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Hurting other people - Hotline Miami

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Der folgende Text ist kein Review (das folgt von meiner Seite für fm4 in Kürze). Wer bis dahin eines lesen möchte, ist mit Dennis’ klugen Worten wie immer gut bedient.

Hotline Miami ist ein Meisterwerk.

Das mag all jene überraschen, die angesichts der Retrografik und all der plakativen Gewaltszenen hier ein Hipsterding erwarten, das von vornherein nur Auskenner oder Fanatiker gut finden können. Nein: Hotline Miami ist ein Meisterwerk des ganzen Mediums, nicht nur seiner Nische. Es besteht mit cooler Lässigkeit neben den allermeisten Spielen, und das auf spielerischer wie narrativer Ebene. Tatsächlich fasziniert mich besonders, wie gut Hotline Miami auf diesen beiden Ebenen funktioniert.

Das Gameplay selbst ist schnörkellos, konsequent, adrenalintreibend und spannend. Man verliert sich in seinem Flow aus Bewegung, Taktik und Reflexen. Es ist simpel - es gibt wenige Elemente, aber viele Variationsmöglickeiten - aber komplex, und mit der Meisterschaft steigt auch der Anreiz, kühner zu spielen, effizienter und tödlicher zu werden. In seinen perfekten Momenten - wenn in zwanzig atemberaubenden Sekunden jede Bewegung sitzt, jede Aktion aufgeht und unsere Spielfigur ein Action- und Mordballett zaubert, das selbst John Wu, Takashi Miike und Quentin Tarantino nicht heftiger, unmittelbarer oder atemberaubender inszenieren könnten - in diesen Momenten ist Hotline Miami tatsächlich kein gutes Indiespiel, sondern viel mehr, nämlich schlicht ein fantastisches Spiel, Punkt.

Was es zum Meisterwerk macht, ist allerdings, dass es wie nur ganz, ganz wenige Spiele vor ihm ein Spiel über das Spielen ist, über Gewalt und unsere Abscheu und Faszination daran. Ich denke, das Hivemind von RPS tut Hotline Miami Unrecht, wenn es die Story als sekundär betrachtet; in ihr liegt der Schlüssel nicht nur zu diesem einzelnen Spiel, sondern zum Verhältnis des Spielers zu seinem Medium selbst.

Hotline Miami spielt mit seinen Spielern. Für eine komplette Inhaltsangabe empfehle ich mit Bauchweh diesen Artikel; Bauchweh, weil wirklich jeder sich die Chance geben sollte, die wenigen Stunden in das Spiel selbst zu investieren. Logisch: Spoilers follow.

Nur auf den ersten Blick scheint die Handlung altbacken oder gar rudimentär. Die Bewusstseinstrübungen des Protagonisten winken schon von weitem mit dem Zaunpfahl in Richtung “Hero in a  coma” , doch Dennaton sind Meister der Täuschung. Wer sich auf der sicheren Seite glaubt, wird durch den Fortgang der Handlung nach der Flucht aus dem Hospital eines Besseren belehrt: Das Ende ist nicht das Ende, auch wenn die Credits laufen. Als Draufgabe gibt es einen zweiten Handlungsstrang, der alles auf den Kopf stellt und elegant seine eigenen Paradoxien heraufbeschwört, die auch einem David Lynch anerkennendes Kopfnicken entlocken würden.

Dass sich in der Konfrontation mit den Drahtziehern der mysteriösen Anrufe die Spielmacher selbst mit einem wörtlichen “Fuck you” an uns richten, die wir nach Stunden des trancehaften und spaßigen Tötens tatsächlich hier, am Ende, eine Rechtfertigung oder einen guten Grund für unser Morden verlangen, ist eine Pointe, die sitzt. Keiner hat von uns verlangt, diese Orgie der Gewalt anzurichten; wir brauchen als Spieler halt auch nicht viel Grund dafür, auch wenn - oder weil - wir gewohnt sind, die Welt retten zu müssen.

Klar: Im Normalfall haben wir gute Gründe für unsere Gewalt im Spiel. Die Prinzessin ist entführt, der Dritte Weltkrieg droht, Rache, Gerechtigkeit, there is no alternative. In Wahrheit aber, das beweisen uns die grinsenden Köpfe der beiden Macher am Ende, brauchen wir all diese Motivationen oder besser: Vorwände nicht, um uns in Spielen aller Art ans Werk zu machen und selbstverständlich “den Feind” zu vernichten. Dass wir dies in Hotline Miami derart gewalttätig tun und dann am Ende immer noch treuherzig eine Erklärung, eine Rechtfertigung erwarten, hat wohl mit Recht nicht mehr als ein Grinsen und ein “Fuck you” verdient.

Die Maskenmetapher passt: Wir sind Tiere, die Grausames tun, ohne dafür einen Grund zu brauchen. Dass Hotline Miami uns das zeigt und sich zugleich über uns lustig macht, ist ein Moment, der Bioshocks großen und meiner Meinung nach stets überschätzten Wendemoment die Hosen runterzieht und ad absurdum führt: Scheiß auf hypnotische Phrasen - nobody made me do it.

Das ist auch eine Befreiung. Es geht hier schließlich nicht um reale Gewalt, sondern um ein Spiel. Hotline Miami darf wie andere Medien Gewalt thematisieren; es macht seine Spieler im Unterschied zu allen anderen Spielen aber nicht nur selbstverständlich zum Täter, sondern zuerst zum Komplizen und dann zum Opfer.  Gewalt wird hier nicht verherrlicht, sondern nur gezeigt, und zwar in einer Irrationalität und Rohheit, die mehr über dieses schwarze Faszinosum aussagt als die literarischen oder filmischen Blicke in die Abgründe einer von uns getrennten Figur.1

Wie gesagt: Hotline Miami ist ein Meisterwerk. Ein Spiel sowohl für Ludologen und Narratologen, das beweist, wie unglaublich fähig nur dieses Medium ist, in der perfekten Symbiose der beiden Elemente den Spieler und sein Handeln selbst mit einzubeziehen.

Das ist er, der Trick, den nur dieses Medium beherrscht.

Verfasst von rainer sigl am 31. Oktober 2012 - 0:58

Tags:

1. 1. Achtung, Games-Archäologen: Fällt nur mir der unglaubliche Verwandtschaftsgrad von Hotline Miami und Dreamweb  auf?

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Rami Ismail - Why Hotline Miami is an important game [SPOILERS]

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Why Hotline Miami is an important game [SPOILERS]

29 okt 2012

Warning: If you haven’t played Hotline Miami, please do so before reading this. Not only does this post contain spoilers – we’re discussing a videogame here. Videogames are meant to be played, not read. My experiences might differ from yours and that’s perfectly OK.

Full disclaimer: I’ve been friends with the developer of Hotline Miami since I started Vlambeer, I’m named in the credits twice and one of the ‘animal masks’ in the game is named after me. It’s a camel, because I’m half-Egyptian.

At the surface, Dennaton’s debut game Hotline Miami is exactly what a controversial blog post claims it to be – an “unstable game about killing people”. The writer posits that the post is about the critical reception of what he believes to be a game about “amazing bloodstains you leave on the environment”. What the writer misses due to basing his opinion on reviews and a video of the game – for failing to do any real effort to play the game – is its subtleties: the themes, the subtext and the raw ingenuity of how Hotline Miami uses its story, visual style, soundtrack and interaction to convey its deeper meanings.

Now, I could make this a blog post about how important it is to play videogames before judging them. I could also make this a post about why you can’t just go and criticize things you do not try to understand. Instead, let me discuss with you my playthrough of Hotline Miami – because I think it’s something important.

After the tutorial, the player’s first introduction to the game is a conversation with three masked figures in a darkened room. The decay is obvious – garbage lies scattered around, insects are abundant. The masked figures – a chicken, a horse and an owl – seem to know more about our protagonist and both reflect and foreshadow terrible things that have happened. As the scene disappears, I find myself in an apartment – my apartment – and find a note and a chicken mask. I walk down the stairs, enter my car and leave for my first mission.

The gameplay cycle is simple: each level starts with me receiving a cryptic phone call with an address. The player walk to the car, travels to the address and hides their face behind an animal mask of their choice. A pumping, electronic soundtrack amplifies the psychedelic colors as the player rushes through the door and attempts to kill every single soul on that floor of the building. Bright flashes, pumping music, gratuitous blood, large scoring emphasis and a combo mechanic urge me to kill faster, more efficiently and without mistake.

Hotline Miami is an exercise in survival at this level: any mistake I make is my last. A single mistake often results in me mashing the restart-button before the protagonist’s body hits the floor. The run that succeeds is the one that is perfectly choreographed, flawlessly executed and adaptive enough to deal with unexpected problems. I run in, grab the baseball bat the first unexpected guard is holding. I smash his brains in, bash a door into another guard and throw the bat at his fellow guard. As they both slump to the ground, I kick in the first one’s head against the wall, grab the shotgun of the second and shoot the upper half of his torso into pulp.

When I’ve finally succeeded, I’m allowed to use an elevator or staircase to other floors to continue the killing spree. As soon as my last victim’s head is kicked to bits, the music that has been guiding the rush dies to leave an eerie soundscape as I backtrack past the many fallen foes – the carnage I’ve left behind, back towards my car. It’s an uneasy sight, but I’ve completed the task I was set out to do.

Players will find themselves graded for many things – amongst which style, flexibility and speed. Then, I find myself in a supermarket or bar where I receive free goods – whether it is a pizza or a VHS – from a dubious character that seems to work in every single place the protagonist visits.

This cycle repeats itself, the violence ever gratuitous. Heads are smashed in with baseball bats, dogs are shot with shotguns, throats are cut and people faces are disfigured with a pan of boiling water. One cannot help but feeling a little uneasy at points, the human brain filling in all the little details of the crude yet mercilessly efficient pixels. The game demands you do not question yourself, because hesitation means death.

In fact, the first time I noticed Hotline Miami’s tension between thematic unease and its gameplay was watching a group of students play an early build when it was shown at Gamescom. The students had been running through the first five or so levels, laughing, quipping and pointing at the various executions. At the press of the spacebar, the jacketed hero kneeled on a knocked down mobster and slit the throat of the defenseless man. Pixelated blood gushed out as it took a moment for the man to stop struggling against death.

I had seen the animation countless times and remembered the distinct feeling of unease as I first encountered it, but the effect on these students was remarkable: they –not theorists or designers – had noticed the same tension I noticed. In one fraction of a second, the atmosphere changed from having fun to uneasy faces. For a split second, the violence wasn’t a game – it was real. The conversation changed from discussing the coolest execution animation to whether the game wasn’t too violent to be fun. I was baffled.

As the game progresses, the protagonist’s house – the starting point of every level – changes to reflect changes in his life. Dishes get skipped, the garbage is or isn’t taken out and an empty second bed in the bedroom implies a relation that did not last. Early on, the protagonist saves a cocaine-addicted woman from a dealer. Bringing her to his home she moves from sleeping on the couch to feeling at ease and eventually sleeping in the second bed.

The story evolves through similar details – the dubious character giving me free goods at the end of every level seems to vary between being my best friend to barely knowing my character. Mysterious mailings speak of an initiative named ’50 blessings’. The phone calls instruct me to kill increasing amounts of people. Every now and then, I find the corpses of other masked figures in the buildings I’m rampaging. Newspaper snippets that the protagonist has found between missions may or may not reveal the identities of the targets in the previous mission as I walk around my house in preparation for the next.

Things get exponentially weirder after I’m instructed to kill a biker that has traced the origins of the mysterious phone calls back to a telephone company. Once again I find myself in the insect-ridden apartment, meeting the three masked figures – their existence doubtful, but their words foreboding – they warn me that I will be all alone soon.

The protagonist starts to see dead bodies around his house, even though his girlfriend doesn’t notice them. Mangled and disfigured, these untouchable corpses shout at the player to move on. A suspicious janitor is cleaning the floor of my house. Once, my killing spree suddenly gets interrupted by a SWAT assault as I make a frantic escape from the too well-equipped officers.

The shopkeeper warns me that the things I’m seeing aren’t quite real. With a flash of static, the decapitated body of the biker disappears from the convenience store where it had somehow appeared. The same static sometimes hides some of the extremely violent behavior of the protagonist. Later on, the shopkeeper himself ends up seemingly dead in every store. An aggressive bald man takes his place, not acknowledging the dead body next to him. He offers me no free food or items, but threatens me into leaving.

I start to wonder whether my protagonist’s sanity allows his perspective to be even trustworthy. I no longer know what’s real, I no longer know whether the people I kill are bad guys, I’m no longer certain of how justified the violence is. Am I nothing but a homicidal maniac?

The next phone call leaves me no choice but to continue murdering. A few days later, the player does not head for a shop or a bar at the end of another bloody assault. Instead, I find myself at my doorstep. With a dreary feeling of acceptance, I walk into my apartment and find the girl shot through the chest several times – the girl I saved from drugs before, the girl that has been in the house for most of the game – is dead. An ominous rat-masked figure is sitting in the living room. Without offering explanation, he shoots me.

I wake up in my house, darkened as if the three masked figures are waiting for me – this time not in their house but in mine. Instead, I only find one of them – the one wearing the mask I’ve subconsciously attached to the ‘ego’ – to myself, the chicken mask. My body is lying on the floor in a puddle of blood, I’m standing in the room and the representation of my ego is sitting on the couch. The masked figure reassures me that this is the last time we’ll meet, but that none of my actions matter anymore. I will never see the full picture.  I am disheartened as he orders me to walk to a warm bed.

As I walk through the hallway, my clothes change to a hospital outfit. In my own house, I reach myself lying in a hospital bed. I fall to my knees, tear my own head off and fall to the floor. The last thing I see is my beheaded body, bloodied and defeated lying next to myself in a hospital bed.

I’m not sure what part of me is sane and what part of my character isn’t. I’m thinking of movies that use similar motives and thematic – Jacobs Ladder springs to mind, as do movies about PTSD and movies with themes about insanity.

The screen fades back in, the music now slow and considerate, the colors calm and unchanging. It is weeks later as I wake up in the same hospital bed. As I’m lying in the bed, I overhear a conversation between a doctor and a guard. My girlfriend is confirmed dead and the perpetrator is locked up in the police precinct. My goals are clear to me. I carefully get up from the bed, but the trauma causes everything to spin and moving too fast or too much at a time will make me drop to my knees for a while. Carefully avoiding attention and managing my ability to walk despite the pain, I sneak my way out of the hospital. I return home, betrayed by my own, my mind set on revenge. My car is smashed up, there is a crayon outline of where my girlfriend died and the house is a mess.

No more phone calls. This has to stop.

With surprising clarity and without a single hallucination, I assault the precinct, find the man that shot me and my girlfriend and dispose of him after learning what my next target is. I quickly leave the precinct and head for a distinct looking lobby with a phone and a long hallway with closed doors on either side. I am back in my element – I kill the guards and walk upstairs, murdering everyone standing nearby a parked monster truck. I threaten one unlucky bastard into giving me the location of the man behind all the mayhem. Without saying, I end his life too.

As I finally dispose of the last of the organization behind the mysterious phone calls, I encounter a regretful old man in a wheelchair that speaks a lot like the chicken from my nightmares. He knows and I know what is about to happen. I am surprised as without my intervention, without me pressing the button and without allowing me a choice, the protagonist shoots the old man through the head before he can say much. He walks onto the balcony to smoke.

The credits roll. I am confused. Who was the old man and who were the three masked people? Why did the chicken warn me that none of my actions would matter if they did? What was the static, what were the corpses? What was the goal of the phone calls, who was I working for? No explanation is given and the protagonist doesn’t seem to care.

The credits end with a surprising twist. Instead of kicking me back to the main menu, the game shows the date of the final mission. Suddenly, the date rewinds way back to before I got shot, before my girlfriend was killed and before the hallucinations start.

Even though it takes me a moment to process what this character that I’m controlling is, I quickly realize that it’s the biker that I killed at the phone company. Surprisingly, he is receiving phone calls similar to the ones the protagonist received. The biker, however, isn’t too intent on following orders and instead heads to follow a trail of clues towards the masterminds behind the phone calls. Gameplay as the biker is similar, but different as he uses just a single weapon – a set of meat knives. These levels are surprisingly easy.

I have a sinking feeling that I know how this is ending, and my fears are confirmed as the final step of the trail ultimately leads to the phone company, where -just as the biker is learning where the source of the calls is located- he is assaulted by the protagonist. The same battle as before takes place, only this time I control the biker. I know the protagonist will reach for the golf clubs in the corner and swing my knife at a point between him and the weapon he’ll use to kill me.

He goes down immediately. The biker notes how the chicken-mask wearing man should’ve backed off before I finish the protagonist. The dead, decapitated body lying on the floor is a strangely familiar sight, until I remember that I’ve seen it before, when the protagonist tore his own head off just before waking up in the hospital. I stare in dumbfounded confusion as I walk the biker out of the building, back to his bike.

The way the two storylines cannot exist together is keeping my mind pre-occupied as I follow the trail. Even more so than before, I do not know what is real and what is not. As the biker reaches the building in which he’ll find resolution, I find myself in a familiar lobby – it is the lobby the protagonist visited after assaulting the precinct. The same long hallway with locked doors, only this time a suspicious janitor runs through one of the doors, prompting me to chase him into the sewers. I do not go upstairs to the people at the monster truck.

Suddenly, I’m horrified – if those people I killed as the protagonist weren’t the people behind the phone calls, then who were they? What trail did I follow? Who was the old man I shot? Does it even matter who they were? Did all those things actually happen? Everything makes less and less sense.

In the sewers, I confront the two janitors amidst dozens of phones, animal masks and schematics. They look vaguely familiar and introduce themselves as an independent duo that sends phone calls because they were bored and they thought you were too. When the biker asks them whether they think it’s a game, they return the question. “Don’t you think so?”

Everything clicks in my mind. These janitors are the developers and they’re addressing me instead of the biker. The phone calls are a metaphor for them telling you what to do throughout the game. There is no big plot, secret goal or any morals – Hotline Miami shows itself for what it truly is: an introspective into violence in games.

My mind races to catch up with everything as I start to consider varying perspectives – I realize how neutral Hotline Miami is in its application of violence: it does not glorify it, nor vilify it. It shows how ugly violence is and does not attach any value to it. It is what it is. One of the most striking moments of Hotline Miami is when the masked chicken asks you the most confrontational line of dialogue I’ve encountered in a game so far: “Do you like hurting other people?”

It’s the only time where Hotline Miami eschews its subtleties to show what it’s really getting at: how accepting of violence are we? Why are we so insistent on justification for violence in a videogame? The Call of Duties of today remind you how justified your application of violence is by showing huge nuclear missiles launching from some distant silo, or by having the antagonist murdering an airfield of people. Without judging, it forces you to reflect upon your actions and to come to your own conclusions.

The janitors taunt me to kill them.

I know that if I do it, the game wins. I do not care. I kill the janitors to make it right for all the people they had me murder and all the other masked people that died trying to execute their missions.

As the credits roll for the second time, I reflect on many things. On one level, I’m wondering about the disparity between the main storyline and the biker’s story. Did anything in the main storyline after the phone company really happen? Wasn’t that exactly when the hallucinations started? Did the girlfriend really die? Was everything before the hospital mission a coma? How could they’ve ended up in the same building if one of the stories wasn’t real?

On another level I’m thinking about killing the janitors. I’m vaguely aware that I’m blaming the developers for the horrible things I’ve done to relieve my boredom. I’m not sure whether that’s justified. I’m not sure I care about it either. I am thinking about it nonetheless.

And finally, I’m thinking about how Hotline Miami is many things in many ways, but how it executes all of them through methods only videogames can employ. Optional little snippets of information piece together an uncertain narrative. Questioning violence through questioning the player’s autonomy can only work if the player controls the violence and the violence is repulsive enough to make you ever so slightly uneasy about it. The main dichotomy in Hotline Miami is how the game deliberately urges the player forward through its music, visuals and scoring – but then lurches them back through uncertainty in the narrative and the sheer horror of the violence on screen.

The trick that Hotline Miami employs perfectly is offering no time for thought during its violent gameplay and then offering abundant need for reflection through pause and uncertainty of narrative. All of that was not achieved by telling me to feel this way, nor by voice-over or dialogue – it was that unique combination of interactivity, visuals, audio, dialogue and atmosphere that only games can offer.

Hotline Miami took a daring step forward into an uncharted territory in which ego, player, avatar, autonomy, trust, action, responsibility, justice, morality, games and gaming all hold relevance, but never are quite clearly defined, never quite take shape and often overlap, exclude eachother or challenge eachother in impossible ways.

Hotline Miami isn’t so much a game about violence as it is a game about walking back to your car, wading through the bodies of those you killed for no other reason than that someone told you to.

Whether you play the game and pick up the phone is up to you. Do you like hurting other people?

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The Games That Never Were: Jan's Anatomy

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Stagnation, Aufgewärmtes, Sequels: Wer sagt, dass es bei Games nicht noch Platz für revolutionär Neues, für Unerwartetes, Abwegiges oder schlicht: das Unmögliche geben darf? The Games That Never Were ist ein Gedankenexperiment: Spiele, wie es sie nie gegeben hat und so auch wohl nicht geben wird. Dieses Mal tastet sich Autor Jan Bojaryn an sein Krankenhaustrauma heran.

Im Einkaufsradio plärrt Anastacia. Du kannst dich frei umschauen, aber der gnadenlos ausgeleuchtete Supermarkt bietet keinen Zentimeter Erholung. Deine Frau lässt ihren Blick ziellos über die Wursttheke schweifen. „Ich weiß nicht, was brauchen wir denn?“ In der Luft schweben die Optionen:

A: Fleischwurst. Mit Knoblauch.

B: Ich weiß nicht, vielleicht wieder den Fleischsalat?

C: Vielleicht auch gar nichts.

D: Mir egal.

Sie hat bereits angefangen zu bestellen, dreht sich kurz und beiläufig zu dir um, murmelt „gut“.

Ein dunkler Blitz zuckt durch das Bild. Kurz leuchten Optionen auf:

A: Warte mal, mir ist gerade —

B: Was war das?

C: Mir ist schwindelig.

Noch bevor du eine Chance hast, einen Knopf zu drücken, rast die Theke auf dich zu. Du hörst den dumpfen Aufschlag, den Schrei deiner Frau, das Quietschen von Haut auf Glas. Es ist dunkel.

Als du die Augen aufschlägst, rasen die Oberlichter des Krankenhausflurs vorbei. Du liegst auf einer Bahre. Du hörst deine eigene Stimme, sie formuliert nichts Verständliches. Endlich erscheinen die Optionen.

A: Wo bin ich?

B: Was ist passiert?

C: Wo ist meine Frau?

Heiser raspelst du deine Frage. Nichts passiert. Du schaust an dir herab. Der Sanitäter über dir wirft dir einen kurzen, ratlosen Blick zu. Dann schaut er wieder auf. Die Lichter über dir flackern. Hilflos schaust du dich um. An den cremegelben Wand hängen abstrakte Gemälde, Farbflächen. Erst, als du den Blick ganz nach unten streckst, entdeckst du über dem Unterleib des Sanitäters die Option:

A: Zuschlagen.

Kontextabhängige Handlungsmöglichkeiten stehen bei vielen Spielern im Verruf. Ich habe grundsätzlich nichts dagegen. So gehen wir schließlich durchs Leben — nicht im Bewusstsein, dass wir auch durch den Supermarkt hüpfen, Passanten anrempeln oder alles über den Haufen schießen könnten. Wir fragen uns eher, ob wir die 80 Cent extra für Bio-Brokkoli ausgeben wollen und welche Margarinemarke wir kaufen. Wir bewegen uns in einem engen Netz aus Handlungskonventionen. Wenn man die abbildet, kann man alles spielbar machen; schlechte Thriller (Heavy Rain) und gute Beziehungsdramen mit Zombies (The Walking Dead) wurden auf diese Art schon geschaffen.

Ich wünsche mir ein Krankenhausdrama. Würde man den Handlungsort auf eine Etage und die Länge auf drei Stunden beschränken, dann könnte man eine dichte, lebendige Spielwelt schaffen. Jeder Patient hat eine Geschichte. Jeder Bedienstete geht seinen Aufgaben nach. In den Schränken liegt zerknüllte Wäsche.

Und dann will ich die Putzfrau spielen. Ich will aus der Egoperspektive eine Stunde lang durch die Zimmer huschen, von allen ignoriert. Den Wischmopp schwinge ich automatisch — aber wenn ich an einem Bett vorbeiputze, habe ich zwei Optionen:

A: Patient begrüßen.

B: Patient ansprechen.

So kann ich die sozial ausgehungerten Senioren in Gespräche verwickeln. Wenn ich einen Nachttisch passiere, dann leuchtet kurz die Option auf:

A: Schublade öffnen.

Und ich werfe beiläufige Blicke in das Privatleben der Menschen. Als dann der kreidebleiche, wild um sich schlagende Patient auf die Station gerollt wird, Hilfspersonal betont gelassen in das Zimmer joggt, kann ich hinterher schleichen und durch den Türspalt lugen. Der Patient reißt eine Verbandsschere aus der Uniform des einen Pflegers, schlägt der Schwester die Brille von der Nase, und wird von beiden zusammen endlich gebändigt. Die Handgelenke werden ihm an das Bett gebunden. Die Rettungssanitäter stehen längst unbeteiligt am Fußende, einer zupft sich am Hosenbund. Der andere dreht sich endlich zu uns um: „Was machen sie hier? Raus! Tür zu!“

Dann könnte ich den Pfleger oder die Schwester spielen, die gerade noch im Stationszimmer sitzen, übrig gebliebene Krankenhausessen löffeln und sich über die Postkarte der verreisten Schwesterschülerin lustig machen, als die Meldung vom Notfallpatienten hereinkommt, der auf dem Weg in die Station plötzlich und desorientiert aufgewacht ist.

Dann die Stationsschwester, die sich nachher Bericht erstatten lässt, und die meint, sich an den Namen des Patienten zu erinnern. Dann den Bruder des Eingelieferten, der dieses Krankenhaus schon einmal betreten hat, und nicht glaubt, dass er zufällig hierhin muss. Am Foyer wird er gebeten, zu warten. Aber auf dem Weg in die Cafeteria kann er sich heimlich auf die Station schleichen. Dann den behandelnden Arzt, der den Patienten sofort erkennt und daraufhin mit zitternden Fingern operiert.

Ich will eine Geschichte von einem Ort hören, den ich kenne

Ich würde das Drama mehrfach erkunden, bis ich herausgefunden habe, was vor 25 Jahren in dem Krankenhaus passiert ist. Ich könnte die Nebengeschichten von dementen Säufern und deprimierten Frührentnern erkunden, könnte heimlich im Computersystem nach dem Patientennamen stöbern, könnte vielleicht sogar als Arzt absichtlich die Operation versauen.

Letztendlich würde dieses Spiel nur das einlösen, was in jedem anderen Medium schon immer normal ist: Mir eine Geschichte erzählen, die sich direkt auf meine Realität bezieht. Denn ich bin die ewige Weltflucht satt. Die endlosen Zuspitzungen haben mich längst abgestumpft. Ich will eine Geschichte von einem Ort hören, der mich stärker interessiert, als der dritte Weltkrieg oder Tamriel — einem Ort, den ich kenne.

Und ich will nicht mehr in der Achterbahn sitzen bleiben. Ich will auf halber Strecke aussteigen dürfen; der Geschichte nicht brav zuhören, sondern selber Antworten geben. Die besten Erlebnisse meines Spielerlebens hatte ich, wenn auch meine abwegigen Ideen nicht einfach mit „Game Over“ beantwortet wurden.

Schließlich will ich auch das Ende einer Geschichte erleben, bevor ich den Anfang vergessen habe. Ich kaufe auch keine dickeren Bücher, weil ich dann glaube, mehr für mein Geld zu bekommen. Kurz ist meistens besser.

Verfasst von rainer sigl am 1. November 2012 - 17:19

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Exploring player agency through art

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The Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword

By Tracey Lien on October 31, 2012 at 1:30p EDT

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David Hellman’s artwork is an invitation. His painterly landscapes and layered compositions invite viewers to look deeply, to look carefully. They invite viewers to explore with their eyes and see the possibilities in the details - to observe interesting rock formations and consider what lies beyond the mountains and the gullies. In his upcoming comic, Second Quest, on which he is collaborating with writer Tevis Thompson, his art will once again serve as an invitation. It will be an invitation inspired by The Legend of Zelda.

It is this marriage of art and writing that Hellman and Thompson hope will invite readers to explore and discover a fictional world in ways they believe many modern video games are failing to do.

Hellman and Thompson are Kickstarting Second Quest, a graphic novella/comic. Hellman is best known as the artist of the critically acclaimed 2008 game, Braid. Thompson is a writer and essayist who has written stories like A Jar in Tennessee. It was his essay, Saving Zelda — a critique of the loss of discovery and the handholding in The Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword — that brought the two together to collaborate on this ambitious project that, at the time of writing, has already exceeded 90 percent of its $50,000 funding goal with two weeks to go.

Frustrations
The frustrations with skyward sword

“Games are about player agency to a very large extent.”
The artist and writer both share a frustration with games that Thompson expresses in his essay, Saving Zelda. It is a frustration with modern video games. Specifically, it is a frustration with recent Zelda games like Skyward Sword where the sense of wonder and exploration is taken from the player. It’s a frustration with the game’s handholding, with endless tutorials and what they believe is the devaluing of player agency.

“Games are about player agency to a very large extent,” Hellman tells Polygon. “And I think the problem we have with the more recent Zelda games is that our agency as players isn’t as valued as much as we feel it should be, and that’s sort of against the nature of video games and against what they do best.”

Much of Hellman and Thompson’s frustration comes from them knowing what games are capable of when they are doing what they do best and the disappointment in seeing a much-adored series like The Legend of Zelda embracing a much more linear style of game design.

The two want to find a way to recapture the sense of wonder and discovery that they were rewarded with when they played earlier Zelda games, but they have no interest in making a game to rectify the issues they have with more recent games.

“If we were ever to do a game inspired by Zelda to rectify the issues we’re aware of I would never frame it as an answer to the Zelda series because I would never want to be compared directly to the Zelda series,” Hellman says. “I have a lot of respect for the work that’s been done in that franchise and I wouldn’t want to frame it that way.”

In fact, the duo aren’t creating Second Quest for the sake of comparison. They’re not here to suggest that what they are doing might be better than what has been done in the Zelda series. Rather, they’re using their experiences with games in the Zelda series to create art about player experiences.

“I think we both value the player experience as well as our own player experience,” Thompson says. “As a writer I find myself constantly grappling with this weird experience I have every time I sit down to play a game and everyone’s trying to describe it. I think we’re still in the early days of being able to describe what we’re experiencing, so I guess the opportunity to take this into another form … I think it’s exciting to think of some of the things that are specific to the game that aren’t working by contrasting it into this narrative world with David’s lush landscapes that kind of just invite you in.”

In a way, Second Quest is Hellman and Thompson’s exploration of the player experience. Through the power of art and storytelling, they want to critique what they believe many games do poorly, but more importantly they want to use the strengths of comics to explore the strengths of games and, through Second Quest, they hope to deliver the kind of experience they both feel was lacking from Skyward Sword.

Comics
The power of comics

It almost seems an odd choice for an artist and writer to critique the shortcomings of interactive entertainment through a medium that requires little interaction compared to video games. To this, Hellman and Thompson say that different forms are good at different things, and when they work well — when great books or comics or films or paintings work well — they can open up spaces for the reader to not only get involved but to think about what certain things mean and to feel out the differences in those meanings. Player and viewer engagement isn’t so much about the player being able to control where the character walks or how often he swings his sword — Hellman and Thompson believe a large part of it has to do with engaging the player on a creative and emotional level by firing up the imagination.

The two hope to achieve this on one level through Hellman’s art. The Braid artist is creating a lush and stylistic world that’s buzzing with movement and personality. The compositions of his works arouse the curiosity of the viewer; his landscapes suggest that there is something beyond what is seen on the page, the relationship between the trees and the mountains and the sky and the clouds tell a story of what has happened and what could happen next. His images might be two-dimensional, but the worlds that they suggest stretch far into the distance.

“Something I try to capture, which is difficult to explain, and I have this feeling when I’m playing both the first Zelda game and when I go for a jog or walk around San Francisco, is the world is very evocative. Nature is very evocative just in how it looks. And I have this feeling that there’s some passive communication in the world that’s trying to talk to me,” Hellman says.

“I don’t take this literally, but something in me just has a feeling that the world is speaking to me, and I think it’s just my mind, but I think the way that we identify with landscapes is intrinsic and we all kind of do it to some degree.”

Hellman says there is a mystery in older games that transfixed him and other players, like when players looked at rock formations or walls they were able to glean messages, discover hidden passages, find cave entrances and learn something about the world in which they were exploring.

“What I love about those games is that feeling of gratification, that suspicion that there’s a message there for you is gratified if you really pay attention and find that cave or that hidden entrance.

“So in the artwork [of Second Quest] it’s kind of difficult to pin down, but you can put personality into the way a tree is standing or how the arms of the trees are positioned. I try to approach it like there’s a face in the landscape somehow,” he says.

Dystopia
The dystopia of video games

The main character of Second Quest lives on a floating island in the sky. Her world is one filled with tales and legends. She is told stories about her world that she is expected to accept. She spends her days staring down to the earth, questioning whether the legends she is told are true.

“You could say she’s trapped in a world that many game players would be familiar with,” Thompson says. “Having this agency constantly circumscribed and trying to find ways out of it and maybe not always succeeding at that.”

Hellman and Thompson want to feel out the limitations of games like Skyward Sword. Tevis says that while playing Skyward Sword, even though the player assumes the role of Link, he could identify with the Zelda character inasmuch that control was constantly taken away from him.

“So in Skyward, Zelda is a pretty likeable character,” he says. “She’s spirited, she’s tough, she’s smart and when I started out I was like great, we have a great Zelda here, she seems more real. But then what happens is, and maybe it’s not a surprise, halfway through the story this interesting, independent person falls to destiny and essentially goes to sleep.

“In every Zelda game she’s either trapped in a room somewhere for the whole game or she’s put to sleep and it was just so disappointing because once again it’s like it teased us with this real character and then just put her through the motions Once the game’s in full swing she goes to sleep.”

Thompson believes there is something dystopic about playing a game. He describes dystopias as often characterized by a lack of control. A society may seem perfect, but in order to achieve the perception of perfection many elements that make life livable and bearable have been taken away from the people in the world.

“When you think of modern games, they have this appearance and they really trumpet player agency or ‘your own experience’, but they either are on rails the whole time or trying to give you an extended movie experience, which all kind of rings false in the end,” Thompson says. “You end up feeling as a player that not just your agency but your whole experience isn’t valued. They have an experience for you.”

Hellman says that the experience can sometimes be likened to “death by a thousand pinpricks”. The player is told that he or she is the hero, that they have a big job to do, but they are then forced to tolerate tedious tasks, endure long, unskippable cutscenes and receive lectures from non-playable characters.

“I end up feeling confined and patronized.”

“There are just so many moments that seem to be the wrong player experience where I end up feeling confined and patronized,” Hellman says.

Hellman and Thompson want to use Second Quest to explore the sense of dystopia associated with gaming. The character in their comic lives in a world that is isolated physically and mentally. It is a world that extols its own legends. It’s an insular place where no one asks questions. Having spent four years in China, Thompson is drawing from his experience being in a country that, until only thirty years ago, had remained fairly isolated from the rest of the world. Second Quest is an opportunity for him to unpack some of those experiences and pose questions like how it must feel to live on a floating city that is cut off from the rest of the world and what it must be like to finally open up.

“It seems the trick dystopias play is to not let you know you’re in a dystopia,” he says. “Usually in those kinds of stories only one or two people are pushing back against the system and everyone else has kind of internalized it and they think they’re in a paradise that’s really a hell, or they don’t think about it.

“It seems like a lot of gamers, if you said the video game experience is kind of dystopic, they’d be like ‘What are you talking about? It’s amazing! It’s wonderful!’ and so there are dystopian worlds, there are stories about dystopian worlds, but the actual experience suggests that these game experiences are not what they seem.”

Risks
Taking risks

“There is certainly a feeling of risk and exposure, but I think that’s the gambit of personal art making.”
Hellman and Thompson have been in the spotlight since they launched their Kickstarter campaign two weeks ago. With Hellman the artist on Braid and Thompson writing a widely read essay critiquing a game series with an enormous fanbase, the pair are under immense pressure to not only meet their Kickstarter funding goals, but to produce a comic that lives up to big expectations.

Both are aware that Kickstarters don’t always succeed, and even if it does there’s a risk that Second Quest might not. But it’s a risk Hellman says needs to be taken.

“Since I was small, I’ve always loved to sit with my sketchbook and dream things up and then try to make those things real with friends who encouraged my creativity with their own talents,” Hellman says. “But beyond school, protecting that private creative time requires new resourcefulness, [but it] also requires risk, and vulnerability.

“It requires that I choose projects that I am most passionate about and that I reveal myself somehow in the process. So there is certainly a feeling of risk and exposure, but I think that’s the gambit of personal art making.”

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Journey: An evening with Robin Hunicke - Game On

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Watching Robin Hunicke play Journey—the videogame she worked on at thatgamecompany—at ACMI last week was a revelation. It was, in more ways than one, a moment to find your place in the universe.

It took me a while to realise that Robin Hunicke was crying. She speaks with such a steady and eloquent passion that the first time she brushed at her eyes, I thought she was just cleaning her glasses.

“I’m here with my daughter. We’re making a game together,” a man in the audience had asked.

“But one of the problems we frequently grapple with is the idea that games are for boys.”

Maybe we’re used to talking about gender and culture in a wider sense, but for that evening, this man and his daughter’s question was arresting, and almost out of place. Let me give you some context.

Robin Hunicke is a globally successful videogame designer and producer, having worked at EA, thatgamecompany and Tiny Speck before recently moving on to form her own company, Funomena. She is an impressive person, as renowned as a speaker on the subject of videogames as she is for the videogames she has made. Hunicke was at ACMI that evening to play and talk about Journey, an extraordinary videogame that she worked on at thatgamecompany.

It is Journey as much as Hunicke or the questioner that made this moment remarkable. There is not an ounce of exclusion in Journey’s blood. It is a game that has the warm embrace of pensioned romance, or the familial caress of shelter from cold rain. The moment that Hunicke began Journey was a familiar kind of homecoming, as if the game does not so much open for the player as it enfolds them. It is a piece of software that has been crafted to allow two perfect strangers to share attachment and intimacy across a high-speed broadband connection. It is something that gives a perfect stranger the power to love you.

Hunicke’s answer: “Games are for everyone. That’s like saying food is for men, or fragrances are for women. It’s just not true anymore. We all have feelings, we all have emotions. We all want to play. You wouldn’t tell kids that girls can’t jump rope.

“You don’t say those things.”

It was fervent, and it was honest. It was an hour and seven minutes into the evening. But it was, in a way, only a warm-up for what was to come.

*

Everyone should try and see a game designer play their creation in public at least once. Here in Melbourne, I have been lucky enough to see two designers play their own games at ACMI in two months.

The first was Tetsuya Mizuguchi, the quiet and pensive designer of Rez and Child of Eden. Mizuguchi sat in front of several hundred people and steadily answered the insightful questions of Dewi Tanner, a local videogame producer formally of Japan. Mizuguchi would often pause for some time before giving his answer, as though nothing was worth saying unless it was said in the best way possible. After a while he rose and stood before a screen on stage and performed a level of his Child of Eden, his arms and torso moving with the kind of confidence only a Kinect-ready game designer could have.

The second was Robin Hunicke, who sat in front of only dozens of people in ACMI’s smaller studio room last Wednesday night. With Hunicke was Leena van Deventer, a local videogame maker and writer, who was there to guide the discussion. Van Deventer was subtle and probing, but she could never hope to lead the conversation that night: that was instead given over to Journey, which Hunicke played for almost all of the evening.

She played idly, almost absent-mindedly at times, concentrating on one of van Deventer’s questions as she let her character move without focus. At other times she spoke with ease while simultaneously moving around Journey’s world with a fluency I do not possess: sand-surfing her nomad through the optimal paths, finding secrets, singing songs.

She could only play by herself that evening, as a recent software update meant ACMI’s PlayStation 3 could not connect with others. It was certainly a pity—Journey is designed for anonymous companions—but in other ways it was revealing.

“One of the things we worked on from the very beginning was to figure out how to establish the sense that you are alone, but that there are also others,” said Hunicke. “People who travel into space sometimes have a sense that they’re very important—they’re scientists. When they go into space and see the world from a very different perspective, they realise that they are in fact alone.

“This idea that you’re not in charge of everything, that everything around you is bigger than you, transforms people.” This is as true of Journey as it is any videogame: there is a clear process at work that moves the player from wonder, to responsibility, to fear, to triumph. “They understand their place in the universe.”

*

Everyone has a story about the first player they met in Journey.

Mine was dancing in the distance, as far away as the game would let me see. She was faster than me, flying between flags and solving puzzles with an effortlessness that I took as competition. I caught up to her and shouted, and she responded. She would not slow for me, but I could keep up.

Eventually we worked as allies, freeing the friendly and helpless flying creatures that inhabit Journey, passing the song that is inter-player communication in Journey between us almost compulsively. After what felt like an hour, I was genuinely upset to turn and see her disappear into the sand, frozen as though death had come. It was more likely a disconnected internet connection, or maybe a break for dinner, but it is the finesse of Journey that turns finality and frustration into melancholy.

“When you are alone in the wilderness and you pass a person on a hike,” said Hunicke, “you see them and you feel another human.”

“We wanted it to be like that. You can feel their humanity.”

The decision to design for deeper interaction rather than the usual levels of distrust and exasperation usually found in online environments is what defines Journey. “We didn’t know how people would be in this world,” said Hunicke. “The first couple of days after release we kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, and it never did. We would have journalists coming up to us in tears. That was stunning. It really works.

“People can love one another through this mediated interface. They can feel connected. The world doesn’t have to be about dying and killing. You can actually love one another.”

Love is rarely the first word that people reach for when describing the world of videogames, and van Deventer took the opportunity during the course of the evening to ask Hunicke about her experience in the male-dominated videogames workplace.

“In the end, I am a minority, and I am always aware of it, and I always will be, no matter how much nominal power, or no matter how much design credit I get,” said Hunicke. “It will always be different.

“It’s important to recognise that the only way for that not to happen is for there not to be the same unjust ratios,” Hunicke continued. “It’s very frustrating sometimes to go to an indie event and feel that this is an environment where people have the most right to be different, the most leeway to be openly gay, to be transgender, to be angry, to be political, and yet it has a tendency to conform.”

It was striking to hear Hunicke talk about such disjuncture and exclusion in the videogames industry while watching her play what is probably the most inclusive videogame I’ve ever played. The disconnection grew even more powerful as Journey entered into its ominous, ‘belly of the beast’ middle act and the room at ACMI descended into darkness.

“Kelly [Santiago] and I were 20% of Journey, but we never did find and hire a female programmer,” continued Hunicke. “I did try, but I didn’t succeed. It’s a personal goal of mine to find excellent talent of all kinds, and I still struggle.

“We all have to take personal responsibility for that effort, and I wonder sometimes why it’s so hard. Why is it so slow? Why am I still struggling with this as a developer? Can I make a difference?”

*

Hunicke eventually put down her controller. Journey had reached its climax, and she would not go beyond the early scenes of snow. It was too personal to continue, she said. Though it would have been thrilling to see her play through perhaps the most moving section of Journey, she was right. Some things need to be experienced alone—or with only an anonymous internet user who could be hundreds of kilometres away.

Yet like Journey, Hunicke was most impressive at the last. After the audience question and answer session that saw the moment described above, Hunicke began to speak about her own goals as an artist, and how she sees Journey positioned in relation to the often-conservative world of videogames.

“Real art makes you feel uncomfortable,” said Hunicke. “It’s nice to make something beautiful, it’s nice to make something sensual and tactile, but truly amazing cuisine challenges the palette. When you smell it and swallow it, you get a sense of the fat, and all of the flavours together make you think. It’s dialogue, it’s communication—it’s not just sweet and then salty and then it’s over.

“A lot of games can be that way. It feels good in the same way that eating fries and ketchup feels good. But then it’s over. And you weren’t really thinking, you weren’t really having an experience.”

The crowd at ACMI had been attentive all evening, but this was something different. This, 90 minutes into the evening, was a moment.

“Really great food, really great films, really great games, really great clothes, really great sex, everything about the world that’s worth it challenges you and takes you to a place you didn’t expect to be, even for a moment.

“If you spend your whole life playing games and all you talk about with people is games, you’re creating this solid note in your life that will never be able to live up to all the other things you’re doing.

“It’s really important that we, as a group of artists, confront and trample the notion that there is only one note. That there is only one audience for videogames. That there is only one way of making them.

“That kind of thinking is what generates bland. If you really want to innovate and make a difference, you have to keep exploring the boundaries between the things that we’re comfortable with and the things that we’re not comfortable with.”

Hunicke lent back in her seat. The evening was over. Though she made an attempt to apologise for ranting, it was beyond unnecessary. The small crowd applauded like a big crowd and most stayed in their seats afterwards far longer than was necessary, soaking up the final few drops of atmosphere, of Journey, of that warm, loving game, and of Hunicke, one of its brilliant, articulate creators.

It is rare to hear a videogame creator talk with such eloquence and passion, and rarer still to see them play their own game in such a thoughtful and public forum. Melbourne has been in the enviable position of hosting some world-class videogame events over the last six months—with people like Mizuguchi, Tim Schafer, Warren Spector, and Mare Sheppard playing starring roles— but this, this was something else.

This was the evening of the game that embraces you, of its amazing creator, of self-doubt, of humanity, of finding your place in the world, and of being moved by a father and daughter who felt locked in by outdated preconceptions.

It was fervent, and it was honest.

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Features - Postmortem: Humble Hearts' Dust: An Elysian Tail

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By Dean Dodrill,Alex Kain
In this candid and detailed postmortem, developer Dean Dodrill tells the tale of the challenging and largely solo development of Summer of Arcade hit Dust: An Elysian Tail, a title that took him over three years to create.

I had always loved video games, and thought making my own would be cool.

Late in 2008 I read an article in OXM detailing what was possible with a new programming language, cryptically called XNA. I had never programmed before, and besides a short contract doing cutscenes for Jazz Jackrabbit 2, had never worked on a video game (I’m actually an animator/illustrator by trade).

For years I had been feeling the call to make my own game — something small, like an 8-bit NES title. The OXM article convinced me to download the free tools and just try it. Four years later, I released Dust: An Elysian Tail as the headliner of XBLA’s Summer of Arcade 2012. Yeah, I can’t believe it either.

This is the story of how Dust: AET came to be, along with what went right and wrong during production and launch. Admittedly it was hard to come up with a list, because when you are independent and your livelihood is at stake, you can’t afford to let things go wrong.

After convincing my wife that I’d like to take “only three months” off to learn to program and release a small 8-bit-style indie game in early 2009, I downloaded Visual Studio and XNA, and joined Microsoft’s XNA development community.

A week of rudimentary tutorials later, I quickly realized you have to make EVERYTHING from scratch! No level editor existed. No animation tool. No scripting or dialogue systems. No nothing — just a bunch of otherworldly programming words. But that’s what made it exciting: learning a new language (literally), slowly making my artwork interactive, and more importantly, growing my aspirations beyond the original 8-bit design.

Most of my education came from online tutorials, and while each one provided valuable insight into the process, very few were directly applicable to what I wanted to achieve. That’s when I came across James Silva’s book on developing for XNA, which he had written while working on The Dishwasher.

Up until that point, I had committed to working with a blocky tile editor that I had been cobbling together to create my game. His book offered concepts that allowed for much more organic world creation and animation tools. That was the eye-opening moment for me, and an image of a mysterious turquoise character running through a beautiful forest alongside a herd of deer cemented itself into my brain.

What Went Right

1. Crafting The World and Characters

First things first: I needed a protagonist. He needed a unique silhouette, easily readable from a distance and exaggerated in motion. He would be fully animated in the traditional Disney sense.

Animating “Dust”, as the protagonist would be called, was time-consuming. I would rough out each motion with pencil on paper, and then do a digital pencil test. When I was happy with the motion, I would ink each frame on my light table, scan the artwork into Photoshop, and then separate the shadow layer out and do cleanup/color/shading (a technique I developed while working on my film). Finally, I would composite a CG animated weapon into each frame to create the final artwork.

Each frame would be downsampled from film res to a 300x300 block, and arranged neatly on a sprite sheet. In the end Dust himself comprised over 500 unique frames of animation, across four massive 4k sprite sheets. Dust alone used up most of the RAM available on the Xbox 360.

The character editor was created in tandem with the artwork. The editor was also customized to handle segmented characters, which ended up comprising the rest of the cast.

Dust (the early working title, later changed to Dust: An Elysian Tail to make it searchable, and to tie it into my existing IP) would be an open-world mix of genres, where the player could gain new abilities and take on side quests from non-playable characters, and feature a simple leveling-up and loot system. My largest inspirations were Blaster Master, Monster World, Cadash, Strider, and Castlevania.

Again, with the help of James’ book, I crafted a level editor that would allow me to incorporate my skills as a painter. Small pieces of background art would be digitally painted with a Wacom using a custom set of brushes in Painter, then assembled into 4k sprite sheets. Segments could be scaled, rotated, tinted, and flagged for motion and particles through the editor.

The final game ended up featuring over 230 handcrafted maps — individual gameplay areas assembled into a number of themed regions, all accessible from a central world map. Creating the background assets and maps ended up being the most time-consuming task through the entire production. I stuck with familiar themes for areas to reflect my preference for older games. A Metroid style mini-map was retroactively implemented later in development.

One of the first systems to be written (and rewritten, and rewritten) was the particle system. This might have been one of my favorite areas to work in, making everything spark, glow, or just come to life in some way. In Dust: AET, a particle could be as simple as a floating mote, or as complicated as an entire avalanche, spawning hundreds of new particles in its wake. A dynamic weather system was also implemented to bring the world to life.

Immediately after my first sketches of Dust, I created his flying companion, Fidget. I needed a character at his side to help the narrative along, and to compliment/contrast his personality. And really, that’s all Fidget was good for, mechanically. At first, anyway.

I was showing my brother how maps were assembled, using hundreds of sprites. We joked how funny it would be if the world around you were sucked into a spin move I had animated, since it was technically possible, if not a bit ridiculous. It dawned on me that I could expand on the simple throw axe/knife/what-have-you of a Castlevania and do something flashier with projectiles.

I animated Dust throwing out a projectile and programmed what would become the Dust Storm. The problem was that you had to stop running as he threw the projectile from his hand, and it killed the flow of combat. Then I realized I had this floating character following you the whole time. I had Fidget cast the projectiles, created some animation and code, and the combat clicked.

Dust: AET finally had its signature mechanic, and it looked and felt very, very cool. The next thing I needed was for it to sound very, very cool.

2. Sound and Music

It was finally time to find a composer. While I had been handling the sound effects and foley work myself, I knew that I’d need a strong soundtrack to accompany the visuals.

I first reached out to an old friend, Alex Brandon (Funky Rustic), of Unreal/Jazz Jackrabbit/Deus Ex fame. While I couldn’t bring him on full time, he did end up providing a number of wonderful tracks for the final game. Shortly after, I met a couple of guys out of Ireland, who would eventually define the sound of Dust: AET and bring it to a level beyond my wildest dreams.

Let’s let Chris Geehan of HyperDuck Soundworks tell the story.

Chris Geehan: When I found Dean, I was extremely nervous about whether I could convince him to give me a chance, but once I spoke to him, I was relieved by his interest and my chance for an opportunity to impress him. This started what I consider to be more of a friendship than a work relationship, and one of my most cherished friendships at that.

The work process between Dean and me boiled down to this: Dean would present me with YouTube videos or music in Dropbox for references, pointing out specific moments in the music for any of the themes he wanted to sway influence on. In sound design, it would actually be a case of us talking about a sound, and Dean saying, “One sec…”, coming back to me with a video yanked from YouTube’s archives, and a specific minute and second in it which pointed out the right reference for what he was thinking. It was a bit mind-blowing — not how Dean could find these references, but how he did it within 10 seconds, nearly every time. I’m not kidding.

So on Dean’s end, there was never a problem with explaining what he was thinking of. What came over time, however, was Dean’s willingness to let me follow through on musical and sound ideas that we hadn’t really discussed — and when I took risks, it really began to pay off. Jumping from the Ys I - IV style to cinematic orchestras, wild synths, and epic booming percussive beds was probably the biggest risk of all.

And it never stopped being risky; every song I re-did, or wrote in that style, got bigger and more complex each time. I think I spent nearly six weeks writing the Everdawn Basin theme, and that includes rewrites. The risk made it exciting, for Dean and ourselves, albeit an occasionally stressful kind of exciting. But that comes with taking massive leaps like that —for me, anyway.

Click to download an mp3 of composer Chris Geehan comparing old and new musical styles in Dust: An Elysian Tail.

I would sit down at my piano to write a lot of the Dust themes at the start, but any musician will tell you, you write differently on each instrument, so the shower head was also used for pulling out wild melodic runs. The Everdawn Basin theme came about when I had my hair full of suds as I falsetto sang in the shower and quickly rushed out after to record down what I had sung (badly). I have always felt that I’ve never really been so inspired by a project as I was with Dust — from the moment we started it, until it was done. Even now, it still feels like the biggest (and is the biggest) project we’ve ever been a part of, and that was inspiring to work with.

3. Good Publisher Relations

In July 2009 (six months after “real” development started) I decided to lock down what content I had and polish up a submission for Dream.Build.Play, an annual event where the best XNA / Xbox Live Indie Games games are judged. I had low expectations, since this would be the first time anyone outside of a handful of playtesters actually played my experiment, so I was quite surprised when I won the Grand Prize.

A month later, Microsoft got involved. After several months of pitches and contracts, Dust: AET was upgraded to the status of Xbox Live Arcade. I was assigned a producer to work with, Andrew Williams, who not only became instrumental in providing feedback and championing the game up to its release, but a good friend as well.

There’s been heated debate these last few years about the relationships between indie developers and mega game publishers. After all, on a philosophical level, it seems almost contrary to the indie spirit — to be working on this intensely personal project while also working with some of the largest companies on the planet.

But when I say that my partnership with Microsoft went well, that isn’t just some publisher platitude or marketing bullet point. Aside from some stressful moments during the certification process (which is less about game design and more about getting the code up to snuff), everything went very — almost absurdly — well. They were about as hands-off as a publisher could be, but always provided valuable and objective feedback on the game (which I needed after staring at it from a foot away for nearly four straight years). They never forced me to change a gameplay feature or add in something to appeal to a different market — they let Dust: AET grow on its own, and I think they know that’s the best way to do it.

Signing that deal had charted a new direction in my life. My small three-month project was far behind me and I would spend the next three years, without breaks or weekends off, finishing the game.

4. Story, Dialogue, and Voices

I had written the outline for the story very early on, and had personally done a good chunk of the script for chapters 1 and 2. Soon, though, I realized that to really make it shine, Dust: AET needed a healthy dose of professional wordsmithery. In mid-2011, I brought on a friend, Alex Kain, to help iron out some rough spots and tidy up the script. While he was initially only tasked with editing text, his role grew to the point where I ended up crediting him as co-writer.

Alex Kain: I was originally introduced to Dust: AET through its Dream.Build.Play win. I thought it looked like a real breath of fresh air from the never-ending 3D arms race, and I decided to ping Dean through the e-mail on his website, just saying I loved what he was doing and I’d love to chat about the game.

Surprisingly, he emailed back almost immediately and we started talking about… well, everything. At the time, I was working for a mobile games studio called Venan Entertainment and I’d had a major hand in writing dialogue for an iOS shooter/RPG called Space Miner: Space Ore Bust. Dean, coincidentally, was a fan. It wasn’t long before Dean was letting me play builds of the game and I was rewriting huge chunks of dialogue.

One thing that didn’t change was the “amnesiac hero” plotline. Since Dust: AET was in many ways paying homage to the games we loved growing up, it only made sense to use one of the medium’s most long-standing storytelling tropes. The biggest challenge we had was the “twist” at the end. The existence of a twist doesn’t really come as a surprise — it’s inherent to the trope, and everyone expects one by now. A lot of time was spent making the late-game story reveals as interesting as possible.

Dean: I was extremely happy with how the story wrapped up, and feel we did a good job taking the narrative into a fresh direction from what was a seemingly familiar beginning. In fact, after launch, we had quite a few gamers expressing to us that the narrative really resonated with them.

Alex: When Dean brought me on, he was very clear that he didn’t just want “cartoon fluff” — the goal was to do a story that dealt with deeper themes. The story, from its earliest stages, had always been a dark one, but we always looked at it as being more in line with where animated shows and films had been in the early-to-mid ’80s, before the Disney Renaissance hit.

The animated films that Dean and I grew up with were generally pretty dark, with stuff like An American Tail, Secret of NIMH, The Black Cauldron, and even Jim Henson’s Dark Crystal (which wasn’t animated, but you get the idea) all dealing with very heavy themes ranging from genocide to animal experimentation, but they also had an undercurrent of absurdity to keep things fresh for kids. That was the vibe we wanted to present with Dust, and I think it helped us craft a story with real gravitas that appealed to both children and adults while also allowing us to maintain the family-friendly E10+ rating.

Of course, even though we knew where we wanted the story to go, Dean and I labored extensively over pretty much every line of dialogue. Sometimes the changes would be insignificant, like altering the wording, while other changes had tremendous ripple effects. It got much more strenuous the closer we got to the localization lock, which is when all text in the game has to be 100 percent final so it can be sent off for translation.

Dean: When Dust: AET initially graduated to XBLA, Microsoft had asked about the possibility of adding voices to the game. I thought it would be too difficult to manage, being my first project, as I had enough challenges already. But after a couple years of development, it seemed a shame that such an epic story had to remain silent. Chris agreed, and set off to find a way to bring the characters to life.

Chris: In early 2011, I brought on Deven Mack of Toon Platoon Casting, an extremely talented voice actor I found on Newgrounds. I had really wanted to get his voice in Dust: AET somewhere, perhaps narrating, but once we started talking, we realized there was potential to bring a full cast on board. Mack was a blessing in disguise, and I speak for Dean and myself when I say we’re grateful to have found him. Clear vision and plenty of directorial skills made casting a lot easier than we imagined; so much choice and good communication made the stressful parts of the voice acting project more manageable.

Deven Mack: When contacted by Chris in April of 2011, I quickly discovered that the game was going to be something very special, and I wanted to ensure that its quality of voice work reflected the great care being put into its development. I have a very extensive background in voicing TV cartoons, and had just come off directing actors for a Newgrounds Flash game called Hunters: Relic of Stars — experiences which proved invaluable in preparing me for the monumental task that lay ahead.

Taking the indie-level budget into consideration, for months on end I focused on scouring several corners of the internet for aspiring and freelance vocal talents. The hundreds of actors I reached out to combined into roughly one thousand audition files for me to wade through. I would then narrow each character’s auditions down to a top five or so actors, which I would submit to Dean, Chris, and Alex for further consideration.

Although I gave occasional tasks to my assistant and trusted second opinion, Edward Bosco, I personally handled the vast majority of the audition coordinating, recording session scheduling, directing and post editing process for the game’s voice work. Having all my actors record remotely from their home studios and directing them over Skype provided some challenges in and of itself, but made the end result that much more unique and special to me. Six different countries are represented throughout Dust: AET’s final cast of 40 very talented performers, many of whom were getting their first big break.

Dean: One of my greatest joys was hearing each character come to life. Working with Deven to choose from each fantastic audition, and then preparing the final lines for the game, are memories I will always cherish. It was quite surreal to hear such incredible voice talent contributing to my little indie game. Of course, once the voices started coming in, the static character portraits that I’d been using up to that point seemed a little stark. Microsoft asked if they could be livened up a bit.

That solution — crazy as it was — was to have animated portraits for every character in the game (over 80 unique animations). I would separate the portrait art into segments and then map/rig them onto orthographic geometry in my 3D suite. Some artwork would be mapped onto deformable geometry so that ears, cloth, and belts could sway as the character idled.

I would then traditionally animate the mouths with a general mouth pattern, and then assemble a large sprite sheet with the character animation above, mouths below.

In code, as each line of dialogue began, I would queue up the next sprite sheet (which was a multi-threading nightmare, as it had to load and run seamlessly). A pre-baked “voice analysis” would be read, and the animated mouth would display if there was voice playing. It wasn’t a perfectly synched effect, but since it ended up looking about as good as most anime, I was happy with the result. I created a dialogue editor capable of handling portraits and branching options, and also handled voice analysis for the pre-baked mouth movement (a feature implemented over a nightmarish matter of hours just before submitting to cert).

The final element necessary to tell my story would involve animated cutscenes. When an accelerated deadline was imposed near the end of production, I was left with three options: do the cutscenes as motion comics (a technique I’m not fond of), remove them completely, or use a limited-animation technique similar to anime.

Despite having only animated in the full-blown “Disney” style (at 12/24 fps), I had no choice but to learn how to create limited animation in a very short time frame. During the most severely brutal period of crunch, I created over 6 minutes of hand-animated cutscenes for Dust: AET in a matter of weeks. This was in fact the very last content to be put into the game before cert.

5. PAX East 2012

Aside from the Dream.Build.Play win in 2009, and an “XBLA Announce” Trailer for E3 2010, Dust: AET remained dark as I toiled away in my dungeon. I entered the fourth year of development, and while I hadn’t burned out yet — and Microsoft remained generously patient — I had high hopes that this would be ‘the year’ the game saw release.

However, in early 2012, I took a hard look at the project, and while I could finish the game by the end of the year, I would have to wait until 2013 to avoid the holiday onslaught. I had already sacrificed enough of the last three years from my family (again, with hardly any days off), and I didn’t want to put them through a fourth.

Microsoft internally had high hopes for the game, and my producer arranged to have a demo shown at PAX East in Boston. This was incredibly generous of them, as they handled the booth, leaving me only to cover my own accommodations. Considering I wasn’t swimming in money, I was thankful for the opportunity.

PAX arrived, and everything changed in the span of about 48 hours. I’d expected a small showing, a few interested fans, and a lot of people passing by my booth to play the other XBLA titles that were being prepped for release in the coming weeks. We started with a moderate showing — but then Giant Bomb swung by and mentioned the game at their PAX panel. Then Mike Krahulik from Penny Arcade stopped by to check out the game. Then Cliff Bleszinski. It wasn’t long before we had lines over an hour long to play the game.

Needless to say, after spending so long on the game, I’d lost nearly all objectivity. But seeing so many people playing and enjoying the game was one of the most validating moments of the game’s development for me. Also, after working with him for over a year via Steam Chat by that point, I finally got to meet my co-writer, Alex Kain, in person. Between that and hanging out with my partners at Microsoft, it was a fantastic show.

Less than a week after returning from PAX, Microsoft suggested I pursue a Summer of Arcade release. How could I say no?

What Went Wrong

1. The Most Difficult Three Months of My Life

After a lot of back and forth with Microsoft, my family, and a whole lot of prayer, I said yes to Summer of Arcade. I would have to take an already massively difficult eight to 10 months of development and cram it into three. I knew I would see very little of my family during that period (despite working from home), including my newborn daughter, due just two months later.

Much of what happened after that is a blur. I was already used to working seven days a week, but now those turned into nearly 20 hour workdays. I couldn’t go to bed saying “I’ll finish that tomorrow” because tomorrow would bring a new set of challenges. I’m a pretty “got it together” kind of guy, but I broke down a number of times. If it wasn’t for my family literally placing food between me and my monitors, I wouldn’t have eaten. The days where I realized I hadn’t stepped out of the house and looked at the sky for over two weeks made me realize how crazy this all was.

I can hardly remember cranking out all the cutscenes, wrapping up the remaining enemies, and populating the rest of the world during those hectic weeks. I have no idea how I was able to rewrite several massive systems — including one to resolve a bug that threatened to cut all the voice over from the game — just days before certification. I consider myself a man of faith, and it was certainly tested during those dark hours.

And it wasn’t exactly a walk in the park for my collaborators. On top of working on multiple projects themselves, we were all caught off guard by the accelerated schedule. HyperDuck produced music and sound at an insane pace, Toon Platoon was recording and editing hundreds of lines across 40 actors seemingly overnight, and Alex and I rushed on last-minute changes to the script to accommodate the actors and to lock it down for localization.

Looking back, I honestly can’t explain how I got it done. Everyone on the inside knows how deathly close we made it, from nearly cutting all dialogue and cutscenes, to issues in certification and localization — the list goes on.

2. Biting the Bullet and Axing Features

On the subject of trimming content, Dust: AET was originally envisioned as a much larger game than it ended up being. Once I had the core mechanics down, I made the tough decision to prune my initial concept. There were actually a lot more non-combative plans, such as owning property, farming, fishing, and so on. I’d spent a lot of time planning these features and, perhaps even more problematically, envisioning them naturally as parts of the game in my head. For the longest time, Dust: AET needed these disparate components to be Dust: AET.

Most of these grander concepts were pulled simply out of necessity. It’s immensely hard parting with a concept — any concept — that you see adding value to your dream game, but the reality of being one man and really wanting to get the game done before the universe imploded weighed heavily on my mind.

One idea, however, stuck around longer than any other: the concept of building up a small town using your amassed wealth, similar to the town-building mechanics seen in games like the latter Assassin’s Creed titles. This town was where your rescued “friends” would live, and new building types would provide passive bonuses to you on your adventure. Remnants of these ideas persist in some of the materials you acquire.

Alex: This was still on Dean’s plate when I came onto the project in 2011, and at first it sounded like an awesome idea. First of all, it served as a money sink, which is always helpful when you can grind enemies and wealth. Secondly, it gave players a kind of third “progression pillar”, in addition to advancing the storyline and their own stats, giving players something else to build up. Unfortunately, as Dean mentioned above, he’s just one guy, and Dust: AET was still far from complete.

I suggested that Dean reconsider the “build your own village” concept, but I could tell he had already crossed it out of his own internal design documentation. Once in a while he would wistfully refer to it and ponder whether he could squeeze it in, even in a less-robust state, but the realities of game development hit hard. There would be sacrifices and cuts, and the early feature creep that represented the fun and experimental beginnings of the project were long behind us.

3. Overcomplicating the Finale

Alex: Towards the end of 2011, Dust: AET was beginning to come together. It was impressive seeing the levels going up screen-by-screen, but a rather large problem was looming in the background this whole time: the story was nowhere near finished.

In actuality, the outline Dean had laid out called for an entirely new sixth chapter — a massive third act that took the player to brand new locations fighting against a new main antagonist and changing the entire focus of the storyline. Length-wise, this finale would have tacked on another couple hours of gameplay time, which equated to another several months of development time.

In the interest of getting the game done, Dean and I resolved to cut this final section of the game and tighten up what we had, promoting General Gaius up to main antagonist and centering the game around his campaign. While this sounded great on paper, it meant a lot of late-night, multi-hour conversations with Dean where we hashed out numerous alternate story possibilities. How would we tie the caverns, meadows, and mountains into the new Gaius plotline? How would we be able to establish Gaius as a villain when you don’t actually meet him until the end of the game?

For Dean, the problem was more about cutting content that he had already worked on. When you’re on a team, cutting content is a fact of life. When you’re one guy, every single asset you create is important. The area had already been laid onto the world map, the music had already been written, and Dean had spent years envisioning the ending in his head. Then I came in and politely (sort of) threw that out the window.

In the end, Dean ended up agreeing with my decision to cut the third act and consolidate the story we had. It was hard to part with the mysterious final villain, but the game ended up a lot tighter, and the story felt much more satisfying ending where it did.

4. Nearly Throwing Out All the Finished Voice Over

Immediately after the final voice files came in, an unforeseen issue popped up just days before submitting to final certification.

I dropped the 1700 audio files into the solution — and realized the game was taking upwards to a minute to boot. A solid black screen displayed for a full minute with no loading animation, no splash screen, nothing. Apparently the project would halt as it analyzed each and every file (twice), rendering the game unshippable.

It became clear that in order to meet the impending milestone (that I could not miss), I would have to cut all the voiceover from the game. A year of casting, recording, editing, animating, coding. All gone. I broke down, and halfway into the day went straight to bed. I had to find out a way to tell everyone, including the 40-plus actors, that all their work was not going into the game. It honestly felt like losing a loved one.

A few hours later (which was the norm at the time) I woke up, seemingly having reprogrammed the entire dialogue system in my dreams, as well as a new way to load all content, and was able to get everything working again. This was not easy, but again, at this point it wasn’t like I could put it off for later. Thankfully the game shipped with everything intact, and actually loaded faster than it used to.

This happened over the course of a single day, but I cannot emphasize how many years it took off my life. It was an absolute nightmare, and without question was the lowest point of an already challenging development period.

5. Marketing and Awareness

By far my biggest regret with the game had nothing to do with actual production, but rather that I literally had no time to build awareness before the launch. Plans for nurturing a community and reaching out to media were thrown out the window once the new deadline was agreed upon, and it’s hard not to look back and think, “What if I had delayed and did a proper marketing ramp up?”

I still believe it was better to release this year, rather than try to scramble during what many are predicting will herald a new generation of hardware in 2013. But spending so many years on the game also worked against me, as a curious number of “Dust” titled games popped up throughout the game’s production, sometimes even circumventing any marketing efforts I was currently involved with. It was hard to keep the momentum going for Dust: An Elysian Tail when Dustforce, Dust 514, and From Dust were all making headlines at the exact same time.

Additionally, without a strong community, it was an uphill battle once the game did start making headlines, as the visual style became an unusual point of contention, to the point that some websites refused to cover the game, despite it being part of such a prominent promotion. For their part, Microsoft did an admirable job giving the game exposure on the 360 dashboard and elsewhere, but I learned some valuable lessons when it comes to promoting your work, a skill I have not quite refined. Good reviews only take you so far.

Finally, while it was my intention to make a dialogue-heavy RPG, it’s not something I’m rushing to do again right away. The time, cost, and insane amount of work that it takes to write, test, record, and localize such a thick script makes it a prohibitive endeavor.

Closing Thoughts: As the Dust Settles

However, two months after release, I can finally say it was all worth it. I hit severe depression right at launch (from being so busy with marketing/press, physical and mental fatigue, and the natural depression of finishing a project so personal it hurts), but I can honestly say I’m happy with the video game I made. I can still pick it up and find genuine pleasure in the mechanics, laugh and cry at the dialogue, and just marvel at how it looks and sounds.

While I do care that others like the game and that reviews have been very positive, I’m just happier that I walked away having a newfound respect for this medium that I love, and that I’ve been afforded the opportunity to continue as a game developer. I feel blessed to have seen it through to completion, and cherish the collaboration with my fellow developers.

This production has brought my family closer together, as we have experienced both death (the passing of my grandmother the evening I won Dream.Build.Play, and a tragic shooting at my local theater during crunch), and new life (the birth of my daughter). It is my hope, for anyone who reads this, to find the sort of inspiration that got me started those seemingly thousands of years ago.

In the end, my suspicion was right. Making video games really is pretty cool.

And Finally: Trivia and Random Tidbits! (Spoilers Ahoy!)

- Castlevania gave us a lot of things, including the Mysterious Wall Chicken health item (which was added late in development thanks to our mutual love of Egoraptor’s Sequelitis videos). It also gave us the visuals for Dust’s double jump and slide moves (think Alucard and Richter in Symphony of the Night), the red orb/mysterious tornado, the region layout of the Sorrowing Meadow (Simon’s Quest), and Fidget’s projectile abilities.

- Super Ghouls’n Ghosts’ snow level inspired the avalanches in the Blackmoor Mountains.

- Fidget’s manic suggestion that Haley move her immovable forge using “an army of mutant rats! With MAGIC!” is a rather obvious reference to The Secret of NIMH. We would also refer to the incredible Mick Lauer (voice of Elder Gray Eyes) as “Mickodemus”, because of his close approximation to the “Nicodemus” character from the film.

- Fidget’s first interaction with Sereth, the mysterious merchant, was a joking reference to the merchant in Resident Evil 4.

- The Blop character in Mudpot Village, colorful regional colloquialisms and all, is based on Uncle Jeb from Space Miner: Space Ore Bust, which Alex had written.

- The short interactive scene following the final confrontation was inspired by one of Alex’s all-time favorite games, Another World, which was also modernized by Metal Gear Solid 4 and Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2.

- The Baron Kane and Geehan characters were obvious nods to co-developers Chris Geehan and Alex Kain.

- The “C-C-C-C-Combo Breaker” quest is, of course, inspired by the Rare classic Killer Instinct.

- The “If inconvenient, come anyway” gag written into one of the many hidden notes in the game is an homage to Steven Moffat’s BBC series Sherlock.

- The game’s maximum achievable percentage, 117 percent, is a shout-out to Halo’s Master Chief.

- The “What’s in the Box” quest title didn’t start as an homage to Se7en, but as fans of the film ourselves, we ultimately decided to leave it in.

- One of the XBLA Achievements was a reference to one of Mega Man’s common nicknames, while a couple others are nods to Mass Effec

- Originally, Fidget would literally fly off to visit the blacksmith whenever the player crafted an item on the field, leaving Dust to fend for himself. She would return several minutes later. I eventually let the player craft wherever they were (with the right item) since it seemed like an arbitrary inconvenience otherwise.

- Much of the aesthetic of Falana was influenced by my half-Korean heritage, including clothing, architecture, and many of the consumable food items. The Korean symbols in the logo art basically translate to “Dust”

- There are ten character cameos from other independent games, all of which have also appeared on XBLA. As a fan myself, getting the okay from each developer was a thrill, as was creating the artwork. Two original characters were created as cameos, and HyperDuck and I had a blast with the “payoff” when all were found.

Project Stats

Developers: Humble Hearts LLC, Music by HyperDuck SoundWorks and Funky Rustic, Casting by Toon Platoon Casting, Published by Microsoft Game Studios

Platforms: Xbox Live Arcade

Release Date: August 15, 2012

Developers: 1 Core, 4 Secondary, 50+ Publisher/Voice Cast

Development Time: 3.5 Years

Tools and Technology: Visual Studio, Photoshop, Painter, Google Docs & Steam for communication

Distribution: Worldwide on Xbox Live Arcade

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Copyright © 2012 UBM Techweb

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The cold science of Pokémon

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On the fifth of July, 1996, Dolly was born–the world’s first mammal to be cloned from an adult somatic cell. While Dolly was not the first cloned animal in the world, she quickly became a media darling and a cultural milestone in modern science. This was the future. Children squealed at the thought of real dinosaurs walking among us once more and adults were fascinated by the preservation possibilities of endangered species and the rebirth of more recent extinct animals like the thylacine and caspian tiger.

The reality is much different, of course. Nuclear transfer is remarkably inefficient, with the successful cloning of Dolly only occurring after 277 experimental embryos failed. This, alongside the high demand for eggs in fertility centers across the world, has made nuclear transfer an impossibility with human cells and done nothing but bolster the ethical concerns of cloning. Amidst all the worries and excitement, a little game called Pokémon saw release in the Western world in 1998 on the dying Game Boy.

While any attempt to explain Pokémon’s popularity is a futile exercise, a big proponent of the series lasting appeal is Game Freak’s understanding of biological concepts and zoology. Pokémon Red and Blue are not simply accessible RPGs, they’re a complex universe primarily concerned with the relationship between mankind and the animal kingdom. Reflecting the concerns of the 20th century and beyond, Pokémon Red and Blue are about the impact mankind has on the flora and fauna of the natural world.

The Kanto region mirrors the rapid industrialization of our world and the rise of corporate power. The Silph Company holds a monopoly on all things technological in Kanto and its sister region Johto. Silph Co. created the Master Ball, a unique ball that’s guaranteed to capture any wild Pokémon without exception. They also created the Silph Scope, a device that allows the user to see spectral entities, and are the primary manufacturer of Pokéballs around the globe. It’s also speculated they operate every Poké Mart in Kanto and Johto.

Accompanying The Silph Company’s technological ambitions is a land and culture that looks and feels modern. Viridian Forest borders Viridian City and Pewter City as the only woodland of the region and the countless roads that intersect and cross land and sea indicate a region that’s constantly on the move. Kanto’s constant technological achievements has even left modern constructs abandoned like the Power Plant to the north of Cerulean City and the Pokémon Mansion on Cinnabar Island where numerous experiments were carried out. And, a retcon though it may be, Pokémon Gold and Silver’s introduction of Berries and subsequent explanation that Kanto’s volcanic soil is unable to yield crops, closely aligns the region with Japan itself: a country that practically lives off importation and exuberant technological success.

All of which makes Kanto feel modern beyond the limitations of its pea-green presentation on the Game Boy, sometimes unbearably so. There’s no religion, myths, or traditions associated with Pokémon in Red and Blue. Alongside the game’s inability to do anything in the game with Pokémon outside of fighting and raising them, Red and Blue emphasises a divide between humans and animals. They’re around us but not integrated in society to the same degree in the later games. In Pokémon Ruby and Sapphire, Machokes were found shifting boxes around when you moved into your new home. Slowpokes roamed free among the people of Azalea Town in Pokémon Gold and Silver, and Miltanks were cooped up in MooMoo Farm to produce milk for humans and Pokémon. Admittedly, these are mostly subservient relationships but Kanto shows the beginnings of our relationship with Pokémon and it’s deeply unsettling we lead with glorified cockfighting before anything else. It’s us versus them. Is it any wonder that cloning and experiments on Pokémon developed in a region so divorced from cultural artifacts?

And the two Pokémon that best represent this conflict of man versus nature is Mewtwo and Mew. Created in a lab from the DNA of Mew, Mewtwo is the world’s most powerful Pokémon (or was, at the time of release). Mewtwo itself is a funny looking creature, tall and elongated with impossibly smooth limbs, with a protruding tube arching out of its neck and connecting to its spine. It shares some feline features with Mew but is more or less humanoid. Mewtwo’s design calls to mind the Grey Alien and instantaneously relegates it to a human construct. Although there are shades of Mew in Mewtwo, this was not a natural evolution.

In contrast, Mew represents the purest form of nature and the animal kingdom. Originally, Mew was a closely kept secret, dropped into the game’s code when programmer Shigeki Morimoto realized there was leftover space on the cartridge after the removal of the debugging tools. As the years passed, and cheaters stumbled upon this strange creature that could learn every TM and HM in the game, Mew became something much more. It was said that Mew held the genetic code of all Pokémon. Mew didn’t just give rise to Mewtwo, it gave rise to an entire species.

This preoccupation with genesis is reflected in Mew’s appearance. Mew’s hairless body, soft features, giant head, pink skin, and its frequent appearance inside a floating bubble resembles an embryo in its earliest stages of development. Its design is so rudimentary that it resembles not just our own children but fish, rabbits, and chickens, too. Mew’s basic form identifies the creature as related to Mewtwo and acknowledges Game Freak’s later claim as the progenitor of all Pokémon. While all Pokémon may look different, Mew’s resemblance to the almost unanimous shape of early life in the womb supports Game Freak’s assertion that this little mouse is the universal ancestor.

Further ideas of conception are explored by the game’s second “big” decision. At the end of Mt. Moon, players are given a choice between two fossils that can be resurrected into prehistoric, once-were-extinct Pokémon. Whereas the creation of Mewtwo from Mew led to a violent Pokémon that escaped from its dungeon and hid away from the world deep inside Cerulean Cave, the resurrection of these ancient creatures feels tranquil in comparison. The scientist who completes the procedure does so free of charge and has no issues with simply giving you the Pokémon afterwards. This is either a dire indication of a culture that places no importance on preserving the past or one that’s so familiar with the concept of creating life from nothing that it’s just another drop in the bucket.

It’s at this point in Pokémon Red and Blue when you start to feel implicated. Cinnabar Island introduces the concept of resurrection alongside the infamous MissingNo glitch, effectively crushing any gravitas felt over rejuvenating an extinct species with a scrambled mix of item duplications and insane Pokémon evolutions. What makes MissingNo so effective is that’s at once part of the world and outside of it, fragmenting and rearranging the familiar entirely at your behest. MissingNo confirms what Mew only suggested: the existence of a universal ancestor, and you’ve managed to unlock a long-dormant genetic key. Watch in horror as your MissingNo evolves into an Ivysaur, a Kangaskhan, and a Doduo in rapid succession, each accompanied with an ear-piercing, jarbled screech through the Game Boy speakers. This isn’t the evolution you’ve come to know and love. This sounds painful. Did you really need those 100 Rare Candies? What have I done?

Pokémon Red and Blue show a world on the cutting-edge, free from religious and moralistic concerns. We can either create life from a God of sorts and watch its offspring leave and destroy us, or bring back the dead in such large quantities that it no longer surprises us. There is no middle ground. In Kanto, children are pushed out into the world at the age of 11 to fend for themselves. Single parents make up an alarming percentage of all families. Forests are burnt down, Pokémon are built.

It’s difficult to divorce Red and Blue from the cultural concerns of the time, especially when you consider future entries in the series centre around more natural concerns than scientific ones. This shift from the scientific to the organic is easily seen in the legendary Pokémon displayed on the box art of each generation. Gold and Silver has two mythical birds worshipped as guardians of the seas and skies respectively and Ruby and Sapphire introduces two creatures capable of manipulating the weather and landmass of the world. Diamond and Pearl went hog wild and introduced the Creation Trio of Pokémon that can control space, time, and antimatter. Then, not to be outdone, Arceus was revealed as “The Original One” said to have created the entire Pokémon universe: a literal God. Much, if not all, of these Pokémon are based on mythologies across multiple cultures, with their abilities presented as little more than talents bordering on pure magic.

All of which goes to show that Game Freak has said all that needed to be said about science in the universe with Pokémon Blue and Red. Even the scientists that were capable of so much in Red and Blue have been replaced by research in soft science like the relationship between humans and Pokémon. Red and Blue was the bold proclamation that all of our excitement and concerns about modern science were warranted. When the dust settled, Game Freak shied away from the technological and introduced more rural settings, religion, festivity, and rituals into the Pokémon universe alongside small pockets of modern technology. For a brief moment, though, Pokémon was an ugly game.

Illustrations by Jake Lawrence.

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A conversation with Ian Dallas, creator of The Unfinished Swan

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Oct 24 2012 Interviews By Yannick LeJacq

A conversation with Ian Dallas, creator of The Unfinished Swan

His game, now out on PSN, is the most anticipated indie game of 2012. Here’s what he had to say about testing, writing, and bugging out.

The Unfinished Swan is your first game. What were you doing before?

My background originally is as a comedy writer. I worked at The Onion straight out of college, and then in TV as a writer’s assistant, and a writer on some animated stuff. But my interest has always been in creating things that surprise people, trying to make the world a more interesting place. I feel like there’s so much out there that is repetitive, comfortable, and familiar. I just want to create something that people have never seen before.

I started out initially working in comedy and TV, always expecting that I’d eventually move into game development because I’ve been super interested in games from a very young age. I thought that I’d do that as a writer, but it turns out that you really can’t make a game as a writer. The way that games are done, writers are brought in at the very end to polish the script, but they don’t really have material contribution generally. So I went from working in TV to writing on the Sam and Max series by Telltale Games. That was an easy transition [laughs] from writing to…writing!

Then I went to grad school at USC for game design. That really gave me a chance to take a step back and teach myself a bunch of things about programming, 3D modeling, animation, all the kind of basic building blocks for how games are put together. And then, yeah, I built a prototype that Sony saw and they were interested in making it into a full game. And a little more than three years after that, here we are with a game!

My first experience working in videogames was actually as a tester.

Oh god. I’ve heard that’s a horrible job.

Yeah [laughs], I think it’s a great job to have for a little while. And that’s what I had it for, and I’m really thankful for that experience. TV shows are not full-year things; you have a break in the middle usually. I had a couple months free so I was just like, “Ok, I’ll be a tester!” It’s an interesting environment, to be playing the exact same game for a month or two. It gave me insight into what the mindset is of the tester when we were doing QA ourselves. That was a funny intro to game development.

Were you doing very stereotypical QA stuff—walking around a room trying to find all the possible ways to break a game or something like that?

There are two cliché things that any tester will do. One is trying to jump out of the world. Videogames are set up with these invisible walls in places to try to keep people inside them. You want the player to think that the world goes on forever, but really on the other side of that building it’s just emptiness. You fall forever. It is a kind of hell.

As a tester, you’re basically probing for weakness. So if you actually find out, “Oh, I can jump on top of parking meters and then use that to get on top of lamp posts, to get on top of the flower box, to get on top of the building, and then suddenly I’m out of the world!”

The other thing that testers spend a lot of time doing is trying to recreate really subtle crashes. Bugs are defined by their reproducibility, so if you can get it 100 percent of the time, that’s great and generally pretty easy to fix. But sometimes there will be weird interactions of bugs where this crash only occurs if you’re wearing dragon scale armor, and have a cross-bow, and all these other weird things. You’ll get bugs that happen one out of every fifty times even when you have those things in place. As a tester, you’re the front line. I’m so thankful as a developer that we don’t have to spend all our time doing that.

Did any of that inform The Unfinished Swan? The game feels very openly technological, as if I was walking into one of the gray spaces you mentioned before and suddenly felt lost without the boundaries and borders you usually have in a game world.

I think the game is really about confronting the unknown. It’s interesting how different people take away very different experiences from that. It really just comes down to how you deal with uncertainty. Some people just run right off, kind of rolling the dice about what’s going to happen. And then other people really enjoy their ability to test things out.

In a way, it’s a game about the scientific method. As a player, you’ll have a hypothesis about how something works and what might be out there. And then we’re giving tools to test that. One thing we did a fairly good job of was creating a lot of different ways to interact with the game that are flexible. Generally in a game when you have a gun, there aren’t a lot of things you can do with that gun. You can’t sit there and shoot a tree for twenty minutes and cut it down. You can shoot the tree until hell freezes over and it will just never be affected by your bullets.

For us, all of the tools in the game, starting from the original paint splats, stick around forever. Which is a huge pain in the ass as a programmer to deal with. But it gives the world this aspect of the scientific method to it; you have these tools that you can kind of use in very flexible ways to probe the world and figure out what’s out there.

The game is really about confronting the unknown.

When I think of games that are designed to be funny, I think they’re very punchline-driven. The story in this seems more whimsical, almost like a fairy tale.

I wouldn’t say it’s a really funny game. It’s not intended to be. Comedy in games is super hard. Players have so many things they’re juggling in their minds already, that they’re just not in a very receptive state for jokes. Jokes also tend to be funny once. They take a lot of work, and are delicate; they’re like an egg, or something. Games and stories generally work a bit better when they’re flexible enough to accommodate the player approaching them in different ways.

It’s a really tricky thing, but at the same time there are some hilarious videos from games that I’ve seen, none of which are intended. In Skyrim, there’s a bug with the artificial intelligence where you can put cauldrons on top of characters heads, and then they can’t see you steal things. It’s so ridiculous, but also just delightfully surreal. Or another bug where you could create an infinite number of apples? You’d see these videos where people would just flood the world. That was one of my favorite things of the year.

There’s an amazing video where someone shoots an arrow straight up into the sky, then just sits down at a bench. A few minutes later, someone in the town square dies suddenly and everybody else just keeps walking about their business. It felt like something out of Monty Python.

That’s awesome! Yeah, I think games are a fantastic sandbox to create those kinds of experiences. But in terms of authored comedy, it’s a much rougher road to hoe.

What games do you remember playing? Which had a big impact on you?

Super Mario Brothers was one of the first ones that really grabbed me. I don’t know that I’ve had many experiences in my life that were like the joy of discovering that you could warp from level one to many of the other places in the game—you didn’t have to play from beginning to end. And just the fact that in a video game you could explore on your own and discover things that weren’t necessarily there. The world was richer than you would expect. Hopefully we’re creating that same kind of experience today, where kids can have that same moment of wonder.

The Unfinished Swan seems like it’s delivered from a child’s perspective, though not necessarily to one. Did you have anybody in particular in mind when you were creating this?

I think we were hoping to appeal to players that are interested in believing. That’s not a very specific audience [laughs]. And, really, there’s that old truism of making a game that you want to play. As a game player myself, what I really love are worlds that encourage you to explore them. They don’t tell you a lot about them. That’s really the experience we were trying to create. Really we found that in terms of actual demographics, the people that the game seems to resonate the most with are hardcore players, that play tons of games and are just kind tired of playing the same game over and over again. And then, conversely, people that don’t play any games, because they don’t have an interest in zombies or World War II or whatever games tend to be about. So we ended up with this game that appeals to people that play a ton of games, and to people that play almost no games.

How do you approach your work differently as a writer and as a programmer?

If I’m stuck on something, or if we’re trying to find a way to get players to approach, say, the giant labyrinth at one point in the game—as a writer you’re very limited by the tools you have. As a game designer, I can think of that same issue from the code level, and from an architecture level, from a bigger scale of what the player has seen five minutes before this. That is a much more enjoyable process for me—to be looking at the same kinds of problems from a bunch of different angles.

I think of it as the thing that writing teachers always told you to “show” and not “tell” something.

One of the things I think is interesting about our game is the amount of voiceover there is. For movies, voiceover tends to be seen as really lazy, like it’s the last defense for getting out exposition to the audience. For The Unfinished Swan, using storybooks as a reference showed me that one of the reasons they work is this contrast between you not knowing very much as audience member about this world, but then at the same time there’s a narrator who knows everything about it. The narrator’s omniscient, and you’re in this position of needing to hear about this world. The narrator will tell you some things, but then others will be deliberately obscured. And I think that’s true to the experience of a child; this world is incredibly complicated around you. And you trust that your parents know everything about this world, and that they’ll share a bit of that with you when you need it.

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