Diablo 4: A Terminal Deficit of Soul

One knows basically what to expect when starting a new game of Diablo: archetypal role-playing game class selections, gothic Christian aesthetics, and hordes of hellish monsters to vanquish. In this, Diablo 4 is perfectly competent. Unfortunately, however, the game suffers from a catastrophic lack of character. Having raised my sorcerer to level 100 and turned the endgame treadmill over a few times, I feel a disappointing indifference to the entire game.

I finally bought and played Diablo 4 during it’s much-lauded overhaul Season 4, called “Loot Reborn.” I cannot therefore comment on the apparently even less playable state it was in for the first three seasons. What I can say, though, is that by season 4 some extremely-online game designers have certainly gotten ahold of the game. In its current incarnation, Diablo 4 has been woven out of too many baroque, interconnected, and exhaustingly “gamey” systems. From the paragon boards to masterworking items, Diablo 4 hasn’t done enough with its world and fiction to justify these intricate, fiddly systems.

Critical Game Analysis: The Strange Ox

Occasionally, I am asked about my work as a critical game scholar, and I have to come up with some kind of short-hand for explaining it. Usually my go-to is comparing game studies to film studies or literature, which usually helps get us to a perspective of analyzing games for social, artistic, or cultural significance rather than technical complexity or some other scientific or “objective” measurement (such as a rating score in game reviews). The next question to answer then is about how one can perform criticism in the spirit of literary or film studies, but of games with mechanics. How do you analyze the gameplay? The mechanics?

In the early days of (computer) game studies, this was the only question that certain game theorists wanted to pursue. The strongly ludological focus of folks like Espen Aarseth and Markku Eskelinen are famous for eschewing any “narrative” content in favor of the mechanical analysis. For me, this was always an artificial, analytical move that may be perfectly valid for certain purposes, but could never tell the full story of any videogame. So, then, the question remains: how do you analyze games while accounting for both the mechanics and representation?

Opening Baldur's Gate

This is something of a first-and-continued impressions of the phenomenally successful Baldur’s Gate 3, released by Larian Studios in 2023. I delayed writing anything on the game for several weeks because I was simply not having a very good time with it, but I was pretty sure the game wasn’t to blame. To put it bluntly: I sucked, and it made the game deeply unfun to play. After persevering for around 20 in-game hours (with probably 5-8 hours lost in reloading saves after various failures) I finally started to get it, and find the fun.

New Cycle: Humanity on the Brink

New Cycle entered early-access a few days ago and I was tempted enough to take a look at the latest in an ever-growing niche of mid-size city-builders. What I found was a startling, melancholy requiem for humanity, teetering on the brink of disaster, yet stoically carrying on, perhaps in vain. 

New Cycle fits into a genre of colony-management and/or city-building games that operate at the scale of individual citizens and buildings. At the far end of the city simulation genre you have, of course, SimCity and Cities: Skylines, which set as their target a mimesis of the North American urban-suburban sprawl configured around freeway interchanges and zoning laws. At the other end of the simulation genre is the Sims franchise, which simulates the daily lives of individual people, their ambitions and trials, along with the exact placement of dining tables and stairs inside each home.

Aloy’s Heroic Feminism in Horizon: Forbidden West

 

The image above represents two of the first results in Google when searching “Horizon Zero Dawn feminism” and clearly depicts how any art criticism works. On one hand we have an example touting Horizon: Zero Dawn (HZD) as a breakthrough, and on the other, as a disappointment. As it ever was, and probably always will be – but where does that leave us when looking at the sequel, Horizon: Forbidden West (HFW)?

The criticism of “Matt C.” from Digitally Downloaded noted above centers on the assessment of Aloy as the female equivalent of a space marine trope who doesn’t feel multifaceted and human. She is, he says “robbed her of any sort of sexual identity." 

In erasing the entire concept of sexuality, [from the game world] Horizon denies Aloy – and every other character in that game – any sense of sexual identity and agency. That’s fundamentally at odds with a pillar of feminist ideology. (Digitally Downloaded)

Matt C. is also critical of the Nora tribe’s matriarchal system of leadership, saying that the game does little or nothing with it, and certainly does not explore or interrogate the differences between the matriarchal Nora and other tribes in the game.

This criticism is misguided, and unfortunately narrows the concept of feminism in media to merely the task of an overt discussion of sexuality and sexism as plot points. This reminds me of the tendency in the games industry to reduce the speaking opportunities of women in the industry to panels about being a woman in the industry, rather than speaking to their technical, creative or professional expertise. This view suggests the ideal (perhaps only?) feminist action that a woman (real or fictional) can take is to talk about female sexuality or otherwise being female.

Horizon: Forbidden West - Kinesthetics of Combat

In Horizon: Forbidden West, Guerilla Games have created the most satisfying combat experience that I’ve had in a game—maybe ever. I will try not to stray into hyperbole in this piece, but clearly, HFW hit almost every note right for me, and I will have more to say about the rest of the game in the coming weeks. For now, though, we will concentrate on the kinesthetics of Aloy, her combat abilities, and the enemies she faces.

Years ago, I questioned the common wisdom that first-person games are more immersive and ‘visceral’ than third-person games. Supposedly, the camera-through-the-eyes experience places the player more squarely in the shoes of the player-character, and creates a deeper sense of immersion. For me, however, I find myself distracted by the way the incorporeality of the character affects movement and vision, and the extremely strange way that one’s hands are almost always visible. The Elder Scrolls: Skyrim in particular suffers from this, in that the player-character can be sprinting across an open field, not even carrying a weapon, and still their hands are held out in front like a cartoon mummy’s.

Far Cry New Dawn: All in the Family

Far Cry New Dawn was released in 2019 as a spin off of Far Cry 5. The game was initially priced at about $40 which reflects its limited scope. Speaking broadly, I am strongly in favor of developers making further use of already-developed assets such as the world of Hope County, the dialog and weapon systems, and whatever else they can repurpose. Developing new open world games is a massive undertaking, and supposing that each one can hold only one story, only one game experience, is absurd. 

That said, the Hope County presented by New Dawn is in fact fairly reworked, both to reflect time’s passage after the apocalyptic end of FC5, and to, I suspect, give the game an aesthetic recognizably distinct in single screen shots. That aesthetic can be summed up in a single word: pink. Everything is pink! From the rolling fields of blossoms to the many train carriages, storage containers, cars both derelict and running, and even the game’s interface, everything glows with a hot neon pink. I was immediately reminded of the similar spin-off-expansion: inFAMOUS First Light, which bears a similar style.

New Dawn barrels right into the contradictions in tone that Far Cry is famous for. On one hand we have an overarching narrative theme of “family” – everyone is related to someone in this game. Our main quest-giving guide is none other than Kim Rye, whose daughter Carmina was born during the events of Far Cry 5 (with the player’s help of course). We will rescue the pilot and father Nick Rye early on as well. Our main antagonists are twin sisters: Mickey and Lou, who constantly refer to their Old Man. Hurk Drubman Jr. has a child, who is apparently under the care of his cousin Sharky Boshaw. Joseph Seed, it turns out, also has had a son who has taken up leadership of New Eden, remnants of the Project at Eden’s Gate cult.

Far Cry 5: An Illustrative Mess

When performing criticism of a videogame, I feel that playing it some time after its release presents certain advantages: firstly, we are removed from the marketing hype that has built up some expectations in the player, which may or may not be delivered by the game itself. Next, the game is in a more ‘complete’ state after additions, game of the year editions, and various patches are applied. Lastly, in some cases, there is a removal from the particular social moment of the game’s release which can provide a new lens through which to view the game. This three-part defamiliarization adds up to provide an interesting, and I think, beneficial perspective from which to review a game. This is not to say that this five-years-late review is the proper way to consider a game, certainly I wouldn’t preference one method above the other in absolute terms. However, in my overall pursuit to use criticism to add meaning to games rather than to provide a buyer’s guide, then I feel this approach is just as valid as any other.

Playing Ubisoft's Far Cry 5 (FC5) in 2023 is certainly an experience unlike any other. The game follows the now well-established structure of the Far Cry series which involves a discrete chunk of territory being gradually 'liberated’ from a hostile force through individual, guerilla-style tactics. The silent player-character arrives as an outsider who works with locals to unite a resistance and turn the tide on the enemy forces. In this case the “Project at Eden’s Gate” is a Christian doomsday cult whose charismatic, hipster-styled leader Joseph Seed is bent on preparing his flock for the great collapse of society. He and his three siblings (Jacob, Faith, and John) have taken violent control of the fictitious “Hope County” set in the American state of Montana. 

Before moving any farther, we must reiterate the point here: FC5 positions a group of Christian Americans, led by a quartet of white champions as the enemy. The innumerable members of the cult are not exclusively white (indeed they are perhaps a more diverse racial group than one might expect to find in a real Montana), but these enemies are definitely not presented as a brown-skinned ‘other’ with exotic characteristics and religion. Many, many games are criticized for the facile dehumanization of the enemy through that kind of race-based othering, not least of all the Far Cry series. Whatever else follows, Ubisoft published a game where a group of American Christians are the bad guys. This should not be lost. 

Just Give Me Two Good Reasons

One of the dominant features of open-world games such as FarCry 5 is that they are big. Really big. The scale of the map is an often discussed feature of such games, but so too are the myriad activities and overall "playtime" that a game can offer. Presumably more is better, but I find myself getting bogged down if a game is too big. 

FarCry 5 follows a familiar pattern of dividing Hope County up into several regions. Three are the main areas for play, with two much smaller zones acting as introductory and concluding bookends. Each of the main three regions are controlled by one of the Eden's Gate lieutenants, and feature some gently stylized environmental features and challenges. For example, in Faith's region, the hallucinogenic 'bliss' is manufactured out of the fields of lily-like flowers found around the region. The basic mechanic is that the player character ("Rook" or "Deputy"), takes on each lieutenant in turn through a network of loosely connected 'story' and 'side' missions. They can also destroy various assets and liberate outposts in each region. 

All of this accumulates as "Resistance Points" within the given region. There are a few milestones where the game suddenly intervenes with some strong deus ex machina to advance the overarching plot. The final milestone in each region is that the lieutenant will call the player out in some way, triggering the final boss-like showdown and finally liberating the region. 

With all that exposition out of the way, I can talk about how it worked for me. I find that the story missions can really derail my enthusiasm for these games. Too much talking to minor NPCs of tremendously varied quality and interest, sending me on the archetypal errand quests of some sort or another. Even though this really is the crux of any open world game, I find myself hitting a limit pretty fast. 

What suddenly happened in FarCry 5 was that I realized there were dozens of challenges that would award my character upgrade "perks" depending on how I played. So, as I browsed the challenges, which range from killing a certain number of enemies with a particular weapon, to killing a certain number of enemies from a certain distance, I suddenly had two birds I could address with one stone (or flamethrower, dynamite, or whatever). 

These challenges are not particularly inspired nor are they unique to FarCry 5. In fact, this sort of encouragement to play the game differently based on weapons and approach is almost as ubiquitous as the open world design described above. 

I argue that it is common because it is effective. I could turn my attention more to the 'how' rather than the 'what' when I got a little bored of liberating outposts or defending territory. Instead of my usual sniper and stealth approach, I used a flamethrower up close in a wildly different playstyle. I was making two sorts of progress, then, and that was enough to get my over a certain hump in the overall game. 

As the unlocks started to trickle and then flow, I found the game easier, since not only did I have more tools at my disposal, but I also had practiced a few different techniques for dealing with the game's challenges. That helped me progress faster, which was the problem in the first place. 

This layering of incentives is a crucial element to longer games. Personally, I'd like to see this design feature extrapolated outside of videogame design. The area I always think of is education. How can we make the incentives more varied and explicit in the years-long process of getting a degree? Is there a way we can help students not endure but enjoy the various challenges we throw at them? 

FarCry 5: Early Impressions

Having abandoned FarCry 6, I've immediately jumped into the predecessor, FarCry 5. I've noticed that this one was much better received critically, and from the initial setup, I am impressed at how well it is put together. I am also, frankly, astonished that a game that frames white American Christians as the villains managed to be published and sold so well at this moment in time. 

FC5 was released in 2018, and was developed by the Canadian Ubisoft studios in Montreal and Toronto. This is probably key to the setup of the game--I truly struggle to imagine an American studio maintaining support for this particular villain. 

Imagine for a moment if Joseph Smith had founded his church in 2000 rather than 1830, and happened to have been in Montana rather than Utah. Perhaps his last name would have been 'Bundy' or 'Koresh' in this case (In the film he'd be played by Jared Leto), and his followers would have combined their religious zealotry with a radical anti-authoritarian perspective on the Federal government.  Indeed, the game opens with a US Marshal and his deputy (the player character) serving a warrant to the Eden's Gate leader, Joseph Seed. Subsequently, of course, the extraction goes extremely sideways, and the helicopter carrying the local sheriff, deputies, the marshall, the player and Seed crashes. This sets up the initial "on your own" situation that FarCry games depend on. 

From what little specific reading I have done about this specific game, it seems that the game (and it's developers) try to walk that same line of creating a very obvious, specific social commentary, while also not actually making a point that might offend parts of their potential market. Critics have been fairly harsh in describing the 'easily digestible evil' of the Eden's Gate members, but I am not seeing it, so far. To be clear, this game is not subtle, or particularly sophisticated as yet. However, when I think of the current batch of real-world radicals such as the Bundy family, Enrique Tarrio, Thomas Ryan Rousseau, and even certain members of the US House of Representatives, I fail to see the aspect of the Eden's Gate that they would find entertaining to gun down. That is, these Christo-facsists seem awfully familiar to me in the current moment. I have a hard time imagining a member of Patriot Front going home after a tiki-illuminated race-rally, and getting their kicks by gunning down the folks who took over Hope County, Montana. 

We shall see how the game pans out. Perhaps the caricature of evil will become too silly to take seriously - but I sort of feel like what we're experiencing in reality is almost beyond parody anyway. 

Far Cry 6: Nope

I've battled through several hours with the game, hit level 6, gathered a number of new weapons, cosmetics and trinkets, advanced the story quite a bit, taken out various installations and checkpoints, but I am just not feeling this game. 

I noticed the slapdash approach to the instigating plot in my previous post, and thus far, there were no interesting flashbacks or other methods for filling me in on the origin of the Viviro which they are spraying on the tobacco. I'm still not sold on the economics of the situation either - if the island had somehow stumbled on a general-purpose cancer cure, then the streets would be lined with gold. That isn't to say there couldn't be some kind of serious oppression going on, but I have a hard time buying the story I'm being sold. 

There was another aspect that jumped out at me: as the game tries to justify all the "busy work" necessary in a modern Ubisoft game, one of the main quest giver characters (Juan Cortez) says something to the effect of a guerilla needing to have a certain style, needed to live a certain way. Again, I just don't buy it. He's trying to sell a revolutionary "lifestyle" to Dani, and to the player, so we'll want to spend lots of time customizing our outfit, weapons, and cars. It feels almost verbatim lifted from a Grand Theft Auto game, but you just can't swap out "gangbanger" with "revolutionary guerilla" and have it come across the same. Revolutionary militia aren't believable when worrying about customizing their look - theirs is not a permanent, ongoing lifestyle, the way a gang member's might be. 

Anyway, story aside, the gameplay loop has been well and truly established early on, and it isn't enough to hold my attention for the many more hours that are going to be required to finish this thing. Speaking of mechanics, I also find the "Supremo" to be utter hogwash. Not just unbelievable in terms of a series of tubes strapped to one's back suddenly containing heat-seeking rockets, but it's also a "press to win" button of sorts that I felt really detracted from the experience. 

Far Cry 6: First Look

I recently started FarCry 6 after having not played an FC game for many years. I am more an Assassin's Creed aficianado, although Valhala didn't resonate with me. Both games are developed and published by Ubisoft, and I honestly hadn't realized how much crossover in mechanics had occurred between the two franchises. 

Getting started in FC6 follows a pretty familiar "new action game" pattern of throwing you into a high stakes escape/chase through a part of the map that you won't return to for quite some time. I wasn't able to completely comprehend exactly why the antagonist of the game (voiced and modelled after Giancarlo Espisoto) was quite so... antagonistic. The opening cut scenes move very quickly through explaning that the faux-Cuba has discovered a "cancer drug" that is made by spraying some kind of poisonous red fog over otherwise normal tobacco. 

Understanding where this discovery was made in this otherwise third-world country is a bit of a stretch, but the real confusion for me is that if this tobacco-based cancer treatment really worked, then a country like Yara would be absolutely rolling in cash. The island would be more Wakanda and less rock-bottom Cuba. Following from this, there would simply be no reason for El Presidente to mistreat his people so badly. Why would we be using rickety old technology, and spraying the fields with dubious chemicals from crop dusters, if we were selling cancer-curing tabacco to the entire world? 

As mentioned above, there is a lot of back and forth between this Far Cry and, for example, Assassin's Creed: Odyssey. This is more particular than the generic premise of open world, hundreds of objectives to destroy, find, liberate etc. We encounter such familiar concepts as battling with specific alpha animals in hunting side quests. I am also surprised at the extent of collectibles and cosmetic customization that has developed - again, similar to Assassin's Creed. There is also a strong emphasis on finding the high ground to scout out locations prior to attacking or infiltrating them - very familiar to me from the various Assassin's Creed titles. 

I wonder about Ubisoft's other major open world franchise: the Tom Clancy series (particularly The Division). How similar is the setup in these games? Perhaps I'll have to find out sometime soon. 

Lies all the way down

 A while ago, I wrote and published a peer-reviewed article about the "curious" and very deliberate efforts by the developers of certain games to proclaim that their games shouldn't be interpreted in a political way, despite all evidence to the contrary. The abstract goes like this: 

Developers of AAA videogames which feature recognizable military forces, governmental law enforcement agencies, and geopolitical conflicts routinely make claims that their works do not make “political statements.” This article takes seriously the claims made by several developers, revealing their attempts to radically narrow the definition of the term “political.” Through a critical discourse analysis, this article will articulate several key theses held forth by the developers regarding systemic media and expressivity, the responsibility of the player, and the inevitable constraints of production and technology. These points are deployed by the developers to build an argument for a reduced scope of the term “political,” as well as to propose an ideological framing of videogames as an expressive medium, which ultimately serve to obscure the role that ideology plays in the production of videogames. (Ruch, 2021)  https://www.tandfonline.com/doi/full/10.1080/22041451.2021.1902167  

I say "curious" because in the end, it is clear why developers would avoid endorsing any particular interpretation of their game: because publishers they are beholden to (and to some extent, the developers themselves) want to continue selling games to as wide an audience as possible, and there is no quicker way to alienate those paying customers than by making any kind of statement that could be construed as "political." 

So, what we have to deal with is the developer of a game about retaking Washington D.C. from a band of terrorists claiming that their game is about "exploring a new city." 

It's asinine. 

When I wrote the article, I felt like I might have been scratching the surface of something important. I took a videogame and media studies on-ramp to this freeway of the bigger topic: lying. Just straight up, unadulterated fabrication surrounding us, constantly. 

These years later, I feel that this tendency has only increased. Modern media (and society as per our mediation of it) is positively lousy with untruth. 

Surely none of this is particularly shocking in the general principle - we've theorized about misinformation and researched propaganda for... ever. However, I do feel that we have recently gotten closer to a tipping point, where at least some of our most heinous liars are being called into court, where it is still against the actual law to lie, and are being asked to explain themselves. 

This is all well and good, but what about the zealous believers? Those who will not be convinced that the sky is blue, the Earth is round, and Biden is President? 

 I keenly remember the proclomations of the dawn of democratized communication that the internet supposedly heralded. We bespeckled, obsessive nerds could finally reach out and connect with those few others who shared our interests, all around the world. Queer folks, racial minorities, and other marginalized groups were able to connect without regard to geography. But, unfortunately, so could those Flat-Earthers whose beef was with geography itself. 

Now we pump those folks full of self-confidence and validation on a grand scale. It's alarming, to say the least, to realize just how pervasive lies have become. 

Pleasure in Conveyor Belt Games

Over on CapsuleCrit, Kavi Duvvoori explores their particular and somewhat ambivalent pleasure taken in 'extractive captialist' games such as the Rollercoaster Tycoon series and Factorio. In the article, Duvvoori highlights two of the central pleasures videogames tend to feed on, neither of which are the adrenaline-pumping, conflict-oriented "competition" that one might typically associate with games in general, and videogames in particular.

Instead Duvvoori highlights a curiosity to discover "what happens if...?" given a certain level of mastery over the game. These sorts of games require/allow the player to construct elaborate (or simple) chains of cause and effect, which shuffle entities (in most cases, paying patrons, as in Rollercoaster Tycoon or Theme Hospital, for example), from beginning to end. The general idea is to extract value from those customers. In Factorio, the metaphor is more industrial: construct vast networks of literal assembly lines which add and modify components in an ever-increasing network.

I'd suggest the "what happens if?" question arises in the mind after a certain point of mastery. The initial questions are usually more like "how do I [do something specific]?" The game usually requires a certain level of proficiency in order to make the machine work at all, so players will typically have a series of smaller, more concrete goals which create a self-sustaining assembly that accepts whatever input is available, and creates a positive feedback loop more or less ad infinitum.

Often, these games will offer a wide array of objects whether rides and attractions, as in Rollercoaster Tycoon, or resource gathering and production equipment, as in the Anno series (trade routes being nautical production lines). These give the player a fixed goal to aim towards on the way to learning the basics of the system. The key is to combine these in such a way that they create more than the sum of their parts. Whether we term this resonance or positive feedback, the goal is to multiply value exponentially.

However, I feel that those numbers of imagined value are a skin over the top of the more primal pleasure of figuring out how a gadget works, then setting up ever-increasingly complex versions of that gadget to manipulate. The pleasure comes not only from setting and meeting goals, but from something primordial in humans - the same itch that is scratched by watching a ridiculous, convoluted and pointless Rube Goldberg machine work successfully. We needn't justify them in any other way than to say it feels good to build something that works.

Warcraft Time

World of Warcraft is ... well it's a game because they sell it at game shops, and you 'play' it. But it is also a virtually interminable social space in which people interact in competitive, cooperative, and myriad other ways. To put it simply people spend time there, together.

The most recent expansion has been controversial for a number of reasons, but this article stood out to me. In it, James Whitbrook describes an unexpected melancholy that was immediately recognizeable to me. I wonder how many other players have experienced the dawning realization of real, mortal time passing based on milestones in that game. I wrote about mine years ago, when I learned of the one-off sale of one of the original WoW servers.

These years later, I've had similar feelings of nostalgia and the sensation of quiet loss that growing older brings with it; I wonder how much the association with WoW for both Whitbrook and myself is simply the context in which we've turned a corner. We've realized a new metric or scale of time. We can measure things in years - longer than high school, longer than college or that job we had in our early twenties. Yet, something has caused us to notice that the relationship we have with WoW to change. For me, the server, for Whitbrook, the burning of Teldrassil.

It would be interesting to compare these anecdotes to the players of professional sports. Someone who played basketball through high school, college and professionally. How do they relate their life to their game? Is it any different?

Designation of a "Gaming Disorder" by WHO

In January 2018, the World Health Organization identified a "Gaming disorder" as follows:

as a pattern of gaming behavior (“digital-gaming” or “video-gaming”) characterized by impaired control over gaming, increasing priority given to gaming over other activities to the extent that gaming takes precedence over other interests and daily activities, and continuation or escalation of gaming despite the occurrence of negative consequences.

For gaming disorder to be diagnosed, the behaviour pattern must be of sufficient severity to result in significant impairment in personal, family, social, educational, occupational or other important areas of functioning and would normally have been evident for at least 12 months.

Many in the gaming community would typically circle the wagons and defend the medium, as has occurred for decades, typically with respect to causing violent behaviour in players. The mantra has been that games have no impact on players and should not be singled out as being more effective at modifying the thoughts or behaviour of the players than any other media form.

Reading the above diagnosis carefully, however, one must focus on the explicit criteria for the disorder, specifically "despite the occurrence of negative consequences." This is not stating that playing videogames (to any particular measured extent) is a negative consequence in and of itself.  For this diagnosis to be valid, the player must be experiencing "significant impairment in personal, family, social educational, occupational or other important areas..." Meaning, then, that only when the focus on game play takes precedence over other important (necessary?) life functions does it become a problem.

My view on these matters has always been cautious scepticism. Describing videogames as having no effect on their players is tantamount to saying they are meaningless - hardly a tenable position for a media scholar to take. I've argued vehemently in the past for an R18+ rating in the Australian classification system not because I believe strongly that mature games should be restricted to adults (though I think some kind of warning or guide is certainly useful) but because such a rating would ensure mature games are not banned outright. In the Australian context, such a 'restriction' is actually a liberalisation of an already parochial system.

Though I don't agree with him on every point, Jeremy Ray proposes that such a designation by WHO is a necessary step in the maturation of the medium. He focuses in particular on the compulsion exploiting design employed by videogames, derived very clearly from the gambling industry and Skinner-type psychology.

From my limited understanding (after all I am not a medical doctor or psychologist!) it appears that the WHO designation takes a sober view of game practices. Unlike the Australian classification system which excepted videogames from the R18+ category due to their purported "higher impact" baseline, WHO appears to be focused on the relative impact on other aspects of the player's life, not on some exceptional, unique aspect of videogames themselves. This, then, is only fair.

Everything Old is New

Who starts a blog in 2018, seriously?
An academic hitting RESET on his writing, of course!

I am looking forward to redeveloping my critical voice, here and elsewhere, and participating once again in the discourse around games, interactive media and pop culture more generally. These things start slowly, of course, so this is not a promise of daily or even weekly updates, though I certainly have ambitions presently.

In the near term I intend to draft out a few ideas that may spin into more thoroughly-researched articles or conference presentations. I may also write pieces with a broader appeal specifically for posting here and cross-posting to other platforms.

So, wish me luck and hopefully this is not both the first and last post on this here website.

Arma 2 Wasteland: Development vs Design

Original Post: Jan 13 2013

Let's talk a little about game design. As a researcher and teacher, I sometimes find it difficult to express in words exactly what it is that game design is, or what I hope to teach to outsiders--even to gamers themselves sometimes. Capturing exactly what the difference is between design decisions and development process is difficult, since "good" design often fades into the background because it just works. As a player, one rarely notices all the individual rules and decisions that have been made, the experience occupies the conscious mind.

Discussing game design is difficult because it is a second-order task. A designer constructs the rules, environment, etc. but always in hopes that the player will experience something that is greater than the sum of those parts. When set in motion, the player(s), rules, environment and fiction all combine and create something that is not obviously discernible from a list of the game's rules. Further, since it is the player whom we as designers are trying to affect somehow, their perception and personal interpretation of what is happening is more important than what the game design document says should be the result. (Not that players can't be wrong or ignorant, but we still have to deal with their perception of our work.)

Finally, discussing the design of the kinds of games I like is very difficult, because there is very little opportunity for experimentation to verify any hypotheses about the way the game works. That is, I'm not often able to change one rule and see how it plays out. The games are sealed and finished, I can't tamper with them myself very often. Even in franchise games such as Assassin's Creed or Mass Effect, which are largely similar, many changes have been made between iterations, so it becomes difficult to nail down exactly what cause has led to which effect.

For these reasons, I've been excited by the learning opportunities I've had while playing the latest post-DayZ Arma mod to sweep the Internet: Wasteland. In general, Wasteland is much like DayZ: a semi-persistent, on-going mission set in Chernarus (or other maps now) where players must contend with each other, as well as manage a hunger/thirst mechanic. There are no zombies in Wasteland, only players. Much higher-grade weapons are generally available than in DayZ, mostly found in the trunk of the many vehicles which randomly spawn throughout the settlements. So Wasteland is, broadly speaking, a very large, variably-paced deathmatch. There are 3 factions, BluFor, OpFor and Independents. The Op and Blu forces are designated as teams who are to work together, while Independents are free to do as they please--team up or lone wolf.

From this basic premise, each server begins to differentiate. In a digital version of "house rules" many server admins fancy themselves amateur game designers (or at least developers, more on that soon), and so start to tinker with the code that defines the Wasteland mission. These small changes ripple outward in unpredictable ways, and interact with other changes, to affect the overall experience.

From here I will explore two examples of rules which are affecting the experience on certain servers that I've been playing on. The beauty of this server situation is that I can jump between very similar games, and compare the two sets of rules in a much more "controlled" experimental way than is possible in many other games.

The first issue is really more of a problem than an example of a rule-change between servers, but serves to illustrate my point about game design. In Wasteland, players can use various kinds of building-materials to create bases. These include sniper platforms, sandbag walls, and other ready-made base buildings. Some of these items are quite large, and the mechanics whereby a single player can walk along carrying a small building around is quite ridiculous. However, the problematic aspect is that a BluFor player can pick up a ten meter-long wall, and by walking or turning it around, can kill the other players using the collision physics built into the game.

Obviously, no cooperative team mate would want to do this--but this is a game played on the internet where people are jerks, so it happens all the time. Some troll will go to the BluFor base, as a BluFor member, and simply move a base wall, killing as many of his faction as he until one of them shoots him. The issue here is that the collision physics do not track who is responsible for the deaths--the system has no way to know that it was BluFor Johnny that killed his own team. Thus, the punishment mechanic, which is a way for players killed by their own teammates using weapons to remove team-killers, doesn't work. In fact, it is the troll--once shot by BluFor--who is better equipped to punish his law-abiding teammates.

To me, this is more of a development problem or task, than a design concern. This is a sort of maintenance issue where the game is obviously not working "right." The rules that define how the game is designed to work aren't perfectly translated into computer logic, and we have a less than optimal result. That said, the rules, the design decisions, are already made: teams, base building, physics etc. We simply need to code them into the computer system better.

Finally we come to the meat of this article--a long enough build up I'm sure. Recently, one of the servers I play on has changed a few things in Wasteland. I'm going to report the situation backwards for rhetorical effect here: Users noticed the changes and started complaining. Mainly, the complaints where about the lack of vehicles in the spawn areas. People were spawning in and had to run a couple of kilometers to find a car. This was not the case as recently as last week; cars were generally easy to find. Cars, remember, also usually contain weapons. So people were complaining about being required to run around with just pistols for quite a while.

The obvious solution to this symptom is to increase the number or frequency of vehicle spawns in the game. However, this was not the actual problem. What the admin changed was where people were spawning. Players were spawning along the coast, a much narrower range of areas than previously. The result of this is that the people who spawn first get in a vehicle and drive away, die somewhere inland, and repeat. So eventually, players have organically moved all the cars that were at the coast to somewhere slightly inland. The perception was that there were fewer cars, when really the issue was that the players were moving them basically in one direction, away from the coast. Since no one was spawning inland, the cars that made it even to the first set of towns away from the coast were staying there. People weren't driving any cars from inland back out to the coast, or at least not enough to make a difference.

By changing the spawning area, the admin did not just create a vehicle shortage. Because the sixty-or-so players were all spawning in about ten locations, rather than forty or fifty, there were far more shoot-outs in those spawning locations than when the spawns were spread out. These shoot-outs were often between pistols, since very few people had any access to higher grade weapons. Secondly, they are usually fatal, so at least one of the participants respawns again on the coast, exacerbating the problem.

So, there are no vehicles on the coast, there are many players, who continue to fight, and kill each other, and respawn again on the coast. Getting inland became doubly difficult. This has another knock-on affect, impacting the experience of being inland itself. Prior to these changes, the distribution of spawn locations and the high mobility offered by vehicles led to the entire map being "in play." Unlike DayZ where certain obvious paths became well-worn between highly-valued locations, Wasteland was less predictable. One could expect an encounter at any moment, or could dig in almost anywhere and set up an ambush. After the changes, with a large percentage of the population stuck in a coastal deathmatch, the rest of the map is desolate.

I have asked, but have yet to hear a cogent answer as to the purpose of these spawn-point changes. I'm not sure what the admin was seeking to do, but I'm sure this isn't the effect he wanted. The example is illustrative though--how one change can have such dramatic impacts, and how the symptoms ("Why aren't there any vehicles anymore?!?!") do not always point to the real problem. As I said above, game design operates at one remove: you design rules, but what you want to create is play.

Videogames and the Gilette Model

Original Post: November 6, 2012

Lately I’ve noticed a slew of products I can buy, which will subsequently force me to buy ‘refills’ of some description, in order to keep using them. On top of this, I have noticed an increase in the number of household products which determine how and when the consumable is used, to better schedule the re-purchases. Here are a couple examples:

Dettol hand wash – dumps a precise amount of soap into your hand through the magic of infra-red sensors. Of course you can’t fill it up with any old soap…

Auto-bug and freshener sprays – two different ways to fill your house with a fine mist of chemical sprays, set to a timer to empty the can right on schedule.

Lots of cleaning supplies and body cleansers have transformed from bottles into wipes, which you run out of at a pretty steady rate. You can’t really use just ‘a little bit’ of a wet, soapy wipe the way you can use just a little bit of soap. Those cages you hang in the toilet to freshen it up operate on a similarly automatic principle, as do air or water filters.

The ‘Gillette model’ is a method of selling consumer products where the initial buy-in is very low-cost, but relies on the purchase of a complementary product which is relatively more expensive, and certainly a higher profit for the manufacturer. The most famous example is the source of its name, Gillette razor blades: you can buy the handle for your razor (with one or two blades) very cheaply. But the new blades are extremely expensive by comparison. But you must buy them, or the handle is useless, right? This isn’t all smoke and mirrors—obviously many products like disposable razors, ink-jet printer cartridges, and air fresheners need to be replaced, they are consumable. It’s the pricing model that’s important to note.

What it achieves is a more predictable, steady flow of revenue for the particular manufacturer. Since you have to buy new razor blades occasionally, if you already own a Gillette razor handle, you’re more likely to buy Gillette refills. The schedule mentioned above simply regulates this a bit. Dettol want you to buy their soap regularly, so they make sure you use a certain amount of it every time you wash your hands. The automatic freshener sprays promise to fill the air with a pleasant scent to mask odours before you even notice they are there—also they use up a can of spray like clockwork.

What the hell does potpourri spray, soap and shaving have to do with videogames?? 

Videogame publishers, like Gillette and SC Johnson are businesses. They want money just like any other business. Further, they’d love to have a nice predictable stream of revenue they can use to make investments and placate shareholders. As the price of development in the AAA range continues to increase, the risk of failure increases also. Publishers are searching for ways to mitigate that risk, and new financial models are one way to do so.

If a game costs two hundred million dollars to develop, and is sold in a traditional, $60-100 one-shot transaction, the risk to the publisher is huge. What if the players simply don’t buy that particular box? Even if players do buy, once they take the game home, the publisher never hears from them again. Firstly, the publishers won’t know very much about the reasons the customers did and did not spend the money. Secondly, what if some population of players was willing to spend more than the sticker price? Thirdly, once the initial rush of ‘new game release!’ purchases are over, that publisher’s revenue stream plummets to a tiny trickle until the next big release. That could be as far as two or three years away—not a good interval between pay days, I think we’d all agree.

There are a few possible answers, experiments that developers and publishers have already been trying for a number of years. The first is pretty obviously DLC: you buy the game, and then a month later shell out another few dollars to inject some fresh cash into the developer/publisher. The second is the GOTY Edition, a phenomenon that has little (or nothing) to do with critical awards, but exists merely as an opportunity to package the DLC together with the original game to perform another exercise in marketing.

In the end, though, both of these are merely repetitions of the first practice, on a smaller scale: create a game/content, fire it off into retail stores and hope.

A more fundamental change has been creeping across the videogame industry. Speaking very broadly, the goal of publishers is to avoid these big, one-off purchases which exist as a point in time. Instead, they wish to set up a dialog between game and player, a kind of ongoing conversation which is spoken with money. So, the player is continually engaged in the process of buying something, and the publisher is constantly engaged in providing whatever it is that’s being purchased. There is obviously a point at which this begins, but no clear point at which it ends. Think, for example, of buying a new MMO, and setting up a subscription. Many videogames, like air fresheners and hand soap, are transforming from a product into a service.

This kind of steady stream of revenue is far more predictable and less volatile. After launch (still a risky proposition), a publisher can observe positive or negative sales trends over time. Assuming that the launch goes well enough, the developer can try things in real time to increase subscribers, rather than wait until their next game is ready to try anything new. MMOs are currently the only genre of game to require these kinds of straight-forward subscription fees, and players expect a certain amount of content to be added to the game over time without cost. To me, this is very similar to the Gillette model described above. Buy into the game, keep on paying to access the content you are increasingly invested in.

Blizzard (and many other MMO-makers) have somehow managed to combine the box-buy (purchasing the CDs) and the subscription fee. That the initial WoW buy-in, as well as expansion packs, costs about the same as any other AAA game without the on-going fee strikes me as fairly remarkable, distinct from the cheap Gillette handle with expensive blades model. An even more precise comparison is found in ‘free to play’ videogames.

The other name for the Gillette model is ‘freebie marketing.’ That is, you can practically (or literally) give away the first chunk of whatever your product is (the handle and first blade, the first ink cartridge, first tier of gear in your RPG), and rely entirely on the steady flow of revenue that this initial buy-in encourages. Quite a lot has been said about the merits and faults of this kind of financial arrangement, I won’t repeat here. Suffice it to say that free to play videogames work to gain buy-in from their players by generating an emotional investment in the game, before halting progress and asking for some cash. This can continue for as long as the player wishes to continue to progress.

Blizzard have created two much more subtle examples of videogames as services: Starcraft II and Diablo III. Strangely, perhaps, Blizzard/Activision have not monetised Starcraft II in the way I might have predicted. Other than releasing what is ostensibly one game in three distinct parts, there is no other way to keep paying Blizzard money. However, on a technical level, Starcraft II represents a clear example of this new videogame service: an always-online experience, constantly updated, connected to a news server and social network. This is not a game you buy, consume, and put away when done. One can easily imagine fees being leveraged for access to the highest (or otherwise ‘special’) league ladders, or personalised livery being implemented. All the infrastructure is already in place.

Blizzard’s cleverest new business model, however, is the new Diablo III auction house. This is literally providing videogame players a service: a virtual eBay for virtual items of which Blizzard can create an infinite supply.

Diablo III is (at one level) a complex gothic-fantasy slot machine. Each time a player kills a monster, the wheels spin ‘round and every so often, the game pays out. It isn’t quarters or even nickels that spew forth, though, it’s a virtual item with no exchange value outside of Blizzard’s system. By integrating the real-money auction house into that system, Blizzard have made it possible to cash out of the Diablo casino, effectively allowing players to convert their play time into cash. But it works for Blizzard too. Each time anyone does cash out, Blizzard takes it’s slice of the earnings.

So Blizzard/Activision have found a way to turn your play time into dollars. Realising this is incredibly important for the developers of certain kinds of games. Diablo is not the kind of hyper-consumable or disposable experience bought for 99 cents on the App Store. Diablo is the kind of game many, many people will sink many hundreds of hours into, as the norm. This vast amount of play time is, effectively, an untapped resource. It even makes sense for the consumer, in that a game you are willing to spend 300 hours in might be worth more money to you than the kind you will play through the campaign of 15 hours once and put away. If we don’t have to cough up the grand total all at once, all the better. I know I would never have bought World of Warcraft up front for the total price of all the subscription fees I ever paid.

Not everyone will participate, of course, not everyone will cash out either. But a large number will. Anyone who uses the auction house at all is participating in this economy, in the monetised dialog between Blizzard and their player base. Anyone who turns their play time into a commodity by placing it on the auction house is creating the opportunity for Blizzard to make a little more money. This, and similarly long-lived relationships between publisher and player are a very important aspect of the future of videogames. One need only look to the other experiment Activision are running in a very different game, with Call of Duty: Elite, to see how widespread this trend is. Not all games will go down this route—there will probably still be a many game experiences sold and consumed like candy on the App Store, or like films enjoyed intensely for a relatively long. but finite. time. But increasingly, publishers will be finding ways to maintain and then monetise long-term relationships between themselves and players.

The Gatekeepers of Videogame Culture

Original Post: August 20 2012 (Kotaku AU) 

There are hundreds of millions of games played across the world every day, there are clubs, conventions, and publications dedicated solely to the practice. In economic terms, the video game industry is certainly a powerful one, growing to rival any other kind of entertainment or media form one cares to mention. This is video game culture, and it is important.

So the ‘culture’ of people-who-play-games has begun to evolve to a point where we ‘gamers’ tend to self-identify. We proclaim ourselves gamers and partake in video game culture. What does this mean?

What is video game culture? What are the boundaries and who are the gatekeepers of the culture?

It seems fair to say that for many gamers, voicing an allegiance to game culture is prideful. We like video games, we wish to demonstrate our affinity for the pursuit, whilst hoping to receive a modicum of respect for our choice of entertainment. We value the experiences had while gaming, and wish others to at least appreciate the value of those experiences.

This process explicitly creates a rift between ‘us’ and ‘them.’ We often acknowledge the positive, that is, finding a sense of belonging and fraternity amongst like-minded souls. Yet the negative exclusionary practice is just as important. Those people who “don’t get it” are the ones on the outside, those who “don’t play” are automatically excluded. “We” are alike, and together, we are different from “them.”

As video games themselves become more diverse, battlelines begin to emerge between the people who play different kinds of games. The perception is that some gamers are “real” gamers and others aren’t. Some are casual while others are “hardcore.” Some are “more” gamers and others are less. Some, then, “belong” as part of the culture, and others are pretenders.

As is usually the case amongst self-identifying groups of people, the ‘most dedicated’ or ‘hardest core’ or ‘longest serving’ members are those who look down upon anyone with less pedigree. This elite priesthood is often situated historically–that is, if you “weren’t there” at a certain point in time, you’ll just never belong as much as we do. Obviously, then, there is always a set of people who will always have a sense of superiority over relative newcomers.

As the pool of game players expands, we find other ways to distinguish between each other. The way we play, how often, the platforms we use, the genres we enjoy are all markers of our status within the game-playing population. Gamers begin to identify themselves through which brands or franchises they buy and play–not unlike skaters who identify with brands such as Globe, or car enthusiasts and Ford or Holden. Or by how much money we spend on our “gear.”

Increasingly, there is a certain ferocity about publicly identifying as a gamer. I am no sociologist so I can’t quite explain it, but perhaps the stridence comes from years of defending gaming from a disdainful mainstream. Perhaps gamers are predisposed to finding the competition in life, and are therefore simply playing at being the best gamer. Perhaps the most dedicated gamers need a way to rationalise their (over-?) investment.

This ferocious distillation of video game culture down to a potent, pure hardcore is distressing. There is a strange agenda that seeks to purge anything from “game culture” which might somehow dilute the field. That is, if something does not satisfy the criteria of a self-appointed cultural gatekeeper, it must be expunged.

Casual games. Consoles. Zynga. The Sims. Women. Free2Play games. Critical writing on games. All of these are often targeted by the elite priesthood as not being ‘real’ or ‘necessary’ to game culture. They “aren’t relevant.”

In reality, the elitist notion of a pure, hardcore games culture is a fantasy. There is no such thing as a video game culture hermetically sealed-off from the rest of the world. Of course there are concentrations, where or when individuals focus on some things over others, but cultures do not exist in Tupperware containers sitting neatly organised on shelves.

By being a gamer, I do not stop being a man, a university lecturer, a mediocre sports fan, an American, an immigrant, a husband, a son, a musician. I am not a one-dimensional creature that is composed entirely of, and sustained by, video games. I am not defined by gaming and only gaming.

That anyone should want to be is morbid.

That anyone should demand it of anyone else is evil.

No one who plays and enjoys video games is required to ignore every (or any) other aspect of what makes up their identity, in order to be considered a gamer. People do not work that way. Culture does not work that way.

In fact, the integration of wildly varied and diverse people into video game culture is literally the best thing that could possibly happen to our medium. Without different, new ideas smashing into each other our medium will stagnate and die. Our culture will become so incestuous that it will no longer function. We need to bring new people in, not keep them out.

This kind of exclusionary practice is not unique to video game culture. Like the skating or car cliques mentioned above, other hobbies are just as exclusionary. Read up on heavy metal or punk music for an interesting comparison.

But, like music in general, video games are a creative, expressive medium. They are an art form. As a result, video game culture bears a greater burden, that of art.

Art is communication. As individual yet social animals we are largely defined by our ability to communicate with one another, through speech, stories, pictures, and other media. By communicating, we learn to balance the tension between our uniqueness and commonality. Every human being has a right to be part of this artistic conversation, whether as a creator or an audience.

Through art we are able to embrace one another’s perspective, at least for a little while, and maintain the empathy that human society requires to exist.

So, when someone self-identifying as a gamer claims that someone else’s experience with or interpretation of a game is not relevant, the first gamer is attempting to stifle the other’s attempt to come to terms with life.

Simply put, video game culture does not exist. There is no stone tablet inscribed with commandments. Only gamers exist, and their experiences, ideas and interpretations are what create and sustain video game culture. That culture is a vapour, constantly about to disappear, and only remains through the actions of the people involved.

Video game culture does not define who is and is not a gamer; people who play, talk or write about, and make games define what video game culture is. So when Patricia Hernandez is reminded of her trauma by a video game, then rape is relevant to game culture. When Lisa Foiles finds some aspect of a video game funny, then humour is part of game culture. When Kirk Hamilton analyzes the soundscape of a game, music is relevant to game culture. When Dan Golding or Brendan Keogh (or hey, even me) talk about video game studies, academia is part of game culture. When players scream obscenities at each other through voice chat, trash talk, casual racism and homophobia are part of game culture. When female developers, critics or players are derided based on their gender or appearance, then misogyny is part of game culture.

There are no neutral video games, or experiences of video games. No one stops being who they are as they play a game. So, everything that happens in the game, and everything said about the game, is always already being filtered through whatever lenses the player brings with them wherever they go. So, the female games critics can no more prevent their gender from being part of their experience than I can, or than you, the reader, can. Simply because some players aren’t aware that their gender, race, wealth, privilege, age or whatever is impacting on their experience with a game does not mean it isn’t happening. The same is true for the people who create video games.

Being understood as an artistic practice alongside writing, painting, music or film certainly aids in elevating the status of video games in the wider social context. They become something a person can learn from, enjoy, and enrich their lives with. But there is a caveat: everything is relevant to art. There are no limits.

So like video games themselves, game culture is what we make of it. We are all, individually, the gatekeepers.