Archive for September, 2010

Jamie Madigan wrote about motion controls and the concept of presence on his blog, The Psychology of Video Games. It’s a great post and very much worth a read. In it, he references a paper by a group of researchers at Cleveland State University. He writes:

They were interested in how “naturally” a controller was used to play a game and what effect that had on presence and enjoyment. To kick things off, they proposed an interesting typology of natural control mapping.

The status of this paper is unclear: Madigan writes that it was “published. . . earlier this year in the journal New Media & Society,” and he provides an incomplete citation. I couldn’t find the article on the journal’s website (non-university folks will have trouble even looking, as it’s behind a paywall), and he implies in a footnote that he got the article from one of the researchers; so my guess is that it has been accepted for publication, but has not yet been published. If I’m right, that’s too bad; it would have been nice to be able to read the article that the post is about.

The concept of presence is very interesting: it goes directly to what games do to us when we play them. Looking to make a connection between motion controls for video games and the feeling of presence, Madigan writes that the researchers

were interested in whether more natural mapping of controls would lead to greater self-reports of presence while playing games, so they ran two experiments. In the first, they had one group play Tiger Woods PGA Tour 07 on the Nintendo Wii using the wiimote like, appropriately enough, a golf club. Another group played the Playstation 2 version of that same game using the dual shock controller. The results were that the wiimote did indeed feel more natural, as measured by questions like “The actions used to interact with the game environment were similar to the actions that would be used to do the same thing in the real world.” No surprise there, but they also found that use of such controls did correlate with spatial presence (“To what extent did you experience a sense of ‘being there’ inside the environment?”) and people who played the game on the Wii were more likely to report experiencing presence than those who played with the PS2 controller.

Interesting stuff! Here’s why I really want to read the source article: the conclusion that motion controls increase the feeling of presence seems solid. But it is also limited by video games’ immature theory of space as well as the conventions of genre. If motion controls increase our feeling of “being there”, what about games that don’t have a reasonable “there”? This lack of “thereness” might be due to genre conventions (Lumines) or it might be a result of poor spatial theory (Viva Piñata).

I also wonder what, if anything, the research says about the interaction of motion controls with other design elements in the creation of presence. Short version: I think that motion controls might create presence in specific types of games (Tiger Woods) while destroying it in others (imagine playing Cave Story or Super Meat Boy with motion controls).

Madigan also writes that he feels this article’s typology of controls is flawed “because it lacks a place for motion-tracked controllers that are used in ways that are not asking you to mimic holding something specific” (like when you wiggle the Wiimote to make Mario spin). I think that these types of controls actually fit very well in the first referenced category:

Directional natural mappings are the least natural, represen[t]ing simple up/down/left/right mappings and maybe some buttons. Think Street Fighter 4: up to jump, left/right to move, down to crouch, and buttons to punch or kick.

You move your thumb to push the jump button just like you move your wrist to execute Mario’s spin. Outside of the game’s logic, neither of the movements have anything to do with the action executed on the screen. The only difference between them that I can see is our perspective: we’ve had a few decades to get used to pushing buttons, but just a few years to wiggle our Wiimotes. Is wiggling just more exotic than pressing?

The important thing is what the movement represents: wiggling to make Mario spin makes as much sense as pushing a button to make him jump. Both require motion and neither seems likely to create presence.

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L. B. Jeffries wrote an interesting article on Moving Pixels, examining the complex interaction of the concepts of space, design, and content in video games. Jeffries uses Tschumi and Derrida to try to make sense of the layers of objective and subjective inherent in art, from architecture to video games:

Many of [Tschumi’s] points are more rigidly structured and meant to be applied towards physical spaces rather than the awkward semi-omniscient design of a video game. What’s applicable is his attempt to apply post-modernism to a medium like architecture, which constantly juggles the subjective and objective while hiding one behind the other, and his outlining of three core discussions that need to be present—the action, the experience, and the overall structure itself while all of these aspects change in response to each other.

This is rich stuff that gets to some of the basic elements of how games work: what they do to us, what we do to them, etc. There are elements of the piece that I do not agree with, and I look forward to elucidating and exploring those ideas here in the future.

But make no mistake: the issues that Jeffries addresses are extremely difficult to discuss in relation to video games, particularly because games do not yet have a mature theory of space. This is the main reason that I think this article is on the right track: bringing architecture into the discussion is a great move that means good things for the collective discourse.

Thanks to Ben Abraham at Critical Distance for the link.

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Baudrillard wrote that “The impossibility of rediscovering an absolute level of the real is of the same order as the impossibility of staging illusion. Illusion is no longer possible, because the real is no longer possible.” (19)

Media operates in the mode of layered simulation. The interaction of simulations has been readily identifiable in film for some time, but their operation within video games has gone largely unexamined. This is unfortunate, because video games exploit the layering of simulation and the resulting confusion of real and imaginary in ways that are not available to other media objects. This is achieved by actually inducing the ontological crisis that was previously only described by postmodern media. I will outline this crisis and describe how video games use it to further complicate the relationship of the real and the imaginary.

Fellini’s opens with a traffic jam that quickly reveals itself as a dream. The horror of people, the need to escape them, the realization that the need to escape is an intrinsic part of the self, and so escape is impossible if the self is to remain intact. The protagonist keeps his self concept intact, injured by the social and defined by its injury: he allows himself to be pulled out of the sky, crashing into the ocean, trading the gentle horror of the dream for the gentle horror of life.



As the film continues, several similar sequences are presented: dreams, memories and fantasies are interwoven with what presents as real. Sorting out the worlds of the real of the film and the imaginary of the protagonist is left to the viewer. This is indeed no small task, as the viewer must also know that the real of the film is itself an illusion to be sorted against the real of the viewer. This layering of illusion is extended (distended?) by the film within the film, and, in the impossible task of defining true and false, the real and the illusion, the inevitable question: On which side of the camera does our director sit? Which is nothing but an ontologically safe reimagination the actual question: On which side of the screen does the viewer sit?

The opening sequence of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind visually and thematically mirrors that of : the protagonist, surrounded by the horror of the social, the crowded in-between places of mass transit, escapes to the beach. His escape does not provide the desired relief, instead revealing a fractured self-loathing that simultaneously seeks and hates the social.


Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind‘s opening sequence: Sorry for the link, but YouTube has disallowed embedding for this video. Still, it’s well worth opening a new browser tab.


Like , Eternal Sunshine weaves together real and imaginary, challenging the viewer to define and distinguish two opposing elements from its hyperreal singularity. Unlike , it does so without limiting its implosion of internal and external to an episodic conversation between protagonist and viewer. Eternal Sunshine‘s conflation of reality and illusion instead extends without boundary. The mechanic of a film within the film, the elaborate layering of reality and illusion, it’s all made unnecessary by the uncomfortable believability of constructed (reconstructed? deconstructed?) thought and memory: the self-creating self. This crisis is mechanically similar to that of , but it is of a different order: the film presents a logic in which distinguishing the illusion of the film from the real of the viewer is not possible. Both are plausible, but neither can be verified. The hyperreal digests the whole of both reality and illusion.

In terms of simulation, Super Mario Bros. presents neither a visual nor a cognitive logic that approaches this level of hyperrealism.1 And yet, its hyperreality surpasses that of both and Eternal Sunshine.



The surreal representation of a world gone, quite literally, unbelievably wrong. It is easy for the spectator to disbelieve this world; but for the player, belief is another matter entirely. This is achieved through the creation of ontological insecurity the player, resulting in a division of the self that complicates the dichotomies of belief and disbelief, of real and imaginary.

In The Divided Self, Laing describes ontological insecurity as the feeling that the individual is

precariously differentiated from the rest of the world, so that his identity and autonomy are always in question. He may lack the experience of his own temporal continuity. He may not possess an over-riding sense of personal consistency or cohesiveness. . . And he may feel his self as partially divorced from his body. (Laing 42)

Ontological insecurity calls into question the nature of the self, and a response to this question is the perception of the self as, in Laing’s word, “unembodied.” The unembodied self’s “functions come to be observation, control, and criticism vis-a-vis what the body is experiencing and doing, and those operations which are usually spoken of as purely ‘mental’.” (Laing 69)

By using elements of the recognizable language of earlier forms of media and combining those elements with active participation, games induce a gentle form of ontological insecurity in their players. This insecurity is grounded in the same basic confusions presented by the hyperreality of and Eternal Sunshine. We return to the question: on which side of the screen does the player exist?

The truly fascinating twist is that while games (like other forms of media) can achieve this confusion through pure representation, they need not bother. Instead, games create instability simply by requiring the player to perform; that is, instability is created and maintained through the action of play. Games necessitate an unembodied self while simultaneously allowing that self access to virtually embodied action.

Thus, in games the destabilizing question has a preliminary answer: I exist simultaneously on both sides of the screen. I am part of the simulation.

Simulational participation is not limited to the active: games exploit the passivity of memory to further layer simulation. This tool is used by the films referenced above; but the digital nature of games allow memory to operate in a mode not available to film: perfect reproduction.



Super Mario Crossover illustrates the nature of convention and genre in digital media objects: perfect simulation is possible because perfect reproduction is possible. The referentialism of earlier media, as we saw in the opening sequences of and Eternal Sunshine, is replaced with the exact reproduction of prior simulation. This adds a temporal dimension of simulation, in which the player’s memory (whether real or illusory) of experience (whether real or illusory) becomes a passive part of active play. Thus the real and the imaginary are further confused as the player participates in the replication and remixing of their own memories, a level of hyperreal confusion that is not available to film.

The ontological crisis imagined by and Eternal Sunshine becomes, in games, a densely layered crisis of the imaginary; a real crisis of simulation; a crisis that is induced every time we play a video game.


1My use of gameplay videos that follows is, in this context, a placeholder at best and disingenuous at worst. It is my desire that they be viewed as placeholders: they show you the screen of someone who is playing, but it is important to recognize that they are themselves not objects of play. However believably these videos imply a player, one cannot escape being implicated as a viewer; a spectator; an anti-player.

This topic could span several posts on its own. For my purposes here, I will say this: these games must be played. The embedded gameplay videos are a good low-barrier way to access my argument, but they should not be construed as viable alternatives to actually playing the games they portray.

Works cited:

Baudrillard, Jean. Simulacra and Simulation. Trans. Sheila Faria Glaser. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1994. Print. The Body, In Theory.

. Dir. Federico Fellini. Columbia, 1963. The Criterion Collection, 2004. DVD.

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Dir. Michel Gondry. Focus Features, 2004. Film.

Super Mario Bros. Nintendo, 1985. Game.

Laing, R. D. The Divided Self: An Existential Study in Sanity and Madness. New York: Penguin, 1965. Print.

Super Mario Crossover. Dev. Jay Pavlina. Newgrounds.com, 2010. Game.

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I’m back from PAX: exhausted, a bit overwhelmed, and very happy with how it went.

I’m not much for consumer conventions: the crowds, the hype, the expense; it’s tough to escape the feeling of walking inside a giant hamster wheel of marketing ploys, helping it turn by the simple fact of your attendance. Despite this uneasiness, I attended PAX Prime this year because Carol Stabile, a colleague and frequent collaborator at the University of Oregon, invited me to speak on a panel. I accepted her invitation, and I’m very glad I did so.

Our panel was titled, “Women Own: A Conversation with Researchers, Professionals, and Gamers.” My co-panelists included Marlo Huang, VP and Media Director at Liquid Advertising; Staci Tucker, a Masters candidate at the University of Oregon’s School of Journalism and Communication; Brittany Aubert, producer at 5th Cell; and Mara Williams, a Ph. D. candidate at the University of Oregon’s School of Journalism and Communication. Carol, who is the head of the Center for the Study of Women in Society at UO, served as moderator.

This was just about the finest panel one could hope for. I spoke first, specifically about the lack of diversity in the game industry, particularly along gender lines, that is apparent in the 2005 IGDA survey. My co-panelists turned these (let me be frank:) depressing numbers into an honest, nuanced discussion of political fantasies and hard realities. Our audience asked thoughtful questions, and (hopefully) we all got rid of the post-feminist taste that the “Myth of the Girl Gamer” panel left in our mouths.

The show was, on the whole, totally overwhelming. Let me put it this way: there was an Ewok in the Back to the Future DeLorean. Just let that sink in for a moment. At least I didn’t hear it say, “GREAT SCOTT!”

Basically, I think I survived because of the amazing people at The Triple Door, who gave us the full-on rock star treatment for three consecutive evenings. A doorman at our hotel (the excellent Olympic Fairmont) pointed us in the direction of The Triple Door when I asked where a thirsty group of socially exhausted introverts might purchase a tasty beverage. A few blocks later, we spotted the place. It had a sign in the window that said, “We [heart] PAX; ask us how!” So when we were seated, I showed the waitress my PAX badge, and much to our surprise and delight she informed us that we would enjoy the benefits of happy hour whenever we so desired. (On-demand happy hour meant the difference between paying $3 vs. $9 per cocktail, which is, y’know, significant.) On a return trip later in the weekend, our group included a minor, yet we were too many to fit into the minor-friendly booth seating. The solution should be obvious: they gave us a private suite for as long as we wanted. So yeah, I love The Triple Door forever.

We enjoyed Khaira Arby & Her Band on Thursday night, who were so stunningly good that I don’t have much to say other than, “Give them a listen.”

Oh yeah, and there were a few games at PAX.

I don’t have a lot to say about the big names that showed on the expo floor. Many of them are probably very good games, but that doesn’t make them interesting. Epic Mickey, for instance, has a lot of the industry excited, and may be coming along very well, but I can’t understand why anyone would brave lines and crowds to play it. The bottom line is that an expo floor is a very difficult place to show a game: it’s loud, it’s distracting, the player is exhausted, the handler is exhausted, etc. etc.

In this situation, being good isn’t enough: a game has got to be interesting. So here’s a short list of the games that I found interesting:

  • Super Meat Boy: This is my game of the show. It hits you hard, it hits you fast, and it lets you hit back. The constant crowd can attest to the fact that it is fun to watch, and I’m happy to report that actually playing is fun on a whole different level. Its visceral simplicity helps you jump right into the nuanced complexity of ultra-tuned control and dead-aim design. Simply put: SMB has sticky friction, and that puts it in elite company.
  • Shibuya: A falling block puzzler for Apple’s iDevices. This isn’t a genre that I care to play, but the design here is tight. Gaming on touchscreen devices presents particular design challenges. Most iDevice games don’t do a good job solving those problems. Shibuya does, and that’s enough to make it special.
  • Battleblock Theater: The Behemoth’s platformer divides players into teams, and the teams compete. Customization keeps the experience dynamic, while shifting win conditions allow different skill sets to shine. It’s got a way to go, so I don’t want to draw too many conclusions other than: it was fun from several different angles.
  • Solace: From the game’s website: “Solace is an interactive aesthetic experience utilizing dynamic audio and bullet hell overtones to provide a unique perspective on the five stages of grief.” Visually, it immediately reminded me of Ikaruga, which is a good thing; but it quickly distinguished itself as unique in the bullet-hell world. That Solace manages to innovate on the bullet-hell model is an astounding achievement. Indeed, the last time anyone breathed fresh air into a top-down shooter was when Treasure gave us Ikaruga in 2001. My hat is off to the fine people at One Man Down. To top it off: this game is a free download.

Good show, PAX. Let’s do it again next year.

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