Boktai Review: Fools and Stupids See the Light

Today marks the beginning of R&R week: Review & Repair. On the agenda I have Boktai, Bionic Commando Rearmed, Everyday Shooter, Sonic (2D platformers), and if I'm lucky Braid and Super Princess Peach.

Since last November when I started the Critical-Gaming blog, I've critiqued other reviews, developed a body of language to communicate the intricate inter workings video games, and written a few reviews to demonstrate.

Now that the foundation has been set, I can exercise a bit more creative writing liberty. After all, creative writing is my specialty. Using this new style, each review will be focused in a way that communicates the various elements of design along with my personal experience/thoughts of the game. Here's the catch. The style and themes that I choose to structure the review will also reflect the mechanics, functions, ideas, and/or themes of the game in some way. Sound intense? Don't worry. Just sit back and read carefully and lightly. If you're lost, by the end I'm sure you'll come out of the darkness.

Fools and Stupids See the Light

STORY

It wasn't until about the end of the game when I realized what was going on. Boktai is a game that's shrouded in twisted mystery. I remember beginning my adventure on Earth, yet for the past few hours, I've been in running around aboard a mauve space station silently orbiting my home. I recalled how quickly and unknowingly I made the jump from my simple, home grown, earthly ambitions to lifelessly floating out in space just going through the motions fighting any manner of man, beast, or undead that I can shove into a coffin, pile up, and drive to victory. The funny part of it all isn't how my evil twin brother who descends from a source that's not exactly my mother has been stringing me along "using" me to defeat his enemies so he can free him self from the Moon Queen's control only to later join my side in defeating her. The funny part is, I saw it all coming.


Kojima isn't much of a story teller. By ignoring one of the most effective tenets of written story telling "show don't tell" and relying on unnatural dialog to communicate the overly complex, muddled mush of a story line to the player, Kojima has casted yet another opportunity for a true spark of ingenuity into the forever depths of obscurity and the forgotten.


PUZZLES

In the grand scheme of Boktai puzzles, there are only a handful that cleverly utilize the manipulation of light and shade as the pivotal element. There may be even less that use the real time clock creatively. When playing such puzzles, I held a glimmer of hope for the rest of the game. If half the puzzles in Boktai used light and time instead of just the few, I would have more glowing remarks to give. Unfortunately, most of the puzzles are rustic push block/switch puzzles. As annoying as these puzzles are, there are a few that have nothing to do with the world of Boktai at all.

Like a nightmare, imagine stepping into a room only to have the door slam shut behind you. Though not a word is uttered, you can't help but think that you're in a "trap." In front of you is a math problem the likes of which you haven't seen in many years. Numbers, different operators, and equal signs are strewn about set up in such a way that beckons your assistance. All of a sudden, you're in school again trying to finishing a math test. Your heart sinks. You were just enjoying recess and now you're stuck with a math problem you can't solve. When you go up to the teacher for assistnace she subtly hints that you're looking at the problem wrong. And after a few more tries fiddling with it, you ask again. This time, you're told you're "stupid." This is what some of the puzzles in Boktai are like right down to being called stupid.

Perhaps what's worse of all about the puzzle design is, unlike Zelda/Mario/Metroid/Pokemon and just about any game that takes its design seriously, you can easily trap yourself trying to solve a puzzle in Boktai. Not to worry. Since the beginning of the game, players are supplied with a "Fool's card" that resets any room that a player may be stuck in. This deconstructive little card not only breaks the organic flow of the game, but the function of the card doubles as a "get out of jail (danger) free card." Instead of designing a tighter game, Konami took the easy way out.


THE MENU

It wouldn't be a Kojima game if there wasn't a heavy use of the game menu that borders on abuse. The menu in Boktai is used to customize the solar gun, examine the map, or use an item. With every use of the menu, the game is paused putting abrupt breaks in the flow of the gameplay. If you're about to die, just hit pause and gobble down as much life/solar energy restoring fruit as you want. With so many healing items and such an effective healing method, the gameplay can easily deconstruct into repeated reckless attacks and menu based healing. Such a strategy is functionally analogous to the attack-attack-heal strategy in many RPGs. Needless to say, by attack-attack-healing, the gameplay doesn't become more engaging. In fact, the menu system in Boktai is reductive and seeks to deconstruct the core design. The silver lining with all of this menu abuse is it's all optional.


ACTION COMBAT

MOVE. SHOOT. FLATTEN. TAP. Boktai contains all the mechanics of an stealth/shooting game. Fortunately, it does a few things correctly. Not being able to move and shoot focuses the action so that it can exist in a smaller space, which is ideal for the GBA screen size. Also, players can only fire in 8 directions, which requires more careful aim when hitting far away targets. The long range shots are the least effective at killing while the close range spread deals the most damage. Having to move in close to enemies to effectively kill them in a shooting game increases the tension of combat. When all of these design elements come together, the combat reminded me of fighting in a top down Zelda game like A Link to the Past.


Botkai was hatched from Kojima's mind and brought to life under his heated gaze. In true Metal Gear fashion, players don't have to kill any of the enemies. From the game's outset, I was cautioned against "unnecessary killing." By TAPing to creating distractions, FLATTENing to silence my footsteps and to squeeze around enemies, and by SHOOTing my foes in the back I had all the abilities I needed to stun and stealth my way through the game without taking a life. The problem is, this isn't Metal Gear, and I'm not pitted against other humans. I'm fighting the undead, which puts the whole "killing" concept in a dimly lit gray area. It also doesn’t help that most of the enemies in the game are "immortals" that regenerate after being "killed."

I realized at some point, that stealthing around isn't engaging enough to hold my attention for the duration of the game. When trying to play "Kojima's way," I have to do a lot of searching the area using the LOOK mechanic, a lot of waiting for enemies to turn their backs, a lot of wall TAPing to create distractions, and a lot of avoiding engagement. Doing this opens of the game to redundancy and static space. It would be different using such stealth tactics was the best way avoid taking damage, to conserve solar energy, or even to access special areas. But, the way Boktai is designed, conserving recourses isn't vital because there's no problem a few items can't fix, and there are no areas that require stealth to access. In the end, using stealth is simply the slow way to play Boktai.


LEVEL DESIGN

The overworld in Boktai must be some kind of joke or failed attempt at a Zelda like overworld. Not only is there nothing to do of consequence on the overworld except walk in an almost straight line to the next dungeon or mini dungeon, but the different areas are abruptly patched together like a quilt instead of organically blending form one to another. One moment, I'm standing in a graveyard. The next step, I'm in a forest.

What's worse is the whole game is designed as if it has been cut out of a mold using a large isometric chisel. Though the blocky look and feel works for some of the buildings, the style all becomes stale in how it limits how the player's possible paths through the level and how forced and inorganic it feels. Without strong organic themes and ideas to govern the construction of each level, every room feels artificial and disconnected from each other. Even in the fire dungeon where the player manipulates switches to raise and lower the magma level much in the same way link does in the various Zelda water temples/dungeons, it is not apparent how the magma changes with each adjustment. Instead of trying thinking about each room as a part of a whole, I stuck to a simple strategy. Just keep going forward and don't get distracted. The game is linear even when it doesn't look like it.

There is only one aspect of Boktai's level design that is worthy of accolades: The folded and refolded level design. In each of the game's main dungeons, players delve deeper into each location overcoming obstacles, enemies, and traps to reach the boss. Players then Battle the boss (the crease). While dragging the boss inside his/her coffin back through the level, the player is mindful of the factors: the coffin randomly shaking itself free from your grip, slower character movement, the ability to use the coffin as a weight for switches, and how enemies will notice the coffin and help it escape. Once players take the coffin back to the beginning of the level another battle with the boss takes place in a special ritual. The sequence up to this point completes the folded design.

As an interesting addition, if during the course of the ritual the boss breaks free and escapes, it'll make its way back through the dungeon forcing players to scramble back through the level to recapture it and continue the process. This feature creates the possible refolds.

Over all, the folded design in Boktai is very unique and well executed. There are just a few things that I did not like about it. Unfortunately, as the coffins inch their way to freedom, once they slip through a door way, their position becomes difficult to track. Even if you pursue a runaway coffin right as it moves through a door, on the other side, the coffin is no where to be found. In fact, the coffin somehow manages to move through several rooms in the blink of an eye. It's too bad that the game couldn't design this feature more organically using the game's established rules and mechanics.


ENEMY DESIGN

The enemies in Boktai are creative each filling a specific and unique design space. Crows fly around and swoop in to pester the player. Spiders bunch up, spin sticky web traps, and spit. Gouls patrol around and launch attacks on the player. Golems are powerful stone creatures that roll after the player at high speeds. And the list goes on. What I found to be the most interesting part of the enemy design in Boktai, is the interplay that exists between the player and the enemies. By manipulating the environment, the player can turn enemy attacks against themselves. The fast rolling Golem in pursuit of the player will smash and kill any Goul in its path. The Kraken can be tricked into using its tentacle to snatched up another enemy instead. Mummies, when set on fire, can set other mummies on fire as they run around frantically. It's this kind of attention to detail that I feel is too obscure in Kojima's other games, but perfectly tuned in Boktai.


THE GIMMICK

So what is this game? From the look of things, Boktai is a game with a poor, convoluted story, lack luster puzzles, and undynamic mechanics with a level design that is composed of parts that are either hit or miss. If this accurately described the game I would have put it away long ago never to have finished. Fortunately, the best part of Boktai, the part the goes beyond the folded level design and the Classically correct enemy design, is the game's primary function: the sun that is in my hand.

I saved the best for last because it's important to understand how much influence a unique and well integrated primary mechanic is to a game as a whole. If you don't know already, Boktai is a GBA game that has a solar sensor built into the cartridge. Artificial light won't do the trick. In order to get the full Boktai experience, sunlight is required.

Because Boktai is a GBA game, the entire gaming experience is automatically portable. Play it inside, outside, and everywhere in between. Do whatever it takes so that the sun can power up the game. To use the sunlight players have to adjust the angle of the handheld so that the suns light hits the sensor directly. When battling the forces of darkness every photon of light counts. In my experience with the game, because I frequently moved from location to location, manipulating the angle of my DS to catch the sunlight turned my handheld into a 3D gaming controller that respond to real world conditions in 3D space. Using the handheld in this way is something that I've seen in few places.

To power the Gun De Sol, the main defensive and offesive weapon, players can absorb the light of day. Though the game provides many ways to obtain this solar energy in the absense of real sunlight, this section is focused on how the primary mechanic USE SUNLIGHT is used throughout the game. When the player is in an outdoor environement in the game world, the game world transmits the sunlight hitting the sensor so players are free to absorb and use the light infinitly. As we all know, vampires and the undead detest sunlgiht. So in Boktai, all of the bosses and enemies dwell in buildings or areas where the sunlight is blocked. Players must charge their solar batteries outside of these locations and conserse it once inside.

Depending on whether sunlight is shining on the solar sensor, invisible paths become visible, light shines through windows, solar winds increase, and specific areas will be illuminated. The environmental conditions also change depending on the time of day according to the game's internal clock. At sun down when real sunlight isn't available, hidden crystal like "solar bamboo shoots" twinkle in the moon light.

Even this core sunlight driven mechanic isn't without balance. To appreciate light, one must experience darkness or, in this case, shade. Playing out in the sunlight for too long will cause the Gun De Sol to begin to overheat. To remedy the situation, players must find some shade to play in. If the gun fully overheats, it won't be availablefor use until the next sun rise (also according to the internal clock). This feature tops the dynamic decay system of Boktai's solar gameplay.

In the outdoor environments in the game world, players are free to use their solar energy and refill their supplies infinitely as long as they're playing in sunlight. Generally, to progress through the game players must encounter the undead enemies in covered/indoor areas. Once out of the sunlight in the game world, players must conserve their energy as every shot drains their supply. This completes the first organic cycle between sunlight, the environment, and ammunition. And the player moves through different game environments, the solar ammo will decay with use and be refilled according to the location.

Regardless of what's happening in the game world, if the game is exposed to the sun for too long the gun will overheat. This decay cycle is partially independent of the first cycle. And when the sun sets in real life, both decay cycles are replaced with another organic decay cycle that resets with the dawn of the next day. In the end, no matter how you play Boktai, you're always a part of some kind of organic decay cycle that revolves around the sun. This means even when you're not playing you're still playing in a way.

Several reviewers criticized Boktai's dependence on real sunlight despite all the solar energy alternatives provided in the game. Complacent in how they play videogames, such reviewers thought it was inappropriate that they couldn't play Boktai any way they wanted and at any time. This is precisely why I enjoyed Boktai as much as I did. From gradually losing daylight and offensive power, to coordinating my attacks with cloud cover, to rainy day steak outs, I had to seize the day whenever I got the chance. Similar to how WiiFit raises awareness of one's physical body, playing Boktai made me more aware of the day and sunlight. In the age we live in, artificial light is everywhere. Having to work around less predictable and convenient light source made me tune into nature or at least it reminded me of how dependant and powerless life is without the sun.

And on top of all this, playing in real sunlight or in the shade is an organic way for players to control their own difficulty. During the day, I could harness the limitless power of the sun. By nightfall I had a choice to make. I could either turn the game off and wait until tomorrow to play, or I could tough it out with an ever draining supply of energy in my battery reserves.

CONCLUSION

If you don't fully embrace the light, then there's no point in playing Boktai. It's all about the solar sensor. When nearly every other element of the game is average or below average, the interaction with the sun highlights the game's more positive design elements well. Though the majority of the game leaves much to be desired, at least the sun is there with you the whole way. It's too bad some reviewers couldn't see the truth. It's also too bad that Konami didn't either. All the items, most of the puzzles, many of the dungeons, and most of the story could be completely thrown away to leave a purer, better designed product. It's a little pretentious of the developers to call me "stupid" for not wanting to solve yet another one of their dull push block puzzles, or calling me a "fool" for trapping myself inside of one of their poorly designed puzzles. If only Kojima knew what potential he had in his hands, he might have made a cleaner game.



In the end, all I wanted to do was hold the "sun in my hand," and I got a chance to with this extremely unique game. It's too bad I had to wade through some redundant mediocrity to get there. At least thinking back on the whole experience, my memories are bright.

"I": Videogame's Greatest Character

I have always felt that the best videogame stories/narrative experiences are the ones that the player contributes to in a meaningful way. In this case, meaningful means through the primary mechanic of the game. What the player does between the beginning and the end of a level (or even between cutscenes) isn't filler set aside from the story. What the player plays is the story, or at least a very important part of it.

I've come up with little test you can give to anyone to determine if the game controlled the story or if the player contributed to it. Ask someone to tell you what happened in any game they recently played. As they describe the events to you, be mindful of the language they use. If their retelling is composed of sentences that begin with "I" then they are relating the events of a journey they had control over. If the sentences between with names like "Snake," "Cloud," or "Charizard" then the teller is acknowledging that there are parts of the game they felt that they had no control over.

Because videogames are an interactive medium, I greatly favor the story of "I" over the story of "insert main character here." I want to know how the player interacted with the world, characters, and story. I'm interested in how the player changes the game and how the game changes the player. When the player is merely a static liaison between cut scenes, or a silent chauffeur obediently carting the characters along until their next esoteric conversation, how can we continue to hold these games up as the best examples of videogame storytelling?

When I recount play sessions with Super Mario Brothers, I use "I" to describe all of Mario's actions. I do this because in this game, Mario does very little on his own. I grabbed the powerup. I squashed the goomba. I saved the princess. When such a close connection between myself and the story/ actions in the game exists, personal feelings and thoughts are that much easier to interject. When I tell stories about playing Super Mario Brothers, I talk about how I had to size-up the Hammer Bros by walking right up in their face. I talk about staring down Bowser tense with anticipation as he stands in between me and victory. I talk about how comboing jumps off the backs of Koopas and Goombas while moving as quickly as possible through a level feels like flying. I talk about how the level tried to trick me by putting a hidden item box right where I was trying to make a tricky jump. The conversation between me and the game that makes up my play experience is really a conversation with myself.

If videogames are to continue to be mediums of self expression, then we must acknowledge the self. With Drebin#1#2 I attempted to design a space where the player can have themselves reflected back to them. There's something about the doing, the action, the mechanic that holds a truth inside the present moments. Don't just take my word for it. Here's are some quotes from Musashi's Book of Five Rings. I believe these words resonate with Drebin#1#2.

The "spirit of the thing" is what will guide a man to his own greatness.

...only when the "spirit of the thing itself" feels comfortable with the warrior as a vehicle for its own expression.

It is very hard to explain these ideas in detail because of their intuitive nature. Once you have understood the depth of the thing you are studying, the "spirit" of all things will reveal itself to you.

When you understand yourself and you understand the enemy you cannot be defeated.

Whether on or off the battlefield, there is no difference in spirit. The warrior sees all of life as the battlefield.

Think about being seen only by yourself and not through the eyes of others.

Link: He Speaks Like No Child

Everyone has a firm grasp on the general story in the Zelda series: A young boy ventures forth lead by the tip of his sword and his sense of duty. With the help of people he meets along the way and by using unique items he acquires, this boy is able to overcome every obstacle in his way up and through the final battle with the embodiment of the opposite of our main characters very being; evil. Upon winning this battle, the adventure is over and life for our hero returns to normal. But this is simply a template for any adventure. And Zelda being an adventure game, has hardly deviated from this formula. Though many have claimed that the formula needs to be abandoned or dramatically reinvented, I feel that there is nothing wrong with its place in the Zelda series.

In the grand spectrum of literature, there are too many stories to count that share the same formula. And without being unnecessarily reductive, some literary critics categorize stories as being either a tragedy, romance, comedy, or a satire. Even within the same style and formula, thousands of different stories can exist. Likewise, even if Link rose up to battle Gannon in every Zelda game (which he doesn’t) how he gets there and the experiences along the way would greatly differentiate each game.

The critical-gamer is interested in observing how the story unfolds for the player from the beginning of a game to the end, but goes beyond describing and analyzing individual plot elements and details in themselves and seeks to draw a connection between the story elements and the gameplay. The critical-gamer seeks to discover if the story elements hinder or enhance the play experience and how the balance is created.

In the case of The Legend of Zelda: Phantom Hourglass, our faithful main character Link sets sail on the open seas acquiring items and aid from friends to build enough strength to defeat his adversary in order to save his friend Tetra, who we all know as Zelda. Although the formula may seem quite banal, what unfolds in this adventure is psychological exploration of a world of the “lack” as psychoanalyst Lacan would say. As the main character teeters on the edge of adolescence and innocence, he comes face to face to a world where the grown ups have lived a life without something very important to them. Stuck in state of arrested development, many of the characters that populate the game world have ruined their lives devoting their time and energy in pursuit of their goal many times at the sacrifice of their families. This searching isn’t the only apparent psychological trait in the game. The world is littered with doppelgangers and a peculiar attraction to death that makes of the death work. These rich and apparently hidden story elements enhance the gameplay experience by using the game’s mechanics and structures to place the player in a role that can interact and eventually help these characters without becoming one of them sufficiently accentuating Link’s role as the main character.

First, I’ll establish the main character and perspective of the player. The player takes control of Link, and aside from a few small cooperative segments on Goron and Dee Ess Island where the player controls a small rolling Goron, Link is the only way for players to interact with the game world. Everything from swinging a sword, buying wares, retrieving items, and visiting characters are available for the player to shape the game world. True to Zelda form, Link never speaks a word. This feature brings the level of interaction closer to the player as everything he/she does is what Link does. In other words, by not saying anything, words can never be put in the players mouth. As if sending a direct message to those who still yearn for Link to utter more than a stifled gasp every now and then, Zauz the blacksmith says this: “People talk just as loudly with their hearts. But because people have mouths, they don’t pay attention to their hearts.” For the Zelda designers, actions speak louder than words, especially when an entire adventure has been carefully crafted to respond to the language of the player’s actions.


Early on in the game Link joins up with a few companions; Linebeck and Celia. Linebeck is everything Link isn’t: grown, a boat owner, cowardly, self centered, evasive, and ultimately childish. These traits make Linebeck the perfect foil for Link. And to increase the level of interplay between these two characters, Celia acts as Link’s voice.

Linebeck: "Kid, adventuring with you gave me a taste of what its like to be a hero. But here we part. It's all up to you now. I'll just be back here mopping the deck."
Celia: "Hey, what got into you Linebeck? Why so serious all of a sudden?”
Linebeck: "Take care of the kid. You [Celia] look out for him got it?"

But just who is Link anyway? To the people in the game world, Link is nothing but kid: “Young people,” Oshu; “pretty brave for being so short,“ Linebeck; “Young man” the mom from Mercay; “little guy” Fuzo from cannon island; “sea shrimp” Eddo the cannon man; “Hey kid!” Romano. Even the bar man serving milk on Mercay Island thinks Link is a “tad too short” to be drinking milk. Milk was perfectly fine for Link in Ocarina of Time, Majora’s Mask, and Super Smash Brothers Melee. Restricting link now from drinking milk makes it clear how the world views Link. As a kid who is also a rising hero for the supposedly second time, many characters in Phantom Hourglass talk down to Link because of his age and appearance.

Link enters this mysterious world through the fog after somewhat foolishly attempting to rescue his friend Tetra. From the outset of the adventure both the player and Link are clear about their objective: get Tetra back. The framework of the adventure is also the theme of majority of the character’s dilemmas: loss. In Jacques Lacan’s psychoanalysis, Lacan describes how humans experience an extreme sense of lacking after they realize they are separate entities from their mothers. This happens at an early age, and to fill this gapping lack in their lives, people take on language. And from there, a multitude of behaviors can emerge that are ultimately an effort to fill the gap and return to that state of complete care and oneness. Link has a lack, but he lacks the language, making him the perfect pivotal perspective for the game to relate and tell the rest of the story. Everything is directly related to Link’s character and the players actions. Playing the game from the main character’s perspective, makes the player constantly aware of the difference between Link and everyone else.

Several characters in the game search for a way to fill their lack as a kind of condensation, or when one substitutes a person or object for something else they desire. The Wayfarer searched for the romantic life of a seaman, and yet couldn’t reel in Neptoona, the legendary fish of the seas. Beyond the search for this fish that he has long given up on, the Wayfarer now searches for a more elusive type fish; a mermaid. This man has sold everything he owned to buy objects that he believes will attract a mermaid. Now that he only has his tales from his more successfully wayfaring days, he’s depressed and he’s and stuck. When the player informs the wayfarer that a mermaid is nearby and interested in the Wayfarer’s stories, the Wayfarer has a difficult time believing Link: “Ahh….I’m a fool to believe such a wild tale. How could you toy with the hopes of my romantic, wayfaring heart?!” Aside from the Wayfarer, the treasure hunters search the seas for common treasures that are rare back where they originated from. Romanos’ dad searched for adventure and was lost, and soon his son follows in is footsteps. A Goron on Goron Island pines after Linebeck’s Ship from a far perhaps to an unhealthy degree, and searches for a way to get one of his own.The wives on Molida Island have lost their husbands while they’re out at sea fishing for a living. However, by the end of the game, the seas have been thoroughly combed by the player and there husbands are no where to be found: "My husband left on a fishing trip and hasn’t returned"

Immune to deficiencies of the inhabitants of the watery world of Phantom Hourglass, Link helps anyone he can by doing what he does best: adventuring and being a kid. It is ironic that Link is one of the more mature, focused, and clear minded characters. And it is even more ironic that Link is one of a few character that takes up arms to become a hero. There is not a character that changes more throughout the game than Linebeck. From self centered, awkward, snappy, somewhat quixotic treasure hunter, Linebeck couldn’t help but change. Link’s purity and courage must have rubbed off on him. At first he underestimates link: “The temple is dangerous. No place for err.. a kid like you.” Later, Linebeck expresses his gratitude by writing Link a letter even though they see each other in person quite often. Soon, Linebeck comes around and even compliments Link face to face: “well you're sort of a good guy Link. Wow. That was out of character for me wasn't it!" During the epic final battle, Linebeck even takes up the sword in order to aid his captured friends. Linebeck’s character is so interesting and complex, he could be the subject for his own essay. I won’t go into too much detail about him here, but just know he is a refreshing deviation on the main-character-hero formula.

But there is still more to this world and these characters that is worth pointing. Within the game world there is a mysterious fascination with death. Skeletons of over-adventurous treasure hunters litter the floors of many dungeons throughout the game. Not only do these bones serve as a reminder of what could have happened to Linebeck and even Link, they also talk. The spirits of the dead are chatty and quick to offer advise to the living. They might mention things about their past life, secrets that they uncovered in their travels, or, as a way of preventing more deaths like theirs, they warn you of imminent dangers. On the Island of the Dead, Link talks to the ghosts of four knights and the ghost of King Cobble himself. Furthermore, Kayo, Astrid’s apprentice, had died and Link speaks to his ghost for tips. Many of these characters were drawn to perilous situations, exhibiting somewhat reckless behavior that classic behavior of Freud’s concept of the Death Drive. But it’s not death that many of these characters seek. It’s life. All of the troubled characters in the game are trying to find the life that has meaning for them. And for some, it’s the after life that is the biggest mystery of all. Romano’s dad sacrificed his family and his old life to pursue adventure:

Mom: "He used to talk about how he had visited that island. My husband...was once content to be a fisherman until he left this place. He sought uncharted lands. At least that's what he said when he finally left. He refused to work, instead ruining his boat by braving the northern fog repeatedly! The last time we saw him was over a year ago... My son... that boy hasn't worked in a long time either. He's peeved at his dad, I think."

Romanos: "All this endless babbling about living with a lust for adventure. Can that put food on the table? Can that make your family happy? Going your own way... is no way to survive in life. My way's a lot better. Staying home, eating cheese, that's the life!”

Dad's letter: "To my son, Romanos. If you're reading these words, you have found my true hideaway...Which means you also have developed a desire to find your own way in life...Know that I'm truly sorry for putting you and your mother through so much...I'm well aware that I'm the world's worst father, leaving you both behind...There's so much about the ways of the world I don't understand. Such as why the Ghost Ship appears and steals people. Where do its victims go? I have decided to dedicate my life to finding out the answers. If I fail to return, please take care of your mother. And please forgive me. In closing, one more thing...Embrace your wayfaring ways, my son!"

What drives these characters is the same thing that drives many of us. We have questions, and sometimes finding the answers at all costs becomes more important than living a life without knowing. Phantom Hourglass is a game in a world filled with people that can’t help but make up and define their own lives by what they believe. It’s a world where each individual has to make up their own minds. The player isn’t excluded from these choices either. They player has to decide whether or not to believe in Astrid’s fortunetelling, Kayo’s ideas on fate, the wayfaring life at sea, romance of the sea, what’s really at the bottom of the Anouki and Yook prejudices, or anything else in the game. Balancing the thin line between youthful innocence and the maturing effect of being a hero, Link’s characters exists at the perfect distance away from all of the issues the game raises. All of the “yes or no” questions that are presented in the game don’t have any significant consequences one way or the other. And the way the responses are phrased comically limits the player into participating in the role of the inconsequential kid that the world of Phantom Hourglass constantly tries to put Link in. The differences between Link and the world creates a level of introspection as the player is constantly reminded that he/she is different and that he/she must make decisions on their own.

The player is faced with a choice in what to believe in on many levels of Phantom Hourglass’ story that extends to the frame work itself. Players have to decide for themselves if the Wayfarer and Jolene’s sister dressed up as a Mermaid is a sufficient reality for either of them. We all know she’s not a real mermaid, but the Wayfarer believes it. We know that Jolene doesn’t have adequate pirating skills if she can’t even take out Link in a sword fight. Yet, she makes bold claims about returning for a rematch, and she refuses to give up on finding Linebeck. We know that McNey the famous explorer is dead because we found his pile of bones. Beyond this, the whole adventure is set up in such a way that the players have to either take it or leave it. Apparently, on my 35+ hour adventure to save Tetra, I was only gone for 10 minutes. One of my shipmates says: “It was probably a bad dream.” Was it all a dream? All of these questions still linger with me when I think about Phantom Hourglass. I hope by now, especially for critical-fans of the Zelda series, you realize that the greatest part of an adventure is the adventure. It’s not the beginning or the ending, but how you get there. Likewise, getting there and how that changes you is where the story lies. No dialog trees. No voice acting. For the Zelda series and Nintendo, function creates the ultimate role playing, and actions speak louder than words. Clearly there was a lot to say about a kid trying to get his friend back that speaks like no child.

Even Jaffe Knows

There are two main approaches or schools of game design: Classical and Western. Classical game design involves building a game from the smallest unit, the core, and then building a game around that unit. Western design starts with a high concept privileging ideas over mechanics and gameplay, which often results in shallow fragmented elements in its core. In other words, classical game design is like designing a sports game where a limited set of rules can achieve a great variety of expression, possibilities, and emergence.

The most significant facet of the videogame medium is its interactivity. Understanding this is the first step to understanding the limitations of the medium. Many western developers are intent on creating games that tell stories without paying careful attention to this fact. How well written a game's text is, or how cinematic its visuals are can only support a game so much before it begins to detract from the interactive element of the game and, therefore, detract from the game itself.

In an interview series called Geniuses at Play: Game designers explain the laws of adrenaline and the science of fun, David Jaffe reflects on his games and his methodology for creating games such as God of War II. In his retrospection, he touches on some of the assumptions, and principles involved with the two schools of game design, videogames as a medium, and story telling in games.


Jaffe: That's all we did in God of War. If you take the individual pieces of that game apart, with the exception of a couple puzzles I'm particularly proud of, there's nothing inherent in the core game that's really special or unique. It's just that we executed it really well and we had enough time and money and talent that we could throw enough of these minor elements at the player to create a major experience. But the individual elements, you can take the platforming in Mario and it's better; you can take the combat system in Devil May Cry and it's better; you can take the puzzles in Ico and they're better.

Jaffe describes the core of God of War II as not being "special or unique." He also admits the mechanics and elements in the game (jumping, fighting, puzzle solving) have all been done better in other games. Instead of working with the core of the game, Jaffe and his team focused on how the game was adding up to create the "major experience." Because the experience of the game was prioritized over the core mechanics (the interactivity at the heart of the game), experiencing the game on the minor level could have become shallow and boring. However, Jaffe had a unique approach to solving this problem.

Playboy: So you just pile on more monsters whenever you feel their attention is lagging?
Jaffe: Exactly. Of course, we tune and polish our games to the point that we still end up making really good, compelling games. But in an ideal world, I would like to have the game system itself be what keeps the player engaged instead of a number of simple things being thrown at the player one after another to keep them engaged.

Solution: Just throw a bunch of monsters at the player. Though this solution isn't Jaffe's ideal, the team was still faced with the task of tuning and polishing God of War II, which is a difficult task regardless of the game design school that is adopted. Jaffe expresses his desire to create a game according to the Classical design model. The "game system" that "keeps the player engaged" that Jaffe refers to is the core of a Classically designed game. Shigeru Miyamoto, creator of the Mario brothers series and pioneer of the classical game model for videogames, has been known to express the importance of creating the core of a game that is fun. Once this is achieved, he says, then the rest of the game will be fun because it rests on a solid foundation.

Playboy: Do you think it's possible to create a visceral experience that also has depth or meaning behind it all, or at least some core mechanics you can be proud of?
Jaffe: It's definitely possible, but I struggle with that issue, because I always start with the end experience in mind. Today I'm working on a document for a new game, and I have a vibe in mind for the way I want the player to feel when he sits down and plays the game. It's a two- or three-line vision statement of what I want the game to feel like. With God of War I wanted the player to experience what it feels like to be 10 years old watching Raiders of the Lost Ark.

It's clear that Jaffe creates his games according to methods of Western game design. His games, as a result, have shortcomings that he expresses openly. The difficulties of creating games in the Western style is apparent. How can you play the experience of being "10 years old watching Raiders of the Lost Ark?" Feelings and experiences are abstract. Attempting to communicate such abstractions often leads to a break down in the way the director communicates with himself, the developers communicate among themselves, and the way the game communicates with the player simply because of the nature of abstraction. Such a communication barrier leads to the incorporation of game elements that don't support the core game as game mechanics are deemphasized. Developers often find themselves adding elements they've seen or heard in movies, or read in books because those elements evoked a specific feeling that is similar to the one they're attempting to create with their game. However, blindly borrowing elements from other mediums is risky. Each medium is different containing individual strengths and weaknesses. The lack of understanding of both videogames as a medium and the medium from with material is borrowed is the easiest way for developers to lose sight of their game during development. I can't play a game's story, special effects, sound, or graphics. Actions, rules, and mechanics make up the interactivity of a game and therefore are most important to the medium. On the other hand, Classical game design sticks to the the core mechanics. Classical game design can also be called Japanese game design because of the way the Western and Japanese designers neatly fall into each respective school of design. It's no coincidence that the three games Jaffe listed as having better core mechanics than God of War II are all made by top level Japanese developers.

Jaffe: I'm not a big believer in the idea of storytelling as a huge aspect of games. Certainly games can have stories and they can be successful in part because of the stories, but if somebody comes in and says, "I want to make a game about a guy who has this feeling" I'd say that guy should probably write a book or a screenplay instead.

The same instincts that are pulling Jaffe toward designing games Classically, probably shaped his views in regards to storytelling in games. It is a little ironic that Jaffe suggests writing a book or screenplay in this hypothetical situation because "somebody" wants to design a game around feelings when Jaffe had just described starting God of War II, as well as his other projects, with the desire to communicate an experience. Both are abstract. In short, Jaffe seems to realize the common pitfalls of Western game design, but is unable to fully escape them. Letting go of the Hollywood induced illusion of grandeur, experiences, and adventure of epic proportions that is often misplaced in the gaming medium can be quite difficult for someone who grew up being enthralled by movies like Indiana Jones as a child. It may be difficult for such a person to choose playing hop-scotch over to see Raiders of the Lost Ark. Designing games around limited actions is possible. Miyamoto designed Super Mario Bros. around a single action: Jump. And from that single action derived not only an entire game, but a widely successful game series.

I was profiled in a magazine with a number of other game designers and in the article they compared game designers with film directors. And for me, because we had just come out with God of War, they said, "This is the Ridley Scott for video games" because he had just done Gladiator. Which is ridiculous. And I felt like saying, "Please stop." I hate the idea that non-gamers are going to pop a game into a console and expect to have an experience that moves you like a film, because they're not. They're going to be looking at their inventory screen and they're going to be stuck trying to solve a puzzle and they're going to be trying to figure out, "Okay, if I stab the cyclops in the eye three times he goes into that motion and that's when I can use the medusa head on him." That's what games are right now.

Here Jaffe essentially explains that games are ultimately actions ("stab"), rules ("three times"), and mechanics ("if...when...use"). Though as graphics improve over time and games look more and more like movies (often imitating the form of movies directly), getting through the game and interacting with the game world or fiction is what the player will be focused on. It's what the player ultimately wants out of a game. In other words, you can't sit back on your couch and watch a game. You have to play it.

Jaffe: No. Because not only do they require a huge investment of time, they require a huge suspension of disbelief. When you play an engaging game like a SOCOM death match or Wii Sports or Calling All Cars, you're swimming with the current. You're not trying to do more than what the game is capable of. When games embrace the true capabilities and strengths of the medium, that's where you see your commercial successes. When a game tries to do more than the medium is capable of, you get some critical accolades and you get some fan boys on message boards who say you're a great artist. But you don't get big sales.

The videogame medium revolves around interactivity. This is a much more complicated concept than more passive mediums like books or movies. The game goes nowhere without the player, and the player can't do anything outside of what the game allows. This relationship is similar to the student-teacher relationship. How can the student learn if the teacher doesn't explain things or assist in anyway? Similarly, how can the teacher teach if the student refuses to obey any rules or follow any order? Just like how a teacher fits into a very limited range of actions, the gaming medium also has limits. If a game tries to be a book or a movie, it will fail if it forgets to be a game first.

Jaffe: Guitar Hero benefits from the same thing. Everybody has, or most people have, the fantasy of being a rock star. There is a story there, there is a fantasy there, it's just that it's one that you bring to the table yourself. And that's much more powerful than, "Here's Billy, he's a guitar star wannabe." Who gives a shit about Billy? You have your own guitar hero fantasy, and the less they say that's going to clash with your own personal fiction, the better.

In the gaming medium, the story is what you play, not what the game shows you. In order to create a proper story in a game, the player must play through the events or fiction in that story. This means more than just running across an overworld to get to that next cut-scenes. Guitar Hero does it right. Even the core gameplay is shaped by the fiction centered around the "fantasy of being a rock star." We all know real rock stars play real guitars, and they hit every note in their solo's perfectly in time. Guitar Hero knows that the gamers aren't really rock stars. Therefore. with every color-coded note, a split second of leeway is programmed into the game. In this way, gamers can rock out without being stressed about hitting everything perfectly on time. This mechanic makes it easier to look and sound like a rock star, and thus the fiction (fantasy) of Guitar Hero is suspended.

Approaching Game Narrative Critique

Critiquing stories, or narratives, in video games presents an interesting problem. Because video games are so complex covering a wide variety of genres (story and gameplay-wise), picking out the story can be complicated. Only by understanding how stories relate to other mediums and to the game itself can we develop adequate techniques and approaches for critiquing video game narratives.

According to the theories of Classical Game Design, a game's story only operates on the level that the player can interact with. In other words, the story in a game is not the short description found in the instruction manual, or the series of cinematic scenes interspersed throughout the game. Rather, the story is the actions, functions, and outcomes of the player as they play the game. In Classical Game Design, all of the games elements are designed to support the gameplay. This is significant because this school of design puts graphics, music, sound, and story in subsidiary roles. By prioritizing game play, classic game design puts what is more unique about games, their interactivity, in the forefront. In The Lester Bangs of Video Games Chuck Klosterman posts a quote from Steven Johnson regarding how established methods of critiquing games are ineffective because they fail to take advantage of what is unique to the medium.

"Games can't be analyzed using the aesthetic tools we've developed to evaluate narrative art forms like books or films. Video games generally have narratives and some kind of character development, but--almost without exception--these are the least interesting things about them. Gamers don't play because they're drawn into the story line; they play because there's something intoxicating about the mix of exploring an environment and solving problems. The stories are an afterthought."

Thinking in the Classical Game Design mode, for a Mario game, the story isn't so much about saving a princess as it's every jump, star, and power-up along the way. For a Zelda game, sure, Gannon is most likely up to no good, but the transformation from the ephemeral teen to the hero of time is the narrative. Every enemy, heart piece, and item you collect defines and harmonizes the vast, seemingly chaotic world around the player. This is the narrative of the game. When the game's elements are all designed to support its gameplay, the core functions are unified into an experience that is both unique and universal for all players. It's not goal, but how you get there.

The rules, assumptions, and principles of Classical Game Design, were pioneered by Shigeru Miyamoto. The functions of a game (gameplay) should be supported by how the game looks, feels, and sounds. His background in Industrial Engineering is the obvious source for this kind of approach to game design. Such an approach is an important part of what makes Nintendo's games Nintendo games. Needless to say, most developers don't follow many of the principles of Classical Game Design. Western game design and some genres in particular, privilege story over gameplay. It seems odd that a developer would sacrifice what is most unique about the video game medium (the interactivity) for story that, in the traditional sense, isn't interactive. However, without getting into a debate between the two schools of game design, figuring out a way to approach critiquing stories in games that prioritize story over gameplay is still important.

Years ago, game stories were communicated via large amounts of text. RPGs fall into this camp. The story sequences, and all the dialogue from both main, side, and the NPCs (non playable charactres) were all driven by text. Though story is such a large part of these games, it's strange that reviews fail to review or comment on the more intricate aspects of such stories. Most reviewers will write a shallow summary of the plot that does little more than inform the reader that the game is an epic or features some kind of hero's quest. Most RPG stories fall under these categories. What's worse, many reviewers seem to only judge a story based on how many plot twists or cliches it contains. Unfortunately, this method of review fails to critique or even think about the execution of such stories. Shouldn't these stories be critiqued like any other piece of literature, especially if the story is prioritized over the gameplay? Shouldn't we be able to critique cinematic cut scenes with the same methods as short film/movie critiques? Certainly if we did, most "excellent" game stories wouldn't hold a candle to actual books/films. The more games privilege story over gameplay, the harder they'll have to fight as they straddle the line between literature, film, and games. By properly critiquing game stories, we'll be able to recognize their quality by their own merit and hopefully stop saying stories are good "for a videogame."

This generation of gaming has already seen a leap in the quality of story telling and presentation. Heavenly Sword is one of the forerunners for this leap. The cinematic scenes in this game are so well acted, animated, and voice acted that many reviewers have commented that the gap between films and games is shrinking. These comments aren't unfounded. Heavenly Sword looks phenomenal. However, like movies, there's more to communicating a story than sharp visuals and talented actors. Direction, editing, and scripting are all critical components. It doesn't take a professional film critique to see that Heavenly Sword's "movie-like" sequences fall far short of telling a decent story. Strictly critiquing the scenes, many are jumpy, poorly cut, and poorly paced. Though the acting is great, the characters are little more than histrionic hyperboles of cliche characters. Such characters can be used to assemble great narratives, however, their portrayal in Heavenly Sword is insufficient. The first few major scenes in the game are actually good. However, as the game progresses, the scenes become more abrupt and less coherent.

If Heavenly Sword were a film, it would fail to tell a cohesive story. Though the gameplay isn't necessarily privileged over the presentation, it is still important to consider how the level interactivity supports the narrative. Many of the transitions between the cinematic scenes and the gameplay sequences are jarring. I found myself frequently wondering where my particular character was, what I was doing, and why. Ultimately, Heavenly Sword's story is just a gallimaufry of ideas and over the top characters with gameplay that does little to connect the scattered dots.

While Heavenly sword features a very linear story, the upcoming game Mass Effect boasts a deep, and robust narrative adventure that the player can interact with by carving out their path through the galaxy. If Heavenly Sword's narrative is like a roller coaster, then Mass Effect is like being turned loose on the whole theme park. Where you go, and how you get there is up to you. The player's unique journey through this world comprises the story in the same way a Zelda games does. When I considered how to approach critiquing a story like Mass Effect's I came up with a few approaches. One key feature of the game is how the player's choices change the paths they take through the game. Examining the extent these choices actually have on the gameplay and the story is one approach. Another approach is to compare the multiple branching narrative paths to try an expose a overarching/master narrative that could be considered what Mass Effect is really about. Minimizing the significance of the player's choice, the dialogue (text) and the scene composition can also be critiqued borrowing the terms and techniques from film critique.

I will be spending time with Mass Effect next week in order to write about its real story, something that other reviewers will probably fail to write on despite Mass Effects significant focus on narrative.