My Amazing Couch Companion

One of the things my wife and I used to do when we first started hanging out was play Halo together. It was one of our common interests—that and classic literature, watching Fellini films, and a few other things.

Our play sessions were exclusively one-on-one competitive matches, and the only maps we really played were "Beaver Creek," "Hang Em High," and maybe a little bit of "Chill Out." Of course, anyone who's opinion actually matters will agree that "Hang Em High" is the greatest Halo map of all time, and it's where we staged our most competitive battles. So many places to hide it out. So many opportunities to pistol snipe from opposite ends of the map. It always seemed like holding down the top of the main platform area provided the most advantageous position—easier to defend from above than to challenge from below.

At any rate, I remember what must have been our first "Hang Em High" match when we played at her apartment, and it was an intense one. She was pretty ruthless with a shotgun and invisibility cloak. I barely won that game by a score of 50 to 49.

I tried to get her interested in playing some cooperative games with me, so when she gave me a copy of Lego Star Wars II for Christmas I thought we could take it for a spin together. I must have gotten a little greedy on one of the early levels, however, rushing off to a distant area of the map to collect some errant blocks while she lingered behind. Unfortunately, this not being a split-screen game, I inadvertently caused her to get screen stuck in some hazard area where she proceeded to die and respawn in continuous succession. She did not find it amusing, and it would be a while before she would agree to play any game cooperatively with me again.

Tomorrow marks our fifth-year wedding anniversary, and while I don't mean to boil our marriage down to being all about video games, this is a video game blog and — once again — we're in the final hours of the last day of the month.

My wife eventually did play more games with me, and we've shared some good times. We bopped our way back to Coney Island while playing through the brilliant Rockstar adaptation of The Warriors—particularly fitting, seeing as she introduced me to the film a couple years prior. We trudged and blasted our way through the entirety of Borderlands 2 and its four DLC chapters. Talk about a long and repetitive game, that one, but with a couch companion it was actually a lot of fun and not a bad way to pass the time together. More recently we shot up enough robots to populate a small country in Shoot Many Robots, and we've acted as each other's wingman (or wingwoman) while playing through each of the hectic campaigns in Left 4 Dead and its sequel. There have been other games as well. It's pretty easy to feel kind of dead inside whenever you binge away the precious hours of your life sitting solitary in front of a TV screen with a controller in your hand, but I never feel that way when I'm spending it with her.

I don't take it for granted that I managed to marry someone who is not only smart, beautiful, and funny but who also likes to play video games with me. I mean, come on! How awesome is that?

So here's to five years of marriage to my lovely companion—fellow vault hunter, space marine buddy, and apocalypse survivor. May we continue to love and cherish one another, enjoy one another's company, and embark on many new adventures both real and virtual.

And I promise I will try harder not to get stupid mad and frustrated when I die.

Playing with UN EP Cycles

In the beginning was an empty playing field, a blank rectangular void split down the middle by a one-dimensional boundary marker. All was silence.

With my cursor I made a mark, and the mark became a pattern that expanded outward and repeated itself, infinitely. At each moment as the mark crossed the middle of the playing field—from either direction—a musical piano note sounded from somewhere beyond the darkness, into my headphones.

This was good.

I made other marks of different shape, size, and speed of gesture. Swift long lines scratched across the screen in rapid succession and quickly faded. I drew short circles that became enormous, swelling spirals. A rich musical tapestry began to cover the empty space.

I wrote out my name in cursive in the bottom corner of the screen. It appeared again and again—right side up, then upside down, then on its side, and back to right side up. Slowly but steadily it grew beyond its corner of origin, until finally—several minutes later—it began to cross the threshold and contribute to the spontaneous musical event.

The musical abstraction swelled and receded as I at turns drew and listened, drew and listened. I looked at the weird shapes and images that were coming into focus and thought to myself, 'Hey, this is pretty good.'

TO BE CONTINUED … MAYBE. IN THE MEAN TIME, PLAY THIS.

Being the Protagonist in Dishonored

(WARNING: The following post contains spoilers pertaining to the game Dishonored and its DLC episodes.)

There comes a moment at the end of the game Dishonored—or, more accurately, at the end of the DLC episode The Witches of Brigmore—when the player uncovers a nefarious plot involving a powerful witch named Delilah and her attempt to usurp the imperial throne. By way of some arcane ritual, Delilah has discovered a way to transform any painted canvas into a kind of magical portal, allowing her to possess the physical form of its real-life subject—in this case, the young Empress Emily Kaldwin. By assuming control of the empress (think of it as a bloodless coup in which no one, save for the members of her loyal coven, will ever be the wiser of it ever occurring) she will direct the fate of the empire.

The added significance of this event has to do with the fact that Emily's mother, the former Empress Jessamine Kaldwin, has recently died at the hands of the deadly assassin known as Daud—who also happens to be the player character for this particular episode. Thus, by saving the daughter from a fate perhaps as grim as death, Daud has a chance to find a measure of redemption for murdering the mother.

At first I was kind of impressed by the game's mysterious turn of events. It seemed like both a clever and unexpected way in which to expand upon the story of the main game (in which the player assumes the role of an entirely different character), delving further into the saga of Dunwall—a place where even the lowliest members of society may be scheming and conspiring to "reign in hell," so to speak.

Then, after I gave the whole thing slightly more thought, I realized it was also kind of preposterous.

First of all, how the hell does something like that actually work? I'm talking about a magic ritual that lets you turn an ordinary painting into your very own John Malkovich possession tunnel. Does the painting have to be any good for the ritual to work? What happens to the consciousness of the possessed victim? Is the soul of the victim essentially banished or does it coexist with the usurper, helpless to enact its own will at the hands of their new puppet master? What happens to the possessor when the targeted victim dies?

I could generate an endless list of questions and it wouldn't really matter, because these aren't the sorts of questions the game intends to answer. This magic ritual exists not so much for the purpose of metaphorical insight—nor to be explored in any matter of depth as a hypothetical reality. It exists primarily because the game says it does, because it makes for an exciting, high-stakes finale. If it comes off as brilliant writing, it's because its brilliance lies in the fact that it so deftly obscures its own imaginative effortlessness. You forget the writer is literally making up whatever flimsy rules they can think of in order to wrap up some neat little plot. It's the same type of storytelling that makes an episode of Dr. Who so mindlessly enjoyable. The fictionalized universe becomes a never-ending Mary Poppins bag full of narrative tricks and pseudo-scientific non-explanations for the way things work.

Then I had another thought. Despite all of this, isn't it nevertheless interesting how the player already mimics what the character Delilah is attempting to do? Consider a few of the written passages from the game, including this brief excerpt from one of Delilah's hand-written notes:

"Once young Emily assumes the throne I'll already be looking out of those brown eyes."

And here's this partial entry from Delilah's journal:

"Now that the painting is finished, I will sit in young Emily's skin and wear her face like a mummer's mask. Havelock and his lickspittles will put the child on the throne, but it is ME they will be crowning. Delilah."

In a sense, isn't this the same kind of virtual immersion the player is intended to feel by the very act of playing Dishonored—or any other number of first-person perspective games? Only instead of an enchanted painting to make this immersion possible, we have a computer simulation. Instead of inhabiting the flesh of the targeted individual and peering directly through their eye sockets, we rely on the mediation of a game controller and television monitor. It's not really Corvo (the protagonist of the main game) or Daud wandering through the fictional city of Dunwall. It's us—or at least some hybrid creation of us and the simulated other. Whether Corvo dons his mechanical mask or not, whether he's mingling with a bunch of aristocrats at a masquerade ball or sharing drinks with his fellow co-conspirators at The Hounds Pit Pub, this is perhaps the greatest trick and conspiracy of all.

At any rate, this is about where my train of thought hits a dead end.

Listening to FEZ OST

It's been a number of months since I finished playing FEZ, but the game still manages to occupy a fair chunk of real estate in my brain space, thanks largely to its soundtrack, composed by "Disasterpeace" Rich Vreeland.

I've never really been one to go hunting down a movie soundtrack or game score as a standalone piece of listening material, but this one really got me interested after I heard some of the tracks on my headphones last year. I'd like to say I bought the album like a good patron off of Vreeland's Bandcamp page, but instead I paid a paltry $2 donation for it and a bunch of other game soundtracks when they were included in some online music bundle.

Anyway, I wrote about FEZ about a year ago, and I'm actually pretty happy with how the piece turned out. One thing I didn't bring up at the time, however, was the score, which was really an oversight on my part, particularly because the music plays such a fundamental role in establishing—along with designer Phil Fish's imaginative pixel art—the overall aesthetic of the game. The sound and visuals compliment one other extremely well, and it's kind of crazy to think about how differently the game might have felt under the musical direction of another artist.

So what is it that makes the Disasterpeace score so good? I think a part of it has to do with how each piece tends to evoke a sense of place and atmosphere rather than movement or action, which is very much in keeping with the mystical, meditative, and observational nature of how the game plays. Beats are used very sparingly, and only in accompaniment with the levels that emphasize a more rhythmic type of progression.

A lot of people have been quick to emphasize the chiptune quality of the music, and it's certainly fair to point out. With his high-pitched synth melodies and zealous use of bitcrushing, Vreeland is clearly embracing the fact that this is a video game soundtrack for a video game world. But I think the music has almost as much in common with ambient electronic music as it does with the classic 8-bit tunes of the Nintendo era.

As a standalone album, it's a surprisingly listenable, cohesive, and transportive experience, with individual tracks built on layers of musical texture—from swelling noises to miniature arpeggios that drift in and out of focus. Take a track like "Beyond," for example, where you have this thick current of throbbing bass that sounds like some hovering alien spacecraft, slowly painted over with a soft, mysterious synth melody. It could be an alternate score to the ending of Close Encounters of the Third Kind. I'm also a huge fan of the next song, "Progress," which is this really buoyant and surreal track filled with layer after layer of pleasant sound that rises and brims over into a state of blissful crescendo. I imagine this is what utopian industrial music would sound like—a musical theme for some bustling, steampunk city in the clouds.

Much like the recurring Tetris pieces that feature so prominently as the building blocks of Fish's visual environments, Vreeland presents a continuous soundscape where the individual parts are forever falling into place. This is most evident on the song "Glitch," which borrows small musical samples from previous tracks like "Puzzle," distorting them and rearranging them to fit with a new beat and tempo.

There's a lot more I could try and say about the album — I'm thinking about the sparse atmospheric tracks ("Age" and "Memory") and the wonderfully appropriate Chopin arrangements ("Nocturne" and "Continuum") from the album's second half — but it's probably better if you just go and listen to it for yourself. I'm pretty sure you can sample the whole thing for free.

I'll end by throwing out one final suggestion. If there is any game soundtrack that deserves to get the vinyl treatment, this one gets my vote. It's the perfect kind of readymade double LP, and it already has a great album cover to boot. Press that baby onto white vinyl. Keep it at a nice limited run of 3,000 or so copies. Sell it for $30 a pop. Somebody, please (I know it won't ever happen) make this happen!

A Slip of the Hand

The patient is stable and unconscious on the gurney. The skin that normally covers the chest cavity has been carefully removed to make way for this routine heart transplant. And here I am overlooking the scene, a pudgy hand hanging suspended over the recipient.

To my right and my left there are two hospital tray tables adorned with various tools and objects. Pens. Beakers. Scalpels. Tweezers. Bone saw. Handsaw. Hammer. Power drill. The replacement heart sits ready in a closed container.

A monitor beeps steadily, rhythmically. Everything is in order. Everything awaits.

I use my physical right hand to move my physical computer mouse, which in turn moves my on-screen hand in the corresponding direction. It hovers over the bone saw on the right-hand tray. I click the left mouse button and the hand lowers, smashes into the careful arrangement of objects, causing them to scatter. The hand jerks around like a crashed automobile under the influence of a drunk driver, and I do my best to realign the surgeon's palm in the correct orientation. With my real left hand at my physical keyboard, I arrange the fingers in such a way that they mimic the arrangement of fingertips on my virtual hand. I press the five keys all at once, The hand becomes a fist, and within its clumsy grip—loosely, miraculously—the mechanical bone saw whirs to life. The operation is about to begin.

Now stop right there for a moment.

Stop and forget about all the gruesome, bloody humor. Put aside the unscientific ridiculousness of it all, the absurd lack of protocol and procedure. The hilarious images of shattered bone fragments falling by the wayside as you tear into the ribcage. Memories of ripping out the patient's left lung with your bare hand and flinging it with abandon over the patient's head—just as your digital wristwatch accidentally unclasps itself and falls into the fleshy void.

Maybe I have a tendency to read too far into things. I over analyze. I draw connections where none reasonably exist. But there's something about this stupid game that's just too deadly serious. Something about it just resonates.

 

Notice how the game starts off in a reception area. It's the same pudgy hand suspended in midair, only instead of hovering over a soon-to-be cadaver there is a mouse, keyboard, computer monitor, notebook, binders, telephone. All the familiar, tangible minutiae of the daily office grind. Everything is once again so neatly arranged like a fresh day of work yet to begin its course. And then you try to pick something up and it all falls apart.

If I had to offer a purely functional description for Surgeon Simulator 2013, I would say it's like an elaborate crane game with an ironic motif. But for me it's something more.

For me, Surgeon Simulator is a meditation on life in the digital age. It's a study of dreadful incompetence. Just like that fumbling hand (I imagine it all clammy with sweat) I reflect upon my own failure to grasp at the meaning of things, my inability to control my circumstances. I'm reminded of all the things that seem to elude me—the satisfaction of work, the motivation to write, stable finances, and meaningful relationships with the people around me. There's a running Easter egg subplot in the game involving a woman named Trisha, with scattered post-it notes directing the player to call her. And yet her phone number is scattered and hidden away in clues I haven't managed to locate, adding yet another thematic layer of frustration, confusion, and—if I had to guess—romantic turmoil.

When you think about it, Surgeon Simulator invites us to embody a digital persona in one of the most deliberately representational ways imaginable. If we really wanted to, we could use our real-life hand to direct that real-life computer mouse to make that representational hand pick up and start clicking at that representational computer mouse. (As a side note, think about all the grandmothers out there who never learned the muscle memory required to do the first part of that activity! Remember my own self as a 6-year-old using our new family computer for the first time, playing a game with the mouse that was teaching me how to click on icons. I was born again, as they say—in a transhuman manner of speaking! Those were my baby steps into a new kind of machine-body hybrid identity, and I didn't even know it.)

The physical clumsiness is just a metaphor, a clever stand-in for the incompetence (be it spiritual, psychological, sexual, etc.) of the real-life player. The surgery aspect is an illustrative backdrop, a funny stage and canvas for letting that incompetence play out. Successfully complete all of the available operations in order, and you will eventually unlock the ability to perform those same operations in space, where all of your tools and objects float around in zero gravity. That's what we call taking a metaphor to its most surreal and extreme limits.

I suppose this is as good a time as any to list off just a few of the struggles and setbacks that have been fighting to take over my life—and my wife's—for the past four months or so. There's a cat slowly succumbing to feline AIDS and mounting vet bills. A vehicle that broke down that was too expensive to either repair or replace—leaving us without a car for the foreseeable future. There was water damage to our rented condo and an extended construction period that left our living space in utter shambles for over a month. We've been dealing with all of these things and more while simultaneously going about at our regular jobs, trying not to fuck up our daily expected routines.

But here's the coup de grâce—the peak of bitter irony. Normally I would be composing this monthly blog post on my laptop computer. Instead I'm fumbling around with the touch-screen word processor app on my cell phone.

Why? Because just as I'm finishing tonight's dinner and sitting down at the dining room table to start writing—just as I'm booting up the game to make note of some last-minute observations, my right hand accidentally brushes into contact with a half-full bottle of soda. The bottle falls over and spills directly onto my keyboard.

One careless, errant swipe. Betrayed by my own flesh-and-blood hand.

...

I don't yet know if my laptop is ruined or not. If so, tally it up as yet another $1,000+ financial setback that I can't do anything to remedy for the time being. All I can do now is give it a few days to dry out and see what happens when I turn it back on. Focusing on this blog post is the only thing that's keeping me from losing my shit.

Believe it or not, today was shaping up to be a good day. I actually managed to make progress on my writing at work. And toward the end of the day, I even had a few spare minutes to jot down some ideas for this blog entry that had been germinating in my head. Everything was in order! All that was missing was my hands over the mouse and keyboard to begin the work. Then disaster.

I don't know if this writing amounts to anything or not. It's just the best I could manage with the situation that transpired, because sometimes your scalpel gets lodged in the patient's kidney. Sometimes all your standard instruments go falling out the back of the moving ambulance and you have to improvise with whatever is left. Sure it's less than ideal, but the patient is still worth saving, right?

Out of the utopia, into the Problem Attic

I think I've been as guilty as anyone when it comes to projecting a kind of utopian ideal onto the world of games. Whether consciously or otherwise, I feel as if I've sometimes indulged in the hopeful fantasy that I've been living in the dawn of a golden age of video games—evidenced in no small part by the emergence of a (seemingly) thriving independent games subculture. Games, as we know them, I want to tell myself, are progressing—pushing old boundaries and exploring new territory in terms of technical innovation, design sophistication, and even artistic depth.

Of course, when I actually write it out like that, it sounds like total garbage—particularly in the third area. What does it even mean for a game to have artistic depth? The AAA games industry is still as infatuated with expressions of ultra-violent male power fantasy as ever. And even the expanded market for smaller games has become kind of a dull, saturated landscape that tends to pump out plenty of content that keeps us all fairly well engaged and amused but rarely offers anything deeply meaningful or intellectually challenging.

I can't help but feel that the recently announced semi-closure of Irrational Games in Boston will be one of the more significant events from this current decade in games—at least on a psychological level. Because it's more than just another studio experiencing some potential financial struggles. For many people, BioShock Infinite was supposed to be the great redeeming hope for AAA video games, and thereby all video games. It would prove to the world that a massively ambitious, story-driven, first-person shooter could in fact bridge the gap between violent interactive spectacle and grand artistic vision. It was as if that magnificent floating city of Columbia was the digital embodiment of those very hopes and dreams.

Of course it was naïve, because—again—what does that even mean? On the one hand, I think BioShock Infinite does represent a grand artistic vision, but not a very focused, articulated, sophisticated, or transcendent one. If anything, BioShock Infinite proved yet again that a well-funded PR campaign can still—if temporarily—bring the great gaming press machine into a state of awe-full, blissful worship.

But where does the industry go from here? Do we fool ourselves once again into thinking that the vast exploitation and corporate shepherding of a large creative team might lead to something other than an incoherent interactive experience with decent to impressive graphical polish. Do we move on and invest our hope and faith in some new messiah, or is creative director Ken Levine's move to the world of smaller games a telling indicator that the dream is truly dead?

Over the past two years since I started this blog, my focus and general thinking about games has been tossed and blown around so many times, influenced by so many competing manifestos both for games and games criticism—frankly, I feel dizzy. It's hard for me to know how to express anything worthwhile, particularly on a macro level. I find it all the more remarkable, therefore, when I come across the work of other writers and critics who manage to distill the so-called "state of games" so eloquently and persuasively. I get excited when I stumble upon a train of thought that seems so imperatively on to something.

One of the most refreshing voices I've encountered of late is Liz Ryerson—a blogger, musical artist, game designer, and probably plenty of other things as well. I've enjoyed reading Ryerson's work over the past few months, because it really has challenged me to reexamine any remaining utopian notions I may have had—in part by pointing out how the cultural worship of the elegant systems of games goes hand-in-hand with our present dystopian reality, whereby the pervasiveness of similar elegant systems (i.e. social media) threatens to drown out our humanity.

Consider this passage from her recent "Re: Fuck Videogames" talk:

within the current culture, there is a heavy emphasis of sort of clean, readable, egalitarian systems that are meant to make information more accessible and approachable and make their ideas easier to sell to a market. But they also serve as a kind of mundane filter to mask the messy, chaotic, subjective reality underneath. we may be living tremendously complicated and colorful lives, but all of those emotions and experiences are colored over by the overarching blandness in the presentation of the systems. for people whose lives are lived on much different terms and in much different places than the well-off Silicon Valley programmers maintaining these systems, the effect is much more drastic. and so, these serve as another institution – one we're being rapidly 'normalized' to, as in Foucalt's concept of 'normalization'. we like to hope they aren't having this kind of effect on us, but they are.

to what degree are we, as game developers, game critics, and game educators, reinforcing this normalization, and to what degree are we challenging it?

I think the entire essay serves as an excellent starting point for delving into Ryerson's work. It's also an incredible companion piece to her 2013 Flash game Problem Attic, which you can experience here.

There isn't a whole lot written about Problem Attic that I've been able to locate, but there is one extremely well-written analysis by Brendan Vance. He certainly articulates many similar thoughts and interpretations that came to me while playing the game, but he also widens the discussion, using Problem Attic as a means to expose the startling absence of intrinsic value at the core of modern commercial game development (he also wrote a followup piece talking about current unsustainable trends in game design—namely its overemphasis on transparent user experiences). It's so carefully laid out, it almost risks being regarded as a kind of definitive statement—something I wouldn't wish on any piece of criticism.

To borrow from Ryerson's own words, Problem Attic is a game about prisons, "both real and imagined," which I take to mean as either physical or psychological, imposed on the imprisoned both by outside forces and by the self. Ryerson represents these conceptual prisons in the form of abstract 2D environments, which the player explores in the guise of a simple avatar sprite.

And one of the first things I notice while playing Problem Attic is the representation of this avatar. It's a curious stick-figure shape—vaguely humanoid but almost like an E.T. character (which, strangely enough, recalls those dreaded vertical pits from the infamous Atari cartridge from the 1980s). Aside from the black body, there is a single red pixel that suggests an eye or a face, as well as a single gray pixel in the location of the sex organs. Already the game hints at themes of uncertain identity.

From the player's starting location—a kind of partitioned or compartmentalized over-world screen (the titular "Problem Attic," I assume)—the player moves through a series of abstract chambers, the goal being to find each hidden exit and move on.

As I suggested before, I more or less agree with a lot of Vance's own interpretations—including his insights regarding the complicated nature of the pursuing cross figures, which inflict a kind of visual and auditory "pain" whenever they come into contact with the player avatar. I also agree there's a definite turning point that happens within the sixth room of the opening act of the game. It's in this room—a hellish environment using background textures reminiscent of DOOM—where the player avatar encounters a lone, sinister cross figure. More than any other "enemy" previously encountered, the speed and directness of this particular figure evokes a much more predatory motive. The fact that the tiled walls in this room are also semi-transparent gives the player the chilling sensation of being watched or taunted. It all gives the impression of a traumatic memory or event.

This interpretation is reinforced during the next prison section, in which the screen is superimposed with a line of text reading "i can't remember it was," followed by a random number ranging from 1 to 4. What is the "it" that can't be remembered? Is it an age or year that something happened? Is it the number of times that something happened? Obviously, we can't be sure. But the avatar's appearance is transforming, losing both its shape and axis of balance as it struggles to make sense of something.

It's after this that the second act begins. The player returns to the familiar over world screen, only the landscape of the attic is changing, filling in with new tiles and obstacles. And, of course, the gravity of the world has inverted. The sensation of movement in this part of the game recalls some of the joyous leaping I talked about in my writeup of VVVVVV, only in this case there's really nothing joyful about it. Instead, this falling sensation feels cruel and frustrating. All the player can hope to do is slowly crawl along the perimeter of the attic rooms, looking for anywhere that will grant entry or acceptance.

Ryerson reintroduces many of the former prison rooms, only now the typical mode of escape is to find the glitched-out areas that allow the player avatar to clip into the very walls of the room. From here, the player quickly grows accustomed to navigating at the margins of the very playing fields they inhabit. Are these the experiences of a marginalized individual in a hostile society? Is it a representation of circumventing old, uncomfortable memories?

One of the final prisons during this second of three acts stands out for a different reason in that it's actually kind of fun. It involves a kind of collecting mechanic, in which the player navigates the maze-like environment collecting these oddly shaped A.I. characters—who seem to symbolize fellow victims. To me this particular prison iteration plays out like a rescue mission of sorts, whereby the player makes use of a collectible power-up that allows for short teleports through the solid tiles. It's the one stage of the game where the player seems more focused on the wellbeing of others. But it's a short-lived segment that segues into the third and final act of the game, which plays out like the sad, sometimes anxious wanderings of a very hurt and psychologically troubled individual—culminating in a moment of transformation and acceptance.

The difficulty with all of this is that many players probably will not make it very far into the game. The first time I played Problem Attic, I had to throw in the towel early, because the game was giving me motion sickness from all of the jostling, forced encounters with the aforementioned cross figures. I was literally too nauseated to continue, something that has happened plenty of times while playing old first-person shooters on an empty stomach but never while playing a 2D platformer. Fortunately, I was invested enough to restart my play through the next day. I saw the game to its conclusion, and I've since gone through the entire experience again.

I don't dwell on this point as a matter of self-congratulation, or to suggest some quality of saintlike forbearance on my part for putting up with the game's nauseating aesthetics and frustrating design choices. In a Q&A interview with her and Robert Yang, Ryerson actually balks at the question of whether she ought to compromise her design choices—even a little—in order to make the game more accessible to players. And good on her, I say!

We're dealing, after all, with a game about imprisonment—and not some purely representational notion of imprisonment, or imprisonment as a clever gameplay mechanic. It's a game that communicates its theme not so much by challenging our reflexes or our logical thinking skills. Problem Attic hits us at a gut level, asking much more of our interpretive capabilities than the typical playing experience. Many of its design choices are certainly unorthodox but also essential to communicating its ideas.

I finished playing the game Braid last year, and during my time with it I kept coming back to a nagging question. From its puzzles to its cryptic text portions to its interesting choices in art direction, how are we to evaluate whether or not this game is actually good or just—as many have certainly argued—pretentious? I don't think Braid is merely pretentious, but I do have a difficult time deciding just how good it actually is. If the vast majority of games are like prose, then Braid and Problem Attic are more like gaming poetry. And I don't think we're very well accustomed to evaluating gaming poetry—at least not yet. Then again, this whole preoccupation with "good" is part of the problem to begin with, and it's not just confined to the world of games.

I think the danger of utopian ideals is that we latch onto the impossible notion that a perfect form exists, and that it's ours to obtain—if only we can chip away and pare down until only the perfection remains. And yet it seems as if the world of game development has become infected with a similar idea. You can see it in the present-day obsession with playtesting and polish. We must have pure, undiluted, perfect play! And it's not like that's a bad goal, in and of itself.

But to suggest this is the only way is not only dogmatic, it's potentially dangerous. The experience of play becomes yet another drug that fuels our desire for a kind of fluid and intuitive progress through the world that we rarely get to experience outside of games. And to pursue those ideals above all else risks to block out other types of play that might actually resonate with and inform what our inner and outer lives actually reflect.

Here's that other thing...

So here's that second piece I wrote for Unwinnable. It's basically about my experience playing Game Dev Story, which is kind of a fun, stupid business simulation game for iOS and Android. You can read it here (or rather, there).