of the intimidation is because the person wants to read about new screenshots for a game and not gender politics, or because they are violently defending their privilege, it’s always about intimidation.

It can fit into a variety of categories, but there’s always just that one intent. While a lot has been extreme, the majority just want the discussion to go away, and angrily tell me why I need to stop talking about it. And indeed the vast majority of the non-hostile communication takes the form of, “I just wish you’d stop talking about this.” But the thing is, that’s not okay, either.

Anita Sarkeesian, in her GDC talk “Equality, Or GTFO”, quoted a perfect metaphor for this, quoting Beverly Daniel Tatum’s moving walkway (those horizontal travelators you see at airports) idea from Why Are All The Black Kids Sitting Together In The Cafeteria?. The gaming industry and those who write about it, she says, are stood on this moving walkway, always trundling toward the sexism and misogyny that infests throughout. There are of course those who march forward toward it, embracing it. But most, she says, are standing still. They don’t particularly desire or support it, but they also don’t want to think about it, discuss it, contest it. So they stand still, and in doing so, inexorably glide toward it.

The only way to make a difference, Sarkeesian argued, is to turn around and actively walk against the flow of the travelator. Something which is, it occurs to me, not easy. Not only are you walking against the flow of movement, but you’re also going to bump into everyone heading in the other direction. And some people are going to be hostile about this, especially if they think you might start a trend, start seeing others change direction, maybe even enough to see the direction of that walkway changed. The voluminous responses of wanting to talk about something else is a combined effort to stand still on that walkway, and that’s not something we’re willing to do.

Sarkeesian also talked about the responses men will receive when they’re the ones to walk the other way. A slide containing a selection of phrases that were all extremely familiar to me, that litter my Twitter comments, my inbox, and the comments on RPS articles and elsewhere across the internet:

“GAY/FAG” “WHIPPED” “MANGINA” “PUSSY
“WHITE KNIGHT”
“TRYING TO GET LAID”

The first four rely on the recipient sharing the same prejudices as the deliverer of the insult, and as a result, in my case, are rather ineffective. I don’t have a vagina, but as a rule I don’t tend to object to others having them. I’m not gay, but don’t believe it would be negative if I were. So for me, with no background in those words having been used to torment me in the past, they bounce off. But those final two, they’re the ones. For those looking for tips for getting to me, there’s your angle. They’re insidious little phrases. They rely on a seed of irrelevant truth to permeate the conscious, to give me cause to hesitate before speaking.

I like getting laid! As it happens I have a wife who’s particularly good at it, and I’m fully compensated for in that department. But I still like getting laid. And I like it when people are attracted to me, even those who are not my wife. Because I’m a person. It feels good. It’s good to be liked.

And I like it when I can help others. I like being someone others can rely on, can trust to stand up for them when it matters, and to be there to support them when they need it. I don’t pretend that’s selfless – of course I get something out of it too. It’s a part of who I am.

Both phrases contain those truths. The accusation gets a grip because of them, causes me to hesitate, to pause as I write, to worry my motivations are wrong. And that’s their purpose. Generally the motivation for my writing any sort of polemic on RPS is because I’m angry about something – constructively angry about something a person should be angry about – and I want to see positive change. That’s what causes me to start typing, including this piece. But as I go along, those words creep in. “You’re just saying this to win the approval of others.” “You’re just trying to make girls like you.” “You think women need you to stand up for them.” And so on. They get to me. They’re getting to me right now. They’re evil spells, cast to insidiously infect.

I like it when people like me. I like it when people come up and compliment me. I like the approval of others. Because that’s normal. And I write this both to exorcise the infection those words cause, and to make it known to everyone else who feels the same that these are not words that should stop you from speaking up for what you know is right. They are words that will never silence RPS on these matters, and they should never silence you either.

It’s vital that men speak out about this subject. Mostly because it’s vital that people speak out, a unified voice with whatever genitals it may have, condemning cruelty and inequality. For some men, only another man’s voice will be heard. If you’re a fellow, and you object to the portrayal and treatment of women within gaming, start saying so. You will receive abuse. And I am sorry, because it’s not fair. It really damned sucks, and it gets to me, it weighs me down. But it’s so worthwhile.

Abuse is the natural response of anyone wishing to perpetuate a privilege that by its nature demeans or diminishes others. And receiving abuse is horrible. But so long as you surround yourself by others who will support and care for you, it’s worthwhile. The louder the united voice, the more effective it is. So long as people remain silent, they provide a safe space for the cruel and oppressive to speak. When it’s clear that such behaviour is not tolerated in a space, it’s harder for it to be heard. And look at the positive change that’s already been seen. The positive change is why there’s a fight. Things are already getting so much better.

PART THREE – WHAT NOT TO WRITE

So here is a handy guide for replies to this wider discussion that just aren’t acceptable on RPS. Each is, in its own way, an attempt to derail or silence discussion. Each should be avoided at all costs, and certainly not responded to. Let’s create a space where these responses just don’t get a reaction, so we can no longer be a platform for those determined to prevent this industry from moving forward.

“Why are you writing about feminism on a GAMING site?”

This question, like so many objecting to any discussion of the lack of equality in the industry, betrays itself immediately. When a publisher issues financial results and we report on them, we don’t see, “Why are you writing about economics on a GAMING site?” When there’s discussion of the effects of violence on players, we don’t read, “Why are you writing about sociology on a GAMING site?” It’s only when the gaming-related subject is the portrayal or treatment of women do such people become enraged by any post that isn’t literally describing the content of a particular videogame.

And to answer the question: because it’s relevant, and it matters. 50% of gamers are women, and around 20% of “hardcore” gamers are women. While the majority of RPS’s readers are men, that’s not something we’re proud of. (Many gaming sites strive for this, as it performs well with advertisers. We would prefer breadth.) We write for a global audience, and we aim not to presume whom our reader might be. We know that matters affecting women affect our audience, whatever their sex, and we know they affect the games industry we cover. We believe in equality, and when we are aware of inequality in the industry upon which we report, it is relevant for us to cover, and we believe important to highlight.

“What happened to this site? You used to write about GAMES.”

This is obviously one of the more strange responses, yet certainly among the most prolific. At least 95% of the posts on RPS are directly about games themselves, as is obvious to anyone looking at it. Posts related to matters regarding women make up the tiniest percentage of our output, and it’s obviously nonsense to make the claim above.

“You’re just trying to be a white knight/get laid.”

I go a lot more into this response in my personal thoughts above, but the short version is: er, no. Personally, I’m happily married thanks. And I see no damsels to rescue. I just have the bare dregs of empathy for human suffering. And that’s apparently some kind of problem?

This particular response is designed to undermine the writer, not only suggesting that caring about equality is something inherently driven by a desire for sex/validation, but that the very idea of caring at all is so unrealistic. Either the accuser cannot conceive of the notion of caring about another’s rights independently of one’s own gratification, or they are so fearful of the potential of equality that they’re driven to undermine those who argue for it. Either way, if you’re typing the words “white knight”, you’re revealing more about your own peculiar understanding of how humans interact than anything else.

“Why don’t you talk about men’s issues?”

First of all, the question presumes the peculiar notion that writing about women’s issues precludes our writing about men’s. That’s obviously ridiculous. And secondly, sadly the question is generally used dishonestly.

There are issues that affect men, and often men who are the target demographic of gaming. Suicide is an especially serious example, and it’s something RPS has covered, and expressed concern over. Our caring about equality in the games industry, and in the portrayal of women, does not exclude our caring about matters affecting men. Obviously.

However, the question is generally designed to derail. It’s often as relevant as asking, “Why don’t you talk about digital download re-sales?” at the end of an article about the troubles of pre-ordering. Sure, why don’t we? Good thing to talk about. Not really a pertinent question in this instance. And that’s the idea – by asking this broad, presumptive question, the aim is to distort the discussion from the matter at hand, which in turn further leaves the matter at hand undiscussed. By the time you’re having tiresome arguments about whether male characters being shown as successful and strong is harmful to men, you’re no longer discussing the fact that scantily clad women are being used to sell videogames. That’s the ultimate aim of the question.

“I know a girl who thinks X, so you are wrong.”

This angle is generally used to argue against anything that is said to misrepresent women, or to represent women in a bad way. This known girl, fictional or real, likes it, so why does anyone have a problem? The argument oddly presumes that a matter is only of concern if women are exclusively and unanimously against it. Men’s views are irrelevant, and indeed all other views are irrelevant, because there’s this one girl who thinks… This is about as useful an argument as someone’s claiming homoeopathy works, against all abundant evidence, because their mum’s knee felt better.

“People are exaggerating on both sides.”

This, and many variants on it, are all about pretending to want to bring “balance” to the argument, in order to prevent its taking place at all. It’s dishonest, based on unexplained, undefined notions of exaggeration, perhaps if pressed illustrated by a single example that likely only emphasises the faux-diffuser’s prejudice. As and when people exaggerate in any debate, it’s great to call people out on it. People called out the issues in a recent post I put on RPS about gender wage gaps, which one could describe as exaggeration. That’s a good thing to do. It, however, has no bearing on the facts that there are problems that need to be dealt with, and the line is usually employed when trying to ensure nothing is allowed to change.

“It’s just a bit of fun.”

When I undermine you in front of your boss, lie about you behind your back, and play cruel tricks on you, it’s just a bit of fun! Oh, wait, those things aren’t fun because they’re happening to you? Gosh, imagine if such a perspective were available when other things that other people don’t like are happening to them? But no, it’s just a bit of fun, then. They should just get over it.

CONCLUSION

We’re going to keep banging this drum. And we will bang the drums against racism, transphobia and homophobia. The concerted efforts from both pissed off individuals, and organised groups from elsewhere on the internet, will not be effective. The vast majority of our readers are in favour of this coverage, and even if they weren’t, we’d continue. This matters, and we give one hell of a damn about it. We want to see gaming a place of equality, both in its creation, creations, and coverage.

We do not believe that in any resulting greater equality anyone will suffer. Gamers will not lose out. Call Of Duty will still be released every November, with angry soldier men shouting “FUCK!” as they shoot down a helicopter. That isn’t going to go away. Instead we fight for greater variety in those resulting games. And we fight for safer, more friendly spaces in which they can be created. And we fight for a media that celebrates equality, and discourages cruelty and inequality. When anything gets in the way of that, we’re going to say so.

Such coverage will continue to be a tiny, tiny fraction of what we write about. RPS will continue to be primarily about the games themselves, as it always has been. Still no one’s rights will be infringed by our writing about inequality. And we will carry on. We aren’t going to be bullied into silence, or shamed into shyness. And if you don’t want that, then we implore you to scroll past or read another site.

I envision a future where the gaming world is balanced. Where this shared pursuit no longer alienates half of the population, but is equally embracing. This year’s GDC was one of optimism, a recognition that change is already well under way, and a belief that it is a gathering pace. It is to this that RPS looks, and it’s going to be great! There’s lots of work to be done, there are obstacles to combat along the way, but it’s worth it. We’re getting there.

SUFFIX

The comments are off on this post. This is a reference post, a place we can point people toward to understand our position. I am not willing to let this post become yet another platform for the people who wish to silence this debate. On this occasion I have no desire to publicly put up with the invasive ignorant spite and fearful anger that will be littered amongst the usual excellent comments from our fantastic readers. This is not an attempt to stifle discussion – RPS provides ample opportunity for it, and will continue to do so. If you want to communicate your thoughtful disagreement or unpleasant bile, my email address is at the top of this page, where your remarks will receive an audience of one. So please do use it. I will read and consider everything.

Main image by Official GDC
Megaphone photo from John W. Schulze
“Up” cartoon by Sam Brown/Exploding Dog
Drum by Diranda

__________________

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An Industry Divided

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April 1, 2013 4:45PM PDT

By Carolyn Petit, Editor

At this year’s Game Developers Conference, many people spoke out in support of a more equitable and inclusive gaming industry. But it’s clear that there’s still a great deal of resistance to this perspective.

It was a gesture that beautifully encapsulated so much of what last week’s Game Developers Conference was about for me. After his game, the socially conscious retail simulator Cart Life, had won numerous accolades at Wednesday night’s IGF Awards, Richard Hofmeier replaced Cart Life with Howling Dogs, a game by designer Porpentine, on the computer set up to demonstrate the game at the IGF Pavilion on the show floor. No longer feeling as if his game needed the attention, he took the opportunity to shine a light on a game created using Twine, making a clear statement in support of the notion that Twine games are legitimate games worthy of serious consideration. And the selection of Howling Dogs in particular says that the creative work of a self-identified queer tranarchafeminist like Porpentine should be showcased and engaged with and celebrated just as much as the work of any other creator or the members of any other group.

Richard Hofmeier vandalized his own sign to promote Porpentine’s game Howling Dogs.

My encounter with Hofmeier’s act on Thursday evening capped off a few days of wonderfully encouraging talks about reclaiming games as an inclusive space for all kinds of players and all kinds of expression. On Wednesday, I’d attended the #1ReasonToBe panel. Inspired by the #1ReasonWhy and #1ReasonToBe Twitter hashtags, which had gained momentum and garnered attention last November, the panel featured six extraordinary women who shared their perspectives on life as women who play, create, and write about games. The day prior, I’d heard Halo: Reach writer Tom Abernathy talk about how games offered so few heroes his daughter could see herself in; at this panel, writer Mattie Brice lamented that, to see herself reflected in a game character, she’d had to make her own game, Mainichi. If a novice like her could whip up a game with a character in which she could see herself in a week, she wondered, couldn’t those who make games professionally sometimes give her options that would let her see herself in them?

If you don’t have some sort of balance within your games, Gaider asked, what sort of message are you sending about who is welcome to play your games?At the same panel, game designer Brenda Romero passionately and humorously excoriated the atmosphere of the Electronic Entertainment Expo, one of the most visible manifestations of the industry’s lingering unwillingness to treat women as equals. Romero made it clear that her problems aren’t with displays of sexuality or healthy sexual expression, but with the creation of a sexually charged atmosphere that favors the perceptions and desires of men and objectifies women. Romero’s passion for the industry runs deep. “It is my calling. My friends. My family. My home,” she said. Now, one thing her 12-year-old daughter dreams of doing is making a game with her. Romero pleaded for E3 to be changed so that it could be the sort of place that she could take her daughter to and be proud of.

Of course, many don’t understand why the presence of booth babes, or the widespread marginalization and objectification of women in games, is a problem at all. In his talk on Thursday, BioWare writer David Gaider addressed this issue. It’s about privilege. As Gaider summed it up, privilege is when you think something is not a problem because it’s not a problem for you personally. He brought up a post that made some waves in the BioWare forums in March of 2011, in which a player expressed outrage at being confronted with a gay romance option when playing Dragon Age: Origins. He asserted that BioWare was defying the wishes of its straight male fan base by including such romance options. “It’s ridiculous,” the player wrote, “that I even have to use a term like Straight Male Gamers, when in the past I would only have to say fans.” To this player, as Gaider put it, the fact that there might be options in Dragon Age that appealed to other types of players was not a quality but an imbalance of the natural order. Straight male gamers are still at the top of the totem pole when it comes to having games that cater specifically to their interests, and to some of them, things like gay romance options represent a diluting of the purity of gaming that, by rights, should belong solely to them.

Some see the inclusion of same-sex romance options in BioWare games as a betrayal of the straight male fanbase. Which is silly.

BioWare is well aware, though, that many of its fans aren’t male and plenty of them aren’t straight. If you don’t have some sort of balance within your games, Gaider asked, what sort of message are you sending about who is welcome to play your games? He urged game makers to ask themselves questions when making a game: Could this character be female? Could they be black? Could they be gay? And if you’re worried that maybe you don’t know how to write characters who belong to groups that you don’t belong to, talk to people who do belong to those groups. Hire them. Listen to them.

GDC week offered a portrait of an industry in conflict with itself, both in terms of how it sees itself from the inside and in terms of how players see it.I confess, I got goose bumps during both the #1ReasonToBe panel and Gaider’s talk. Hearing an inclusive vision of the industry championed so powerfully by Brenda Romero, David Gaider, and others was profoundly encouraging to me, as someone who has always felt that games should be for everyone. But these past few days have also provided plenty of reminders of the deeply rooted problems plaguing the industry. On Tuesday, Crystal Dynamics employee Meagan Marie recounted in her blog a mortifying experience that happened at the previous week’s PAX East, and how it was no isolated incident, but simply the latest in a long string of objectifying treatment she has both witnessed and experienced over the past several years. On Wednesday night, almost as if to underscore just how widespread and thoughtless the devaluation of women throughout the industry that Brenda Romero had criticized is, a party thrown by the International Game Developers Association employed scantily clad women dancers as entertainment. This led Brenda Romero to resign as co-chair of the IGDA, and Christa Charter, a former Xbox community manager with 17 years of experience in the industry, to write frankly about her own encounters with sexism.

So in some ways, GDC week offered a portrait of an industry in conflict with itself, both in terms of how it sees itself from the inside and in terms of how players see it. During the #1ReasonToBe panel, Mattie Brice talked about how, when games like her own Mainichi, Anna Anthropy’s Dys4ia, and other nontraditional games are used in non-gaming-related classes, responses to the experiences they offer are positive, and peoples’ notions of what games can communicate are broadened. But when such games are shown in game studies classes, Brice continued, they tend to be viewed as not games at all due to their lack of traditional elements. Brice questioned whether we want to prime the people who will make games to have such a narrow interpretation of what games are, saying that such a limited interpretation can only strangle our industry’s potential for creativity. I worry about this, too.

Vander Caballero could never have made a game like Papo & Yo while working within the confines of the major development studio system.

But I’m hopeful now, more hopeful than I’ve ever been, that the future of gaming will be more inclusive and diverse than its past. I don’t think the road will be smooth or easy, but there’s reason to believe this is a battle worth fighting. That reason was in Papo & Yo designer Vander Caballero’s talk as he lamented that games are part of the reason children today know what an AK-47 is, and how his story shows that you can make games without being part of that system, games designed to nurture and heal. That reason was in the unwavering confidence of Brenda Romero, whose contributions to gaming date back to Sir-Tech’s landmark Wizardry role-playing games of the early 1980s, as she shouted, “I founded this fucking industry, motherfuckers!” That reason was in Anna Anthropy’s righteous anger as she seethed and raged her way through a version of Cara Ellison’s poem “Romero’s Wives.” And it was in the sign at the IGF Pavilion on the show floor that had once touted Richard Hofmeier’s Cart Life, but had been vandalized by Hofmeier himself to celebrate Howling Dogs by Porpentine.

Every voice that speaks out in favor of diversity or against the marginalization of women and minorities can help contribute to the cultural shift this industry needs.Obviously, it’s not enough yet. It’s not even remotely close to being enough. The idea of a more diverse and inclusive industry needs to radiate out from these GDC talks and gestures; it needs to manifest itself in more equitable and welcoming atmospheres at conferences like E3, in the design of games, and in the messages the characters and content of those games send to players about who games are for. It’s still an uphill battle, and if you believe in it, then you should speak up, too, in conversations and in message board comments, wherever you can, because every voice that speaks out in favor of diversity or against the marginalization of women and minorities can help contribute to the cultural shift this industry needs. The more momentum this movement can build, the better, but it now seems pretty clear: those of us who see gaming as a place that should welcome all kinds of players, all kinds of designers, and all kinds of experiences are here to stay.

By Carolyn Petit, Editor

Carolyn Petit has been reading GameSpot since 2000 and writing for it since 2008. She has a particular fondness for games of the 1980s, and intends to leave the field of games journalism as soon as she hears that her local Ghostbusters franchise is hiring.

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Un-GDC 2013: Lost Levels

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This year’s GDC saw innovation and advocacy not just in the unique variety of games showcased, but within the mechanics of the community as well. The new Advocacy track brought together a host of speakers to discuss equality and diversity in games and gaming culture, and how to better improve the public image of the industry, a conscious effort made on the part of GDC organizers to highlight and discuss these issues in a professional environment. It felt like a running theme for that week, something that was definitely on the minds of a lot of attendees. While valuable in its own right, though, the very nature of GDC is still somewhat exclusive. It’s largely business-oriented, strictly but understandably structured, and it’s god damned expensive. Because of this, crucial voices in the games community are harmfully understated and underrepresented. Taking advantage of the con’s disadvantages this year was Lost Levels, a free event that hails itself as a “radically casual unconference” about games and play, with the intention of being financially and socially hyper-inclusive. It was organized by Robert Yang, Fernando Ramallo, Ian Snyder and Harry Lee.

Lost Levels was held Thursday afternoon, after a lot of the excitement of GDC had begun to die down. We’d been around the expo floor multiple times, seen a good share of talks, been handed reams of flyers by the booth babes that caused Brenda Romero and others to resign from the IGDA mid-week. We’d witnessed impromptu speeches in the conference halls by impassioned designers, emotional post-panel QA sessions and ideas exchanged over free beers. I saw Richard Hofmeier offer up his Cart Life kiosk to Porpentine’s Howling Dogs following the IGFs, using his success to promote others. The atmosphere was awesome, but we were tired, and Lost Levels was a great way to wind down.

While Jared was off in Chinatown doing god knows what, James and I waited on some steps outside a Metreon cafe waiting for some sign that the event was starting. It was to take place in the Yerba Buena gardens, right near the convention center, a grassy expanse dotted with trees, clusters of locals and tourists here and there lounging in the soft mid-day sun. We weren’t quite sure what to expect.

While waiting, an elderly woman approached us asking about our badges. We explained that we were attending the Game Developers Conference, which sparked a conversation we were also not quite expecting. The woman was curious about the industry, the scale of it and the work involved. She wanted to know things about games, and we wanted to give her the answers. She spoke only briefly about herself, mentioning why she was there – she enjoys sitting at that particular cafe and watching the people go by. She’d been seeing a lot of us badge-wearers, and was struck by how many of us there were.

It was an interaction that actually sums up part of what Lost Levels is about pretty well. Gamers are not well-represented in the public eye. While the pervasive stereotype of the anti-social, basement-dwelling nerd is starting to change, it still exists, which is partially why the people who organized Lost Levels chose to hold it outdoors. Games, as a medium and an art form, have been striving for accessibility, whether that be in the development or consumption of. Lost Levels was a way to make games approachable as a community. The park is a physically open, public space, and any kind of gathering within it naturally incorporates anyone in the general vicinity. It’s a spectacle that allows for spectators to become participants. It’s social, it’s inviting and it excludes no one.

Not even Jared, who showed up later with a katana.

Lost Levels wasn’t just a gathering of gamers in a park, though, as the New York Times suggests. There was some basic structure to it as a so-called “unconference.” In the weeks preceding GDC, people were asked to submit ideas for microtalks, which would be 5-10 minute segments dedicated to anything they wanted. These ideas were scribbled on post-it notes and stuck on a piece of posterboard in a charmingly haphazard way of organizing sessions into three separate tracks – called “worlds.”

The microtalks heard in each world covered everything from dating sims to how screen-shaking can improve your action game, from accordion solos to gender as a function rather than a boolean, from erotic game mechanics to pinball. It was a rapid-fire session of ideas and mini-theses, suggestions, brainstorms and ramblings. Some people came prepared. Some didn’t. But more often than not, you could hardly tell the difference. This was not a formal event. In place of stages, we had tarp spread over the grass. Some speakers sat along with us. Some stood out to distinguish themselves. But after every talk, they would always come back to join the crowd once again. Lost Levels was an open forum where ideas were free and aplenty.

I was able to attend a few talks, but not all, which was actually something the organizers intended.

“In terms of format, I think this pseudo-anarchic unconference structure is really helpful,” said Harry Lee, indie game dev and one of the event’s four organizers. “It also provides a sense that you’re not quite seeing everything, and that’s really important, and something we wanted to focus on. It gives people a reason to come back to talk about their experiences, stories to tell and share, and it creates an engagement in a game-like structure.”

This certainly worked. I realized that my group of friends were kind of drawn apart as the three worlds were established, each of us gravitating towards whichever ones sounded the most interesting to us. Between talks, we would all regroup and discuss what we’d seen and heard, always meeting again in the space between each world.

A lot of people, before, during and after Lost Levels, referred to the event as a sort of anti-GDC. The organizers see it more as a complement to GDC, an event that can offer people for free what GDC, even with its hefty price tag, cannot.

“GDC is really expensive,” said Ian Snyder, “and a lot of people whose voices we think need to be heard can’t be heard in a space like GDC. Nothing against GDC – we’re not trying to compete with it – but it is a highly expensive and highly exclusive space. We want to create an alternative – a parallel space – beside it, that is highly inclusive.”

“And that’s not to fault GDC,” added Robert Yang. “I think GDC is exclusive, but not because it wants to be evil or something. I just think the nature of that professional convention structure just – by its nature – keeps some people out. It’s just bad at some things, and it’s really good at some things.”

“We are bad at some things, like organization,” said Snyder, which was met with laughter, “and we’re good at other things, like being open and inclusive.”

While Lost Levels felt like an all around success, having had an excellent turnout with some amusing last-minute talks added by people just stopping by, there are still some things the team felt like they could have done better. Next year, they’d like to work towards having a more game-like structure, with more actual games and less concrete talks. They also don’t want to confine the event within a specific structure and risk it becoming an “old, tired ritual.” They have even considered removing themselves from the organization process and allowing other people to take over, turning Lost Levels into a tradition that can be passed on to new minds each and every year.

I know I personally can’t wait. GDC was awesome, but Lost Levels was something else entirely.

“It’s playful, right?” said Lee. “There’s a playful sense pervading this area. We would love to hold it longer. We’re gonna take the failings of this year and hopefully turn them into something even more beautiful next year.”

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Feeling Lost at Lost Levels

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On the last Thursday of GDC, Harry Lee was preparing to kill himself in front of an audience. The nineteen-year-old game designer and med student strapped an arcane medical device around his arm and gave the audience a proposal.

“This is an EMS, an electromyostimulator. This device is really cool because it can control people and cause them to involuntarily contract their muscles…If I press the button here, my hand extracts like that. It causes an excruciating amount of pain.”

His trembling fist unfolded, with the presumption that this was happening against his will. He gritted his teeth.

“One of the problems I’d like to propose to you is: what is my next choice? Do I continue medicine and try to do something more effective, directly saving people? Or do I continue games, something I’m better at and maybe a bit more passionate about?”

Lee’s morbid theatrics were delivered in an upbeat tone. A few muffled laughs lightened the mood.

“These are the questions I wanted to pose to you while shocking myself…If the answer’s right, I live. If it’s wrong, you kill me. Ready? Quick: what should I do, medicine or games!?”

“GAMES!!” The audience shouted in unison. Lee was still standing, so apparently this was the right answer.

Make games or die. That’s what Lost Levels is about. This open-air and low-tech “un-conference” was hosted at the public Yerba Buena park space across the street from GDC 2013, and delivered a radically different ethos. Lost Levels was all about inclusiveness, freedom and diversity. While the high-tech gaming professionals were busy competing for jobs, contacts and floor space across the street, Lost Levels was chugging itself along free of charge. Anyone was allowed to talk and any topics were fair game. Speakers ranged from the “queer tranarchofeminist” Twine author Porpentine to Rod Humble, the current Linden Lab CEO.

As diverse as this amorphous crowd was, they had one consensus: games are important. Earth-shatteringly important. Just after the audience had supposedly saved Lee’s life once, he immediately snapped to the next life-or-death question. “Why do we love what we do so much, to the extent of cutting out all other possibilities in life, and why aren’t we more interested in the intersection between health and games?”

The crowd gave their answers one-by-one.

“‘Because games are culture and culture is humanity, so making games is saving humanity.”

“We all have to be selfish to a certain extent, otherwise we won’t be happy. You have to define what makes you happy and brings out your passion, and pursue that in your life.”

“Making games is fun. Playing games is fun. Meeting people who make games is fun.”

During this year’s particularly indie-centric GDC, Lost Levels was a place for indies who were too indie for the mainstream indies. And what a weird concept that is! The space between publisher-sponsored games and independently-produced games is shrinking and nowhere was this trend more visible than at this year’s GDC. Nintendo, Sony and Microsoft set up booths that were lounges, geared more towards networking with professionals than showcasing products. Gratuitously high-tech displays of cutting-edge AAA game demos were a bit more inconspicuous than usual. In the absence of mega corporate keynotes and over-the-top press shows, there was a tight focus on individual human beings, people who had names and faces. Karla Zimonja and Steve Gaynor. Chipzel and Terry Cavanagh. Anna Anthropy. Richard Hofmeier. Porpentine.

It’s a movement so alarmingly visible that it made The New York Times. Andy Schatz wrote his IGF Awards presentation speech about it. Across the street, Lost Levels was its microcosm, reveling in the chaotic new era of the individual.

These five-minute micro-talks were organized into three “worlds” (a-la Mario), spaces in the park where speakers would deliberate over tarps in the grass. Listeners would sit, stand, play, dance or jam, depending on the session. The schedule was always in a state of flux, and talks were organized via lateral post-it notes stuck on poster board.

I dropped over to World 3-4 to hear Porpentine’s talk, titled “Kerrigan had the Right Idea.” It wasn’t a speech or a lecture so much as some kind of spoken word writing thing that was borderline poetry (in fact, calling many of these talks “borderline poetry” might not be inaccurate.) Her proto-Kerrigan prose began with nostalgic memories of cracking the Zerg matriarch’s whip, and somehow worked its way towards a brutal condemnation of videogame workplace misogyny.

World 1-5 was Rod Humble’s “Game Theory & How We can Drag it into the Gutter.” He was flipping through an insane assortment of hand-written notes and charts, going on about negative feedback loops and no-random perfect information games, turning through page after page of scribbled formulas. Humble is an upper-level executive in charge of corporate game brands like The Sims, but also the creator of experimental lo-fi art games like The Marriage and Stars Over Half-Moon Bay. He’s an authority for both sides of the fence, and couldn’t have found a more perfect venue. The unfortunate thing was that a lot of his stuff sailed right over my head.

Christ, I thought to myself. I don’t make games. I write stuff. What the hell am I doing here? It was a tad overwhelming. The personalities behind Lost Levels were bohemian. They referred to each other by their Twitter handles and wore weirder clothes than me. As a journalist who hasn’t worked on a game in years, I stuck out like a sore thumb.

Later, Roger Hanna said online games are too libertarian and that we need a system for building meaningful relationships with online strangers. Kate Compton reminded us that gender isn’t a Boolean value, and that games rarely recognize this. Lals Das wanted to talk about how to make queer games. Not games whose creators or themes were queer – games that could self-identify themselves as queer.

If GDC is for game developers, then Lost Levels is for game auteurs. According to the Robert Yang (one of the event organizers,) it’s not a response or rebuttal to GDC’s exclusive environment and high prices, but in practice it’s a natural alternative to them. It juggles a rock star lineup of celebrated developers against the promise that it’ll welcome anyone and anything to speak. Its lo-fi presentation spawned ideas that are absolutely cutting edge, ideas that are harder to fit inside convention halls with a high barrier to entry. They’re questionable ideas and their practicality is doubtful, but that’s why they’re exciting. If there wasn’t any doubt, then they wouldn’t be risky, daring and exciting.

These are the people moving too fast for GDC. Though the attendees and speakers of both conferences were largely the same population, this was a different place altogether. A place where some of the most influential and energetic personalities from GDC could have their own space, supervised by their own rules. The twist is that, much like the seeming future of videogames, there are no rules.

———

George Weidman writes stuff about bicycles and makes videos about video games. He shares his YouTube channel’s thoughts on @superbunnyhop. Photos appear courtesy of Brian Taylor’s Build Your Own Lost Levels Photo Essay.

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He’s Still Alive

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Before I sit, Josh Larson is careful to make one thing clear: “This is a game about Ryan and his wife’s four-year-old son, who was diagnosed with terminal cancer two and a half years ago,” he explains. And then this: “He’s still alive.”

I look around; Ryan Green has already slipped out of the room. I hesitate, then nod. I take my seat at the rickety desk and put on a pair of expensive noise-canceling headphones.

The game is called That Dragon, Cancer. The desk – I wish we’d had a better desk for them, actually – is located on the first floor of Unwinnable’s furnished, three-story mansion, which we’ve rented for this year’s Game Developers Conference. Tonight every room is full of developers and their games. We’ve given That Dragon, Cancer its own entire bedroom. It’s the largest bedroom on the first floor; it even has its own couch. I am surprised. I didn’t have much to do with organizing this event (I’m not much of an organizer), so everything surprises me.

More than one colleague has told me to come to this room. One told me to come to this room first, another told me to visit it last. I am about to become very, very surprised.

———

I am searching the screen with my cursor when I remember the demo is supposed to end with the words “thank you.” And I realize I’ve just heard these words, and I take my hand away from the mouse and squirm out of the expensive noise-canceling headphones, and now I am staring at Josh Larson.

Josh is here – was he always here? – with a clipboard and pen. He’s going to take my feedback. I think he’s been taking my feedback.

How long have I been sitting here?

“Okay,” I tell him. I wrack my brain. “I… don’t think I’ve ever played a videogame that takes place in the ICU before.”

I give Josh Larson my design notes. I am clinical with my thoughts and suggestions. I answer Josh’s questions.

Now Josh has another question for me. “Did you understand that the game is supposed to be hopeful?”

I answer yes, and I am explaining why, and this is when it finally catches up with me. I burst into tears.

I don’t think I’ve ever played a videogame that takes place in an ICU before. Actually, do you know, for a few years and right up until six months ago, I spent a lot of meaningful time in the ICU.

And wow, you really got every detail right! I can’t believe it! There’s the armchair. And it is! It is always too small! And rubbery. Here’s the phone right next to it, of course. The bed is over there. The bathroom is a room attached to this one, and then there’s another sink counter way over here, where you religiously wash and sanitize your hands. There’s the salmon-pink, kidney-shaped basin sitting on the counter just to the sink’s left: maybe it’s supposed to be a bedpan, but we always used it for vomit instead. Everything is just right, just the way I remember it.

And then there are those great big windows – there are always those great big windows – and if it weren’t for those big picture windows, you’d never know the time of day, since the ICU is always so dark. That moment really struck me, seeing out those windows and realizing it’s still daylight.

Oh. Have you ever heard of something called “ICU psychosis”? Write that down, look it up later. But okay, it happens to not only the patients themselves, but also to their loved ones. You not only lose track of what time of day it is, but also what day it is, what week it is. Time doesn’t work right anymore. There are audio and visual hallucinations, too, sometimes. You know that whiteboard, where they write down what day it is and the nurses’ hours? That isn’t really for the nurses, you know. It’s for you. Oh, that’s something you left out, the whiteboard.

And then, and only then, I remember I am supposed to be Ryan.

Something else struck me – sorry, I’m kind of harping on this one moment. Okay. So when I’d click on the windows, the camera would whirl, and suddenly it leaves the first-person vantage, and the camera swoops around outside the window to stare into the building back at me, and I’m standing there looking out the window, and it’s a real Portal moment, you know, where you see yourself for the first time? So when I look in at myself, I see Ryan Green standing there instead – Ryan, the man who was only just here in the room with us – and I can see his shape and form and his glasses and his beard.

And then, and only then, I remember I am supposed to be Ryan.

———

Later I was describing that Portal moment to Ryan Green – this convergence of game and cinema and prose and autobiography – and just how meaningful that moment really was, and I said something like “it proves there really are some stories that can only be told through the medium of games.” Then I added, “I think you’ve really achieved something here,” and I said that last thing out loud and I felt so, so sick.

———

In the game, you click through the ICU, feeling around with your cursor for any sort of narrative relief. Sometimes relief does arrive, in the form of a white scrawl, an almost-handwritten prose-poem scribbling itself against the ICU. Sometimes, though, it seems you’ve finally run out of options.

Your son is crying out in pain. There is nothing you can do.

That Dragon, Cancer positions itself as an adventure game, which by design implies all the flaws and failings built into a point-and-click adventure game. You fall into these cyclic, helpless loops of action, clicking on this hotspot and that one, fumbling for anything to alleviate your, Ryan’s, son’s cries – cries that start out gut-wrenching, then quickly turn into something more persistently awful, something you’ve got to quell as quickly as possible. It hurts on every level.

To get to all the hotspots on one side of the room, you have to repeatedly seat yourself in the too-small armchair near your – Ryan’s – son’s bed. And, ah, that’s how it actually goes. You keep sitting down and surveying the room, looking for just one new thing to try to do. That’s how it really, really went.

And at some point the game stops cold. Now there is only one parser command on the screen.

Pray.

This is how it really, really went.

Ryan tells us, in an early in-game voice over, how at first this whole medical odyssey was “an adventure.” He was, he imagined, “a hero.” I heard him say that, and I thought how brave it was to just come right out and say that, and my stomach folded in on itself.

The very first time, my mother was supposed to die. She was supposed to die, and we succeeded instead. She survived several times after. For just under a year I was needlessly cavalier. I do remember what it felt like to be the hero. I also remember what it felt like to get so, so tired, which was a long time after I’d stopped being afraid.

Ryan Green told me he’d wanted to include some sort of prose refrain. The game, in many ways, is a hymn, a song of praise, but I told him a refrain might be overkill. I told him players will always fumble at the same couple of objects in the room, and those objects can always respond with the same piece of text, and in a way, that could become the refrain, if you could just anticipate what the player will reach for. No, I told him, you don’t need to artificially include a refrain. Maybe. I don’t know.

I told Ryan I have limited experience with cancer. I told him about my mother, who died of something else, but it, you know, it took a long time. Then Ryan asked me what my favorite thing about my mother was.

“Oh,” I said to him. And then I told him something. It was a pretty big something.

And I concluded, “I’ve never told anyone that before,” and that was true, and it is still true.

———

Josh Larson is holding a clipboard. He has a question for me. “Did you… understand that the game itself is supposed to be hopeful?”

“Yes,” I tell him reluctantly. “Yes, because even when you’re trapped on certain narrative circuits – ”

He’s still alive.

” – there’s this perpetual forward motion, a momentum, where you aren’t really trapped, there’s always, uh – ”

He’s still alive.

I tell Josh I tried to make a game once, in Twine, and I only ever showed it to a few people, but in it there is no narrative direction; the player just circles hopelessly. There is no narrative hope.

“But with something like this,” I tell Josh Larson, “you dedicate years of your life, and the person, ah – ”

He’s still alive.

I sob.

” – the person still dies, no matter how long you take, no matter what you do.” I barely manage to work these words out.

This isn’t constructive criticism at all. It is hopelessness, hopelessness in the face of Josh Larson and Ryan Green’s hope.

———

Still, I keep thinking about my favorite thing about my mother – a weird thing to love, just some human failing, a secret I kept for her – and I suddenly remember I had two or three extra years with her, and

He’s still alive.

and she’s gone, she’s gone, and now I have all this love and no place to put it.

I carefully take the headphones from around my neck and set them in front of me.

“Well,” Josh Larson says to me, sighing deeply but smiling, “I’m glad we could give you twenty minutes of peace.”

I look at him, and then I stare down at my lap, and I realize he’s right. For twenty minutes I’ve been in another place – in its own fucked way it was safe there – and now I’m back. I nod.

———

This is admittedly a pretty audacious effort, to invent an entire game narrative about this one event that – how can I say this in a gracious way – hasn’t transpired yet. Yet.

This is an ugly truth, but look. This is probably coming. I’m sorry. This is a game about something that is only inevitably coming.

But it’s coming for all of us.

And that is the loveliest thing about That Dragon, Cancer: we will all meet this thing, or have already met it. Maybe that should be scary, but That Dragon, Cancer is about sustaining the hope and joy of life for just as long as we can.

I like poetry. That Dragon, Cancer is entirely made up of poetry. An old poetry professor of mine is waiting to die of some rare blood cancer. The wonderful thing about his certain-death cancer is, he could die tomorrow, or he could die at ninety. “Certain death” is incredibly silly that way.

What was it e.e. cummings said? It was some line of poetry. How did it go? It went something like, “for life’s not a paragraph. And death I think is no parenthesis.” I have no idea what it means; I just like it.

———

I was confused. Wasn’t there anything else to do? I scanned my cursor across the ICU.

I wasn’t sure I’d found the demo’s end, and then I remembered those strange words: “Thank you.”

I nodded and took the headphones off, and then I looked for Josh.

———

Follow Jenn Frank on Twitter @Jennatar. Learn more about That Dragon, Cancer at the development blog.

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Bioshock: Infinite - Ein Quantenmärchen

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Prolog:

Es wäre eine lohnenswerte Aufgabe, die Geschichte des First-Person-Shooters als Spiegelbild des globalen Unterbewussten zu analysieren, oder zumindest als Ausdruck eines kleinen, westlichen, sehr speziellen Subsets des kulturellen gesellschaftlichen Geistesmilieus.

Es braucht nicht viel Fantasie, um George Bush und den War on Terror mit Modern Warfare zusammenzudenken - verschwistert mit 24, das im Übrigen auf schizophrene Weise genau so reaktionär ist, wie alle das meinen, die es sich nie ansehen würden, und zugleich so zynisch reflektiert, dass man schon wieder Respekt davor haben muss: Beide Pop-Produkte, CoD wie 24, spiegeln jene Jahre wider, in denen auch intelligente Menschen der abgeklärt-gehässigen Realpolitik verfielen, weil sie keine Wahl sahen. Gibt es eine schönere Parallele als jene zwischen neokonservativer Real(öl)politik und Schlauchdesign mit integrierter zynischer Zitatedrescherei, zwischen technischem Overkill durch den Death from Above bei gleichzeitiger maximaler Unübersichtlichkeit aus der Froschperspektive?
Ein Bild fürs Gaming nach 9/11: CoD

Oder in der Far Cry-Reihe, in der sich weniger eine gesellschaftliche als vielmehr eine individuelle Wandlung zeigt, vom Kind zum Teenagerrebellen bis hin zur ersten Post-Education-Crisis Anfang, Mitte 20: Vom eigentlich heiteren, ja unschuldigen Fantasy-Horrortrip des ersten Teils, in dem vom Setting bis zum Hawaiihemd alles Eskapismus atmet, über Teil 2, dessen düsteres Zitieren von Conrads Heart of Darkness der kindlichen Leichtigkeit den Rücken kehrte, bis hin zu Teil 3, der zwar seinem Schreiber zufolge von der Identitätskrise seiner Millennial-Zielgruppe selbst handeln soll, stattdessen aber selbst, als wild zusammengewürfelter Haufen von nach Aufmerksamkeit schreienden Zielgruppenmaximierungsversuchen, die Identitätskrise der AAA-Branche wiedergibt?

Vom tatsächlichen virtuellen Urlaub im Inselparadies über eine abgefuckte Politthrillersafari mit abgeklärtem Fatalismus bis hin zu einer angeblichen Mediensatire, die ihrerseits ihren Rezipienten abgeklärten Fatalismus unterstellen wollte, das aber vor lauter Rummelplatz nur bedingt schafft - da sage noch einer, dass ein Medium, in dem Kopfschüsse an virtuellen Menschen eine Hauptrolle spielen, keine Analyse wert sind.

Prolog Ende.

Bioshock: Entscheidungsfreiheit, und dann doch nicht.

Bioshock und Bioshock: Infinite nehmen eine interessante Rolle in einer derartigen Betrachtungsreihe ein, denn wo Modern Warfare eine plumpe Karikatur von FOX News-Geopolitik und patriotischen Realismus(c) vortäuscht und eine flache Schießbude und Propaganda anbietet; wo Far Cry angeblich Kolonialismusgeschichte behandelt und von seinem Autor in Interviews als tiefsinnige Mediensatire gerechtfertigt wird, aber eigentlich vom Urlaub handelt; da erzählt uns Ken Levine von Schlössern in den Wolken oder auf dem Meeresboden, lässt uns Bienen und Raben aus den Händen zaubern und spricht dennoch von Soziologie, Philosophie, Politik und Revolution.

In Bioshock geht es um die Frage nach der Möglichkeit, sich frei zu entscheiden, sein Schicksal selbst zu bestimmen.

In der Bioshock-Reihe geht es dann auch um nichts weniger als die Frage nach der Möglichkeit, sich frei zu entscheiden, sein Schicksal selbst zu bestimmen - und wie weit man als Mensch dem eigenen Selbst und wie weit seinen Mitmenschen verpflichtet ist. Andrew Ryan, der Errichter der untergegangenen Gesellschaftsutopie Rapture, ist in Teil 1 als Beinahe-Anagramm der SF-Autorin Ayn Rand eine eminent politische Figur; wer wissen will, wie Ayn Rands Ideen die US-amerikanische Politik des 20. Jahrhunderts geprägt haben, sei eindringlich auf Adam Curtis’ fantastische Dokureihe “All Watched Over By Machines of Loving Grace” verwiesen. Ken Levine erteilt in Bioshock diesem sehr amerikanischen Mythos vom Do-it-yourself-Übermenschen eine grotesk überzeichnete Absage, dessen “Greed is Good”-Mentalität als glorifizierter Egoismus nur in den Wahnsinn münden kann.
Bioshock: Objektivismus und Neoliberalismus im Abgrund

Im Rückblick kann man etwa den ersten Teil aus dem Jahr 2007 auch als düstere Parabel auf die sich bereits abzeichnende reale Krise des Finanzsystems sehen. Die politische Utopie der Unterwasserstadt Rapture beruhte immerhin auf dem von Ayn Rand und so manchen Marktphilosophen vehement vertretenen Freiheitsversprechen des Laissez-Faire-Kapitalismus, in dem der Mensch, befreit von allen moralischen und staatlichen Einschränkungen, nach objektiven Gesetzmäßigkeiten durch seinen Egoismus automatisch zum Wohl aller handeln würde. Das grandiose Scheitern dieses Projekts war die Kulisse des ersten Teils, die (Un-)Möglichkeit freier Willensentscheidung das Thema, das - klar - in einem interaktiven Medium noch zusätzlich besondere Bedeutung erlangte.

Bioshock 2 verdüstert die inzwischen bekannte Kulisse noch weiter und variiert das Thema: Zehn Jahre später ist Rapture eine Ruine, ein zerfallendes Monument des Größenwahns. An die Stelle des Industriellen Andrew Ryan tritt die Psychologin Sofia Lamb, die mit ihrer esoterischen Mischung aus Kommunismus und Kollektivismus-Heilslehre die radikale Abkehr vom Kult des Individualismus predigt - ihr tritt der Spieler als “Big Daddy” Delta entgegen, ein Perspektivenwechsel, der die Stahlkolosse aus Teil eins zum Protagonisten auf der Suche nach einer, seiner eigenen Tochter macht.

Bioshock 2: Religiöser Kollektivismuswahn

Es ist die Pointe von Bioshock 2, dass der kollektivistischen Gesellschaftsphilosophie in Gestalt des Spielers ein Gegenmodell geboten wird: In dem verqueren Patchwork-Familiendrama stiftet die morbid-vertraute Beziehung zwischen “Big Daddy” und “Little Sisters” den Sinn, der der gewohnt mordlüsternen Bewohnerschar Raptures in ihrem Sektenwahn fehlt.

Ist Bioshock 1 somit dem absehbaren Zusammenbruch des Gier-Kapitalismus gewidmet, problematisiert Teil 2 - an dem Ken Levine übrigens nicht beteiligt war - den jedem Amerikaner ohnedies suspekten Kollektivismus, der in Form von Sofia Lambs Psychosekte, die den Egoismus abschaffen will, als überdrehte Antipode zu Ryans Objektivismus ebenso zu verdammen ist. Objektivismus, Kollektivismus, alles dem Menschen nicht adäquat - es ist nicht das Politische, das Großgesellschaftliche, sondern stets die Familie, das intim Persönliche, in dem sich unsere Leben erfüllen.

Warnung: Ab hier Infinite-Spoilers!

Natürlich sind beide Szenarien holzschnittartige Skizzen, die hauptsächlich deshalb bei Spielern so viel Eindruck hinterlassen haben, weil man - geben wir’s zu - im Medium Spiele schon in Freudentränen ausbrechen muss, wenn einmal nicht alle Klischees aus der C-Movie-Ecke zum Einsatz kommen. Bioshock Infinite geht in gewisser Weise nun sogar wieder einen Schritt hinter die beiden Vorgänger zurück: Die Entscheidungsfreiheit zwischen den beiden wiederum als gleich abstoßend gezeichneten Kontrahenten - zwischen dem rassistisch-patriotischen Religionsfundamentalismus von Zachary Comstock und dem barbarisch wütenden Anarcho-Kommunismus des entfesselten Vox Populi - ist dem Spieler abgenommen, die Überzeichnung beider Extreme lässt jede Frage nach den jeweiligen Standpunkten illusorisch werden.

Infinite nimmt die Frage nach der Willensfreiheit sozusagen offiziell ganz aus der Spielerhand.

Levine verlagert die Frage aus Bioshock 1 - Können wir uns frei entscheiden? - diesmal auch formal in die Narration und nimmt sie somit gleich sozusagen offiziell ganz aus der Spielerhand. Das ist konsequent, denn immerhin hatte Bioshock 1 ja auch - eine der IMHO als Cutscene vertanen Chancen des Spiels - als zentrale Szene die Verneinung der Willensfreiheit, sozusagen den von mir schon wiederholt thematisierten digitalen Determinismus demonstriert: Wir schlagen Ryan dank der magischen Worte ganz automatisch per Cutscene den Schädel ein. Konsequenter wäre es gewesen, auch hier den Spieler selbst zuschlagen zu lassen - ich wette, jeder hätt’s früher oder später getan.  Entscheidungsfreiheit täuschte Teil 1 selbst nur in seiner letztlich belanglosen Entscheidung zwischen “Ernten” und “Retten” der Little Sisters vor - und wie bei Mass Effect 3, nur ohne den Shitstorm, gab’s dafür am Ende drei verschiedenfarbige Cutscenes zu sehen. Tja.

Infinite nun lässt diese unwürdige Scharade fallen und bleibt letztlich völlig linear - dafür kreist es vielmehr thematisch, in seiner gesamten Erzählung um den Moment der Entscheidung. Die Quantenphysik, jenes esoterische Allheilmittel für Plotholes aller Größen, macht’s möglich, dass wir am Ende trotz wiederholter Kehrtwenden, unlogischer Auflösungen und völlig haarsträubender, jeder Ratio widersprechender narrativer Auffahrunfälle mit offenem Mund dasitzen und uns dennoch nicht betrogen fühlen - ein nicht zu verachtendes Kunststück.

Infinite zeigt, wie sich, je nach Entscheidung, die Welt in Parallelen aufspaltet: Hier Booker, der wiedergetauft als Comstock zum Tyrannen wird; da Booker, der die Taufe verweigert und dadurch gezwungen wird, seine Tochter der Paralleldimension zu verkaufen. Die Vermittler zwischen diesen Welten sind die Lutece-Geschwister, ein quantentechnisch aufgespaltetes Transgenderphänomen und Running Gag des Spiels, und auch Rapture findet Platz in einer grandiosen Schlusssequenz, die so viel von großem Kino hat, dass man sich als Spieler fast unweigerlich ein bisschen ums eigene Medium fürchten muss: Das ist zweifellos meisterhaft, und es ist ohne Frage eine auch philosophisch und thematisch stimmige Weiterentwicklung der Ideen der Serie - als Spiel selbst stagniert Infinite aber  dadurch, dass die Erzählung so sehr gegenüber den Entscheidungen der Spieler die Oberhand behält, unbestritten auf hohem Niveau.

Wer - wie ich - anlässlich jüngerer Hochglanzreleases schon seine Zweifel hatte, ob “Triple-A”, also das mit Millionenkosten produzierte Topsegment der Gamesindustrie, vor lauter Zielgruppenoptimierung noch das Zeug zur Innovation hat, darf mit Bioshock: Infinite aufatmen: Wenn schon, wie hier, Millionen in die Spielproduktion investiert werden, dann kann man das nicht nur sehen - und zwar nicht unbedingt an der grafisch adäquaten, aber keineswegs Bäume ausreißenden Unreal Engine 3, sondern an Art Design und grandioser Architekturvision -, sondern in mitreißendem Storytelling und narrativem Anspruch tatsächlich erleben. (Als Spiel selbst, also in seinen interaktiven Mechaniken, ist Infinite solide - aber nicht mehr.)

Und trotz allem, und das soll jetzt nicht als zwanghaftes Herummäkeln an einem immerhin auch von mir hymnisch besprochenen Ausnahmespiel gewertet werden, geht Infinite einen weiteren Schritt hinter die kühne Idee des im ersten Teil der Reihe auch nicht gehaltenen Versprechens zurück. Dass der Spieler als handelnde Kraft irgendeine Entscheidungsfreiheit hätte, wird nicht einmal mehr, wie in Teil 1,  als Pointe verneint, sondern stillschweigend im Quantenstrudel einer zweifellos beeindruckenden, aber letztlich auch vor just dieser Herausforderung eines eigentlich interaktiven Mediums resignierenden Schlusssequenz achselzuckend hingenommen. Es ist eine gute Show, ohne Zweifel; aber eine, in der wir zusehen und nicht selbst mitspielen.

Vielleicht wäre in irgendeinem der unendlichen Quantenuniversen, in die uns Elizabeth einen Blick werfen lässt, unsere eigene Entscheidung als Spieler gefragt gewesen. In diesem ist sie es jedenfalls nicht.

Verfasst von rainer sigl am 5. April 2013 - 1:42

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BioShock Infinite Is Insanely, Ridiculously Violent. It's A Real Shame.

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Okay, it’s time to talk about it. About what, you ask? About how totally bananas the violence in BioShock Infinite is.

The beginning of this game is astonishing. Flat-out. It’s one of the most effective, intoxicating game-introductions I’ve seen in recent memory.

So let’s to do an exercise. Let’s imagine watching the opening of the game as if we’d never played a video game before.

For this exercise, you’re not a person who plays games. You’re just some person. You like movies and TV, you like stories, and you’re interested in seeing what this game is all about. Maybe you heard about it on NPR, or saw a big story in the New York Times. It got you curious.

You fire up the game.

Opening scene: You’re on a boat, in the rain.

The people on the boat are speaking in riddles, and you’re already intrigued.

You enter a lighthouse.

S

It’s all religious portent…

S

…reflections in the holy water…

S

…Dang this is cool. You come upon a guy who has been tied to a chair and shot.

S

Okay, kind of bloody… the blood on the floor seems a bit over the top… but hey, alright. Dude is dead. Moving right along. You ring some bells at the top of the tower, Close Encounters-style, and crazy red light fills the clouds.

S

Then you climb aboard a rocket ship:

S

and launch into the clouds, where you see this:

S

accompanied by what is just the most haunting, lovely piano theme. You go through a place that looks like this:

S

And it’s all so beautiful and mysterious, and then you come into the city and it looks like this:

S

And at this point you’re pretty much like:

And you can just walk around drinking it in, and you’re eating all kinds of candy and hot dogs and there’s this amazing carnival tutorial section where you can launch magic at a hidden devil and there are posters, so many posters, posters everywhere, you read them all and see all these names and brands and colors, and you keep having to just sort of stop and stare, and there are flowers everywhere, and a woman offers to sell you a flower to stick in your lapel and then there’s this huge robot dude standing there and oh my god it’s a barbershop quartet singing the Beach Boys and whaaat…

S

…I mean you’re probably in full-on overwhelm here, you’ve got mysterious twins offering you weird choices, a telegram with a weirder prediction, and a sign telling people that there’s a “false shepherd”…

S

…with a mark on his hand that matches the mark on your hand and there’s just so much and it’s all so cool and then you go to the raffle and suddenly oh wow, they’re asking you to throw a baseball at an interracial couple, which is, dang, that is loaded imagery…

S

…but okay, you choose to try to throw the baseball at the announcer instead, the jerk, and then you get grabbed, and tussle with two cops, and then…

…um…

…well then, this happens:

You grab one police officer and RAM HIS FUCKING FACE INTO A SPINNING BLADE and like, BLOOD AND SKULL-CHUNKS BLOW EVERYWHERE and WOW what in the world and then everyone starts shooting and then this happens:

S

S

S

…what the shit just…

S

…er…

…Holy SHIT…

…Okay, okay. Let’s come back to reality, stop pretending we’ve never played a video game, or that we weren’t expecting this. But it was a worthwhile exercise. Here’s why:

BioShock Infinite is in many ways so, so close to being That Game, the one we can show to our non-gamer friends and say “See? Look at this! It is so awesome! Check out the story! It’s like LOST! How neat is this?” But it’s not That Game, because it’s so hilariously, egregiously violent that a large number of people will never give it a chance.

Plenty of others are voicing similar thoughts. Over at Polygon, Chris Plante has written a smart op-ed about how Infinite’s violence limits its audience, including his wife:

Levine has been outspoken about his ambition to please both the meathead and the brainiac since the release of the original BioShock. But what about my wife? What about the people who can stomach only so much aggressive violence and unchecked cruelty? Defenders of the game’s violence have compared BioShock Infinite to Christopher Nolan’s Batman movies, which melded together the cerebral indie aesthetic and the mind-numbing blockbuster spectacle. But every comic lover knows the difference between Booker DeWitt and Batman. Batman doesn’t kill people.

I tend to look for games that I could show to my sister, and have a similar feeling to Plante about Infinite. I wish I could show her this game, but after about the hour-mark, I’d lose her attention. She’d see the absolutely insane violence of the melee kills and say “Well, this is dumb,” and get up to go do something else.

Over at his personal blog, former Epic design director (and Gears of War maestro) Cliff Bleszinski wrote a thoughtful post about the game, which he very much liked. In it, he mentions the violence:

So, the guy that brought you a chainsaw gun would now like to get on his soap box about violence. Have fun judging me.

This is one of the few games that I’ve loved that I felt the violence actually detracted from the experience. The first time I dug my skyhook into someone I actually winced. I love shocking people in these games (it’s not called BioShootBeesAtThem) and I found that nearly every foe I zapped to death had their heads explode, Gallagher style. After the 400th head I was like “come on, already!”

Funny, right? That I’d say that? I know, it’s weird. Maybe it’s the fact that they did such a fantastic job of making this nuanced world that hitting you over the head with those moments felt out of place for me.

When the guy whose game featured a reverse up-the-crotch chainsaw melee kill is telling you your game is too violent, it might be worth listening.

Over at Buzzfeed, writer Joseph Bernstein has voiced a similar complaint, pointing out how some of the game’s most interesting storytelling moments are muddled, seeing as how they’re told via ultraviolence (spoilers):

The penultimate stretch of the game involves coming to terms with the memory of a dead character. Again, it’s an important story moment, one that calls out for a sensitive handling. Instead of solving a puzzle, or navigating dialog, or any of the ways that you might be expected to confront long-suppressed emotional pain, the ghost challenges you to three long and frustrating gunfights. Yes, you shoot a bazooka at childhood trauma. In most games, absurdities like this don’t bother us, because we don’t expect much from most games. In BioShock Infinite moments like these, when the demands of genre bleed into the narrative, we feel disappointed, even betrayed.

The guys at Penny Arcade point out the problem in their own way:

S

And on, and on. Yesterday, I wrote an analysis of Infinite’s combat that took the violence as a given, and simply talked about why, in my opinion, the shooting doesn’t work all that well. But even then, it’s difficult to talk about the game’s combat without talking about the elephant in the room: The fact that by simply existing, the violence harms the game.

Smartly using our (new! exciting!) image-annotation system, Brainy Gamer blogger Michael Abbott “pointed” to the real problem with Infinite’s combat, which he says isn’t the pacing or shield regeneration, but rather the fact that it exists at all. Here’s Abbott:

Brilliant as the game is - and as earnestly as it tries to explore social-political issues - Infinite is tethered to its mechanical nature as a shooter in ways that undermine its aspirations. It’s possible to love the game for all it does (and tries to do), but still feel smothered by its insistence that so much of my experience is delivered staring down the barrel of a gun or other destructive weapon. The issue for me isn’t about being pro or anti shooting games; it’s about how standard FPS design limits the narrative possibilities of a game that clearly aspires to dig deep. How might I have behaved, and how might I have reflected on Infinite’s provocative world had I not spent so much time shooting or avoiding being shot? The game’s story isn’t really about shooting at all, but the player’s lived story is, and that collision is hard to overcome.

But what of Infinite’s creative director? Back in February, Stephen sat down with Ken Levine and among other questions, asked him why this game had to be about shooting people. Levine’s answer was as lengthy as it was, frankly, impenetrable:

“In terms of the shooting, it’s weird, right? Games have this interesting thing. When you see some people experimenting, like Kentucky Route Zero and stuff like that where they are starting to experiment with sort of not having a game element or even Walking Dead has a really reduced element. My problem is, I like games. I like challenge. I like having a skill component of it. And so what is that skill component? It is weird in some ways that all of a sudden you bust out a gun and start shooting. It would make sense maybe in a [Levine interrupts himself] but the scale and the amount of shooting that you have is heightened obviously, but, you know, so is Indiana Jones. The dude is an archeologist and he’s busting caps in people’s asses left and right. He probably kills 100 people in that thing.”

“It’s a limitation of the medium,” Levine said. “I can sit down and write a scene about just about anything. It’s really tough to make a game about any particular topic. You go see a movie like Margin Call, which is a fascinating exploration of how emotionally and the kind of pressures that led to the financial meltdown were on people. To turn that into a game would be a real head-scratcher. But to turn it into a movie is really a function of: can you write a good movie about it? Because you don’t need that skill component, and you don’t need to sort of train people on the systems and things like that [as you do] in games.

“So we tend to have fewer forms in the game space. One of the nice advantages of a form is that it’s a skill-set that people have acquired. And remember that if you hand a controller to somebody who has never played a first-person shooter, it’s not something you were born with. So, you know there are certain advantages it gives you.”

Okay, so people know how to play shooting games, and it’s good to have a skill element to a game. But with a game as thematically and creatively ambitious as BioShock Infinite, is that really a strong answer? Particularly if, as Levine says at the end there, it presupposes that anyone who will enjoy your game must first have the requisite first-person shooter skills?

My inner cynic, of course, says that BioShock Infinite is a shooter because shooters are relatively safe from a marketing perspective. Shooters sell, and there was a lot of money riding on this game selling a lot of copies. But even that feels like a possibly unnecessary abdication of artistic license. Particularly because one of the best things about The Walking Dead, which Levine also cited, was that I could recommend it to anyone. And hell, that was a game with no shortage of extreme gore (though the gore itself felt more congruous with the game’s setting and source material). I loved how I could recommend The Walking Dead to friends without having to ask if they were familiar with first-person control scheme, with thumbstick navigation, with how iron-sights worked.

There are really two issues here: The fact that Infinite is a shooter, and the extremity of the violence it depicts. The further I get from the game and the more I replay it, the clearer it becomes: BioShock Infinite is a daring, audacious game held back by its reliance on the gun in the middle of the screen. What if it had been a first-person exploration and adventure game? What if there had been less shooting, and more puzzles and traversal? What if Booker had been more of an actual private investigator, rather than a commando for hire?

And even if we accept that Infinite had to be a first-person shooter, did it really need to be this violent? It makes sense to create some awful sort of counterpoint to the opulent brilliance of Columbia, to frame shocking violence against the bright blue skies and breathtaking vistas. But the violence here, in the melee kills in particular, just doesn’t quite work. It feels indulgent and leering, like a concession to a perceived audience that may not even exist. Who really wanted sick badass head-trauma in this game? Not me, anyway.

Put another way, it’s hard not to wish the game had more of this:

and less of this:

It’s too bad that Infinite has to be a case-study in unnecessary video game violence, but perhaps it’s good to have a case-study that feels so definitive. The ridiculous violence stands out in such sharp relief when placed against the game’s thoughtful story and lovely world. Hopefully, Infinite’s immense popularity will inspire other game-makers (or even Levine, in his next game!) to try something different, and to give a story like this the framing and support it deserves.

And in the meantime, hey, I’m actually okay with ripping digital heads off, as far as it goes. I’ve been playing video games for ages, after all. But I think I’ll hold off just a little while longer before I start calling my sister into the room.

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Tom Bissell interviews Ken Levine, the mind behind 'BioShock'

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Does the Sneaker Have to Matter?

An interview with Ken Levine, the mind behind BioShock

Last winter, I received an interesting invitation. Would I, and my video-game-writing partner, Rob Auten, like to travel to Boston to spend a weekend playing a complete but not yet fully polished build of BioShock Infinite, the spiritual successor to BioShock, which is among the most beloved first-person shooters of all time? After our playthrough, we were told Ken Levine, the writer and creative director behind the BioShock franchise, wanted to have a chat, writer-to-writer-to-writer, about what we thought. Now, if you’re at all interested in action video games, video-game writing, or video-game narrative, this was a little like being summoned to a screening of a 90 percent–edited version of Citizen Kane and having lunch with Orson Welles afterward.

Obviously, we went. I struggled with aspects of BioShock Infinite’s opening. Rob loved it without a qualm. Rob struggled with aspects of its ending. I loved it without hesitation. We sat in Irrational Games’s test lab for two hours, arguing over our interpretations of what the game meant, what it was trying to say, how we felt. Before long, reality set in: This is not what typically happens after playing a shooter.

The average action game doesn’t much traffic in thematic grandiosity, but the BioShock games are different. They’re tense (and sometimes silly) red-blooded shooters, yes, but they’ve got moody, restive brains. They’re interested in what happens when a harpoon pins a dude to the wall, yes, but they’re equally interested in the collision of racism and history, certainty and philosophy, nationalism and fate. They’ve also got an unparalleled sense of style, as if William Van Alen, Frederic Remington, H. R. Giger, and Duke Nukem were all banished to the same hive mind.

The first BioShock involved descending into an underwater city named Rapture, a kind of libertarian paradise run by the cruel, paranoid madman Andrew Ryan (imagine Ayn Rand without the sense of humor). Infinite takes you up into the sky, to Columbia, a flying city run by Zachary Comstock, a Mosaically bearded, Joseph Smith–like preacher. Like Rapture, Columbia is an authoritarian place, prey to a disquietingly plausible ring-wing theocracy based on worship of the Founding Fathers. While there, you will fight robot George Washington and not laugh.

The day after we played Infinite, Ken met with Rob and me. At that point, I’d been “working in video games,” in some capacity, for two years. Listening to Ken talk about his process, and his goals, I learned more in four hours than I did in the preceding 24 months.

Ken agreed to have another chat with me about BioShock Infinite, and much else, on the eve of its publication.

As you know, a lot of people consider the first BioShock to be one of the signal games of this console generation. I’m curious as to what your feelings on the game are today.

Well, that’s sort of a multitiered question. I mean, there’s my feelings of it as a game. It’s always hard, as a writer, to have a decent, objective sense of your own work. I try to be as objective as possible. I think it certainly was a special game, in the sense of the aesthetic. I think it delivered really well on that. From a story perspective, I think it had a really, really special moment — the Ryan thing. The Ryan thing, the Big Daddy–Little Sister attraction, and the world were probably the things that were most special about it.

From a gameplay perspective, it was an interesting game, if not a totally polished game. But it was trying to do different things. I would rather try something and not hit it 1,000 percent than do what the other guy is doing and hit it on the mark. It felt special at the time, when we were working on it. The team who did it — we’ll always be bonded together because of that experience, because it was very personal and weird and scary to work on. All of us are still scratching our heads. We don’t really understand why it was as successful as it was.

Well, you make games that have all the trappings of a blockbuster — in term of sparkle, budget, and scope — but if you look at all closely, you realize that what you’re doing is actually quite strange and conceptually audacious. It’s sort of like what Terrence Malick does, only video-game-ized. That’s a risky line to walk. Are you conscious of that?

Objectively, what I do is strange, in the sense that if you looked at it and wrote a description of it — the themes and the setting and the time period — it would come across as rather strange. But probably no stranger than a lot of games. Assassin’s Creed is really strange in its own way. Games generally are strange, let alone all the indie games, which are really strange.

Games are strange because we don’t know what the form is yet. We’re just figuring that out as we go along. So we have only strangeness, to some degree. I’ve been spending a lot of time this week trying to talk to some very mainstream press about the game, like Studio 360. The host was so game and so enthusiastic, and really was there and engaged. To some degree, though, because of his level of experience with games, it had to be strange for him, in the same way that it would be strange for me talking about wine or something. Because I don’t drink a lot of wine.

I was showing the game to my mom the other day, and there are parts of it that she deeply appreciates. But keeping it in her head that it was a first-person view, that she was Booker, was a very complicated, weird bit of math for her to do. Not because she’s dumb — she’s incredibly smart — but because she just didn’t grow up with that game literacy.

When it comes to atmosphere, your games are extraordinary. It seems to me that a lot of narrative stuff in games is put to better use as atmosphere than as exposition. Do you agree that atmosphere in games is really its own kind of story? I mean, if the atmosphere’s good, who gives a shit what the story is? The player’s already there.

When I was working on Thief with Doug Church, way, way back in the day, we always said that vibe was more important than story. I think that’s the same thing as what you’re saying. Put the player in an interesting world and make him feel like there’s interesting things around the corner. That’s way more important than specific details about what’s going on.

There are gamers, certainly, who really dig into the details, and God love ‘em, because they’re the ones you get to sit down and talk with in depth about your game story. But people need a sense of what’s going on, and it’s our job as writers to make sure they have enough of a sense so it doesn’t become a barrier. Just put them in a world with as much visual information as you can, without overwhelming them, and let them bathe in it.

When we were in Boston, you mentioned that Infinite had been several other games before this one. I remember being so struck by that — the amount of abandoned work that entailed, the hell you must have gone through. Then I thought about the books I’ve written and how none of them turned out the way I envisioned them. You’re bringing to game production a novelist’s sense of revision, almost, but that must be hard when we’re talking about throwing out not only your own hard work but that of 150 other people, too.

I get this question from journalists who aren’t necessarily novelists. A novelist knows, basically, that what you’re putting down on the page the first time is just prelude. It’s just the way you get rolling. I was listening to an interview with P.T. Anderson about The Master, and he was talking about the auditing scene, where Philip Seymour Hoffman keeps asking, “Do you hate yourself? Do you hate yourself?” Anderson said, before he had a movie, he just started writing that scene. He wanted to get two characters in a room talking.

That shows a real writer at work. How do you get something started? Get something interesting on the page, and then hopefully you work from there. When you’re starting that way, you don’t have any expectation that that’s what you’re going to be putting on the screen. Well, in that case it was, or at least a version of it was. But you have to understand that everything you do along the way is a tool toward achieving a product. If it fits in the box of what you’re trying to make, it stays. If it doesn’t, then you should happily throw it away.

Now, as the president of Irrational, I think that’s probably easier for me to say, because I’m the one who decides what stays and what gets thrown away. But I certainly throw away my own stuff with abandon. If it’s not right, it goes. It’s not without cost, but I find that the people who are the most experienced at Irrational tend to be the most comfortable with throwing stuff away.

Here’s the weird thing, to me, about BioShock. It draws in first-person-shooter nuts who love to electrocute people and set them on fire. It also draws in the disaffected philosophy PhD candidate and gives him something to think about while running amok. A belief of mine is that shooters are made for naughty children, and we all like to become naughty children sometimes. When a shooter can take that mischievous core impulse and enrich it with something that feels genuinely thoughtful, well, that’s lightning in a bottle, isn’t it?

Look, I can’t say I’m a man of high taste. I’m a man of low taste. I like action movies and comic books — not that all comic books are of low taste. Not that all action movies are of low taste. I like things exploding. I like candy and cookies. I’m not a sophisticate in any way, shape, or form. My wife and I live the lives of 14-year-old kids; we just happen to be married and have enough disposable income that we don’t necessarily have a bedtime. If I could sit around and eat pizza and ice cream — and not fancy pizza — and watch Lord of the Rings and play video games, I’m a pretty happy guy.

But you also wrote a video game in which Pinkertons and Wounded Knee are foundational aspects of the game story. Pinkertons! When I played Infinite, I heard the word “Pinkertons” and thought, How many people know that’s something other than Weezer’s second album? I was stunned that strikebreaking goons from U.S. labor history were suddenly muscling their way into my shooter.

I probably tuned into the Pinkertons watching Deadwood, which is another show of lowbrow/highbrow combination. It’s a very thoughtful, smart show that just happens to have a lot of gunfights.

The underwater businessman philosopher Andrew Ryan was BioShock’s unforgettable villain. Now, in Infinite, we’ve got the equally memorable Comstock. Your villains feel very mythic to me, self-consciously so. Am I correct in assuming that traditional video game villainy doesn’t interest you at all?

I spend a lot of time — a lot of time — watching and rewatching scenes from movies that are particularly meaningful to me. And the best villains, the best scenes of any movie ever, are usually the ones where the villain and hero are in close proximity. The best scenes with the Joker in The Dark Knight are the scenes where the Joker and Batman are locked in a room together. It’s a romance, almost. If you look at Batman and the Joker, if you’re not seeing the Joker’s sort of in love with Batman, you’re missing the point of the scene. There’s danger that underlies everything, but there’s this great dialogue going on at the same time. I’ve always loved villains, but I’ve never liked the mustache twirlers.

In that sense, both BioShock and Infinite are about the messiness that results from supposedly ironclad philosophies. You have these worlds and these villains who are obsessed with order, and a player who makes it all go to hell. What attracts you to dramatizing totalist philosophies?

They’re comforting. People who want answers want someone to come along and tell them, “This is what we’re going to do, and it’s going to be awesome. Don’t worry. You sit back. I’ll drive.” We all want that in a lot of ways. There’s so many times I’ve had people come in and say to me, “I’m going to handle all this.” People who haven’t earned my trust yet. I’m so desperate sometimes that I hand them that trust — and I almost always end up regretting it. But I go back each time, handing over that trust to people who haven’t earned it yet, because it’s so tempting. You want to let go.

Being an adult is realizing that there’s no Mommy and Daddy. I think, to have these characters who fill that role of Mommy and Daddy — there’s something very appealing about it. It takes so much of the burden away from you. But with that burden goes a lot of other things.

You’ve said the heart of Bioshock Infinite is Elizabeth. Booker, the player’s character, goes to the flying city of Columbia to rescue her. But neither Booker nor the player is intended to take care of or protect Elizabeth. Can you talk about how she came to you and how she changed over the course of development?

I’m not sure when we first realized we were going to have a partner for Booker. It evolved from a companion to a partner — that’s the key thing. Because, generally, there are sidekicks in games. We realized Booker wasn’t going to be silent, because we felt like we had already done that too many times, and it seemed odd to have a talking character with no one to talk to.

We started by saying that he had a companion, and she became more and more important every day: “What if she was the center of the story?” “What if she had all these powers?” And as we thought about Booker … it is his story to some degree, but it’s very much her story, too. The more I wrote her, and the more [actor] Courtnee [Draper] brought her voice to it, the more we fell in love with her, the more we saw her in the world, and saw the things she was capable of doing, and saw her wonder and engagement in the world — her reactions to things. Generally you don’t have that in a first-person shooter. Generally it’s just a lot of AIs [non-playable characters empowered by artificial intelligence] running around really fast: “Here’s your story starring your gun and a guy running sixty miles per hour.” And so with Elizabeth we kept digging deeper and doubling down and doubling down and doubling down.

We saw an opportunity to actually build an emotional connection for the player, via this character of Booker, to this AI named Elizabeth. That was a challenge to take on, and an interesting one. There’s a guy named Tim Austin in my office who was a programmer back in the day — way back in the day — and then he became a designer. He ended up as a designer-programmer on this project. Very early on, he was influential. He said, basically, “Elizabeth always has to be there as an assistant and never as a burden.” Because people do not want a burden. If Microsoft Word woke you up at three in the morning and started crying and you had to feed it, you would stop using Microsoft Word. A relationship is different from an obligation. And I think, generally, AI companions are obligations, not relationships. We tried to make her as much of a relationship as possible. We kept pushing on ways she could help you, and the ways that you could empathize with her. That became the mission of the game. Every time we had Elizabeth doing something, it was always under that lens of: Is she a relationship or a burden?

This reminds me of how weird, generally speaking, writing for games is. It’s well known that you started as a screenwriter. After writing a game myself now, I’ve become convinced that the storytelling methods that a lot of Hollywood screenwriters swallow unreservedly — in particular, three-act structure — don’t work at all for games. When you try to project that matrix of story conceptualization onto game narrative, it doesn’t make any sense. That’s my belief. I wonder how you feel.

I’m actually pretty old-school. I definitely rely on three-act structures for games. And I don’t know if that’s because it’s a good thing to do or because it’s just what I’m familiar with. BioShock has a definite three-act structure. The first act is you try to get to the submarine. The second act is your plan to get to Ryan, and that whole situation gets screwed up. That throws you into your third act, which is when the rules completely change, you find out who you are, and you go after Atlas.

Now, you could argue that three-act structure didn’t serve that game well. Potentially, the third act wasn’t really as strong as the first and second. But I’ve generally relied upon it, probably because I’m so familiar with it. So what is your approach? What do you do?

Um, I assumed you were going to agree with me, so … now my world is thrown into disarray. I guess I would say that most of what I’ve learned about storytelling derives from novels and short stories. I cannot think of a novel or story, or a novelist or story writer, who thinks in terms of three-act structure. Literary storytelling is highly structured, of course, but you get a lot more freedom to dillydally, to dogleg, to divert, to pause. And games, due to their length and due to the fact that the player controls the pacing in so very many ways, seem to me highly similar to books, at least when it comes to how story gets processed on a neurological level. Again, though, these are the thoughts of a man whose world has been thrown into horrid disarray.

Look, I think you’re right in a sense that you’re dealing with a lot more time, the amount of detail, and the amount of interesting niggles you can put in. That’s much more like a novel. And sometimes, because I’m so used to working on games and movies, I always feel like the clock is ticking in my head, in terms of getting the story forward.

All the stuff I love most in game storytelling is never the big-picture stuff; it’s the stuff that feels like curlicues, stuff that’s just there because it’s a game and because you can do it. Like the little movies you can watch all over the world in Infinite.

That’s what I love, right? I love that you can keep adding details, keep adding detail in a way that in a movie — because in a movie, you basically have X number of frames at the end. If your movie’s an hour and fifty minutes, you’ve got to use every frame of that. And if you know anything about films, you know one of the worst things — I’m sure you’ve had this experience learning about screenwriting and the structure of films — is you realize that if they show you that sneaker in the corner of the room, that sneaker’s going to matter. They don’t have any time for it not to matter. It has to matter. And that’s depressing. Because you’re like, “Oh, shit. I guess that sneaker’s going to come into play.” Whereas if you don’t know film, it’s like, “Oh, a sneaker! Cool.” Games are still in a place where you can say, “Oh, a sneaker! Cool.”

The sneaker doesn’t have to matter.

It doesn’t have to matter. It can be something very, very small. And I think that’s why I love the form. It provides that sense of big, big narrative story — I’m allowed to have my Booker and Elizabeth going through this story, and Comstock and all the things that are going to happen — but then there’s all these little places you can go that are like, “What? Where am I?”

I’ve written about the future of narrative games here on Grantland, and one thing I’m hearing from friends within the industry is that they’re really worried that the meaty, single-player narrative games we all love — like, say, BioShock Infinite — are soon to be an endangered species, at least for a little while. That seems to be the prevailing wisdom. It depresses me.

I think it’s undeniable to say the forms in which people consume quality content change, the way they pay for it changes, and the places where they want to consume it change. Technology has been an amazingly creative and destructive force — it’s been a creatively destructive force. If you look at traditional TV shows, and people were worried about the end of the drama … remember that, a few years ago? I tend not to spend a lot of time being anxious about things. I tend to spend the time looking for opportunity. Because the Earth will turn. You can choose to try to stop it from turning, but it will turn. There are truths. The sun will go up and the sun will go down. And I think that you have to count on those truths. Quality matters. Focus on your craft.

For all I know, I’ll never get to work on another big $60 title — or the equivalent of that. Maybe there will be no economy for that. Who knows? Maybe there will be. Maybe that’s entirely the future. Maybe it’s part the future. But I’m pretty confident that talented people will be able to work on quality products. I just don’t know exactly how.

The ground is certainly shifting, though, right? And nobody seems to know where this tectonic plate is carrying us.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen a time where people are less certain. The more certainty somebody comes to you with, the more full of shit they probably are.

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Letters From Columbia: Breaking Down BioShock Infinite - Game

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This early scene from a BioShock Infinite demo doesn’t actually appear in the game. At least, not quite. Screenshot: Irrational Games

Do people still have conversations around the water cooler anymore? If so, BioShock Infinite is sure to be a hot topic of discussion wherever nerds still coalesce around beverage dispensers.

If you were at all familiar with Ken Levine and Irrational Games’ 2007 magnum opus BioShock, with its enveloping, fascinating world and its masterfully written characters, you should have expected that BioShock Infinite, the sequel nearly six years in the making, would have delivered another such experience. Days and weeks after finishing it, we can’t stop thinking about it. With so many angles to explore, we decided to have a conversation about what we took away from Infinite. I am joined by Wired fellow Jensen Toperzer and contributor John Mix Meyer. Here’s our first round of letters, with at least one more to follow.

Note: Colossal BioShock Infinite spoilers follow. Only read this if you’ve already finished the game, too!

Jensen and Mix,

So let’s get this out of the way first, as if there were any doubt: Yes, I loved BioShock Infinite. Ken Levine gets it: I don’t get the “frustrated movie director” vibe from him at all; he loves and wants to make videogames specifically. Just as with the original BioShock, Infinite‘s story is not straining against the confines of the videogame medium; it is entirely born from it. BioShock must be a videogame just as Watchmen must be a comic book, there is no separating the medium and the message (cf: Watchmen the movie).

Everyone who’s played BioShock remembers the big Manchurian-candidate twist, but what seems to be less remembered is the fact that it was all a wry commentary on videogames themselves: A voice in our ear told us what to do, and we complied. We didn’t just watch a slave carry out orders, we participated without a second thought. We remember the twist not just because it was a surprise gotcha ending but because it was actually attempting to lead the player to a real-life epiphany, it actually had a point, and when was the last time a videogame tried to do that?

So what I’m saying is I needed more out of BioShock Infinite than just a Shyamalanic twist ending. I wanted that commentary again even if I was expecting it this time, even if my encounter with it was going to be more one of appreciation than epiphany. As it turns out, I got it in the first two minutes of gameplay. As the Lutece “siblings” row you to the lighthouse, they practically ignore you, talking about you in the third person and pointing out that it wouldn’t be worth asking you to help row the boat because “he doesn’t row.” Not that he (Booker/you) won’t, but that he doesn’t. Later we understand this as part of the game’s infinite-universes mythology, in which there are variables but also constants: Even amongst the infinite possible universes, some things never change, and in none of what I presume were many different attempts by the Luteces to introduce Booker into Columbia does Booker ever pick up the oars and row.

Every videogame is a set of infinite worlds much like the one Infinite proposes, a possibility space in which there are both constants and variables. There’s an infinite number of ways that any game can be played through, but certain things will always be the same. He doesn’t row. There is no “row” button.

But then it gets even better, even trickier, almost daring you to defy it, knowing that you can’t. One of the things that bugged me about the critical scene in BioShock, in which Ryan orders Jack to bash his brains out with a golf club, was that it all happened automatically, as a cut scene. The player didn’t control it. This seemed imperfect to me. So I found it quite amusing when the boat reached the lighthouse pier, the point at which the player is supposed to take control, turn and press X to climb the ladder. If you hesitate, you hear Robert say “He’s not moving,” and Rosalind say “Don’t worry — he will.”

And of course you do. Everyone does. If you have gotten to this point in the game — mere minutes after going through the trouble of buying it, of putting it in your console, of starting it up, of watching the enigmatic introduction — are you really going to not take the first step and go up the ladder? Of course you will. There is no universe in which you do not. So where did your free will go?

I actually like the 2003 game Eternal Darkness a lot, more than most people. It has a ladder as well: One of the first things you do is play as the character who soon becomes the main antagonist, and there’s a ladder in front of him that will lead him down into the tomb where the main events of the game — horrors that will span millennia — are kicked into motion. And when you look at the ladder, you see this:

“Should Pious climb down the ladder? Yes: A; No: B”

This seemingly innocuous dialog box is actually a brilliant little trick. There’s no gameplay reason why anyone would need to press “B” at this moment; there’s nothing else in the room and nothing else to do but climb down the ladder. A more recent videogame would simply have a screen overlay that reads “A: Climb Ladder.” But here Eternal Darkness uses a gameplay mechanic to make a point: Pious, you realize a little later, should not climb down the ladder, should not set these events into motion. Written somewhat like a text adventure, the game is actually breaking the fourth wall to address you the player directly and asking your opinion: Should he do this? Is this a good idea? And by assenting, you’re implicated in everything that follows.

Having set up this little bit of foreshadowing in the opening moments of Infinite, they revisit it in Infinite‘s ending scene in the most heartbreaking way. I had a feeling that “give us the girl and wipe away the debt” wasn’t going to mean what we thought it did; I did not guess beforehand that it would refer to Booker selling his infant daughter. And of course, the game wants us to act it out, to walk to the crib, pick her up and walk her over to Robert Lutece. And we hesitate, because who wouldn’t? Surely there’s a way out of this mess without having to sell a baby. But again, the game responds to us — like the lighthouse scene, the game is speaking to the player as much as it is speaking to Booker — and if you spend a moment’s hesitation here, Elizabeth says (I am paraphrasing) “It doesn’t matter how long you wait. You do not leave this room without handing over the baby.”

And no, we don’t. How could we? After that brutal final boss fight, with so many more unresolved questions even at that moment, who would have the fortitude to shut the game off at that moment and walk away? So of course we hand over the baby. We’re in too deep. We had no choice. Press X to sell baby, press X to ruin everything.

Anyway, that was what I really wanted to write down. What impression has BioShock Infinite left on you?

Chris

Come to think of it, neither did this. Screenshot: Irrational Games

Hello Chris, Mix;

At the risk of spoiling a completely different series for everyone, “The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed.” That was my very first thought upon opening that door and seeing infinite lighthouses spiraling into the sky, fractal-like, and that was the moment at which I said yes, excellent; and it is good. A lot of people had problems with the ending of Stephen King’s The Dark Tower for many of the same reasons that people seem to have problems with BioShock: Infinite: these ideas of infinite looping, of time travel and “other worlds than these” (to keep quoting King) are difficult to swallow, difficult to parse, and difficult to reconcile (and King’s work wasn’t helped by having some rather weak links in the later books). But enough comparison, let’s speak of the work at hand.

What I liked most about Infinite’s twist is that while it asks similar questions of player agency to what the first BioShock did, it also expands upon those ideas. In the scene where you meander between the dark towers—I mean, lighthouses—you can, at one point, see other Bookers and Elizabeths off in the distance, mirroring your actions… or sometimes taking different actions. The nearest pair to you has opposite choices to you. If you chose the bird pendant for Elizabeth, the mirror will wear the cage. If you chose to wait at the train station and get yourself stabbed, your mirror has no wound, no bandaged hand. Further in the distance, the other Elizabeths and Bookers move differently; for some, she’s a little ahead, others, a little behind. One pair runs as though being chased by something dire; another waits for a time before moving. And yet, each one of them inevitably reaches the door. The paths for you along the docks even fork, and yet you still reach the door.

This mirrors the way that while each of us will play the game differently, we’re all still playing the same game. This was driven home for me by, of all things, a rather hilarious problem with the cloud save system that Infinite uses. I’ve shared my Steam account with my younger brother since I was fifteen; sharing your toys with your siblings is generally considered good form. Imagine my surprise when, a day after I started playing, I loaded up the game to find myself two chapters ahead with a completely different weapon loadout, vigour combination, and player choices made. Booker’s hand was un-bandaged because my brother had run out of patience and shot the people at the train station unprovoked. Elizabeth still wore the bird, but I was now carrying a machine gun/pistol combo instead of my favored sniper rifle/shotgun loadout. But even though my brother had made different choices, we’d still gone through the same events, we’d still gotten to the same place in the end. He’s playing the game now that I’ve beaten it, and I’m sure that at five in the morning I’m going to get a confused phone call about time shenanigans, just like how I immediately called my friends to ask them what the heck I’d just played.

And yet this is a funny message to send in a game that’s also about what can change a man’s nature. There are still huge differences between the parallel worlds. The entire universe hangs on one, single event: a baptism. In one universe, Booker refuses, flees, and never returns. In another, he comes back, he enters the water, and he is reborn a different man: the madman Comstock. One man’s a sinner tormented by his past; the other still sins but feels absolved of his crimes. It’d be difficult to argue that either one is a good man, but it’s easy to see which one at least tries to wipe away his debt, and which one would rather watch the world burn. Or is that so funny? Even then, in the end, Booker and Comstock still end up at the same place. They still end up at the river, their daughter still puts them beneath the water, and the city in the sky both did and did not exist. Schrodinger’s Cat will always be a cat. And the man in black will flee across the desert, and the gunslinger will follow.

Maybe I’m getting too poetic here. I dunno, Mix, your thoughts?

- J

Hi Jensen and Chris!

I think both of you are right on the money. This kind of ending has been done before: Martin Scorsese’s film adaptation of Shutter Island did almost the same thing. So did The Dark Tower, as Jensen pointed out. But that isn’t giving enough credit to Infinite. Within the context of a videogame, Infinite’s ultimate reveal is given more weight because it’s commenting on your experience as an active participant rather than a passive observer.

You could make comparisons all day long when discussing BioShock Infinite. For example, there’s the way Ken Levine constantly uses symmetrical designs to draw your attention to a center focal point, much like Stanley Kubrick often did in his iconic films. Then there’s the floating city of Columbia and how it’s clearly inspired by the 1893 World’s Fair in Chicago.

More than anything else, though, BioShock Infinite constantly reminded me of There Will Be Blood. Directed by Paul Thomas Anderson (Boogie Nights, The Master), the film uses the story of a ruthless, early-20th century oilman to spin a broader narrative on the conflict between capitalistic industry and religious extremism.

When Ken Levine tweeted that he had watched There Will Be Blood during the making of Infinite, I was not surprised. But where Infinite differs is that it portrays the marriage between these two concepts. Walking through the gates of Columbia in those opening moments, you’re greeted by enormous statues of the founding fathers, towering and bathed in heavenly light. Continuing on, you find citizens praying to these statues, uttering “Father Jefferson” and “Father Washington” to themselves. There are numerous examples just like this throughout the entire game.

BioShock Infinite is perhaps more obvious in its themes than the film it takes partial inspiration from but it doesn’t really matter. What P.T. Anderson did with There Will Be Blood and what Levine has done with BioShock Infinite is encapsulate centuries of human existence and struggle.

Columbia is beautiful, yes, and a staggering work of design much like Rapture before it. But there is history here. Infinite isn’t an indictment of religion, it’s a character study. Our character. Humanity’s character. Would Columbia have worked with a different man in charge or is the idea inherently flawed? There is no answer for that.

And yet I’m not sure if it’s something to be concerned with. Before there was industry or even a concept of American exceptionalism, before there were countries or kingdoms, echoing far back to the beginning of humanity’s existence, there was religious worship. I think that’s what BioShock Infinite is really getting at in the end: That as long as mankind exists, so will religion.

-Mix

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Gone Home interview with Steve Gaynor: BioShock, the '90s, and what makes a "game" - News

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Gone Home interview with Steve Gaynor: BioShock, the ’90s, and what makes a “game”

The home of Gone Home.

The Fullbright Company is based out of a three-bedroom house in Portland, Oregon. Founders Steve Gaynor, Johnnemann Nordhagen, and Karla Zimonja don’t just work in the house—they live in it. It’s like the headquarters of an indie superteam: members of the group worked on BioShock 2, Minerva’s Den, XCOM, and BioShock Infinite.

Now they’re making something else interesting: Gone Home, a non-violent exploration game which puts the player in the shoes of a mid-’90s girl who has just returned home from abroad to an empty house. As a storm howls outside, she digs through her family’s belongings to discover where they are—especially her younger sister, Sam—and what’s happened in the time she’s been gone.

At the Game Developers Conference last week, I spoke with Gaynor about Gone Home’s inspirations and the indie showing at the convention.

PC Gamer: Where did the idea for Gone Home start? What was the seed?

Steve Gaynor: Well, it actually does come from working on the BioShock franchise. I didn’t work on the original game, but I worked on BioShock 2 and was the lead on Minerva’s Den, and Karla and Johnnemann and I all worked together on that. Then I left and worked on Infinite for a year. And for us, all of us went from a big team on BioShock 2 to a very small team on Minerva’s Den…to me going out to Irrational to work on Infinite, which was another huge team.

“It actually does come from working on the BioShock franchise.”

And that sequence of contrasts made all of us want to have that small team experience again. And my wife and I—my wife’s from Portland and I lived there for a long time—we wanted to move back to Portland. So, I’m very grateful for the fact that Karla and Johnnemann agreed to move up there and start a thing with me, but now we’ve got three people, and we want to make a game that has those feelings of first-person immersive exploration, discovering story by exploring an environment, and so, we’re like, “How can we do that?”

You know, we can’t afford to make a whole city. We don’t have a character animator. We had to figure out how it’s just the environment, and that became this family’s house. A house is dense with all this evidence of who these people are and what’s happened to them, and we committed to that, and the rest of the creative decisions kind of rolled out of that. The time period and who the characters are were all creative answers to these practical questions of, “How do we make the kind of game we want to make with the team we have?”

So, creative decisions inspired by limitations?

Yeah, limitations, and also like—for instance, we didn’t decide we were going to set this in the ’90s because we were just like, “Let’s make a ’90s game.” It was, like, “OK, we want to make this game that’s about exploration, and being alone in the environment discovering stuff,” and if it’s set in 2012, all the interesting stuff you’re gonna find out about these people’s lives is in their e-mail inbox and their text message history. You find Dad’s computer and it’s not interesting anymore.

So, we want it to be familiar, recent, as believable to our own experiences as possible, so 1995: you might not have AOL yet, you’re still writing each other letters, notes for each other. And when we got to that creative decision based on practical problems, it was like, “Alright, well now we have a time period and now we have to commit to it, we have to invest in it and make people believe in that era, because it’s serving these other purposes about the kind of game mechanically we want to make.”

Playing through it, I think about my mom’s house now, and items in it. Like a corkboard with notes stuck to it. I think I might have one in my apartment, but I don’t use it. It’s a relic.

Yeah, because it’s like, “send me a text.” [Laughs]

That’s interesting—the little things we may not even remember from life in the ’90s. It’s a more drastic difference than maybe we realize.

It also helps us because we wanted the player to be totally isolated in the house, and for it to make sense why they wouldn’t just call the cops or something. So, you know, it’s a dark and stormy night, and there’s been a power outage, there’s a weather warning on the TV, and the phone tone isn’t working, and in that era if your land line is down and you got dropped off at the house by an airport shuttle and it drove off, you’re stuck there. You can’t call a cab or try to call your parent’s cellphones…so, there are a lot of different things that we wanted to achieve as far as the atmosphere and experience you have that are a little less plausible in this day and age. You’d be able to solve that problem a lot easier.

From left to right: Steve Gaynor, Johnnemann Nordhagen, and Karla Zimonja in their basement office.

You said your work on BioShock influenced Gone Home. How far does that inspiration go?

I mean, the levels are fairly open-ended, right? Like, BioShock does not have linear corridors, and finding the audio diaries is totally player driven. You choose to reach out and listen to these things, and you are piecing these pieces together, so those methodologies were definitely an inspiration to us. And obviously the games that led up to BioShock, like System Shock, System Shock 2, Deus Ex. There’s a lot of this open structure exploration and discovering story bit by bit in those games.

So, does Gone Home build to a conclusion? Or do we search around until we feel it’s complete and then, “OK, I’m done playing?”

By default, yes, there is a chronological story that you’re discovering, and you start at the beginning and you get to the end, and there is an ending when you’ve fully unlocked all the parts of the house and you’ve found the last note in the story. That’s our out-of-the-box experience—you hear Sam’s audio diaries as you find significant objects, all that kind of stuff.

But, we want to support players who want to have a more purist exploration experience, that don’t like, for instance, the kind of meta affectation of the audio diaries. It’s like, “I wouldn’t be hearing that if I was exploring this house,” or, “I don’t want to have to find the basement key before I can go in the basement,” or whatever. So, we have a system of what we call “modifiers,” where you can tailor the experience to the kind of expoloration you want to do in a few ways.

What’s your opinion on the “is it a game, is it not a game?” debate that comes up with games like yours or Thirty Flights of Loving.

Thirty Flights of Loving was my game of the year last year. So I guess I just call it a game. [Laughs] You know, like…

You don’t feel like the distinction matters…

“I’m less interested in ‘Is this a game?’ than ‘Is this an experience that I want to have? Whatever it is.’”

I mean, I understand why there are strong opinions on it, because I think it’s totally possible to say, “That’s not a game,” in a pejorative way that just dismisses it. “That doesn’t have value,” is basically what’s being expressed. And if that’s the way someone means it, then that seems like something that’s worth criticizing.

On the other hand, if people want to say, “Gone Home’s not a game, it’s an experience, it’s a simulation of exploring a house, it’s a story you play, a story you walk through,” I don’t know. To me, I think the word “game” is broad enough to contain almost anything that requires your interaction to derive the experience from it. You know, because the games in the narrative category in [the IGF awards] this year, there’s a broad range in how much input the player has to how they experience the game. But I don’t think that makes any of them not games, and I’m less interested in “Is this a game?” than “Is this an experience that I want to have? Whatever it is.”

Why do you think interactive storytelling—well, what would you call it? Story exploration?

Our trailer says “A story exploration video game.” I think it is interactive, not in as much as it’s player-driven story, like creating story through systems or any of that, but all of your discovery of the story comes from choosing to interact with the game and investigate it by touching it and picking things up and examining them, and then the connections are all drawn in your head, not a lot of lore in the game that says, “this happens, then this, and this.”

A screenshot from Blendo Games’ Thirty Flights of Loving.

Why do you think we’re seeing so much storytelling experimentation now? Is it the practical ability for small teams to make games?

Thirty Flights of Loving is right next door to us [on the GDC floor], it’s amazing. Cart Life is a very systemic storytelling thing. And yes, I believe the answer is what you pointed to, that new forms of social media, Twitter and Facebook stuff, allow more people to discover niche stuff more easily, because their friend told their friend and now you’ve heard about it. So if you’re making a niche game…before, most of the potential people who might like it would never find it, but now if you’re making a niche game, every person in that niche can become aware of your game, and come out in numbers enough to support it and make it viable.

That’s also because of Steam and other digital distribution methods that lower the barriers. The developers don’t have to get shelf space and the gamers don’t have to go out to a store—you read a review or whatever and just click a link to buy it right now, wait a few minutes, and now you play it. All those barriers to entry lowering, and the avenues of communication opening up, I think you’ve made way more people feel like, “I can make something small on my own, with a lower investment, that can be sustainable.” And so yeah, I think more people are trying because they can.

How do you feel about the state of storytelling in games? Does it need more of something, less of something?

“I think [indie games] will influence the gaming medium as a whole, and that’s f****** awesome.”

I’m really glad that it is getting broader, that more people are trying to say more things more different ways. We’re very lucky to be nominated in the Excellence in Narrative category, first year ever that the IGF is doing a narrative category. If you just even look at that standpoint, if you look at us, 30 Flights of Loving, and dys4ia, and Kentucky Route Zero, and Cart Life, they’re telling such vastly different stories as far as subject matter goes, and in totally different ways structurally. They have almost nothing in common.

30 Flights of Loving and Gone Home are both first-person games, but we have a s*** ton of text and voice, and they’re totally non-verbal. And we have an unbroken camera perspective that’s your experience exploring a place end-to-end, and their timeline is all chopped-up and out of order and you have to piece that together.

I’m just really excited to see that the phenomenon you were talking about, of this growing tide of people trying new things, existing at all when it was harder to be that experimental and get an audience for it before, because I think that the more indie teams and people who are outside the really high-risk multi-million dollar gaming sphere take chances and experiment and find new ways of telling stories, they prove people find this kind of thing interesting. It’s viable. I think that will influence the gaming medium as a whole, and that’s f****** awesome.

Thank you for chatting with us, Steve. Gone Home will be out later this year, and recently announced the inclusion of music from two ’90s riot grrrl bands. You can follow Steve Gaynor on Twitter, and for more, explore our preview of the game from last year.

Tags: Fullbright Company, Gone Home, Steve Gaynor

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Far Cry 3: Nicht weit genug

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An Far Cry 3 kann man viel kritisieren. Das bizarre Überangebot an Ablenkungen und Nebensächlichkeiten etwa, oder die grundsätzliche Narrative des weißen Mannes, der den Dschungel kolonialisiert, gerade in Verbindung mit der hanebüchenen Mischung an Nationalitäten und Akzenten, die einem das Spiel als “exotisch” verkauft. Geht es aber nach Jeffrey Yohalem, dem Autor des Spiels, sind diese Elemente als bewusste Parodie zu verstehen. Far Cry 3 sei Satire, es kommentiert also durch seine unreflektierte Gewalt und problematische Darstellung von Minderheiten lediglich die entsprechenden Tendenzen der Branche.

Dass Yohalem das aber im Nachhinein erklären muss, zeigt, dass die Botschaft so wohl bei den wenigsten angekommen ist. Wie sollte sie auch? Far Cry 3 kopiert zwar viele der bizarren Blüten unseres Lieblingsmediums, aber es überspitzt sie nicht, übertreibt nicht, zieht sie nicht ins Lächerliche. Jedenfalls nicht nach Spielestandards: Wo platte Charaktere und überzogene Gewaltfantasien in der Regel nun mal leider ernst gemeint sind, müsste Satire einen Schritt weiter gehen und sich wie Saints Row jenseits von Gut und Böse begeben. Sich dem schiefen Maßstab für Normalität anzupassen, heißt nicht, ihn auch zu kritisieren, bloße Imitation macht noch keine Parodie und der angebliche Subtext von Far Cry 3 verwischt die Grenzen zwischen subtil und abwesend.

Dabei hat Far Cry 3 auch interessante Ansätze, nicht als Kommentar auf Gewalt in der Spielekultur, sondern als Betrachtung ihrer Faszination im Allgemeinen und ihrer Wahrnehmung im Zeitgeist im Speziellen. Kill Screen nennt es treffend “das erste Spiel über Millenials”, jene junge, luxusverwöhnte Generation, der Jason Brody und seine unerträglich reichen Freunde angehören, deren Existenz aus dem Spagat zwischen Sonnenbank, Smartphone und Strandurlaub einerseits und Arbeitslosigkeit, Weltschmerz, Finanz- und Sinnkrise andererseits besteht.

Jason Brodys Wandel zum übermenschlichen Jäger, zum König des Dschungels, ist dabei die brutale, aber logische Fortsetzung des ursprünglich geplanten Sündentrips. Ihm ging es schon zuvor um Grenzerfahrungen, darum, sich mal wieder richtig lebendig zu fühlen, indem man dem Tod auf vielfältige Weise metaphorisch oder physisch nahe kommt. Alle gesellschaftlich akzeptierten Varianten ist Brody durch: Alkohol, laute Musik, belangloser Sex, Drogen in den verschiedensten Formen und Farben, Extremsport, etc. Mit dem Absturz auf Rook Island findet er, so könnte man interpretieren, schlicht eine neue Möglichkeit, Grenzen auszureizen.

Warum? Weil diese zunehmend indirekte, gekünstelte, digitale Welt in einem den verzweifelten Wunsch nach echter Emotion aufkommen lässt. Völlig egal, was genau man empfindet, einfach irgendwas Reines, Authentisches, Unverfälschtes. Weil Gewalt genau diesen Reiz ausübt, weil sie einen aus dem unbequem komfortablen Alltag reißt und vor die wohl ursprünglichste menschliche Erfahrung überhaupt stellt: Du oder ich. Töten oder getötet werden. Gewalt bedeutet Macht, die Kontrolle über ein anderes Leben und dessen Ende, und das, wo so viele Dinge unserem Einfluss scheinbar völlig entglitten sind: Erfolg und Jobchancen hängen an einem maroden Wirtschaftssystem, das eigentlich niemand so richtig versteht. Liebesglück bedarf einer zufälligen Begegnung.

Gewalt ist falsch, ja, aber sie ist auch intim. Für jemanden wie Jason mag sie die bedeutsamste zwischenmenschliche Interaktion des bisherigen Lebens sein, sie füllt die sinnentleerte Existenz des ewig verwirrten, großen Kindes. Die Gefangennahme, die Flucht, die entführten Freunde - all das sind bloß Katalysatoren, die ihn zu der Erkenntnis führen, dass er nicht nur in der Lage ist, zu töten, wenn es sein muss, er ist sogar richtig gut darin. Und er genießt es.

Jason Brody tötet zum Vergnügen. Eine unbequeme Feststellung, aber gerade das macht sie interessant und man muss sie ja auch nicht unbedingt so moralisierend vortragen wie etwa ein Spec Ops: The Line. Es würde reichen, sie einfach in den Raum zu stellen, denn auch wenn der rasche Verfall von Jasons zivilisierter Oberfläche, entgegen Yohalems Meinung, nicht etwa durch die übertragene Mordlust des ihn treibenden Shooterveteranen ausgelöst wird, so geht sie doch Hand in Hand mit unserem symbiotischen Vergnügen an der gebotenen Gewaltorgie.

War Far Cry 2 noch bemüht, das Grauen des Krieges abzubilden, indem es eben bewusst keinen Spaß macht, schlägt Far Cry 3 als Triumph des modernen Eskapismus genau in die andere Richtung. Sein breites Arsenal an Gleitgeltuben und vibrierenden Spielzeugen zeigt, zu welch absurder Meisterschaft wir es im Erzeugen von masturbatorischem Nervenkitzel gebracht haben, wie gekonnt hier zu unserer Belustigung fragwürdige Machtfantasien inszeniert werden.

Far Cry 3 macht Spaß, vor allem aber macht es mit wachsender Kompetenz immer mehr Spaß. Während Jason sich den neuen Gegebenheiten anpasst, selbst zum Aggressor wird, lernt man als Spieler vor allem, auf welch abwechslungsreiche Arten man die ortsansässigen Piraten um die Ecke bringen kann - und wie so oft bei derartigen Sandkästen sind die brutalsten Varianten auch die unterhaltsamsten.

Jason genießt es, zu töten - und wir genießen stellvertretend durch ihn gleich mit.

Eben noch der verwöhnte, verweichlichte Hasenfuß, jage ich jetzt meine Gegner auf kurze Distanz mit Pfeil und Bogen, fackle ihre Außenposten ab und verbrenne sie bei lebendigem Leib, durchbohre sie reihenweise mit der Machete, verfüttere sie an Tiger, Komodowarane, Haifische und jede andere Form bedrohter und bedrohlicher Fauna. Die überzogene Leichtigkeit, mit der der Oberschichtsnichtsnutz Jason sein Talent zum Massenmörder entdeckt, mag unglaubwürdig wirken, aber sie deutet auch gekonnt an, welche Seite selbst in lebensfrohen Kosmopoliten schlummern kann. Jason genießt es, zu töten - und wir genießen stellvertretend durch ihn gleich mit. Fast möchte man glauben, dass in Far Cry 3 doch ein reflektiver Kommentar auf unsere Lust zur Gewalt steckt, wäre das Spiel nicht so bemüht, Jasons unbequeme Mordlust wegzuerklären.

Jason Brody tötet, um seine Freunde zu retten, so die Idee. In Wirklichkeit hat man die Bande nichtssagender Knallköpfe in dem Moment vergessen, als der sympathische Soziopath Vaaz Montenegro nach etwa fünf Minuten das erste Mal auftritt. Die oberflächlichen Beziehungen und Probleme der platten Clique motivieren zu keiner Sekunde; stattdessen wünscht man sich aus der Geborgenheit ihres Höhlenverstecks zurück in das Chaos des Dschungels, zu mehr Feuergefechten, mehr Explosionen, mehr Tigern.

Etwa auf halbem Weg durch Far Cry 3 gibt es diese Szene: Jason kehrt gerade siegreich mit einem weiteren geretteten Saufkumpan in die Höhle zurück, als dieser ihm enthüllt, dass sein Bruder Riley tot ist. Er pausiert andächtig, das Spiel erwartet offenbar irgendeine Reaktion auf den Tod eines Bruders, den es mir nie wirklich vorgestellt hat. Ich aber habe Mühe, den Namen einem der Gesichter aus dem Intro zuzuordnen. Welcher war noch gleich Riley?

In Folge unterhält sich Jason mit einem anderen kiffenden Freund und fragt ihn, wohl um den Schmerz des Verlusts zu lindern, ob er nicht auch mal ziehen könne. Er lehnt ab: Jason müsse einen klaren Kopf bewahren, damit er sie von dieser Insel holen kann. Auch wenn Far Cry 3 sonst nicht als Satire durchgeht - DAS kann doch nur ein Witz sein. Ich soll einen klaren Kopf bewahren? Junge, ich bin auf dem Trip des Jahrhunderts, zugedröhnt bis unters Dach mit Blut und Adrenalin.

Dass Jason längst etwas Besseres gefunden hat als Gras, zeigt sich wenig später, als er die Drogenplantage der Piraten mit dem Flammenwerfer bearbeitet, eine Sequenz die nicht nur wegen der treibenden Dubstepklänge, sondern ihrer starken Thematik in Erinnerung bleibt. Vor dem Absturz, vor dem Wandel, hätte ihn die Entdeckung der Cannabisfelder wahrscheinlich in Extase versetzt, er hätte sich an den Strand gesetzt und sich tagelang das Hirn aus dem Schädel geblasen.

Jetzt jubelt und lacht Brody beim verschwenderischen Niederbrennen der Pracht, erfreut sich an der Zerstörung und nicht am Rauch. Er hat etwas Besseres gefunden, seine neue Droge kommt in Gestalt der wütenden Wachen und Patrouillen auf ihn zu. Angesichts solcher Szenen fällt es natürlich schwer zu behaupten, Jason würde nur tun, was getan werden muss, um die Sicherheit seiner Freunde zu gewährleisten. Aber keine Sorge, Far Cry 3 hat noch eine andere Erklärung auf Lager.

Jason Brody tötet, weil er nicht anders kann: Auf dieser These scheint die zweite Hälfte von Far Cry 3 zu basieren, etwa wenn Jason laut Rache an Ersatzbösewicht Hoyt Volker schwört, sich mit gerechtem Zorn für den Krieg der Rakyat begeistert oder am Ende, je nach Spielerentscheidung, seine Mordlust gegen alle richtet, die ihm nahe stehen. Aber Jasons Faszination an Gewalt als Zwang zu sehen, ist zu einfach, es überspielt, wie erschreckend normal er eigentlich ist - und vor allem widerspricht es unserer Erfahrung als Teilhabender.

Wir als Spieler können schon anders, als in reiner Mordlust zu töten - wir wollen nur nicht.

Denn wir als Spieler können schon anders, wir wollen nur nicht. Weil wir alle irre sind? Wohl kaum. Wir sind ebensowenig am allumfassenden Gemetzel interessiert wie Jason Brody, beide wollen wir nur Dampf ablassen, und wo uns die Fiktion dienen muss, geht Jason eben einen Schritt weiter. Wie William Foster in Falling Down fängt er an, all die Dinge zu tun, die sich sensible Menschen aus gutem Grund verkneifen - nicht, weil er sich der Konsequenzen nicht bewusst wäre, sondern weil sie ihm egal sind. Was Jason so monströs macht, ist, dass er trotz allem noch völlig klar sieht: Er ist nicht wahnsinnig, er ist sich seines Handelns durchaus bewusst. Er muss nicht töten. Aber er kann. Jederzeit.

Leider ist Far Cry 3 nicht bereit, die Vorstellung eines zwanghaften Massenmörders bis zu ihrem logischen, bitteren Ende durchzuziehen. Stattdessen drängt einen das Spiel bei zunehmender Brutalität mehr und mehr in defensive Rollen. Man verteidigt sein Flugzeug, hält Positionen, schützt seinen Kameraden. Selbst der abschließende Helikopterflug, eine minutenlange Gewalt- und Zerstörungsorgie, in der man quasi im Alleingang eine ganze Insel verwüstet, ist streng genommen in Spielelogik Selbstverteidigung, denn wer sich der Geschützsequenz verweigert, wird tatsächlich schnell abgeschossen. Das als Rechtfertigung für den ungleich vernichtenderen Gegenschlag zu sehen, ist natürlich Blödsinn, aber das Spiel möchte einem wohl selbst hier noch die Möglichkeit geben, das eigene Handeln rational begründen zu können.

Letzten Endes scheint Far Cry 3 bei der Interpretation seiner eigenen Hauptfigur unschlüssig und inkonsequent, und es bleibt schwer zu sagen, welche Botschaft das Spiel damit genau erreicht. Far Cry 3 ist absurd. Es mag sich seiner eigenen Absurdität sogar bewusst sein, aber trotz der Selbstbeweihräucherung als Systemkritik ist es eher bemüht, die Illusion des All-inclusive-Abenteuerurlaubs aufrechtzuerhalten, denn sie zu erschüttern. Die Mauern und Grenzen des Luxusinselresorts hat man dabei zur eigenen Entspannung möglichst zu ignorieren. Der Spieler bleibt, Eigeninitiative ausgenommen, ebenso sehr Tourist wie Jason Brody selbst.

Als Metakommentar möchte ich Far Cry 3 entgegen Jeffrey Yohalem nicht verstehen: Zwar ist das  Spiel überzogen brutal, aber die Vorstellung, dass die bloße Existenz von Gewalt in Computerspielen zwangsläufig auch deren Reflektion nach sich zieht, würde ja bedeuten, dass sich das Medium seit seiner Entstehung in einer ständigen Grundsatzdebatte selbst auffressen müsste. Aber ohne diese Ebene bleibt Far Cry 3 nur eine in Ansätzen selbstkritische Gewaltfantasie, die zu sehr zwischen Extremen schwankt und zu feige für offenen Tadel ist.

Verfasst von Joe Köller am 2. April 2013 - 12:52

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Time to Say Goodbye, LucasArts

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Sidekicks
Ein Leben ohne Spiel?!

Spannung, Spiel…
…und ein Extraleben!

Post Mortem
Gegen das Vergessen

Fragenspielerei
Und es gibt Antworten

Epic Fail
Nein! Das ist nicht gut!

Eingetragen von Andy am 4. April 2013 – 09:0612 Kommentare

Aus! Schluss! Vorbei! Disney schließt LucasArts. Was mir vielleicht vor 10 Jahren noch einen Herzinfarkt beschert hätte, das entlockt mir heute allenfalls ein Fünkchen nostalgischer Wehmut. Der Abstieg von einem nahezu sicheren Hit-Garanten zu einer Maschinerie austauschbarer 08/15-Star-Wars-Lizenzspiele ist beispiellos und eigentlich unendlich traurig. Mit dem Verkauf des gesamten Lucasfilm-Universums war es demnach nur eine Frage der Zeit, bis sich die neue Chefetage angesichts der heute eher mageren Reputation der Videospielabteilung zu diesem radikalen Schnitt entschließt.

Kein Grund zur Trauer (mehr)

Ich kann euch nur raten: Grämt und trauert nicht zu sehr. Ja, es ist schade um den Namen und wirklich bedauerlich um die 150 Mitarbeiter, die nun auf der Straße sitzen. Aber seid ehrlich: Wann habt ihr euch zuletzt im Vorfeld auf ein neues LucasArts-Spiel gefreut? Bei mir ist das verdammt lange her…

State-of-the-Art-Grafik von anno 1985: Lucasfilm Games/LucasArts waren nicht nur für ihre Adventures berühmt.

Die “Alten” werden sich wohlig an eine Zeit erinnern, in der 2D-Bitmaps herrschten und 3D-Grafik als Luxus galt. LucasArts hieß damals noch Lucasfilm Games und entwickelte ein technisch beeindruckendes Quartett, bestehend aus dem Sportspiel “Ballblazer” sowie den Actiontiteln “Rescue on Fractalus”, “The Eidolon” und “Koronis Rift”. Bereits hier hagelte es großes Lob von der (noch rar gesäten) Fachpresse. Die Ambition seitens George Lucas, Spiele mit einem cineastischen Flair in Auftrag zu geben, schien voll aufzugehen.

Der Aufstieg

1986 legte man den ersten Grundstein einer beispiellosen Serie: “Labyrinth” gehört zu den essentiellen Adventure-Frühwerken, in denen ihr die Spielfigur direkt wie in einem Actionspiel steuert. Ein Jahr später gelang mit “Maniac Mansion” ein unumstrittener All-Time-Classic, der aufgrund seiner bizarren Geschichte, den erstaunlich logisch gestalteten Rätseln und dem vielleicht wichtigsten Quantensprung in Sachen Steuerungsmechanik bis heute ein gern gesehener Gast ist. Es folgten 13 weitere Point’n’Click-Adventures, von denen in meinen Augen mindestens acht Stück in die ewige Top Ten (!) dieses Sub-Genres gehören.

“Zak McKracken” bietet selbst für heutige Verhältnisse ein enormes Kontingent an unterschiedlichen Settings, “Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade” schafft mit Bravur die Gratwanderung zwischen Filmvorlage sowie Eigenständigkeit,”The Secret of Monkey Island” ist wohl das beste Spiel des Jahres 1990, “Monkey Island 2″ gehört zu den würdigsten Fortsetzungen der Milchstraße, “Indiana Jones and the Fate of Atlantis” hätte ebenfalls die GOTY-Plakette verdient, wenn nicht im gleichen Zeitraum das meiner Meinung nach wegweisendste PC-Spiel aller Zeiten erschienen wäre (Welches ich meine? Das verrate ich hier und heute nicht…) und “Day of the Tentacle” ist eine Meisterleistung einer liebevollen Regiearbeit.

“Sam & Max” vereinigt die Fans des schwarzen Humors, “Full Throttle” definierte das Wort “Atmosphäre-Bolide” neu, “The Curse of Monkey Island” setzte sich trotz des neuen Director-Duos durch und “Grim Fandango” ist in so vielerlei Hinsicht ein absolut einmaliges Erlebnis, dass dafür ein eigener Artikel notwendig wäre. Ja, selbst die drei “schwarzen Schafe”, namentlich das etwas kurze “Loom”, das mehrfach umgeworfene “The Dig” sowie das eckige “Escape from Monkey Island”, haben treue Fans und durchaus Pluspunkte vorzuweisen, um 95% der Konkurrenz des Point’n’Click-Geschäftes zu deklassieren. Alle Titel leben von einem bemerkenswert logischen Rätseldesign, weshalb insbesondere die deutsche Fachpresse reihenweise zur magischen 90-Punkte-Wertung griff.

Allein dieser Screenshot versprüht mehr Charme aus als ein moderner Militärshooter von Activision oder EA – oder?

Der Fall

Deshalb ist für mich ganz klar: Der Untergang von LucasArts war in dem Moment besiegelt, als sich die Firma von eben diesen Adventures abwendete. Es dauerte zudem nicht lang und es kam die Order von ganz oben, man wolle sich künftig auf “Star Wars” und allenfalls “Indiana Jones” konzentrieren. Hätte man die Qualität solch wegweisender Klassiker wie “Rebel Assault”, “Tie-Fighter” oder “Jedi Knight” aus den 90er Jahren gehalten, dann hätte der Trick vielleicht sogar funktioniert. Doch schnell folgten uninspirierte, hässliche wie langweilige Machwerke á la “Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace”. Allein diese Schnarchblase sorgte bei mir nur dazu, dass ich kein LucasArts-Spiel mehr blind kaufte.

Immer öfters enttäuschten die auf der Skywalker-Ranch entwickelten Titel, während zumindest externe Teams, wie beispielsweise BioWare dank “Knights of the Old Republic” oder Factor 5 via “Rogue Leader”, das Licht aufrecht hielten. Aber die positiven Ausnahmen versiegten und der Ruf kullerte Jahr für Jahr gen Kellergeschoss. Getrieben von der Gier, sich voll auf den zugkräftigen Namen “Star Wars” zu verlassen und dabei sichtlich zu ignorieren, dass dieser allein dank der Prequel-Trilogie bereits empfindlichen Schaden einsteckte, es vorbei war mit dem Hit-Garanten.

Indiana Jones and the Fate of Atlantis gilt als einer von vier oft genannten Kandidaten für den Titel “Beste Adventure aller Zeiten” – und auch die anderen drei stammten von LucasArts.

2000 erschien das letzte Adventure – in einer Zeit, in der das Genre von vielen zu Grabe getragen wurde. Keine konnte sich damals vorstellen, welch schleichende Wiederauferstehung sich bis heute vollziehen würde. Von “Runaway” über “Geheimakte Tunguska”, “Edna bricht aus” bis hin zu “Chaos auf Deponia” haben die enthusiastischen Fans von damals einen Schritt nach dem anderen vollzogen und nach über einer Dekade harter Arbeit die Klasse der alten LucasArts-Tage erreicht. Das wäre ohne die Errungenschaften von Ron Gilbert, Gary Winnick, Dave Fox, Noah Falstein, Brian Moriarty, Dave Grossman, Tim Schafer, Hal Barwood, Steve Purcell, Sean Clark, Michael Stemmle, Jonathan Ackley sowie Larry Ahern nie in dieser Form passiert. Da wette ich 8000 Spiele dagegen.

Deshalb sollten wir keine Zeit zum Trauern verschwenden und lieber dafür sorgen, dass auch die nach uns folgenden Generationen die 15 besagten Adventure-Perlen nicht vergisst. Denn diese sind im Gegensatz zum Namen LucasArts wahrlich unsterblich.

Über den Autor Andy, der für Polygamia.de bisher 60 Artikel verfasste:

Andreas “Andy“ Altenheimer wandelt seit 1977 auf dieser Welt, als „Star Wars“ und „Der Stadtneurotiker“ in die Kinos kamen, und fühlt sich wie eine Mischung dieser beiden Filmklassiker… [Weiterlesen]

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RIP LucasArts: An Obituary

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There will be friendship between our species forever.

By John Walker on April 4th, 2013 at 11:00 am.

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It’s always genuinely sad when a game developer closes down. People lose jobs, many lives are affected, and the industry as a whole loses a degree of potential. But before now no news of a studio closing has brought me close to tears. The death of LucasArts, while perhaps inevitable to anyone following closely enough, has made me very sad indeed.

No developer has ever had such a wide-reaching, hobby-defining impact on my life.

It’s certainly sadly the case that the studio has made little I’ve cared about in a very long while. The Monkey Island remakes were as close as they got to me in the last, what, decade probably. But even they were emblematic of what the studio was capable of, of how much the people working there cared about their projects, no matter how successful they might have been.

At a GDC gathering last week, I was chatting to a LucasArts employee I’ll obviously not name. For me, he captured the sense that so many had at LucasArts – he loved it there, and he loved the people he worked with there, but he was planning to hand in his notice in a couple of weeks. He was working on a project he couldn’t mention, but was incredibly excited about. Thrilled to be working on. (A game we’ll likely of course never even know the name of now.) But still feeling like his time there was done.

Churning through CEOs, constantly horrendously mismanaged, and cancelling so many projects as to become farcical, it’s a wonder that LucasArts kept going until 2013. Cranking out Star Wars licenses, or indeed cancelling numerous Star Wars licenses, it had certainly lost a significant portion of its heritage. But it never seemed to lose its potential. Whomever you spoke to there, they still had the drive, the sense of a history that pushed them forward. They had some of the best in the business in many areas, especially sound and voice recording, and it always felt like they could at any time turn themselves around.

But of course no matter their recent state, they were and always will be the studio that brought us Day Of The Tentacle, Sam & Max: Hit The Road, X-Wing Vs. TIE Fighter, Zak McKracken And The Alien Mindbenders, Indiana Jones And The Fate Of Atlantis, The Secret Of Monkey Island, Dark Forces, Grim Fandango, Full Throttle, Jedi Knight: Mysteries Of Sith, Maniac Mansion…

God, that’s a list of games.

The same studio in the same year gave us the incredible FPS Dark Forces, Tim Schafer classic Full Throttle, and adventure epic The Dig. That was some of 1995 for LucasArts. It’s a lineage the like of which gaming has never known since. This is who we’re losing.

These are games that defined my teenage years, and without question, defined gaming for me. I loved Dark Forces so much more than Doom – hell, you could talk to the monsters. Full Throttle may have been relatively short, and may have had racing sections, but it was an exceptional adventure game, packed with brilliant writing the likes of which the genre hadn’t seen before. And The Dig – I implore you to go back and play it again now. While its ending doesn’t quite match its potential, it’s an incredibly thoughtful, gentle and brilliantly paced game.

And clearly anyone alive for enough years will have a LucasArts game they wish to celebrate at immense length. Whether it’s the original X-Wing, or the peculiar god game Afterlife, or idiotic time wasted away on Indiana Jones Desktop Adventures, their genre-spanning genius reached everyone. It’s this that we’re losing now.

In the last few years I went back to many of their games for Eurogamer, finding that so many of them still stand out today. Here are my thoughts on Dark Forces, The Dig, Jedi Knight, Zak McKracken, Day Of The Tentacle, Armed & Dangerous, The Curse Of Monkey Island, Indiana Jones And The Fate Of Atlantis, and Escape From Monkey Island.

Yes, a look at their recent releases isn’t the most cheerful sight. A string of Star Wars prefixed titles stretches back for a decade, interrupted only by the peculiar misfire of Lucidity, an experimental platformer that never quite came together. For a new generation of gamers, that’s who LucasArts were – the Star Wars people, occasionally seeming to stumble on something decent, but mostly cashing in on the success of Clone Wars. And it seems their final release, their swansong, shall be Kinect Star Wars. It couldn’t be a more degrading end.

But I swear that they were still a company bursting with the potential to revive themselves. Everyone I spoke to there believed it. If only, it was said, there could be management who’d let it happen. Management confident enough to let a non-Star Wars licence make it through to release, and then remember to promote it when it got there. Management not resentful of a more successful past, willing to make the incredibly obvious moves of releasing their extraordinary catalogue of games for tablets and phones. Day Of The Tentacle on iOS is so stupidly clearly a sensible move, and yet one that was never taken. Damn, even getting their classic games onto Steam seemed to require juggernauts to drive them – and they absolutely always refused to speak about what they were hoping to get on there next, as if they were determined to flatten any excited buzz.

And now, in the hands of Disney – a company that couldn’t prove itself incapable of managing gaming more – LucasArts is gone forever. In a time when the adventure has revived itself, when digital distribution allows far smaller scale games to achieve big success, when people are desperate for that personal touch on the FPS, a studio – that with the correct management, the correct downscaling, and the important freeing of staff – could have taken such strong advantage of it all, is gone. No, of course they don’t have Schafer, Gilbert, Grossman, or Stemmle. But with their heritage, their IPs, and the passion of those still working there, it’s hard to believe the magic couldn’t be revived.

So goodbye, LucasArts. I bloody loved you. You were so damned important to me. You helped make 1988 to 1998 some of the most special years in gaming, and provided my childhood and teenage years with genuine joy. In truth, I was already missing you. I’ll miss you more now.

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