I would like to preface what is most likely the one-millionth video game blog post regarding Ben Abraham's "permadeath" play-through of Far Cry 2 with this sentiment: Ben is an undeniably talented writer and thinker, I admire the spirit and audacity of his gameplay experiment, and I hope he is learning something about gaming and/or himself in the process.
To be honest, this post isn't so much about Ben's permadeath experiment as it is Clint Hocking's response to it. For those who don't know, Hocking is the thoughtful Creative Director for Far Cry 2, and a significant talent behind other successful projects at Ubisoft Montreal. While it is heartening to see a designer take notice of, and react quite pleasantly to, a particular gamer's take on his/her game, I find Hocking's reaction somewhat problematic. In his blog post about Ben's experiment, Hocking notes that the choice undertaken by Ben is not so much about creating a narrative significance that allows him to bond with the game's world and its characters as it is an innovative deconstruction of the game's mechanics in order to generate a new kind of fun:
The reason I think people are paying attention is because Ben is playing with the game. He is manipulating the game itself. He is playing with the magic circle. He is looking at all sides of it like a Rubik's Cube
and even taking the cube apart in order to see how it is built and what
are its underlying immutable rules. It is here that people start to pay
attention. It is here that Ben is being moved by his experience. It is
here that others, too, care about what happens... not to Frank, but to
Ben, and to the game itself. They care about what can happen
to Frank. The are invested in the expressive possibility space enabled
by the game. They care about the real immutable limits of the question
and about the limits arbitrarily imposed by the save game system, and
by Ben's willful rejigging of the magic circle to exclude it. They
care, now, about the Ben/Frank/Far Cry 2 system which is something
real. They don't care about whether Frank Bilder's lives or dies...
because that is an illusion and they know it.
Effectively, by attempting to experience the meaning that arises from adding irreversibility to Far Cry 2 and taking away one of the things he was allowed to play with, Ben is playing with the game more,
not less. It is not the combination of Far Cry 2 + authored narrative
irreversibility that is making the permadeath experiment meaningful to
Ben and to others, it is the the fact that he is able to manipulte [sic] the game to create this experiment that is bringing meaning.
Despite Hocking's seeming humility about the way his game has been designed (discussing the "arbitrary" limits of the save system, which is hardly particular to his game or its genre), the conclusion that upstart Ben is teaching the designer a thing or two conveniently masks the subtle suggestion that Far Cry 2 was in a unique position to enable this experiment.
It wasn't. Far Cry 2 was well received by critics for the most part, but it was also rightfully criticized for being an empty and often tedious exercise in extending "sandbox"-style gameplay far beyond its natural limits. Not a single thing about the game was unique aside from its vacuous and rather non-interactive setting, not even the buddy system or its open-world style gameplay (S.T.A.L.K.E.R. did it earlier and arguably much better), and I have to wonder if the way Hocking waxes poetic about Ben's choices is more a reflection of pride in his baby than of serious critical thought.
The permadeath experiment could have been applied to many, many other games in a similar fashion... but this particular application generated Hocking's wistful analysis, so we seem to be stuck with a very awkward example.
Rather, let's forget that we're talking about the problematic Far Cry 2 for a moment and simply take Hocking's argument at its face value.
Hocking says that Ben successfully deconstructs core mechanisms of the game's progression, moving beyond the authorial intent and into a sort of player-based storytelling. I have to wonder, however: If the core mechanics thereby become so extremely superfluous and disposable, how can you even call this Far Cry 2 anymore?
Hocking invokes the image of the Rubik's Cube being taken apart "to see how it is built." The problem with this metaphor is that if you take apart the Rubik's Cube, it isn't a Rubik's Cube anymore. Not unless you put it back together in the same way. The Rubik's Cube has rules, as Hocking notes, but the function of these rules is not to generate various Rubik's Cube spinoffs for those industrious enough to reconfigure its pieces, but rather to act as a set of constraints for what can only be considered Rubik's Cube play. Otherwise, you have a broken Rubik's Cube, something completely other than the overarching Rubik's Cube concept, no matter how fun its pieces are to play with.
Here's another example: Let's say I decide to "play with" Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury. Spurred on by the authorially embedded message of subjective time and viewpoint, I start ripping out pages and repasting them in a different order. Faulker still wrote the words on the pages, but in playing with the very constraints that guide my experience of them--the intended order of pages and chapters--I have created an entirely new novel. It's quite possible that my reconfigured book is enjoyable to read, but can it be considered an experience made possible by, and existing within the canon of, The Sound and the Fury? No. Does that make it an inferior read? Probably, but there is no guarantee that it will be inferior to me, the reader. On the other hand, does it add significance to the original concept of the Sound and the Fury? Well, that's the question at hand.
Wait, you say. That's a book, constrained by narrative-produced meaning by design (and even that is arguable; try reading Theresa Cha's Dictee). Games are an entirely different beast, no?
Not in every way, no. At least not games with compelling narratives. You can't simply eschew the constraints of play and hope that a player has the time and ingenuity to author a (possibly more frustrating) new version. When you write a story or design a game, you are compelled to write your audience into existence by the very nature of your craft.
I'm sorry, but in this sense Ben was not written into existence by the text or paratext of the game he chose to play. At least not if we're all talking about a game called Far Cry 2. Instead, even the save game mechanism is an inextricable constraint by which you are allowing your reader to experience the story. If you value the story you have crafted for a particular audience (in this case, a mainstream audience of mature gamers), you will ensure that those mechanics are indispensable in service to the experience, and that a deconstruction thereof, no matter how creative, will simply be a rupturing of the events on display.
Allow me to clarify: Again, I have no problem with what Ben is doing; I don't find his new experiences with the game inferior or artificial. Nor do I have a problem with Hocking finding value in it. And in no way am I positing that a good interactive story must feature "constrained" gameplay--that is, gameplay that does not actively reflect player choice. The Elder Scrolls titles, a favorite example of mine here on the blog, are proof of that.
But to claim that by deconstructing the game, Ben is playing with it more is ludicrous, to say the least. It requires a complete redefinition of what you mean by "the game."
There is something almost self-effacing about making such a comment as a game designer. Sure, you want your player to be able to actively experiment with the product and feel rewarded for coming up with a seemingly individualized (or "co-authored") experience. But even the authorially unintended experiment--for example, a player-designed level in LittleBigPlanet--must be in service to the feeling, the aesthetic, and even the storytelling that you chose to convey from the onset. It may sound cold-hearted, but otherwise, you're not taking your role as the author seriously. Even something as seemingly "arbitrary" as the saved-game system has to be a fundamental and calculated constraint, like the very edges of a baking sheet on which you allow the player to bake amorphous Play-Doh.
Now, I understand that Hocking DOES take his role as author seriously. His body of work evidences as much. But I can't help but read a little bit of self-loathing into his lionizing of Ben's achievements. In the grand scheme of things, what Ben is doing with Far Cry 2 is small beans compared to what Hocking needs to learn from his mistakes in order to make a better, more polished, and yes, more constrained Far Cry 3.
Let's go back to the beginning of Hocking's argument:
Last month, Manveer and I got into a debate
about how to design more meanginful and emotionally engaging games. On
one branch of that discussion, Manveer had suggested designing a game
to make certain decisions irreversible. I was opposing that approach on
the grounds that it was relying on what I feel are narrative tools (in
particular irreversibility and inevitability).
I was suggesting that - while we could of course make games more
emotionally engaging using narrative tools, I feel we ought to be
pursuing (possibly exclusively but at least primarily) the application
of ludic tools to this same end.
You see, by creating a false dichotomy, Hocking has already undone himself. He is talking about "narrative tools" and "ludic tools" as if they aren't two highly interdependent factors. Ludic freedom can lead to innovative storytelling, yes, but a certain container for storytelling is often what creates the impetus for that freedom.
Thus, Hocking is arguing two different sides of the same coin. Manveer's point is well taken: Irreversibility can lead to dramatic impact and additional enjoyment of a story. That does not automatically divorce it from, or make it inferior to, the idea of creating enough gameplay freedom that such irreversibility is a seemingly non-predicted outcome, or a single choice in a range of choices.
But the key word here is "range." If one goes outside the range, then as magical as the choice may seem, it is largely irrelevant to the experiences of the imagined audience who willingly and wittingly relies upon the range for its craftsmanship.
[Update: Erik Hanson, who was nice enough to link to this post on the VGHVI website, astutely points out my use of the Paradox of Theseus' Ship, even though I didn't point it out by name. That is because, oddly enough, I didn't even think of it! However, the core question here is not whether Ben's playthrough alters the material and/or goal--the very substance--of the game, but whether the game's mechanics and story are given enough import that any deviation therefrom would provide "added value." In terms of the referenced myth, this would be like asking if the replaced timber of the ship necessarily adds value to the initial design. My argument is that, if the initial design is solid enough, it would not, as it is the initial design and its constraints that most often shape one's experiences of what they consider to be "the ship," or in this case, the game.]