A report released by the British Board of Film Classification this month states (amongst many other things) that "gamers appear to forget they are playing games less readily than film goers forget they are watching a film because they have to participate in the game for it to proceed. They appear to non-games players to be engrossed in what they are doing, but, (my emphasis here) they are concentrating on making progress, and are unlikely to be emotionally involved."
Which got me thinking. My inital reaction was that of course videogames are emotionally involving! What about that bit in that game with the... um... okay, but then there was... well, okay, but I'm sure there was some point in the past where... wasn't there? It quickly became obvious that no game had ever given me an emotional experience more profound than the simple joy of defeating a boss monster, getting a high score or leveling up a character. On the other hand, countless films have deeply affected me, haunted me for days and even, on rare occasions, changed my life in small but significant ways.
Let's, for the sake of argument, define "emotional involvement" as a sort of semi-transcendent, wigged-out, I-am-so-there, man, kind of feeling. I'm sure there's a more scientific definition floating around but you know what I mean. It's what makes you climb under the seat during a scary movie, or burst into tears when Bambi's mother dies. What it isn't - arguably - is the kind of non-blinking, thumb-destroying, gotta-finish-this-level compulsion that's so common in videogames.
Is it "unlikely" that a videogame can provide emotional involvement? Does this mean videogames are inferior to other, more emotionally accessible forms of entertainment? Or, as the BBFC report suggests, is actually a good thing? I'm going to spend the next few minutes wiffling about in search of an answer and then, hopefully, have you bolting to the forums with all the enthusiasm of an older gentleman with a typewriter and strong opinions on local government. Ready? Here we go...
Games are here to frustrate us, in the best possible way. They all seek, on some level, to stop us getting what we want. The ghosts in Pacman, the aliens in Galaga, every goddamn monster in every first-person shooter, Tom freakin' Nook in Animal Crossing, all are there to get between you and whatever reward the game promises. There's a fine line between a decent challenge and screen-punching irritation - I can't be the only one who got to the pixel-perfect jumping puzzles at end of Half-Life, thought "stuff that for a joke" and promptly uninstalled the game - but nobody wants a game that collapses in front of you like a puppy looking for a belly rub.
Combine this generally adversarial nature of video games - you vs The Challenge, whatever it may be - with the myriad of controller, interface and/or design issues that accompany nearly every release, and it does seem as if any chance of emotional involvement goes up in a beatifully rendered, volumetric cloud of smoke.
A quick example - I rented SSX Blur the other day and was quite enjoying it. Lots of lovely snow-based swishiness in a reasonably open world, and I didn't have too much trouble getting to grips with the new control scheme. All good fun... until the slalom. Picture, if you will, a snowy slope dotted with red and green flags fluttering gaily in the breeze. Me at the top of said slope, primed for a minute or two of elegant left-right-left-right nunchuckery. Off we go! Easy does it... slip past the first flag... then the second... this is cool.. past the third... then dip down a short slope and... hang on, hummocks! Too fast! Missed a flag! I'm airborne! Can't stop! Can't turn! What do you mean, failed to qualify? There was, as far as I could tell, no way to get through that first slalom without agonisingly tiptoeing through the course in a manner more typical of minesweepers than fearless nordic types. And at that point, SSX Blur and I parted ways.
It'll all end in tears.
It's rare to be so vigourously punted out of a game world, but it's not exactly unheard of, is it? Emotional involvement? Not bloody likely. SSX Blur should have done everything it could to draw me into its world, and given me a feeling of freedom and joy. It's difficult to imagine the decision-making process that led to, "Hey, about an hour or two into the game, let's bring everything to a grinding halt and start slapping the player repeatedly in the face. Neat!"
Everyone has been subjected to this kind of inappropriate fondling by a game. You know the sort of thing - the difficulty level suddenly spikes through the roof, the grinding frustration of a half-arsed interface finally gets too much, or it's revealed that cutting edge storytelling now involves the liberal use of sliding block puzzles. Games have a tendency to slowly metamorphose from riotously good company into cruel, maladjusted five year olds with rusty penknives and a compulsion to ruin your day.
Sure, anger and irritation are both emotional responses we feel when playing videogames, but mostly as a result of bad design or unfair gameplay, rather than cleverly constructed emotional button-pushing. There's no better illustration of this than this sad/funny video of Patience, singer in The Grates, getting all wound up over constantly failing to get past a certain point in New Super Mario Bros. She's definitely having an emotional reaction, but not as the result of any sadness over Mario's endless suffering.
DEFCON is an interesting example of an exceptionally well-designed, endlessly enjoyable game that manages to at least brush lightly up against an emotional response. I definitely felt a twinge of guilt the first time I unleashed a full-blown nuclear assault, but anyone who's played DEFCON for a more than a few minutes will agree that it quickly becomes a game, an abstraction with all the emotional impact of a round of tiddlywinks.
F.E.A.R. and Eternal Darkness are further examples of games that are built, to some extent, around an emotional response - obviously, in this case, fear. Again, though, it doesn't take long for the initial spookiness of both games to give way to the gameplay. They're both great games but ultimately neither of them can sustain an emotional response when your brain is constantly monitoring the state of the game - the health bar, ammo levels, the map and awkward camera angles, let alone the constant buzz of thoughts like, "How do I run? How do I reload? What's quicksave, again?"
With the kind of endearing over-ambition that has become his trademark, Lionhead chief Peter Molyneux recently announced that he wants to introduce "love" into the upcoming Fable 2, in the form of a dog. Call me Old Mr. Cynical Pants, but my reaction to this is pretty much what my reaction would be if Spielberg announced his next film would employ smell-o-vision - fine, whatever, just make sure you get the fundamentals right before ploughing limited resources into things that probably won't work and that no-one is really begging for.
The future of videogaming?
The role-playing genre is probably the most likely place to find your heartstrings under assault. Surely, all that time ploughed into character development has to forge some kind of emotional attachment? Isn't the death of a character going to spark tears and a long, lonely vigil on a cliff-top as you stare wistfully out to sea? No, not really. First of all, death in an RPG tends to be nothing more than an opportune moment to get a fresh cuppa before reloading your last save. Even if the story insists that a beloved NPC kicks the bucket, it feels more like losing a pawn off a chessboard than saying goodbye to a dear friend.
Contrast this with the death of A Certain Character in Serenity, the movie sequel to the Firefly TV series. I was genuinely shocked and saddened when it happened. Judging by the audible gasp from the audience, so was everyone else. There were only fourteen, 45 minute episodes of the TV series made, so, including the movie's running time of about 2 hours, it all adds up to roughly 13 hours of material. Much less than the time it takes to play through an typical RPG. And yet, the emotional impact was so much greater.
Why? I think the answer is as humdrum, and as bleeding obvious, as this: games are not movies. They are, y'know, different. Just because they both involve pictures and sound does not mean they're more or less the same, or should affect us in the same way. How emotionally engaging would Schindler's List be if, to avoid restarting the film, you had a fraction of a second to press the X button every time the little girl in a red coat appeared? How much fun would Twilight Princess be if it was one long cutscene? (For those of you who just answered "pretty much the same" to both of those questions, shame on you. Please leave, and shut the door quietly behind you as you go. Thank you.)
It does seem as if the odds are stacked largely against there being much opportunity for genuine emotional involvement in games. Does it matter? No, not really. I've had a ball playing videogames for the past 25 years, and have never once thought that, say, Mario Kart DS would be markedly improved by incorporating a wistful, poignant melancholy tinged with hope for a better, brighter future. Whatever it is that videogames do provide - I think it's called fun - is what keeps me coming back, in spite of the overabundance of SSX Blur-style muggings. And surely playing a good game is preferable to a passive, slack-jawed consumption of the drivel that passes for TV these days?
I'm keen to hear if anyone has had a deep emotional reaction to a videogame. Quite possibly, I just haven't played the right games and everyone else out there is quietly sobbing over their PlayStations, or sweeping up their Xboxes and bearing them manfully off to bed. Maybe the typical game-playing experience is an emotional one.
Your turn.
) i feel a strong emotional attachement to these games. Not all though obviously, such as puzzle games, racing games, beat 'em ups, shoot 'em ups, but those two named series will stay with me and continue to make me feel that way.
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