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Posts Tagged ‘game studies’

One approach to the study and criticism of video games emphasizes the experiential aspect of action / interaction. Occasionally this approach is applied with a rigor that reveals the functionally identical nature of concepts that we tend to understand as separate, sometimes apposite and others opposite: concepts such as space, and time, and action. Colliding and distilling such concepts can be hugely beneficial. Still, there is a problem with an experiential emphasis in video games: the unavoidable engagement of one of the field’s most heavily-loaded and broadly-used terms, immersion.

I tend to avoid discussion of immersion wholesale. It is simply too complicated a topic to treat lightly, one with various stakeholders who reasonably occupy positions that inevitably complicate each other. It is also generally understood to be, conceptually, of core importance to video games. So although my preference is to discourage discussion by withholding recognition, I must admit that this position is wholly indefensible. So something must be done.

I came across the following today while re-reading The Cultural Turn for a project unrelated to video games. In reference to the design of the Westin Bonaventure Hotel in Los Angeles, Jameson writes:

I am tempted to say that such space makes it impossible for us to use the language of volume or volumes any longer, since these last are impossible to seize. Hanging streamers indeed suffuse this empty space in such a way as to distract systematically and deliberately from whatever form it might be supposed to have; while a constant busyness gives the feeling that emptiness is here absolutely packed, that it is an element within which you yourself are immersed, without any of that distance that formerly enabled the perception of perspective or volume. You are in this hyperspace up to your eyes and your body; and if it seemed to you before that the suppression of depth observable in postmodern painting or literature would necessarily be difficult to achieve in architecture itself, perhaps you may now be willing to see this bewildering immersion as its formal equivalent in the new medium. (14, in the 2009 edition)

We can understand Jameson’s astute observations as not so much about a building, but about the idea of place as an elementary composite resulting from the collision of space, time, and action. This collision originates in the object but occurs in the subject. Because the subject is not the site of manufacture but is the site of assembly, the three elements are functionally inseparable.

The result of this functional inseparability, of the assembly of place within the subject, is immersion.

If you’ll permit the crime of wanton recontextualization, I’ll add that I think that the above quote says much more about video games than it does brick-and-mortar buildings. What do you think?

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In class yesterday, one of our grad students sparked a discussion of affect as it relates to video games.  One point that we didn’t get to explore is that from a marketing perspective, the video game industry is deeply interested in affect (as is any business that involves selling something in just unimaginable quantities).

For instance, this piece by Clive Thompson at Wired describes the employment of a psychologist at Bungie during the production of Halo 3, for the purpose of altering design based on observation of test users.

Even more interesting, and perhaps of increasing relevance as our class continues, is this NY Times article my wife passed along to me.  It describes a confluence of the current state of high-res web-connected cameras and software that recognizes and differentiates between emotional states with remarkable accuracy.

The company that created the emotion measurement software is called Affectiva, which I find both hilarious and ominous.  (Sounds more like a prescription drug.  “For emotions lasting longer than four hours, contact your doctor immediately.”) Their web site is here.

(PS: Also cross-posting this to our class blog.)

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I’m happy to write that the Game Studies class that I’m co-teaching (with my excellent and inestimable colleagues Carol Stabile and Annie Zeidman-Karpinski) is meeting for the first time today.

This class is a bit of an experiment. It is (to my knowledge) the first Game Studies class to be taught at the University of Oregon. We will meet Monday/Tuesday/Wednesday, with Tuesdays designated as “lab” days. Annie and I are specifically running the lab.

Our goal in the lab is pretty simple: we want to put the games that we’re studying in the hands of our students. They’ll have to play a lot outside of class, but the lab will give us the chance to help form and direct habits and methods of critical play.

Check out the reading list, or the full syllabus.

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I just finished reading UO colleague Kate Mondloch’s excellent new book, Screens: Viewing Media Installation Art (University of Minnesota Press, 2010, from the thoroughly excellent Electronic Mediations series); and while I’m not ready to thoroughly review it, I do want to take a moment to log a few brief thoughts.

It is clear within the first few pages that, though the focus is on artworks produced for, and installed in, gallery spaces, Screens is extremely important for any scholar who wishes to examine video games as media objects. Lacking a background in art history, I cannot evaluate the book with regard to that particular field. Happily, this work’s relevance clearly extends well beyond the art historical world. From the introduction:

The underlying proposition of Screens is that present day viewers are, quite literally, “screen subjects.” With this in mind, the book analyzes how certain artworks (re)materialize the neglected circuit between bodies and screens and, in so doing, posit alternate engagements with contemporary media technologies. In what is arguably our “society of the screen,” there can be no definitive external position from which to assess the conditions of media spectatorship. (xxi)

Heady stuff indeed. Key figures in Mondloch’s theoretical framework include Friedberg, Lacan, Deleuze, and Baudrillard, to name a few. The theories at work are complex, and the goal (if you’ll pardon my reductive paraphrasing) is to figure out no less than who, where, and when you are vis-à-vis the media screen. I’m trying to say that it’s ambitious; and my initial reaction is that it delivers the goods.

I want to give it another read before I write more about it, so for now I’ll leave off with this amazing passage, in which Mondloch quotes from Jonathan Crary’s Eclipse of the Spectacle:

“We must recognize the fundamental incapacity of capitalism ever to rationalize the circuit between body and computer,” Crary argues, “and realize that this circuit is the site of a latent but potentially volatile disequilibrium.” (96)

Love it. More on this later.

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I was thumbing through Goffman’s The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life1 the other day, thinking about games as dialogic actors in a scheme of mediated interpersonal communication; thinking about about Super Meat Boy and the critical response to it (the grounded, the hyperbolic, the in-between); thinking about Abbot’s upcoming class; thinking about my own upcoming class; & etc.

So my mind was wandering, and I was flipping through Goffman’s introduction2, and I came across this:

[T]he arts of piercing an individual’s effort at calculated unintentionality seem better developed than our capacity to manipulate our own behavior, so that regardless of how many steps have occurred in the information game, the witness is likely to have the advantage over the actor, and the initial asymmetry of the communication process is likely to be retained. (8-9, emphasis added)

This is a great construction that is very applicable to video games in general, if we formulate the game as the actor trying to project calculated unintentionality, and the player as the witness of this projection.3 I don’t want to try a deeper analysis at present; just preserving the present’s food for future thought.

Notes:

1.The 1973 edition, if that sort of thing matters to you.

2. In which he describes communication as a kind of game: we present a constructed self to others who are also constructed, and who in turn may or may not try to detect the falsity or veracity of our construction, just as we may do the same to them, depending on motives and circumstances, with rules that possibly shift dynamically as the conversation progresses, and it turns out communication is very complicated; it’s a wonder that anyone ever talks to anyone else.

3. I have to admit, though, that my first reaction to the above quote was to be excited for Jonathan Blow’s next game; hence my selective italics.

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Super Meat Boy doesn’t hate you, but it doesn’t mind hurting you.

The Xbox Live Arcade release delivers on the promise of the pre-release version that was shown at PAX Prime 2010, where it was my own personal Game of the Show. Here are my initial thoughts after spending a few days (and a few thousand deaths) with SMB:

There is an immediacy to the play experience that goes beyond the fact that many of your deaths will come within the opening two seconds of a given level. This immediacy is a product of the extremely tight and responsive controls. It’s rare to feel like you’re not firmly in the driver’s seat. You’ll die a lot, but most of those deaths will help you gain an incrementally deeper understanding of how to use the control that the game gives you.

Meat Boy is light, strong, agile, and remarkably tacky. He isn’t sticky; that is, he doesn’t stick to surfaces, but he is frictional, and much of the game is spent learning how this friction interacts with Meat Boy’s weight and the game’s implementation of gravity.

You will also spend a good deal of time learning how to hop. Pressing the jump button will only get you so far: SMB insists that you learn to tap it. Then it shows you that there is something between a ‘press’ and a ‘tap’. Then it explains that there are actually several degrees of jump (what the French theorists call degrés de saut1) that can be executed somewhere between a ‘press’ and a ‘tap’. It demands that you execute all of these degrés de saut while fully understanding how they interact with Meat Boy’s weight and friction.

You learn by doing, and the price for failure is death. But in SMB, death is reimagined as an immediate do-over. Upon dying, Meat Boy will reappear at the start of the level in time to see the pieces of his just-dead (Other?) body still airborne. You run, jump, die, and repeat, incredibly quickly. In many levels the first few jumps are key, and must be executed immediately and with precision. Let’s suppose those jumps are difficult, and the player dies ten times before getting them right for the first time. In the language of modern video games, ten deaths is a significant commitment of player time. In Super Meat Boy, it might take 30 seconds.

Keith Oatley, summarizing Karl Popper’s Conjectures and Refutations, wrote:

We only really learn by our mistakes (refutations). As we apply our schemata to the world by living, they fail in various ways and we can learn, change and develop by modifying our schemata or theories accordingly. Popper quotes J. A. Wheeler at the beginning of his book as saying “The whole problem is to make the mistakes as fast as possible.”2

Super Meat Boy wholeheartedly embraces this model of learning. You will make lots of mistakes, you will make them quickly, and you will immediately have the opportunity to make them again. The only way to break this cycle is to learn. The cycle moves fast, so the player tends to learn a lot in a relatively small amount of time.

If “Easy to learn, difficult to master” is a cliché, Super Meat Boy is, to borrow Bonnie Nardi’s term, its visual-performative3 embodiment. The learning curve isn’t particularly steep, but it is relentlessly high. The successful player will continue to learn, level after level after level.

The best thing about SMB as a learning environment is that the dialog between game and player remains congenial. The game makes demands, to be sure, but eventually the player learns that she has a lot of freedom to determine how those demands are met. Once the player has a certain understanding of the game’s conception of gravity, friction, and degrés de saut, there are numerous ways in which a level might be successfully completed. You don’t have the freedom necessary to call this a sandbox game, but I’m going to call it a playground game4. At a certain point each level becomes a playground, and the player’s only task is to get in there and make something awesome happen.

Super Meat Boy takes its button mapping straight out of Super Mario Brothers: hold one button to run, press another button to jump, move with the thumbstick / d-pad. However, the complexity of the actions that the player can input with these controls has more in common with modern fighting games than the platformers of the 80s. High-level fighting game techniques such as frame counting, canceling, buffering, hit checking, and more are all highly relevant to playing Super Meat Boy. Once I started to understand the game on that level I switched from the standard 360 controller to my Hori Fighting Stick EX2, and I haven’t looked back.5

This is really the tip of the iceberg: there is a lot to analyze. I am particularly interested in applying theories of postmodern subjectivity to the replay that occurs when the player finishes a level, which shows every attempt to complete the level simultaneously. This simultaneity both expands and compresses the fractured subjectivity and ontological crisis that is inherent to modern video games (a topic I have previously touched on). But that is a whole other can of worms, and deserves a post of its own.

Notes:

1. No they don’t. I made that up.

2. Ok, this reference is a mess but let’s go with it. Keith Oatley, Perceptions and Representations: The Theoretical Basis of Brain Research and Psychology (London: Metheun, 1978), 241-42. But that quote is taken from: Ellen Spolsky, “The Uses of Adversity: The Literary Text and the Audience That Doesn’t Understand”, in The Uses of Adversity: Failure and Accommodation in Reader Response, ed. Ellen Spolsky (Cranbury, New Jersey: Associated University Presses, 1990), 31. So it’s a quote of a quote of a summary of something that Karl Popper wrote in 1963. And that summary ends with a quote from someone else entirely! The fact that Spolsky’s essay is in a book that she also edited is just icing on the (layered) cake.

3. Bonnie Nardi, My Life as a Night Elf Priest: An Anthropological Account of World of Warcraft (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2010).

4. Please allow me to show my disdain for genre boundaries by articulating another (meaningless) genre.

5. The only complaint I have regarding the game’s controls is the inability to remap the buttons. I write this not just because I think that a different button layout would be a little more comfortable on the EX2, but also because it’s an important step toward making games accessible to players of all abilities. Understand that this criticism isn’t directed only at SMB: alterable button mapping needs to be understood as a basic feature that should be offered in all games. Accessibility is always worth it. Alterable button mapping is a drop in the bucket, but each drop counts.

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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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