Loosely set during the 1274 Mongol invasion of Japan, Ghost of Tsushima (2020) follows Jin Sakai, a samurai faced with an ongoing ethical and personal dilemma: uphold Bushido (samurai code), which has proven ineffective against the Mongol forces and their ignoble warfare tactics, or redeploy these guerilla tactics (e.g. stealth combat, explosives) in the service of defending his ancestral homeland. While praised for its vivid cinematic cutscenes, dynamic gameplay and elegant movesets, the game raises important issues related to identity and representation in the context of postcolonial theory. Drawing from Mukherjee's (2018) analysis of neoliberal logics in video games, Nakamura's (2002) critique of identity tourism, and LaPensee, Laiti, and Longboat's (2022) notion of Indigenous sovereignty, I trace how the game interpellates players within a specific ideological framework that at once reinforces and subverts hegemonic power relations. While Jin's gradual transformation into the vigilante hero the "Ghost" marks a ostensibly necessary departure from dogged tradition, this shift cannot be considered in isolation from the game's underpinning, ideologically value-laden mechanics. As Mukherjee (2018) explains, video games and neoliberalism often intersect productively through their shared discourses around choice and agency; while premised upon these virtues, however, both operate within a circumscribed set of procedural rules or predefined values, respectively. The character of Jin exemplifies this tension between prescribed roles and individual agency via his rigid individualism, adaptability, and autarky. Moreover, success in the game is framed not through collective organizing but through the player's mastery of 'choice-based' mechanics and 'optimal' play styles that align with the game's internal economy of power and advancement.
Indeed, Jin's choice to embrace the Ghost persona or uphold bushido have no actual bearing on the overall narrative trajectory, offering only the illusion of self-determination. This framework recapitulates how ideologically charged words like choice, freedom, and agency can work to obscure systemic nuance and critique (Mukherjee, 2018). We can illustrate this point further by examining how the ideological and cultural dimensions of the game intersect. As previously noted, the game constructs a fantastical reimagining of feudal Japan for a Westernized audience. While the developers worked with Japanese consultants, Sucker Punch Productions is culturally and geographically situated in the U.S., thereby catering primarily to American stakeholders. Even the traditional influences of the game, of which the developers cite inspiration from eminent Japanese director Akira Kurosawa, neglect how the director himself was deeply influenced by Western cinematic tradition and culture. This problem is further articulated by Nakamura (2002) with respect to their concept identity tourism, where players temporarily inhabit an exoticized cultural avatar, without engaging with its sociohistorical complexities or ethical implications. Indeed, digital identities and cartographies in video games do not exist outside of western hegemonic structures, but rather, function to regulate cultural norms that prop up the status quo. While players are encouraged to immerse themselves in an idealized past, this past is filtered through the interpretive sieve of the western gaming industry.
It is from this vantage point that LaPensee and colleagues (2022) argue how games like Ghost of Tsushima both reaffirm the colonial gaze and align with the selective affordances of sovereignty, which privilege some historical narratives and perspectives as valuable and thus worthy of a broader cultural platform. But sovereignty ought not be contingent upon neoliberal configurations of individual autonomy, but extend beyond this to encompass collective and relational notions of self-determination. Although Ghost of Tsushima may imitate aspects of political resistance and struggle, this narrative is framed by a distinctly westernized concept of heroism, sharing a common lineage with roguish cowboys, disgraced knights, and their internal moral compasses. Indeed, even liberation is rendered commodified in the game, casting into sharp relief Mukherjee's (2018) critique of how game mechanics often reduce subaltern identities to skill points that can be harvested for individual gain. This further reinforces a hegemonic understanding of agency, wherein the oppressed villagers exist primarily as narrative instruments rather than as sovereign subjects in their own right. To push beyond these limitations, developers must critically engage with historical narratives in ways that decenter the colonial gaze and amplify the perspectives from which their extractive cultural and aesthetic appreciations are derived from. This cannot be restricted to a 'consulting' capacity, but as co-creators with a full range of self-expression.
Is It That Deep, Bro? is a short, text-based game told from the perspective of a teenage boy navigating an intimate situation with his male friend. The game is set at a cinema, where the two boys are at a screening of Dallas Divide'll, a queer, modern western that bears likeness to Brokeback Mountain. The theatre is empty which, much to the chagrin of the main character, enables a strong juxtaposition between the interactions between the boys and what is happening on screen. While you are only prompted with a few dialogue options across the entirety of the game (i.e. five minutes), these are of great consequence to how the narrative unfolds (between the boys). These options relate to your framing of the film (e.g. do you vocalize that you are weirded out by the queer romance budding between the two main characters, Buck and Randall? Do you approach the love scene with the austere rigour of a cinephile, or personal curiosity?), in addition to your willingness to 'make a move' on your friend (e.g. sharing the armrest vs. retracting your arm away; sneaking a cheeky glance at your friend by tapping the left arrow key vs. averting your gaze and locking onto the screen by tapping the right key). Based on these decisions, you are afforded a few different endings; as the two boys exit the theatre 1) nothing explicitly romantic happens, but you leave feeling reflective and open to the idea of it, 2) there is some wholesome flirtation, suggesting the possibility of a future romance, or 3) nothing happens (aha, guess it's not that deep after all, bro...).
There is no win/lose paradigm in the game, but rather, multiple hypotheticals without a definitive result. It brought to mind the opening excerpt from Foucault where he writes that "... a work of art opens a void, a moment of silence, a questions without an answer, provokes a breach without reconciliation where the world is forced to question itself" (p. 1). Indeed, what I liked most about the game was that it sought to capture a genre of intimacy that is difficult to express outside of the context of the interaction. So much happens between these two characters and yet, it is difficult to put something so affectively-charged into words (from the main protagonist's perspective, of course, as I clearly have much to say!). While the story is queer, this doesn’t curtail its relatability. Anyone who has experienced attraction for someone can relate to those early, phantasmatic exchanges. Was I reading into that too much? Did they really look at me that way? Speaking of reading too much into things… I'm not sure if the developers did this intentionally or not, but the staring/avert gaze bit seems purposefully protracted/clunky; at one point, I thought the game might be bugged as it didn't progress as quickly as I had anticipated. Although it was mildly irritating at the time, there is something compelling about it in retrospect. That is, I wonder if the messiness of this part sought to mirror the clumsiness that is so characteristic of young love/teenage romance. Did I stare for too long? Ugh, that was so awkward!
Bracketing the broad relatability piece, however, there is a clear activist tenor to the game with respect to its focus on queer intimacy between men/boys. While the game is awkward and tense at times, for all the reasons I've described, there is also a unique levity to the story. This brought to mind Flanagan's (2009) remark that "too often social challenges are presented in overwhelming or depressing ways", and that "... play occurs only when players feel comfortable" (261). Depictions of intimacy between men/boys are too often peppered with a heaviness, be it physical violence or its looming threat, but this didn't come up during any of the playthroughs - even when you opt not to engage your friend romantically! I seldom know how to conclude these ramblings but, simply put, we need more games like this one!
Passage I: Using the resources from the course
Aim: Beat to Draw is a rhythm-based, action game where the player, a cowboy named "Hoot", engages in a western-style standoff with his former-partner-turned-adversary, "Holler". Success in the standoff is contingent upon precise, timed shooting/parrying actions guided by a steady beat pattern/metronome (so the player’s reaction time and pattern recognition is key to the win condition). For instance, the player must carefully observe the metronome-style beat and time their actions accordingly, shooting when the rhythm aligns for optimal accuracy, or dodging incoming fire. Players advance through three, increasingly challenging duels against the opponent with varying rhythmic patterns and narrow timing windows. While the basic premise is a 'shoot off' between two characters, I want to attenuate the violent dimension of the came by abstracting the shoot off into rhythmic patterns (which maintains intensity sans the graphic violence). In addition to recognizing and anticipating rhythm patterns, the player will have a watergun (it's balmy out there!). Importantly, the player does not need to draw/fire on their turn; if there is no action from the player across the three rounds, but they successfully dodge the opponent, this can also result in a pacifist win.
In terms of aesthetic, I am drafting a pixelated backdrop that features a dessert, and some classic adornments like cacti and tumbleweeds. The sprites themselves will also be pixelated, and resemble the typical cowboy/ranger character. In terms of the instrumental component, I am developing a Western/chiptune track for the title screen, but with respect to the in-game music I am fairly limited. I had planned to create my own music that synced to the rhythm component of the game, which was originally a rodeo wherein the cowboy is riding a waveform vs. a bull, but quickly learned that this was far beyond my creative capacity. Hence, the stripped down, metronome with a simple ticking function.
Passage II: Rationale
This project is informed by my strong penchant for old westerns (i.e. The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid), western sci-fis (e.g. Firefly, Blade Runner, Cowboy Bebop), and fun, upbeat musical scores (e.g. Chainsaw Man, Madoka Magica, Super Meat Boy). I like combining different aesthetic sensibilities, especially when it feels ostensibly incoherent to do so.
Passage III: Tools, tech
GameMaker will be the primary development platform, as it fits the game design needs without being too overwhelming to navigate (i.e. tried and folded with Unity 2D). I am using the drag and drop function (e.g. visual representation of code vs. script), which allows me to view the code as it develops, while suiting my accessibility needs as a novice developer. Additionally, I am using Aseprite for the sprites and other visual assets, and Logic Pro for instrumentals.
Premise
DriveTest+ immerses players in the role of a driver undergoing a simulated driving exam to obtain a license. The initial gameplay follows conventional road rules and test protocols. However, subtle inconsistencies begin to emerge: both the environment and the examiner's instructions contradict each other, such that complying with the examiner's instructions can put the player in mortal danger. The examiner shifts from a conventional authority figure to an unstable character, issuing bizarre commands (e.g. "merge left immediately" on a one-way road into oncoming traffic). Players could be penalized for compliance and rewarded for rule-breaking. The game's objective, passing the exam, is deliberately ambiguous, broadly defined in terms of licensure and/or survival. While the premise of the game is obviously absurd, it was inspired by the trope of an antagonistic examiner trying to meet their 'fail quota' (so there is a kernel of truth that I am attempting to build upon).
Basic mechanics
The game begins with a standard driving test interface. Players control acceleration, braking, and steering. Early tasks involve basic maneuvers such as merging and signaling. However, as the game progresses, mechanics start to deteriorate (e.g. braking may result in acceleration, turn signals display nonsensical characters (i.e. up, down vs. left, right), and environmental cues contradict expected outcomes (e.g. continuing straight could result driving off of a cliff, as inspired by overreliance on the hyperreal in the context of Google Maps). In essence, players must learn to adapt to an unpredictable system where compliance/obedience no longer ensures success. In terms of interaction with the examiner, I envisage a dialogue box that allows the player to respond from a limited set of options (e.g. "Okay", "Um, I don't think that's a good idea", and so forth).
Learning curve
- Routine: Players perform standard driving procedures, fostering a false sense of security.
- Rupture: Minor inconsistencies escalate into blatant contradictions, prompting players to question the game's logic.
- Resistance: Players decide whether to obey nonsensical commands, risk failure by resisting, or attempt to outmaneuver the system.
Player-character interactions: The player's primary interaction is with the examiner, who initially presents as a by-the-book type character. However, as the game progresses, her presence becomes increasingly unsettling. Subtle, almost imperceptible anomalies - such as asynchronous blinking, elongated pauses between words, and an eerily persistent smile - gradually evolve into full-fledged distortions. Their dialogue, once crisp and authoritative, begins to fluctuate between professional directives and cryptic, nonsensical statements. By the latter stages of the game, this dissolves entirely, revealing [well, I am not entirely sure!].
Another idea I had was the inclusion of non-playable characters (NPCs)/pedestrians who would, at the later stages of the game, throw themselves in front of the vehicle (perhaps they are possessed by the examiner?!). It would be hilarious if the player 'knew' some of the NPCs and would exclaim funny bits of dialogue (e.g. "Mrs. so-and-so, get out of the way!).
Player-system interactions
- Controls: The game employs standard driving mechanics, but these gradually become unreliable as external forces begin to exert control over the vehicle.
- Feedback mechanics: The game uses scorecards, but their evaluations become increasingly nonsensical, providing little indication of actual progress.
- Procedural Randomization: No two playthroughs are identical; mechanical distortions and narrative events are dynamically altered to maintain a persistent sense of uncertainty.
- Win Condition (Ambiguous): While the game suggests that passing the test is the goal, the shifting nature of its criteria ensures that success remains an elusive and uncertain outcome.
Aesthetics
Visual style: The game's early hyperrealism gradually gives way to an uncanny aesthetic, with flickering road signs, distorted reflections, and subtle visual artifacts disrupting the environment. Vehicle: While customization would be neat, I envisage the vehicle being a PT Cruiser. This is mainly because I find PT Cruiser's amusing, and for whatever reason have always associated them with villians... Still, colour customization could work! Sound Design: The sterile hum of the vehicle is interspersed with distorted radio transmissions, overlapping whispers, and mechanical reverberations. User Interface: The initially clean and official UI begins to deteriorate over time, with text corruption, lagging prompts, and progressively illegible documents.Learning principles
- Cognitive dissonance: DriveTest+ fosters embodied empathy for a complex system by forcing players to reconcile contradictory information. The game's mechanics simulate an embodied experience of disorientation and uncertainty, preparing players for action in unpredictable environments. The game forces players to reconcile logical inconsistencies, encouraging adaptive thinking and problem-solving.
- Immersion: By situating meaning within an unstable environment, the game encourages players to interpret and react to evolving conditions. By carefully controlling environmental distortions and narrative progression, the game fosters a sustained sense of unease and introspection.
- Agency: Players must make decisions about compliance, resistance, and manipulation of the system, reinforcing the role of risk-taking and productive failure in learning. Players are encouraged to test boundaries and challenge imposed rules, reinforcing engagement via emergent gameplay mechanics.
- Distributed nature of play: Given the multiple endings/directions that players can take, competence will emerge through trial and error (i.e. failure is productive!). Even the 'tutorial' at the beginning, while instructive, is meant to obfuscate the dark underbelly of the plot itself.
- Situated meaning: During the playthrough, it will become clear that there is are multiple interpretations of the examiner's instructions. Related to the above learning principle, this will be discovered through trial and error, after which point the player can unpack the semantics of the dialogue.
Conclusion: DriveTest+ is not merely a psychological horror game but a critique of perception via procedural absurdity. Through a slow, methodical unraveling of logic and structure, it compels players to confront their assumptions about rules, authority, and the limitations of experience.
How do video games promote historical engagement? The paranoiac historian would scoff at entertaining such a notion, contending that any excavation of the past - a fool's errand!? - is a task best suited to paper. This penchant for the written word is a core tenet of Western philosophical thought, where early thinkers like Plato sought to minimize the gap between thought and articulation. Notwithstanding this, Plato also held deep suspicions about the written word, to which he resigned himself as a necessary evil to represent and convey thought (Sousanis, 2015, p. 54). While mainstream culture today is hardly iconoclastic in orientation (indeed, it has a distinctly philos-eikon sensibility), in terms of academic and professional prose, the image remains a court painter, condemned to the ostensibly unserious (vs. disciplined prose) realm of spectacle and aesthetics. Extending this logic to video games, it is no surprise that staunch pencil pushers harbor a legion of misgivings, generally organized around appeals to the risk of historical inaccuracies.
Framed in these terms, certain games are judged as dishonest and deceptive, rewriting history via their simplistic, inaccurate representations of historical events and figures. But are video games actually advancing false historical narratives as 'truth'? What specific games make claims to epistemic authority with respect to their conceptual or realistic simulations of historical elements? Are these lines of argument premised upon, I daresay, a Grand Theft fallacy? From this vantage point, we can better appreciate the ways in which video games are unduly singled out and critiqued while other cultural activities - e.g., historical reenactments, museums, heritage sites, books, television shows, and film - go unchecked. These mediums, by contrast, do make truth claims in their representations of the past.
To take this argument a step further, however - beyond mere exoneration of video games from historical critique - I would argue that video games actually do teach us something about history. I am not speaking about factual accuracies, but rather historical contingencies. Games like Sid Meier's Civilization V, for example, do not attempt to describe in painstaking detail the rise and fall of empires. Instead, the game mechanics introduce players to ideological concepts (e.g., colonialist expansion, democracy, diplomacy) via a series of interconnected choices and (often inadvertent) consequences. This goes beyond an episodic retelling of a historical event - and indeed, the reductive understanding of history as a series of events - facilitating a more emergent, dynamic systems view of historical change. From a systems approach, the past is framed as a rhizomatic, nonlinear web of interconnected forces, upon which the semblance of ideological cohesion is built. The act of playing through these possibilities situates video games within a broader tradition of counter-memory (Foucault, 1980) - a mode of historical engagement that seeks to disrupt dominant historical narratives.
To claim that video games participate in the production of history may seem anathema to the gatekeepers of historiography. And yet, just as oral histories have preserved cultural knowledge beyond the written word, video games offer a mode of historical engagement that is dynamic, participatory, and immersive. Whether through procedural systems or counterfactual speculation, they challenge us to reconsider how history is not only told, but enacted. While video games may not teach us anything about history, they can teach us how to think historically.
Foucault, M. & Bouchard, D. (1980). Language, Counter- Memory, Practice: Selected Essays and Interviews. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press.
Sousanis, N. (2015). Unflattening. Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press
Gamification, as critiqued by Nolan and McBride (2014), captures a fundamental tension between instrumentalized learning and the emancipatory potential of play. Defined as the application of game-like elements to non-game contexts, proponents of gamification often frame it as a means of increasing engagement and motivation in educational settings (p. 596). However, as the authors argue, this approach frequently reduces play to a mechanized system of behavioural conditioning, aligning more closely with behaviourist paradigms (i.e. organized around principles like reward or punishment) than with the liberatory ethos of meaningful education. As they put it, “rather than advancing education, we risk turning back the clock on decades of critical pedagogy and social research to replace the sandbox of play with a Skinner box of behavioral conditioning†(Nolan & McBride, 2014, p. 605).
This statement underscores a central paradox: that gamification, while ostensibly designed to enhance engagement, often privileges extrinsic rewards over intrinsic motivation, subordinating the organic exploration of knowledge to standardized incentives. This is sharply discordant with the ludic spirit developed by Huizinga (1938), which derives its essential nature and significance from its capacity to disrupt our prosaic appetites (i.e. 9). Indeed, this interlude is markedly outside of 'ordinary life' (p. 13), which is precisely how it fosters free exploration and creative thinking beyond the delimiting function of instrumentalized outcomes.
Tensions between gamification and play are especially palpable in traditional education paradigms that uphold distinctly standardized views about higher learning and development. As Sutton-Smith (1997) elaborates via his rhetorics of play, while traditional education curricula may [virtue] signal the value of academic freedom, creativity and engagement, this is undermined by its interrelated hidden or null dimensions; indeed, like any dominant ideology, this means that it operates saliently with respect to its views and conventions (i.e. hidden), and latently to obscure narratives and epistemologies that undermine its authority (i.e. null). For instance, by privileging neoliberal tenets like competition and progress (as seen in gamified learning models), schools reinforce structures that necessarily discourage the imaginary and frivolous features of play. In short, daydreamers and mavericks need not apply. It comes as no surprise then that the response to gamified learning in education has been so ambivalent. Many students (and I am not exception) have encountered classroom gamification techniques (i.e. points systems, badges, and competitive leaderboards), and how such techniques operate in service of compliance vs. curiosity (Nolan & McBride, 2014, p. 605).
Last week we unpacked some of these theoretical positions via the hack-a-game-game exercise. Modding the game allowed learners to hack the rules (which we can frame as the dominant educational model) to better serve our idiosyncratic needs. Something I found at once amusing and troubling was how the freedom to mod initially elicited a feeling of dread. The comfort of rules and by extension, conformity, is so embedded that we are suspect of our own creative impulses, and ways of thinking and understanding. As we all acclimated to the basics of the game and to each other, we were able to gradually insert ourselves into the game in ways that reproduced the initial novelty over and over again. This casted into sharp relief how simply following the rules as accurately as possible can foster an almost neurotic playstyle, one premised upon winning, of course, but also being vigilant of other players (specifically, their blunders). Under the usual constraints, we are rewarded for being the best Gerber baby of them all, as expressed through our ability to regurgitate, and by extension, remove ourselves from the text (that pesky "I", so prone to error).
This is not unlike standardized testing and entrance exams, which seem to place more value on how well students take tests than their actual knowledge base. As someone who always struggled with standardized testing, I learned early on how to parse school from my interests. From the vantage point of graduate school, I could work through a lot of insecurities, such that I view how I learn and engage as a strength rather than as a problem. As well, I see how even peers that excelled in those environments had to rediscover their interests beyond the grading scale. Across the spectrum of failure to success, then, modding education - i.e. honouring autonomy and diversity of experience - does justice to the person, and their right to learn in an intrinsically exploratory and creative way.
I. Digital games can be considered dynamic systems in which different elements interact one with another in response to rules set by designers, commands controlled by artificial intelligence, and the input of the player.
(Marone, 2016, p. 6)
II. Digital games, as systems, models, and microworlds, provide a playful and participatory environment open to exploration, manipulation, and modification, within and beyond the boundaries of the game.(Marone, 2016, p. 13)
Marone's (2016) formulation of digital games (DGs) and learning, playful constructivism, is premised upon a rejection of a traditional approach that positions DGs as defined primarily through a conventional set of rules and outcomes (p. 3). With respect to the latter perspective, he illustrates how delineating DGs in this way effectively sections them off from the broader social and cultural sphere, of which they inextricably imbricated in. Analogous to the familiar critique that no research happens in a vacuum - i.e. cannot be extricated from its sociohistorical and ideological context. Marone (2016) argues how this framing shortchanges the pedagogical and creative utility of DGs. This is a good theoretical set up for his distinction between consumption and creation (Marone, 2016, p. 13), as it foregrounds the political implications of divorcing DGs from their aforementioned contingencies. DGs are not 'neutral' objects, nor is our engagement with them, which is similarly informed and shaped by our own individual circumstances.
While aligning with Marone (2016), his vision for DGs as a vehicle for participatory engagement and cultural expression struck me as a touch aspirational(cue tired and borderline unrelated tangent about democracy as move of a striving then a static goal). I have no problem with this per se, but it did stir in me an appeal to think reflexively (regardless of which position we resonate with). Something can sound 'liberatory' but be used to completely different effect (perhaps this is why Gramsci cultivated a healthy degree of suspicion for anything that gradually came into 'the main'... especially if we identified with it). It is hard to hold identification and suspicion (or critique) at the same time, which is in part why I can sympathize with the impulse to formalize a la Caillois (1958). Identifying overarching patterns that can be used to anticipate or mitigate against particular outcomes is a comforting thought for many, I'm sure.
At the same time, this current of thinking is also highly deterministic... a slippery slope where sociotechnical forces operate behind the scenes and beyond our conscious awareness. Enter the passive consumer. Indeed, this idea of structured world with an underpinning set of rules is also 'aspirational,' but is paradoxically limited in scope. In Marone (2016) we are offered a more balanced and integrative narrative, one where sociotechnical relations between players and DGs are co-constitutive (see actor-network theory). Both are afforded a degree of agency, which is to say that they actively shape each other. While we may not be able to anticipate each other's actions, intentionality, and the like, that is both the joy and tension of the modern prosumer.
Before signing off, let's return to some of the creative and participatory dimensions of DGs that Marone (2016) highlights via a personal anecdote. Recently, my girlfriend and I have been stuck into the zombie surivival simulator Project Zomboid (PZ). From the name and crude graphics alone, one could easily overlook the depth and spectrum of play and experience PZ has on offer. PZ is currently early access, which means that it is evolving in tandem with player input. Some opt for the more conventional, higher stakes playstyles: they want the defaulthorrors, the bottomless, insatiable horde, punishing character creation customization (e.g. claustrophobic, out-of-shape, slow learner, etc.), the hostile weather conditions. Others, however, may take an entirely different approach.
My girlfriend and I are partial to builder mode, where gameplay is organized around construction and exploration (this is also helpful for getting used to the controls and mechanics). On our most recent run, we spent several hours consolidating a skill library and record collection. Although our initial plan was to focus on combat and survival, I was bitten earlier on (which is lethal so you would basically be postponing the inevitable); rather than start fresh, we pivoted to a build and exploration focus. Because the worst had already happened, I felt confident to head off into the unknown while my girlfriend fortified our homebase. With some fresh bandages in tow (to attenuate my mortal dilhemma), I trekked across a significant portion of the map, collecting various items and ephemera along the way. When I reached maximum carrying capaacity, my girlfriend would use the fast travel mechanic to warp me back to her location. Rinse and repeat. In the end, I eventually succumbed to my circumstances, while my partner watched some television, read a bit of literature, and cultivated her carpentry skills. When we ascribe linearity to play, we risk losing the language for articulating these experiences, and by extension, other forms of relationality. You can read about another great example of this in the context of Minecraft here.
Caillois, R. (1958). "The definition of play and the classification of games". In man, play and games(pp. 122-155). The University of Illinois Press.
Marone, V. (2016). Playful constructivism: making sense of digital games for learning and creativity through play, design, and participation. The Journal of Virtual Worlds Research, 9(3), 1-18.
This post responds to two definitions of "games" sourced from The Definition of Game:
game / n. (pl.-games) an interactive form of recreation characterized by an opposition between forces. game / n. (pl.-games) a series of decisions characterized by a structured conflict. game / n. (pl.-games) a series of rules that involves an act of exploration soliciting a performative action.I chose these definitions based on how they attend to the more intrinsic qualities of a game (i.e. rule-based, immersive, and relational) irrespective of genre. While the idea of rules may seem like a negative constraint, this delineating function can actually facilitate creative expression rather than impede it. Put differently, this orientating dimension provides important scaffolding upon which play can develop and evolve. Of course, this is complicated by accessibility considerations, in the sense that our ability to express hinges upon a basic (or standard) understanding of the rules of the game. Another aspect of these definitions that resonated were their deemphasis on winning or losing as the central outcome. For instance, I tend to gravitate towards games that are more process-orientated, where the most immersive or evocative aspects of the game occur long before the intended ending.
What I liked about the third definition was its emphasis on the performative, which proffers the relational character of games beyond obvious examples like multi-player gameplay. Even in singleplayer mode, where interactions with NPCs are ostensibly synthetic and one-sided, my participation in the game itself evokes the social via my performance in the story (i.e. engagement) and the affective resonance between myself and the characters therein (which in turn connect me to the creators). In considering these affective and performative dimensions, we can better grasp why games that appear to adhere to a procedural or linear logic can still move us across a broad spectrum of subjective experience.
to do list
- add flicker effect
- migrate buttons
- link nav bar content
- review for redundant code
- lists of note (e.g. videogames)
