Game in Mind

The Kairos of Marvel: Ultimate Alliance 2

Like any good science fiction, the best comics are strong allegories that illuminate human nature in ways we find surprising, enlightening... and sometimes gut-wrenching.  A particularly revealing comic storyline uses epic battles between heroes and villains, not to glorify violence in a simplistic manner, but to show that even the concept of heroism is a complex and often misleading thing.  Heroes can be villains.  Villains can be heroes.  When it comes down to it, most characters, tenuously holding on to the convictions that define their identities, fall somewhere between the two.

Marvel's recent Civil War storyline may not have been ideal in the telling, but as an allegory for our post-9/11 surrender of freedoms (namely the Patriot Act), it was damn near sublime:  Following an attack on New York City in retaliation for a "Secret War" started by superheroes and the cataclysmic detonation of a particularly explosive villain while being pursued by heroes, the government passes legislation requiring that all heroes register their secret identities, engage in official law enforcement training, and adhere to policy set forth by S.H.I.E.L.D.'s new leadership.  On one side you have Iron Man, who reluctantly comes down on the side of the registration act because he can't see the political climate changing any time soon and wants the public to feel safe from "rogue" heroes.  On the other side there's Captain America, who would rather fellow heroes keep their rights and freedoms than see them trampled in the name of panic.  Captain America resists registration, is labeled a traitor, and goes on to lead other anti-registration heroes in an underground resistance movement that seeks sanctuary from former allies sent by S.H.I.E.L.D. to track them down.  A war rages between the two sides that results in massive destruction and ends only when Captain America chooses to surrender rather than continue to put the public in danger to satisfy anti- and pro-registration convictions.

Comics featuring the Civil War storyline were published between 2006 and 2007, not long after George W. Bush signed a compromised Patriot Act re-authorization bill into effect despite widespread concern about its effect on civil liberties.  With the previous five years of debate regarding security vs. rights fresh in the public's mind, the Civil War storyline reflected the angst of both viewpoints with stirring honesty, causing readers to see once-revered heroes like Iron Man and Spider-Man in a different light.

Now, three years later, Marvel: Ultimate Alliance 2 revisits the story arc, adding a new layer of complexity--in this case, interaction on behalf of the player.

As would be expected of any comic-to-game adaptation, MUA2 does not entirely replicate the storyline, but it does a surprisingly good job of recreating the key allegorical events: the attack on New York City, the atom bomb-like explosion in Stamford, and the escalating violence between the two factions of superheroes.  While the game changes much of the end of the storyline, opting to have the two sides unite against a sentient virus and removing Captain America's poignant surrender and subsequent death-by-assassination, it still conveys important truths about what it means to surrender freedom for the sake of fear, and why even the seemingly powerful are so eager to give up their rights.

Interestingly, however, the game forces the player to choose a side for the central third of the game--a choice that determines which characters become available, which bosses (in this case, other superheroes) will be faced, and even which ending cinematic is shown.  Thus, the player, too, becomes complicit in the actions depicted, and whether the player chooses to act for the law or for liberty, the end result is detrimental in-fighting.  Personally, I found it to be quite a system shock to be tasked with taking down Iron Man, my all-time favorite comic book character... although I'll admit that these levels let me joyfully recall childhood fantasies of "Who would win in a fight between Hero X and Hero Y?"

Just as the original Civil War storyline was timely in its publication, its more interactive counterpart remains a pertinent indicator of the times.  Though not intended by the game's designers, MUA2's retelling of the Civil War storyline resonates especially well given the current, heated debate over health care, wherein again we see one side that wants to keep freedoms suppressed in the name of fearmongering and another that simply reacts to scare tactics rather than putting out helpful information.  Since health care, like the Patriot Act, affects all of us, we cannot help but take a stake in this battle... but many citizens feel distressed by the way both sides are waging their campaigns.  In the end, the political parties will have battled, but it is most likely the public that will lose.

The critical reaction to MUA2 has been solid, albeit unspectacular.  No matter one's feelings about the game's relationship to its genre or its predecessor, it's hard to argue with the subject matter's continued importance, and the fact that there is a game that allows you take a participatory stake in this kind of allegory makes it all the more impressive.  I found the game mechanics to be pretty enjoyable to boot, but I'd argue that the key reason to play this game in 2009 is that, like the comics on which it is based (even harkening back to the original '60s storylines of The Uncanny X-Men), it has a very important lesson to tell.

Linking the Past, Present, and Future: The Atari Jaguar as Console Artifact

It's no secret that the Atari Jaguar was a terrible failure--one of gaming's worst.  The last dud in the sordid history of Atari's Tramiel family ownership, the Jaguar followed the Lynx's underrated hardware debut in the late 1980s with an early '90s abomination of poorly designed hardware and software that barely competed against its 16-bit forebears, much less the higher-tech NeoGeo, 3DO, CD-I, 32-X, and Sega Saturn technologies against which the system was supposedly targeted.

Whereas those systems also underperformed in an increasingly crowded home console market, the Jaguar's true achilles heel was its total lack of support... support from consumers, 3rd parties, and even 1st party games that were consistently delayed (some to the point of such obscurity and derision that they easily could have been seen as the predecessors of vaporware like Phantom console games and Duke Nukem Forever).  While a handful of titles (namely Tempest 2000, Battlemorph, Wolfenstein 3D, Doom, Iron Soldier, and Aliens vs. Predator) rose to relative critical acclaim, the system itself never became so much as a blip on most gamers' radar.  According to Gamepro, the Jaguar ended up selling less than 250,000 units.  To put that number in perspective, that's less than half the number of CD-I consoles sold, around one-tenth the amount of 3DO and N-Gage consoles sold, and even one half the number of original Xbox consoles sold... in Japan.  The system is infamous among critics and game historians and is well known for its cult homebrew following, but for the average gamer, the Jaguar hardware is obscure to say the least.

So why bring up this sore spot in 2009, roughly 16 years after the Jaguar's ill-fated launch?  Because as an artifact of video game history, the Jaguar speaks volumes about where we've been, where we are, and where we're going.

That Controller!


Depending on your age and tolerance for design whimsy, the sight of the overly complicated Jaguar controller either conjures fond memories or churns your stomach.  On the one hand, the part of the controller that was utilized in almost every game is nicely set apart from the phone pad and resembles the simplicity of Sega's original Genesis controller.  Moreover, those unfortunate enough to have owned a Jaguar will recall that despite its plasticky appearance, the Jag controller was a sturdy and extremely comfortable piece of hardware.  So comfortable, in fact, that I have yet to hold another controller to equal the Jaguar's in terms of weight, shape, and ergonomics.  Gamers tend to shy away from large controllers--the original Xbox's "Duke" controller was perhaps the last of a now dead breed--but it is undeniable that human hands hold up best when they are able to grip a molded, fairly sized controller... rather than, say, struggle to maintain an awkward and unnatural grip such as that needed for Nintendo's various DS models.  (I continue to marvel at the fact that two of gaming's most comfortable controllers, those of the Jaguar and Virtual Boy consoles, belonged to two of its least successful systems; and that some of the most successful systems have had some of the least comfortable controllers.)  Surely, modern console designers could stand to learn a thing or two from the Jaguar's gamepad.

On the other hand, there's that hideous phone pad, complete with space for the various cheap-looking (and often useless) overlays packaged with Jaguar games.  While the phone pad and overlays represented an interesting throwback to the button arrangement of consoles like the Intellivision and Colecovision, it was also aesthetically unpleasant, distracting, and relatively impractical.  The last part was evidenced by the sheer number of Jaguar games that barely utilized this part of the controller.  Did Tempest 2000, for example, really need twelve additional buttons?

We've learned now from Sony's Playstation and Nintendo's DS and Wii that a system's controllers should be designed around its preeminent first-party software.  Sony's shoulder-buttoned and, later, dual-sticked Playstation controllers functioned perfectly for movement in the kinds of 3D environments its PSOne was pushing (e.g., Jumping Flash, Warhawk, and Ace Combat).  The Wii's wiimote and nunchuck don't work perfectly for every game type, but they work for the games that best demonstrate the system's design sensibilities.  By comparison, the Jaguar's controller worked for... nothing.  A cute yet completely extraneous anachronism.

Thus, the Jaguar controller itself is a bridge between gaming past and history.  It borrowed novel ideas from both successful and bizarre design antecedents, blended them together in a controller as comfortable as it was unappealing, and continues to serve as one of gaming's most unfortunate symbols of form over function.  (Take note, PSP Go!)

The Add-Ons


As represented by its complicated controller, Atari's Jaguar was a vehicle for a company trying to do too much.  Instead of focusing on quality control for its games, pushing design teams to meet release dates, and proper advertising, the Tramiel family focused it attention on bridging gaps with future technologies.  The most famous of these were the Jaguar CD add-on, released far too late in the system's brief stay on the market, and the proposed $250 VR helmet.

The CD add-on, of course, was far less risky than the VR helmet, but that didn't make it any better a strategic decision for an already obscure console.  While the system was always designed with the CD expansion in mind (represented by the grooves in the middle of the console itself), the fact that the CD player was not present at launch, added little in terms of gameplay advancement, was far too expensive at $150 (over the already inflated launch price of $250), made the system look bulky, and had very little in the way of software support, all contributed to the appearance of the Jaguar CD as an excessive afterthought.  By the time the CD player arrived in 1995, the Jaguar was on its last legs, and an expensive piece of technology didn't help matters at all.

I'm sure trying to tap into the early '90s fascination with CD-based technology seemed like a safe bet to the Tramiels.  After all, computer CD games and the Sega CD had already paved the way into the gaming mainstream.  Competitors 3DO and CD-I both made the technology readily available in their products (albeit at a much higher price).  Even Nintendo looked eager to introduce CD technology into its home console market, partnering with Sony on a SNES CD add-on project prior to a breakup that would result in the Playstation a few years later.  CD was all the rage.

Unfortunately, at the time, CD just wasn't the right decision.  Despite widespread marketing, Sega's CD unit sold very few units relative to the installed base of the Genesis console.  Nintendo decided not to go with an add-on, instead focusing on upping the size of its SNES cartridges and pushing 16-bit to its limits (the products of which were the highly successful Star Fox polygonal game and CGI-based Donkey Kong Country).  Plus, Atari simply did not have the manufacturing know-how of a Sony, whose Playstation would be the first truly successful introduction to CD-based console gaming.

Even worse was the idea of an extremely complex, motion-tracking VR headset, much publicized at trade shows but which never surfaced save for incomplete prototypes.  Again, the idea itself was novel--in the same way Sega's ill-fated hologram arcade titles seemed novel--but the demand for VR technology wasn't strong enough to account for Atari's research and development focus.

Atari's doomed love affair with relatively high-tech upgrades should have signaled to all companies then and there that risky moves rarely pay off.  Still, game companies continued to introduce all sorts of wacky and unnecessary add-ons and gimmicks to the market.  Sega's 32X add-on for the Genesis was a tragedy of brand mismanagement and stillborn technology.  Nintendo's Virtual Boy was an overpriced and headache-inducing experiment in 3D monochrome graphics.  NeoGeo experimented with the release of two CD versions of its console (in single-speed and double-speed drive forms) so as to push its exorbitant software prices down.  Microsoft made a deal with Toshiba to introduce the now-defunct HD-DVD technology to the gaming market in the form of an expensive add-on drive.  And so on.

Sometimes, almost by serendipity, these experiments turn out well.  Most recently, perhaps motivated by the enormous success of the DS's stylus-based controls, Nintendo has made a hit out of its Wii's motion controls, combining inexpensive gyroscopic technology with an inclusive, family-friendly design concept.  If the price for the Wii hadn't been just right, it's a technological experiment that could have just as well ended up in a heap next to the unappreciated Gamecube.

Nevertheless, Atari's Jaguar serves as a reminder that while safe bets don't always break the bank, they rarely break a company.  In the case of Atari, unnecessary risks in technology resulted in an inattention to key problems the company had suffered since the decline of the 2600.

Bits, Bytes, Whatever

The Jaguar's infamous claim to 64-bits worth of processing power is not only laughable; it's perhaps the key reason why we no longer care about "bits" or even the necessity of power in modern gaming.

Whereas the previous 16-bit generation had built its success upon rival claims to hardware power--illusory "blast processing" on the side of Sega and true hardware superiority on the side of Nintendo--and seemingly arbitrary boasts of large cartridge sizes (16mb, 32mb, or even whopping sizes in the hundreds of mbs in the case of NeoGeo games), the Jaguar helped to usher in an era of processing irrelevance.

No one cared that the Jaguar had 64-bits of processing power (which it didn't; it used two 32-bit RISC processors, codenamed "Tom" and "Jerry," concurrently and arguably delivered 64-bits worth of graphics processing), just as no one cared about the 3DO's then-mindblowing 32-bit power or the CD-I's crystal clear delivery of full motion video.

Why?  Because 1.) these systems were priced so highly that no one could afford them, and 2.) they simply didn't have the gameplay or exclusive licenses to back up the technological claims.  True, the Jaguar featured one of the best and most technologically proficient ports of Doom at the time, but by the time Doom arrived on the Jaguar, it had already run its course of fame and media obsession on the PC, long before PC-centric gamers began to move to consoles.

Unlike the 3DO and CD-I, however, the Jaguar emphasized its processing power in every way it could.  Atari commercials asked gamers to "Do the Math," comparing the 16-bit processors of the SNES and Genesis with the Jaguar's supposedly mighty hardware.  Once again, Atari put all the emphasis on all the wrong things, and the gaming market's mass rejection of Atari's claims would serve as a harbinger for console wars to come.

Nintendo's N64 marked the last system to make explicit reference to the number of "bits" powering a console, and no evidence shows that the "64" moniker resulted in any distinct preference for Nintendo's cartridge-based system over Sony's 32-bit Playstation, a console that outsold the N64 over 3:1.

But Nintendo learned its lesson.  Today, a relatively underpowered Wii handily outsells Xbox 360 and Playstaiton 3 hardware.  Nintendo's DS stomps the PSP in sales 2:1.  When it comes to processing power, David steadily trumps Goliath in 2009... because David tends to be more affordable and better marketed.

Pre-Xbox: The Death of the American Game Console

Even though America is the originator of Computer Space and Pong, and game companies regularly look to Europe and America for their most profitable sales territories, game players and critics alike have a tendency to look to Japan when discussing the roots of modern gaming.

And rightfully so.  While the Atari 2600 was the first truly successful home console, it was Japanese companies Nintendo and Sega who revolutionized the business, introducing new technology, game genres, and some of gaming's most hallowed and venerable properties--including Mario, Sonic, Donkey Kong, and Tetris--to households the world over.  America invented the RPG; Japan made it a viable game category.  America started the arcade and multiplayer crazes; Japan turned gaming into an entire way of life.

So I look back on the death of the Jaguar with a bit of sadness, not just because it represented the death of an American icon, Atari, but because Atari itself represented America's last best chance to be relevant in the video game market.  After all, the Jaguar and Lynx featured mostly Western-designed first and third party games from primarily American publishers.  Art styles and gameplay types, while often off-kilter (anyone remember Kung Food on the Lynx?  Ultra Vortek on the Jaguar?), stood apart from their Japanese counterparts in a way that made one feel like there was still such a thing as an American influence in gaming outside of the PC market.

Today, Microsoft represents the major American presence in gaming, yet it's hardly the same.  Game development and publishing has become such a global, ubiquitous enterprise--and Microsoft itself is such a globally diversified force--that you can hardly call the Xbox 360 and its products the mark of a distinctly American viewpoint.  It all meshes together... Halo reflects the American tradition of first-person shooters, yes, but the 360 equally relies on Japanese-style platformers, European role-playing games like Fable, and third party titles like Ninja Gaiden II, Resident Evil 5, Dead Rising, and Soul Calibur IV.

If Atari had gone on to survive as a hardware designer, who knows what different sorts of art styles and design viewpoints we would have inherited prior to the true globalizing of the video game?

Of course, such sentiment runs the risk of coming off as too nationalistic or myopic.  Let me be clear, however:  I am all for multiculturalism and thinking outside one's cultural box.  I certainly enjoy the current state of the video game.  I simply wonder what kind of intra-cultural sensibilities we have lost along the way.

And... there's nothing wrong with a smidgen of home-team pride.

Going to Pasture in the Most Unpleasant Way Imaginable

The death of Atari and its Jaguar console was unbearable to watch.  In its final days, the only mention of the Jaguar was made on late-night television infomercials about as silly and repellent as the console they advertised.  Atari knew it was doomed, and the Tramiels spared no dignity in the fire sale of what remained.

(Photo of the Atari Jaguar infomercial... is that the Bat Cave?)

By comparison, Nokia re-strategized (and continues to strategize) its place in a cell phone market that now includes the iPhone.  Sega faded away into a smaller role as concentrated software developer (of Sonic titles for the most part) and outstanding publisher along with partner Sammy.  SNK, which failed in the home market with its overpriced cartridge-based NeoGeo console, poorly made CD spin-off, and undervalued portable console, relied on its expertise in Japanese arcades to remain a player in the game development and publishing markets.

All three companies continue to hit bumps in the road, and none of them faces the extraordinary collapse suffered by Atari before merging with JTS, Time Warner, and becoming part of Hasbro (a long line of mergers and sales moves that have resulted in the current Atari publisher, a combination of former GT Interactive and Infogrames entities).  Still, the Tramiels had millions of dollars to spare before they wisely fled the game market, and the Atari property which so many had fondly remembered from the consoles of the previous two decades deserved much better.

Sony, Microsoft, and Nintendo all appear to be on relatively firm footing.  Apple's iPhone continues to be a successful hybrid communications/entertainment tool with over 40 million units sold.  However, I'd like to think that if a smaller company looked to stake out territory in the extremely competitive and economically shaky gaming market and did not succeed--which is remarkably likely given the forthcoming launches of unproven Otoy, OnLive, and Gakai streaming game "consoles" and lines of PC software--they'd take a stark lesson from the Jaguar's more respectable successors and learn to either quickly improvise or die with dignity.

The reason?  Because I'm all in the interest of competition, and I'm not so sure that Nintendo, Apple, Sony, and Microsoft have all the answers where hardware is concerned.  After all, SNK's Neo Geo Pocket Color was a remarkably graceful little system, featuring the absolute best joystick control I've ever experienced.  The Dreamcast had some truly unique ideas, such as the VMU, that I'd like to see re-attempted.  But if more companies go the way of Atari and its Jaguar, the video game market, tumultuous as it is in this economy, will become less of a dream for burgeoning business and more of a horror story.  Strange as it may sound, dying with dignity is an important part of the business process:  It signals financial ruin, true, but it also represents the possibility of corporate rebirth and learning from one's mistakes.  It leaves the door open for others to succeed where you have failed.

And in an extremely ironic way, Atari didn't leave the door open... but its Jaguar, a striking juxtaposition of ideas both terrific and terrifying, continues to pry that business door open a little... if only by showing precisely what NOT to do.

Is the Game of the Year Played with Only One Button?

(Image courtesy Kotaku.com)

It took Adam Saltsman five days to make the new freeware game Canabalt.  Like so many Flash freeware titles, the game is played entirely in your browser.  Its visuals consist of only six colors.  It is played with only one button.

It also might be the best game released this year.

How can I assert something so ridiculous in a year that has already seen the likes of Infamous and Batman: Arkham Asylum, with blockbuster titles Uncharted 2 and Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2 just around the corner?  How can a tiny freeware browser game compete with the likes of these multi-million dollar budgeted, triple-A console games?

Because I have never seen a concept so richly and successfully realized in such a simple yet stunningly complete form.

Evocative of the best moments of Sonic the Hedgehog, Out of this World, and even Mirror's Edge, Canabalt is by all means a tremendous success of gameplay and concept over complexity and density.

The goal is utterly straightforward: use the X or C key to jump over items and across gaps while escaping from a city under siege.  To my knowledge, there is no end-point to this escape: It's one of those addictive browser titles whereby players compete for bragging rights.  In this case, it's the amount of digital terrain you can cross before plummeting to your doom or unwittingly detonating a bomb.

The graphics are the very essence of the dystopian sublime: a dark palette that bathes the digital canvas in fluid silhouttes and contrasting whites.  Invaders stalk in the background, startled birds fly off in the foreground.  The gamescape is industrial, alien... Sierra's comical Manhunt EGA adventures infused with touches of Virgin's Beneath a Steel Sky and Spielberg's War of the Worlds.

From a design perspective, Canabalt is a very simple experiment, a "what if" scenario that posits maximum simplicity and asks the game's atmosphere and sole game mechanic to do the legwork. 

But from an experiential perspective, it is much more.  Out of single button presses and randomly generated environments comes a blistering, addictive ode to the futility of escape when circumstances are unknown.  The context could have just as easily been running away from a tornado or the dropping of Russia's nuclear arsenal.  Whatever happens is frantic and bleak, and you are destined (and compelled) to repeat it.  The threat that looms in the background is unsubstantial in terms of game mechanics but all-important in terms of atmosphere and emotion, another note in the game's admirably simplistic techno score.

And it is this stellar combination of pulse-quickening atmosphere, dread, and almost transcendental simplicity that makes Canabalt a formidable contender for indie hit of the year, if not best downright gameplay experience.  Larger, more complex games aim for occasionally memorable setpieces, snapshots of the kind of suspense and cathartic "giving into the doom" that Canabalt evinces in mere seconds of gameplay.  But Canabalt does not ask the player to think past the basic human confusion associated with large-scale cataclysm.  It does not ask the player to resolve this scenario.  It asks the player to run away when running is not an option.

The game is dystopia itself.  And the player, taken as a human being, is asked to do what any person would do--spit in the face of logic and inevitability for the sake of the experience, the moment, the promise of going even one step farther.  And that one button press... well, that's your core survival instinct, your willpower being pressed.

Am I reading too much into this marvelously minimalist game?  I'm sure Saltsman himself would think so.  But that's the wonderful thing about being a gamer:  I get to take joy from the unintentional.  In the grand scheme of things, I will have spent only minutes with Canabalt... but I can see it in my mind so clearly, and I can feel it so thoroughly in the antsiness of my finger on the keyboard.  Most small games like this represent the Cliff's Notes of a more complex experience, and it is true that scenarios such as that depicted in Canabalt can just as easily be found in other, more "polished" games.

Detached from context, however, Canabalt represents the power and potential of small independent games: to evoke an emotion and state of mind so completely that it is less snack, more meal.

You can't outrun destiny.  But boy, you can have fun trying.

The Shadow Complex Debate: I Might as Well Weigh In, Too

I'm late to the party, I know.

Ever since GayGamer took up the issue and Christopher Nutt posted his brilliant article on Gamasutra, there has been much ado about the XBLA game Shadow Complex.  If you somehow have no idea what I'm talking about, Trent Polack summarizes nicely here.

Polack's piece about Shadow Complex, which I happen to think is an absolutely superb game, is actually quite breathtaking in and of itself.  Consider it required reading.  He discusses Card and the reaction thereto, but also takes up SC writer Peter David's problematic response to the controversy:

[Paraphrasing David:] In the end, a gamer shouldn’t care about things like civil rights, gay marriage, bigotry, or any thing like that. Peter David is here to say that there is only one thing that gamers should care about: is this game fun and exciting? After all, nothing matters more in a video game than fun.

All of the work put into the effort of discussing the charged meaning of Orson Scott Card’s involvement from GayGamer’s Dawdle and Gamasutra’s Christian Nutt appears to be lost in less than a paragraph. When even one of the game’s creative developer’s reflexively boils down the simplicity of Shadow Complex into mere “excitement” and “fun factor,” does the potential thematic meaning and political overtones of Shadow Complex even matter? Given David’s attitude, are any gamers even left wondering if this person could have consciously infused his world with the meaning that the game’s audience have been discussing intelligently (and the game’s universe, which was created by Orson Scott Card)?

Polack goes on to conclude:

Regardless of how it all played out, what matters is that Shadow Complex didn’t slip onto Xbox 360s everywhere without so much a whisper. Regardless of what the Peter Davids of the world say, it’s not just a game. It’s what you take from it.

Beautifully stated; I could not have said it (or imagined it) any better myself.  Polack emphasizes the complexity of this debate as the main point to take away, not the dichotomy seemingly represented therein.  The point, it seems, is that there IS something to take away from the game, both in terms of the gameplay and in terms of the controversy surrounding it.  Taking the issue as black or white adds nothing to the dialogue.

In his comments section, Polack reiterates:

Yes, I quite like Chair and have a lot of respect for their work. My issue, and I think I failed to represent this in this piece [he didn't], was of Orson Scott Card's general view on homosexuality, Peter David's absurd definition of intolerance, and how dismissive David was of what gaming is and can be.

I'm still going to be buying Shadow Complex, for instance, because it looks like a great game, but I don't have to silently tolerate Orson Scott Card or Peter David in doing so.

Again, said beautifully.  My response follows, and it's largely supportive of Polack and Nutt's position:

Which is a good thing, because it's a remarkable game and deserves to be experienced by everyone... all races, sexual preferences, genders, and religions included.

When I tell people that Wagner is my favorite composer, they often look at me in surprise. "Aren't you Jewish?" Yes. "Well doesn't his antisemitism bother you?"

Of course it does. But a person is a very complex and multifaceted thing. A coward can be brave. A tyrant can be noble. A genius can be idiotic.

Just as Martin Luther was a raging antisemite and still showed bravery in his role in the Reformation, Wagner managed to make beautiful music from a heart that was largely imperfect and maligned.

If the ideas underlying Shadow Complex, too, come from a heart that is maligned, then I will enjoy the game in spite of that fact... not because of it, not in ignorance of it. In spite of it.

I'm glad others have taken it upon themselves to elevate this controversy, showing a light upon Card's more nefarious side. Additional debate is always a good thing. I, for one, had no idea about Card's homophobia prior to this debate. And I like to be informed.

But I also like to be entertained. Just as the information about Card allows me to grow as a participant in the public dialogue about gay rights, the experience of Shadow Complex allows me to grow as a thinking, experienced participant in gameplay and the larger context of gaming.

Would I enjoy Shadow Complex as much if it were filled with homophobic venom (and it isn't)? Probably not. But I would still be willing to experience it, to sit with it and listen to what the designers, or in this hypothetical case, Card, has to say. I may not agree with or support the end-result. But my money is not always a vote of confidence.

Sometimes it simply represents my entry into the dialogue.

Beyond Designed Ethics: Can a Game Truly Subvert Itself?

The film Wargames has aged a bit, perhaps coming off as cheesy allegorical fare to today's youth, but for those of us who saw the film during the late Cold War era, it still stands as a poignant reminder of the plausible dread of annihilation underlying the international nuclear arsenal.  Most will remember the film's conclusion (shown above), in which the artificial intelligence of the U.S.'s defense computer determines that in an all-out nuclear war there exist no winners.

Perhaps most interesting about this scenario is the idea of a game that plays itself to arrive at this logical conclusion... a situation that in and of itself is not pre-programmed, but subverts its original intention: to find a clear-cut winner.  The initial intention is unapologetically immoral; it removes the human element that defines gamesmanship as not simply "winning," but prevailing, surviving.  The game's subversion of itself (played via a simple series of tic-tac-toe games, of all things), on the other hand, is the very definition of moral--looking beyond the designed dichotomy of success and loss to arrive at a conclusion that steps outside the game's rule system, moving towards the complex, the human.

I mentioned Miguel Sicart's The Ethics of Computer Games a few posts back.  One thing I didn't really touch upon was Sicart's suggestion that a game that truly subverts its own seemingly immoral design may cause an "ethical" player to stop playing it.  The example Sicart provides is the game September 12th, in which bombing terrorists (and thereby killing the civilians surrounding them) invariably generates more and more terrorism.  It is an unwinnable game, and just as with the aforementioned nuclear simulator in Wargames, the ethical player determines that the best course of action is not to play.

It is a powerful statement for a game to make, and I am not one to disparage the fine work exhibited by September 12th.  However, I wonder if simply not playing is the only conclusion such a game can elicit.

After all, what does the decision to not play imply?  In the context of war, it wisely asserts that war is itself a largely fruitless enterprise, particularly against an unknowable enemy.  But in the larger context of interaction, not playing also represents passiveness and dropping out of the dialogue.  In the same sense that a game like September 12th argues for thoughtful international diplomacy, it also subtly (and almost paradoxically) argues against its own existence as a cultural artifact, as if a player is wasting his/her time experiencing it.

The problem, however, lies in the role of the game itself:  As a designed system of rules, the game and its designers have no option but to leave the end action (or in this case, inaction) to the player.  If the game were to somehow "arrive" at the conclusion that its own existence is counterinuitive in the form of narrative plot or a pre-determined message to the player, it would seem didactic, like a preprogrammed after-school special.  After all, the magic of Wargames isn't that the A.I. knew all along that it was participating in an unwinnable game; rather, that it (and by extension, the humans around it) came to this conlusion only with the help of an ethical player's input.

And so, I come back to the question, Is the only plausible subversion of this kind of game that the player simply doesn't play?

I've been pondering this for a few weeks, and I have yet to arrive at a truly clear answer, but I did conduct a kind of thought-experiment that provides a different option:

Imagine a game such as September 12th that does not explicitly ask the player to subvert it (because, again, doing so would suggest that the game is "in on it," and would thus come off as didactic), but instead leaves room for player subversion, or suggests a system by which the player can subvert it.

Again, this system of subversion cannot exist within the game proper, because that would ruin the illusion.  The game can also not be "designed" to come to a conclusion other than that which is its original intention; an ever-adapting and learning A.I. such as the kind shown in Wargames does not yet exist in the modern video game (much less in a low-budget independent title).

What if, however, the player was given options that existed outside the context of gameplay?  For example, what if the game's paratext (e.g., a "console" or debug bar such as that used in FPS shooters since Wolfenstein) allowed for simple code manipulation or a "hacking" interface in which players could replace bombs with words, or images of terrorists with those of US soldiers dying (suggesting one sad effect based on the action of creating additional terrorism).  The game would be designed in such a way that it recognizes this "hacking" (in much the same way that Scribblenauts recognizes a large variety of words that can be turned into images) but does not outrightly suggest it.

Or what about a game that is used primarily to spawn "real-life" or "alternate-reality" subversive gameplay?  What about a game in which the only way to come to an ethical conclusion is to turn to real-life email and social networking, acting against the "intention" of the gameplay rules, rather than to stop playing altogether.  Real-life responses sent to the game designers would then be somehow rewarded outside of the game space, thereby creating an ethical meta-game in which the original, unethical game exists.

These are just two hypothetical examples and are by no means fleshed out.  My only point here is that there are other ways to get the point across than to either tell the player straightforwardly (which can be jarring or preachy) or suggest that they turn off the game.

When all is said and done, don't we want a society of empowered, thoughtful social critics, not frustrated gamers whose answer is to always drop out or not participate?  Our sometimes reckless military complex poses very real problems--problems that will not be answered simply by acknowledging them and then moving on, nor by subverting in likewise problematic or unproductive ways.  The key, as in Wargames, is to learn about our limits as humans, to anticipate those limits by acting and complicating norms... as long as we act rightly.