On Minkomora

Kikopa Games’ Minkomora places you in a strange world of bright colors and abstract shapes forming a myriad of creatures, characters, and environments. You start in the small, modest home of your character and head out to explore. Outside your house is a message reading: ”Don’t be afraid of dying or missing out” and a hint to press Enter to find your way back home. This world is full of red triangular things surrounded by a squiggly red aura that affects the music while turning your character’s face red and distorting the screen when you stand near it. The world hosts plenty of other figures, some that seem to represent people, others that seem to represent plants, and others that represent…um, I don’t know--blobby things. Or at least I didn’t know what those blobby things were until I read the game’s digital manual.

Minkomora can be played in-browser and comes with a pdf download of a manual with instructions of the game’s controls alongside beautifully drawn art of the characters and a detailed map of the world as well as descriptions for each of the places you can visit and the creatures you can meet. The manual communicates the games values, which are directly in line with merritt kopas’s Soft Chambers, a design philosophy emphasizing warm introspection, emotion, and explorations of caring relationships. The manual gives life, detail, and meaning to Minkomora’s world, depicting the obscure, blobby characters of the game with clear shapes and physical attributes not seen in the game. You can identify immediately which characters correspond to what in-game representation, but the manual’s art fills in the gaps of your imagination. For example, we recognize the player character in the manual from the moon-shaped mark on its face that also appears in the game. But during play, we see the character wearing an ambiguous purple outfit, while the manual depicts the character in a sweatshirt-skirt combo.

I learn through the manual that the “red triangular things” are plants called Kitagona that emit heat that may feel pleasant to some and overbearing to others. I learn that each of the characters represents a intrapersonal or interpersonal temperament or behavior, and the manual suggests how these traits might make one feel and asks what I think and how I relate to them. The manual tells me I deserve care, reminds me that some creatures need time to develop trust in others, and asks me how extreme dedication to a task can be dangerous.

I’m too young to have any meaningful nostalgia for videogame manuals. The only manuals that I have a memory of looking at are Sonic Heroes’--you know, the one that describes Eggman as a feminist--and Jak and Daxter’s fold-out map and guide that I ripped because seven-year-old boys have no patience with folding. But Minkomora’s manual invokes such a nostalgia, as Leigh Alexander and Mike Joffe note. The game, however, doesn’t incorporate nostalgia to indulge in past gaming memories, as Joffe also mentions, but rather to subvert our expectations by providing a guide for a game space that is safe and welcoming rather than one that is hostile and demands to be mastered or conquered.

Minkomora is much like the original Legend of Zelda. In both games, you play as a silent protagonist thrust into a strange world with distinct areas that you’re free to explore. You encounter indecipherably designed creatures with weird names and have to figure out how your character relates to them. Of course this is where the two games branch off. In the Legend of Zelda your relationship to the strange creatures is one of aggression, in which the crude sprites attack you and throw shit at you on sight. The solution to their assault is to fight back, you find, since pressing A causes you to thrust out a sword. Your relationship to the game world, then, is based on mastery of the combat so that you can navigate the environments safely, discover new areas, and face more challenging foes. Minkomora, in implicitly acknowledging its similarities to Zelda, lets you know up front (even without the manual) that in this world you don’t need to employ the violence you’ve been habituated to use in games. “Don’t be afraid of dying or missing out.” You cannot be killed in this world, and you can always come back. You can’t thrust out a sword or throw bombs or shoot arrows; you can only walk and sit. Minkomora only asks that you take in the sights and sounds of a place and that you think about how that place makes you feel.

Unfortunately, on my first run, I didn’t know how to feel about Minkomora.

The game’s itch.io page reads: “You can read the manual first, keep it with you while you play, or play first and compare your interpretations with those in it later.” I tend to want to dive into a text with as little influence from what’s outside the text as possible, aiming for a “pure” initial response that can be challenged through reading reviews, criticism, and other examples of what I recently learned is called paratext after engaging with a piece of media. For example, after finishing a game, I often type its title into the search bar of Critical Distance to look for pieces that either articulate and clarify abstract feelings I have about the game or provide a perspective I haven’t even considered. Though I couldn’t and didn’t want to avoid the paratext of Minkomora’s web page, I decided to avoid the manual at first because it involves direct interpretations of the game world and the objects represented in it.

The first time I took my character out of its home was a confusing experience that left me anxious and disappointed in myself. While roaming around the world of Minkomora was somewhat pleasant with its bright colors and cute music, I was unable to meaningfully engage with the game because I was too wrapped up in finding a meaning to the objects in the space that I could test against the manual’s interpretations. I wasn’t emotionally connecting with the space because I was looking for an immediacy to the answers about why the characters exist and the reasons for their designs, and I didn’t want to rely on the authors to give me those answers. I wanted to come up with them on my own and have my own thoughts, at least before reading the manual. But the focus on this self-indulgent, shallow end goal of “figuring out” Minkomora in order to feel smart damaged my experience with the game. In my impatience to understand the game’s meaning, I failed to heed to the latter part of the game’s message, “Don’t be afraid of...missing out.” 

In both my schooling and in the criticism I read, I am told patience and visiting works multiple times are very important in engaging with art and in meaning-making, and while I’ve definitely gotten better at working slowly towards understandings of works, my experience with Minkomora shows I still have a long way to go. I still sometimes feel an urgency to know what a text is saying and doing without taking the time to put the work in. Part of this impatience is certainly caused by critical inexperience and immaturity, but I think another part is pressure in critical spheres to be the person who can consistently say the Smart, Interesting, and Correct things about art--a pressure that you must always be on the ball and have the answers and wisdom ready to be imparted onto others, especially readers. This pressure can motivate me to go for the A in class and try to get more pageviews for this blog, but I think it also prevents me from not only enjoying art but also from developing a healthy pace to think through difficult or more obscure work and from thinking about how a work makes me feel.

I’d also like to tackle another reason why I didn’t read the manual before playing: the idea that the author’s intent should not matter to the player, who can and should form the meaning of the text on her own. While I still believe that an audience member’s interpretation that diverges from the author’s intent is 100% valid, to dismiss the author’s words on her own work entirely seems just as arrogant as the author irritated at her audience for not “getting it.” Shutting out conversations between authors and audiences only seems to limit our understandings of what we create and what we engage with. My fear was that Minkomora’s manual would try to dictate the game’s meaning to me and spoil whatever my personal experience would bring to the game, but the manual’s writing couldn’t be any less didactic. The manual constantly asks how you feel about the game’s characters and its spaces and wonders contemplatively about them rather than mandates concrete meanings. While I’m sitting here fretting about what these horseshoe-looking shapes are, Minkomora’s manual wants to foster a friendly, relaxed discourse about a world surviving on care. 

For me, reading Minkomora’s manual turned the game world from a disorienting space into one I actively want to inhabit and explore. I’ve returned to the game several times after having read the manual, and those experiences have been much more enjoyable than the first time I played the game. I like hanging out with Kotnakon, a spider creature who carries me around the map out of its love for helping others but needs to rest after working too hard for others, reminding me of my plans to focus more on myself next semester. I like swimming alongside Nurek in the lake, though I never manage to lose myself so completely in my strokes as it does. The game’s manual gives me a way to relate to its world in a beautiful way that I probably wouldn’t have found even if I did have the patience to thoughtfully engage with Minkomora’s imagery on my own. The manual shapes my view of the game’s world as a friendly and mysterious place while at the same time letting me come to my own conclusions about how my character relates to the others and the areas outside its home. The manual is cute, charming, and opens up Minkomora’s world, and the game is certainly better for it. Next time I play an artgame like Minkomora, I just need to swallow my pride, stop worrying so much about my interpretive abilities, and stop being afraid of missing out. I'm never going to have all the answers, and I'm probably not even supposed to.

On Virtual Bodies, Aspirational Projection, and (Kin)aesthetics of Power Fantasy

[This post contains mild spoilers for Metal Gear Rising: Revengeance]

[TW: discussion of violence, references to depression, homophobia, sexual objectification]

Talking about games as “power fantasies” is certainly a rhetoric that videogame critics have indulged in for quite a time now. The context for labeling games as such often involves criticizing the overabundance of AAA games centering on violent modes of interaction and simplistic narrative tropes with conservative gender politics (e.g. the powerful male hero defeats other men in combat to save the damsel in distress). Critiques invoking “power fantasy” often go along with calls for games with warmer, more pedestrian stories and a diversification of authors and subject matter. “Power fantasy,” for good reason, is often a derogatory term to describe a game that doesn’t engage with anything outside of typical, thoughtless, and often masculinized systems of violence that the mainstream game industry consistently regurgitates at us. But lately, instead of outright dismissing power fantasies, I’ve been thinking about how even though a focus on violent power fantasy limits games, their aesthetics of violence can be quite diverse, and categorizing all power fantasy as worthless and homogenous is reductive. I’ve been thinking about how individual players react differently to different kinds of power fantasy and what that might say about our relationships to games and our desires and ambitions. And no, I’m not talking about some primal lust for violence or other such nonsense. Luckily for me, last month (as I was finishing up Bayonetta), smart critics were exploring similar threads.

Kaitlin Tremblay wrote about different motives for choosing character classes in videogames, including how we as players see ourselves or want to see ourselves in the real world. Tremblay says that she plays “loud, boisterous, overly hulked up man characters”--Brick and Salvador in the Borderlands series--because they “unapologetically take up space,” something Tremblay strives to be able to do in her own life. She says that in real life she tends to stay out of people’s way as if invisible, but in games, Brick and Salvador present a power fantasy that allows her to assert a presence and strength that she aspires to. For Tremblay, playing big bulky men allows her to perform a physicality and personality that she doesn’t typically experience in real life. And that’s just what power fantasy lets players do--perform what we don’t or can’t in the real world in a controlled environment in which the consequences for “fantastic” behavior are mitigated.

Like Tremblay, I too tend to stay “small” and out of the way. I feel like I’m always the person waiting in a line in a cafeteria or dining hall who people walk in front of to get to the hamburgers on the other side of the line. But unlike Tremblay, in videogames, I tend to identify with characters who coincide with my smallness or my short and skinny body. Playing the huge characters with brute strength often doesn’t feel “right” to me; their typically slow movements and largeness means they’re more vulnerable to attack. Even though these types of characters are usually able to take more damage than other classes, I prefer feeling safe in smallness or the ability to escape or avoid danger.

My favorite character in the new Super Smash Bros. is the Villager (particularly the girl with pink hair and sparkly eyes). She’s a tiny, adorable, harmless-looking cartoon who destroys fools with pedestrian objects like gardening tools, umbrellas, and turnips. Her attacks with strong kickback and good range subvert the expectations of her cutesy aesthetics. Part of the power fantasy is this aesthetic subversion; I like the idea of disrupting people’s expectations of me based on past behavior. I resent my social anxiety and shyness mostly, but I sometimes get to surprise people for it with some enthusiastic outburst or intense drunken dancing. A lot of people were surprised when I dyed my hair pinkish red because my “small” behaviors similar to Tremblay’s description of her own led others to believe I wasn’t “outgoing” enough for a distinct appearance. On the Gaur Plains stage, I like to play the small, quiet Villager standing on a platform right below the top of the screen and jump up to whack unsuspecting or distracted opponents with my turnips. Dirty, I know.

My other strategy with the Villager is pretty damn cheap. I tend to spam Lloid rockets at my opponents while dodging behind a tree I plant as enemies get close. That “FUCKING TREE,” as my friends call it, does incredible damage when I chop it down and let it fall on an opponent, launching her across the screen. It’s a lot of fun frustrating my friends with the rockets and punishing them with the tree if they dare get too close, all while the Villager sports that morbidly innocent grin. It’s also probably unfair. Over at Offworld, Aevee Bee wrote about a similar playstyle using the character Ramlethal in Guilty Gear who keeps opponents at bay with huge airborne swords that allow her to become “someone who controls the conditions of touch.” For Bee, the power fantasy Ramlethal provides involves the power “to hurt but not be hurt” as a metaphor for protecting her gains towards “being happy in a human body” while the stakes are so high as long as everyone threatens to invade either physically or emotionally. My own practice with the Villager represents to me my need born of anxiety to create a comfort zone that pushes people out and my ire at those who would threaten that comfort by getting too close. This power fantasy, unlike Tremblay’s choice of Brick and Salvador, is not an aspirational projection. I don’t like this behavior of mine. Without my knowing, I made someone I thought was nice and cool think I hated them. Even some of my best friends say they’ve wondered if I even like them. My one friend calls me “cactus-y.” My strategy with the Villager represents some of my current problematic tendencies rather than ones I aspire to.

Aevee Bee’s great piece was the first that helped me understand how violent power fantasy can craft a language in which we project our emotional struggles of real-life interpersonal conflict on to the physical struggles of virtual bodies. The aesthetics of the characters we embody and the enemies or obstacles we face, as well as the kinaesthetics of combat, piece together some warped mirror that reflects back some aspect of ourselves, an aspect we wish to see in ourselves, or a mix as Todd Harper's "Lady Boss" character in Saints Row 3 does for him. While the Villager is a more reflective power fantasy for me, my aspirational ones involve a unreal physicality that can perform speed, nimbleness, and perfect acrobatics. With characters like Sheik, Fox, Zero Suit Samus, and Meta Knight in Smash, I like to maintain an aggressive unpredictability. These characters can run across the map, deal out damage in swift combos, and dart away once things get hairy. Their attacks and movements display a mysterious and unreal dexterity that allows them to juggle opponents with ease and dodge their attacks. There’s a chance that these characters can be perfect in their performance, as Bee says: “untouchable.” The big, slow characters like Ganondorf and Bowser will necessarily be hit, but they can take it (Ganondorf can charge his warlock punch through enemy attacks), while the characters I usually play should be dangerous forces that gracefully avoid other dangers. To look at games outside of Smash, here is another example of this physicality: 

The first time I saw this cutscene I thought about how cool it would be to be able to perform that sort of physicality in real life--to perfect this deadly dance of flips, kicks, dodges, sword slices, and various contortions. Near flawless skill in the face of danger. A few years after I first played Metal Gear Solid 4, I was able to perform this physicality in a virtual body in Metal Gear Rising: Revengeance. Now, I’ve already talked about how aesthetics in character design and kinaesthetics of combat affect how we perceive the power fantasies we consume. But we also can’t neglect the importance of narrative context in shaping our understanding of why we use such powers in a diegesis.

Metal Gear Rising invalidates the “coolness” of the power fantasy by having Raiden self-categorize as a monster whose only skill is hurting people. The pain of his past as a brutal child soldier and his guilt at his continued violent tendencies makes him a somewhat uncomfortable character to inhabit, especially after he embraces his “Jack the Ripper” persona. He resolves to save others, especially children, from turning into killing machines at the hands of tyrants like he was. It’s a self-deprecating sort of power fantasy about feeling worthless--like some inhuman cyborg--while trying to redeem yourself by preventing others from experiencing the same pain. Raiden performs a perfect physicality of precise movements and strength so that no one else should have to. He’s a Christ figure of sorts who instead acts as a negative example to his followers--he reprimands George for wanting to be a powerful cyborg like him. (I don’t know consume much superhero media, but I could guess that this sort of thing is a trope for the genre.)

Much like the average videogame player (presumably), Raiden has a problematic relationship with violence (virtual in the player’s case), but genuinely cares about the world and the people he is close to. As Aevee Bee concludes in her Offworld piece, “It’s not that I want to really hurt anyone. I just want to speak with the language of that power.” Raiden seems to think that physical violence is the only language he can use for his purpose--to keep people safe--just as the videogame industry often appears to think violence is the only way to let players interact with games. While I don’t know if Raiden has a feasible alternative to violence, I know that videogames can give players a language other than violence to interact with their worlds and build meaningful experiences. But as myself and other critics have made clear, violence in games can be an effective way to explore ourselves and project our conflicts onto situations in a controlled environment.

Lastly, I want to talk about Bayonetta. Bayonetta is, as Todd Harper suggested after reading Bee’s piece, another example of an “untouchable” character. In between punching, kicking, shooting from her stiletto heels, and occasionally turning into a panther, a crow, or a group of bats, she does tumbles and flips around enemies. At the precise moment before being hit, she can dodge out of the way, slowing down time to recover and dole out swift combos summoning demonic appendages made of her hair. Her acrobatics are flashy, graceful, goofy, and famously (or infamously) sexualized. She flaunts her body at the camera, teases characters in the cutscenes, and exudes a cool attitude and nonchalant swagger, all while beating the crap out of fascist angels.

The power fantasy of Bayonetta resonates with me as I struggle to come out as bisexual to my friends and family. Besides a simple desire to be able to feel sexy, snarky, and mysteriously powerful, I project my aspirations of confidence in my sexuality onto Bayonetta. I want to be able to express my sexual identity casually, with a boldness that is threatening--like how many perceive Bayonetta’s own sexuality as “threatening”--to those who might throw emotional abuse my way. I want to feel comfortable about myself in an arrogant way that scares people who would threaten my comfort by invalidating my feelings and trying to reshape the narrative of my identity, like the hierarchy of angels planning to usher in a new world order by remaking the universe in their liking. I’ve been wanting to take on this attitude for months, but I’ve only been able to enact it through Bayonetta.

But I feel uncomfortable with my indulgence of Bayonetta’s power fantasy. While Bayonetta lets me play as a sexually arrogant character without an annoying hypermasculinity (such as Dante’s in DmC: Devil May Cry) as this metaphorical power fantasy of partial liberation from the closet, some women find the character an example of harmful sexual objectification. I have no intention of interpreting the game’s gender politics because they are very complicated, and I have no stakes in the conversation. But my enjoyment of inhabiting Bayonetta’s body remains in the face of that same body being upsetting to others. Todd Harper, again, wrote about the same discomfort regarding his enjoyment of women avatars in general, including Dragon Crown’s problematic female characters:

“In a way, it worries me that the gaming bodies I often feel most comfortable in are exaggerated and sexual stereotypes of women, because I don’t identify as a woman, or as having a woman’s body, and that puts me in the uncomfortable position of arguing for characters that I enjoy even while recognizing their potential harm to others. To put it another way: can I only enjoy these characters because for me as a cis man, the rhetorical stakes are so low?”

A full-fledged discussion on “consuming media responsibly” in regards to inhabiting virtual bodies different from our own is beyond the scope of this post, and I just don’t have the tools to think about it. The oversimplified, vague answer is to think about everything with nuance, and maybe that's the right thing to do, even if leaving different experiences and opinions in contradiction feels unsatisfactory.

The violent power fantasies of videogames can provide us an impactful way of thinking about the conflicts in our lives. But I don’t know if we can or if we should even try to reconcile the value of virtual violence with our general distaste of violence in the real world, especially when, for some people, violence feels inescapable everywhere. Games have done valuable things as power fantasies (even “male” ones), but games can be and are more than empowerment through violence. And I don’t know how to negotiate the way certain virtual bodies can be gratifying and empowering for some and hurtful and triggering for others. All I can do is speak to the truth of how I project my own experience through the language that games provide.

Thoughts on "Post-cutscene" and Ludonarrative

So a recap of This Week in Games Twitter features lots of talk from critics about critical approaches regarding the alleged separation of “mechanics” from narrative in games. You should essentially read this storify of the conversations and this piece by Lulu Blue, as well as this. Basically, the discourse was framed around exasperation of essentializing “mechanics” and “systems” in games while ignoring or trivializing the other more abstract or “non-ludic” elements of games in an approach Austin Howe called ludocentrism and an ideology Stephen Beirne called ludo-fundamentalism. I agree with Stephen Beirne in that a ludocentric approach is not really the problem as much as the idea of valuing the “game” parts of games over everything else is, because, as Lana Polansky says, these parts are all “inseparably bound by context.”

So an example of ludo-fundamentalism is Chris Franklin's video essay on The Last of Us, an otherwise really good critique that criticizes the game’s “oil and water” structure of separating gameplay and cutscenes in the way that AAA games have done for years, suggesting that The Last of Us thinks that story and gameplay “have nothing to do with one another.” He says this even though he acknowledges that the gameplay is consistent with the game’s aesthetic and tone:

“Resources are scarce, punishments are swift and harsh, you feel a little underpowered, and the gun sway and clunky animation driven nature of melee combat all intentionally convey a sense of tension and of desperation. It’s actually a really cool use of mechanics to build texture in the narrative, but unfortunately that’s really all they do for the narrative.”

The mechanics of The Last of Us complement the characters’ context in a harsh, brutal world with combat that is harsh, brutal, slow, and methodical. I did not find playing The Last of Us fun; I found it stressful, coinciding with the stress and tension shown by the characters in the cutscenes. Franklin and I would probably disagree on the fundamental merit of The Last of Us’ combat because I don’t believe it plays anything like Uncharted. But Franklin’s problem is that the “powerful...quiet moments...only really exist in the cutscenes.” I would firstly disagree with that (a scene that shows Ellie’s childlike excitement that Joel can hardly keep up with), and I just don’t buy that every interaction needs to build the characters or progress the story. I think that a cohesion with context does the job no matter the method of storytelling and avoids *sky darkens* ludonarrative dissonance *lightning strikes behind the window*. There are different methods for storytelling and narrative structure, and cutscenes can be useful.

This leads me to Zolani Stewart’s recent thoughts on defining a recent trend in AAA games he calls "post-cutscene," which he defines as:

“[rejecting] the ‘game->cutscene->game’ structure of mid-2000s AAA, instead strives for the ‘seamless’ experience”

So here are games opposed to the structure of games like The Last of Us (though it’s significant to note that The Last of Us does have post-cutscene bits, including the scene I linked as well as exploring abandoned communities and collecting artifacts). It seems that the kinds of games Zolani is talking about are games in which the narrative (generally) “happens” (even though the narrative is always “happening”) while you are still in control of either the player character or at least the camera. These games can also tend to have a heavily controlled aesthetic that works towards cohesive “environmental storytelling.”

Games like Bioshock, Portal, Half-Life 2, and even Skyrim and Dark Souls fit this bill.

I argue that the “post-cutscene” design ideology can work wonderfully for some games and some situations and fail miserably in others. In games like Bioshock and Gone Home, post-cutscene design works well with the sense of mystery those games evoke. Poking around environments slowly fills you in on details of the game worlds as you try to piece together what exactly happened to Rapture and where everyone went in the Greenbriar house. Environmental storytelling is great for building a sense of intrigue in places where important events already took place, but please, no more obvious graffiti.

Post-cutscene design also works when dialogue comes from disembodied voices or unique characters who are moving individually and separate from you. Again, Bioshock, Portal, and Half-Life 2. It also works in stealth games like Dishonored, in which you feel very clever and sneaky for eavesdropping on conversations from vents and keyholes. The problems and limitations of post-cutscene design seem to arise when designers populate an area with non-essential NPCs to add texture to an environment. Yesterday I started playing Bioshock Infinite (I know, I’m so sorry), and the beginning section when you explore the July 6th fair before the first gunfight is just a mess. I walk up to citizens, triggering set dialogue in which the NPCs talk amongst themselves. Once the dialogue is finished, the NPCs stare idly and loop through their animations, not acknowledging the player character’s awkward proximity to the group during personal, private conversations. Rarely an NPC would say ‘good morning’ to me, but after one did, his unblinking face would simply follow my gaze until I walked far away enough for his animation to reset. In a corner behind some stairs, a man stands legs crossed and leans in to kiss an uncomfortable, frightened woman who pushes him back. I get real close to them, but the animation just repeats. They don’t notice me as I’m on top of them, and I’m unable to stop this creepy scene from playing out again and again. It’s a frustrating and also freaky effect. On top of that, you can trigger dialogue from far away and not hear it well or know where it comes from. In the main square where tons of groups of people enjoy the activities and demonstrations, you have know idea where to turn, and subtitles just make the area more confusing by displaying what’s being said from far away rather than what’s close.

Games that employ post-cutscene design ideology tend to be marketed as “immersive experiences” with “living, breathing worlds.” Bioshock Infinite is not a living, breathing world; it is a flashy museum with freaky animatronics (and literal animatronic horses). Skyrim suffers from similar problems, but at least it acknowledges the player. Again, it’s not a living world, but it is a fun playground that you can poke and prod at, whereas Infinite is a museum that might as well have signs reading “don’t touch.”  

  

Zolani Stewart went on to say that post-cutscene is a response to ludonarrative dissonance. But The Last of Us doesn’t really suffer from ludonarrative dissonance; it simply separates gameplay bits from story bits (sorta). And Bioshock Infinite creates its own dissonance (not ludonarrative) in its poor attempt to tell me that people live in Columbia, that it is a lively city. And of course, we all know the claims for Bioshock's ludonarrative dissonance. So this movement to “seamlessly” integrate mechanics and narrative is false in its ludo-fundamentalism. I think that games should continue to experiment with the way they’re structured, and there are some excellent AAA post-cutscene games. But adopting this design ideology solely because a game must be a game first is not going to make better games. Designers should attempt to figure out how to structure games and their “systems” in a way that best coincides with context: when it’s appropriate to use cutscenes, when to use exploration, and when to use text.

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I’m sorry that I used “ludonarrative dissonance” in this post. I’m sorry that I talked about The Last of Us and Bioshock Infinite in this post, because the world totally needs more words on those games… Have a nice day.

Signal Boost: A Year of Reading Games Criticism... and Twitter

So yeah. 2014. It’s done. This year saw a lot of pain for a lot of people and the larger culture. Personally, I’ve grown so much this year, and so many positive things have entered my life. I exited my awful high school (though parts of me probably still linger there). I started a blog. I got my driver’s license. I met tons of new friends in college who I love. I, in general, feel more confident, despite making some mistakes.

I also learned a lot about video games and culture this year--things that, no matter what happens to me in the coming years, will make me a better person who’s more aware of things happening around me. And for that, I have many people to thank. I’m using this post to talk about people whose work has been enjoyable, challenging, and/or informative for me, your local internet rando, to follow this year.

I’ve been following Carolyn Petit’s work since she first joined GameSpot, the site I read the most through high school. She was probably the first writer I’ve read in games who seemed completely honest and sincere. She brings such a warmth to her writing and a genuine desire for games to do better that I admire so much. This year she was laid off at GameSpot but continues to write at her blog A Game of Me. I really hope things fall into place for her in 2015.

Anita Sarkeesian’s Tropes vs. Women in Video Games challenged me in a time when I considered myself a feminist “ally” (ew) instead of a feminist, late in 2013. Living around toxic people had made me ambivalent towards her work, when so many label her as “extreme” or whatever and say literally ANYTHING to try to discredit her. But actually engaging with her work has been sort of a springboard for me into reading other feminist critiques of media and social critiques in general regarding the issues marginalized people face. Her work has been essential for me to understand the more challenging things I try to read now. In some ways her work is mostly 101-level and very accessible, which is a good thing, because everyone has to start somewhere.

I don’t remember the Leigh Alexander piece I first read. It was probably on Kotaku before I started following her on Twitter. It was probably very good. I love just about all her writing, especially her ability to show that the people who make games, who play games, and who write about them, are people, not soap opera characters airing 24/7 on Twitter. Some of her writing feels especially tailored to me, someone interested in getting into games (whatever that even means) while realizing some of the ugliness in the industry, in the culture. My favorites works from her this year are her piece on the closing of Irrational Games, her short fictional story The Unearthing, and her wonderful book Clipping Through, all personal (one speculative) experiences detailing flaws in the industry as well as the space’s brighter side. She clearly wants games to be better, and reading her work makes me want games to be better too for all the good people involved in them, even if we can't in some ways. Check out the rest of her work this year in her year in review.    

In a strange twist of fate, I met Amanda Lange’s husband at a university I was thinking about attending during my college search. He took students interested in Communications as a major into a classroom to discuss the university as well as writing. He asked us all what we wanted to do of course, and I said “game critic,” a deviation from my usual procedure of dodging the funny looks by saying a generic “writer.” He laughed, which made me very nervous, but then said his wife was a developer and critic. He took my e-mail and later Amanda sent me a very nice, detailed, and honest message about writing about games for a living. She also recommended I read the essential site Critical Distance and start this very blog. That’s a big reason for where I am in terms of reading and writing now! She writes cool reviews, impressions, and interviews with developers around the East Coast at Tap-Repeatedly and writes about game dev and other criticism while advocating for women and girls in game dev on her own blog. If I ever want to make a game, I’m sure I’ll be asking her some questions (maybe a goal for 2016?).

Kris Ligman is the senior curator of Critical Distance, which curates significant works of writing about games. It’s such an important source to find cool, weird, and interesting things people think about video games, and it’s where I found the writing of a lot of people on this list. Reading Critical Distance has all but changed the way I think about games and continues to do so. The site has also featured my submissions to its Blogs of the Round Table, which I greatly appreciate. I need to go through This Year in Videogame Blogging to see what good stuff I missed. The site has reached an important goal on Patreon recently, but only just barely. Kris and their contributors need and deserve all the support they can get for their awesome work.     

Closely tied to Critical Distance is Critical Proximity, a conference about games criticism organized by Zoya Street and held right before GDC. The talks archived on the blog are super good and formative, and I will probably take a look at them once a year. I’ve already linked a few in this post.

If Anita Sarkeesian made me question and think about gender more often, reading Jenn Frank made me get it. Her piece from two years ago I Was a Teenage Sexist was revelatory for me when I read it early this year. As was this piece from this year that settled my cognitive dissonance about wanting diverse businesses while thinking it’s best to hire by “merit,” an illusion that doesn’t take into account “institutional and internalized” biases. Furthermore, I could only dream to have Jenn Frank’s clarity, ease, and cleverness in her writing. She also wrote an excellent post on Tomodachi Life and our personal conceptions of others this year. Unfortunately, Jenn left games writing because of GG being terrible, and I was PISSED. Pissed at what happened to her but happy that she didn’t feel “beholden to video games” anymore. She is, however, in some capacity, writing about games, particularly Second Life despite her fears.

Cara Ellison kicked ass this year. Besides Critical Distance’s This Week in Video Game Blogging, Cara’s Embed With series (which you could support here) was what I would most anticipate reading in a regular rotation (the end of every month). Those posts are so important and so good, opening me up to creators, scenes, and ideas I didn’t know about before. The Embed Withs have a Disney-like magic to them (while being much more punk than Disney) that make them such a joy to read. I need to read the new one right after I post this! Her column on Rock Paper Shotgun S.EXE, on relationships and sex in video games is also excellent--insightful and fun. I also loved her game from last year Sacrilege.  

Maddy Myers is such a sharp writer that I went back to read a large portion of her work from her portfolio after I first came across her blog about Powerful Games Journalist Men. Sadly these “angry” posts are her most popular because “controversy,” but she does a lot of awesome work at Paste Magazine as well. Her GDC Diaries are great, she wrote a fun piece on Biocock Intimate and the portrayal of Elizabeth and a piece on the potential for Metroid and Alien to be more than superficially influential to new video games. She also did this helpful talk on the pretty sad state of games journalism.  Maddy is also a part of the Isometric Show, a lovely podcast with Brianna Wu, Steve Lubitz, and Georgia Dow that I listen to every week while playing Smash.

Speaking of Paste Magazine, they’ve been my favorite publication this year, featuring pieces on fashion by Gita Jackson, NPCs, race, and class by Austin Walker (who also made a cool cyberpunk game), and solid reviews by Javy Gwaltney, Carli Velocci, and Jed Pressgrove.

I also really like the Chris Franklin's very smart video essays. Ones I especially enjoyed this year were on Assassin's Creed: Freedom Cry, Civilization, and Valiant Hearts. You can support his work here.

I enjoyed Cameron Kunzelman’s series of blog posts on the Assassin's Creed series, and I also played a chunk of his games, my favorite of which was Alpaca Run. I backed his new game Epanalepsis on Kickstarter and am excited to play it. You can support him on Patreon here.  

Samantha Allen did the music for Alpaca Run (which is AWESOME) and also wrote cool stuff in 2014. She did the talk I linked a little earlier in this post. She also wrote a great piece about how playing games can become second nature until you have to teach someone. It definitely resonated with my experience trying to teach my niece how to play Kirby. Samantha unfortunately quit games writing because, again, gamers are terrible. She instead writes insightful pieces about gender and sexuality that you can find from her site. This post on Times’ terrible “Worst Words” list is something I should probably show to my college friends…

Brendan Keogh has too many blogs. Am I missing one? Anyway, I really like his list-style Notes reviews, like this one on Alien: Isolation, which can help unpack a variety of observations and interpretations in a sort of messy but easy-to-read form that seems to have its uses over focuses, formal essays. I’ve been thinking about adopting the approach myself if I’m ever inspired by a game to do so. I need to reread his letter to Susan Sontag on video game criticism, in which he is infectiously excited about the whole poking at games thing. One of my favorite sentences of games writing this year has been, “So if you want objective games journalism fuck off and read a calculator or something.” He also started critical Let's Plays this year of games such as Max Payne 3 and Modern Warfare, which you can support on Patreon. I also bought his book Killing Is Harmless recently (finally) but sadly haven’t found the time to read it yet. Hopefully soon.

Ed Smith writes with righteous snark that takes video games to task for, well, not always being so hot. Okay, sometimes he praises games, but his most memorable writing is his passionate call-outs and hilarious shots at game culture. One of my favorite posts this year was his retelling of Red Dead Redemption. I also thought this was a really interesting close-reading and interpretation of The Last of Us’ ending.

In 2015 I’ll be going through the archives of Mattie Brice's blog. She’s another woman who exited games this year because GAMERS and because she is not supported institutionally.  She’s written a ton of criticism as well as useful pieces about criticism itself as well as game design. I liked this post on games criticism in relation to academia, which makes me think about the impact my current education is having on my writing. She’s still around writing, and I also liked her thoughts interpretation over judging. Take a look at her year in review and consider supporting her on Patreon.

Stephen Beirne consistently challenges my perspective of games, such as in last year’s piece on the Last of Us and this year’s defense of loneliness in Final Fantasy XIII and Mass Effect 3, which I really appreciate. He has also done an extensive look at camera and composition in Final Fantasy VII. I haven’t played Final Fantasy VII, so I’m afraid to read it yet, but the idea of an in-depth look at how artistic techniques inform an interpretation is really cool. He also makes great header images! You can support his work here.

Lana Polansky is using techniques from different art forms and criticisms of those forms (such as digital art, literature and even photography to inform her development and criticism of games, which is super important in getting games out of this weird space in which it pays attention to nothing but games and nothing outside of games pays attention to it. She’s made several games this year, including this interactive poem and this lovely ice cream shoppe. She also wrote about the poetics of play and most recently "the author is dead, but the work is very much alive" regarding the tendency for games (and criticism) to put the player at the center. You can support her work here.  

Zolani Stewart takes a similar approach as Lana Polansky does in terms of looking to other mediums to talk about games. They even have a rad podcast together on Lana’s site in which they do close-readings of small art games, something I’d like to see more of. Zolani did a talk on Arts Criticism for Arts Games (you can view the well put together and very clear slides), which outlines his critical approaches and the need for games to branch out. He started a magazine for this kind of criticism called The Arcade Review, which I really need to read in 2015. You can support the magazine here. He’s also a Sonic the Hedgehog scholar and wrote one of my favorite pieces of the year on Sonic's spectrum between mascot and character.

The fashionable Austin C. Howe tweets a lot about metal and JRPGs. My favorite piece of his is on intertexuality and games about games, considering that intertextuality was one of the first approaches to literary criticism I learned and that I’d like to see more writing do closer intertextual analyses of games and also works across other media.

I first became aware of Katherine Cross and her work after watching this great panel at GaymerX about “Internetting while female,” which featured her as well as Carolyn Petit and Anita Sarkeesian. It became clear to me that she is very smart and very funny. She did a lot of great work responding to the Hash-Slinging Hashtag and also looked at the character Oh Eun-a from Christine Love's Hate Plus.

Jetta Rae DoubleCakes did an awesome series of interviews on women and gender non-comforming people in games. Those not listed elsewhere in this post are Christine Love, Soha Kareem, Toni Rocca, and Aevee Bee.       

I saved composer, artist, game designer, and critic Liz Ryerson for last because yesterday she posted this piece on being a marginalized creator on the internet (read it). I’ve been wanting to do this little roundup thing on writers I enjoyed reading this year for a few weeks now in part to document what I found relevant or affecting to me this year as I progressed in knowledge and in part show support for people whose work is often undervalued. A grim reality I learned this year is that (well, I knew but didn’t really know it until this year) is that (gaming) institutions do not care about the lives of marginalized people; they care more about maintaining and are scared of their audiences. Because there is no money in the games writing, especially for marginalized people and people interested in alternative ways of making and engaging with games, these people become direct competitors with each other on Patreon, competitors for visibility in order to get money from a dedicated readership. As many people have made it clear on Twitter or in their work, this system is not sustainable (though as Liz writes, it has allowed people to survive and remain in homes). This means that in order for some people to stay afloat as a marginalized person, according to Liz, they must “perform that action of being an important voice of outrage whose existence offers comfort to other people - and you might receive some kind of material or social support for that.” This leads to, as people have been saying on Twitter (I fucking hate Twitter by the way, hate all the voyeurism, need to take a break from it), to the “commodification” of marginalized voices in which they are only acknowledged when they write about their own marginalization. I think it was Zolani Stewart who questioned if marginalized people would only be remembered for being SJWs.

Liz goes on to say:

“sometimes it's hard to decipher whether someone is funding my Patreon because they want me to keep talking, or if it's that they think the money will finally satisfy me enough to shut me up from being challenging to my audience, or talking about issues that make them uncomfortable.”

This really hit me. Because you know what. I do want Liz to stop talking in certain ways because they do make me uncomfortable. That’s not to say she or we should ignore gross, abhorrent video game industry and culture shit, but to say that I want the bullshit to just go away, to not have to think about it ever again. That’s what we all want really. Those who write about these issues keep saying they want to stop writing about them.

I want Liz to keep talking because I should be uncomfortable, I deserve to be uncomfortable. I need voices like hers to challenge me, a relatively heteronormative, very white, very middle-class, naive, insecure, overly sentimental dude.

But. That is the most fucking selfish thing in the world.

Liz’s and everyone else’s “voice” are so much less important than the people behind them. These people deserve to eat, deserve homes, deserve emotional support, deserve self-care, and everything everybody else in the world deserves. Obviously.

It’s breaks my heart that video games are broken. But even more so because these people show up anyway. I don’t know whether to think that’s beautiful or ugly. Despite the haters, despite the exploitation, everyone I’ve mentioned here and so many more that I’m sorry I didn’t include, kicked fucking ass in 2014. I’ve learned so much this year at the expense of people's pain, of people's erasure. I don’t know how to easily respond to that. “I’m sorry” and “thanks” both sound hollow. Anything seems hollow really (also weird), especially considering I don’t even know these people (besides Amanda Lange being nice via e-mail and Austin Howe being nice on Twitter), and they sure as hell don’t know me. I, at least, hope that in 2015 I can engage with people’s work more seriously. I know everyone else is gonna kick ass again in 2015, and though I still suck right now, I’m gonna try to kick ass too.

I don’t know where I’m going or what I’ll be doing in any number of years from now. I might not “get into games” (seriously, again, whatever the fuck that means), find a way out before it’s too late (or just because I’m not good at it). And I’ve got plenty of time. But in the meantime, anyone who puts love into their work regarding games or art or, like, anything: you’re awesome. Sorry I couldn't include everyone's name here.

Here’s to 2015.