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Archivio Autori: Riccardo Fassone

Review excerpts for Bust A Cup: Reclaiming Risk in Play

Posted on 27 Novembre 2016 by Riccardo Fassone
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“The paper also opens itself to critique by not considering arguments that games are safe for good reason. For example, how will the paper stand up to criticisms citing severe injury and death following the Jackass television franchise (e.g. 2011 case of Matt-Dillon Shannon’s defense he got the idea to set a 16 year old friend on fire, ultimately killing them, after watching Jackass)? What about the connections some have drawn between rough-and-tumble play and bullying? How will it contend with arguments that regulatory boards and lawsuits exist for a reason? How will it contend with the idea that you can already virtually take risks via games, so ‘real’risk isn’t necessary? Where’s the line between risk-taking for amusement and risk-taking as self harm? What’s the responsibility of designers and developers in managing risk, or informing players? What safety precautions were undertaken for the university’s ethics/legal committee to approve the play of the game on campus? Did they approve it? If not, will they be worried when this is published? Whilst I don’t think the above questions need to be answered one-by-one to make the article publishable, I’ve written them in the hope they inspire reflection on the content that is already there.”

Reviewer 2 – Ashley ML Brown, University of Utah, June 2016. 

Categoria: 5/2016 Journal

Review excerpts for Illusion Master: Extending Self-Presence and Challenging Immersion in and through Digital Games

Posted on 27 Novembre 2016 by Riccardo Fassone
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“game aesthetics and mechanics should be framed through further designers’ lenses in order to motivate choices and outline future challenges. In addition, the concept of “flow” should be connected to immersion and presence in a more effective way. [Indeed] the concept of “flow” [should be tied] to your argument (e.g., what are the consequences of triggering this state in terms of immersion and presence?) strengthening the part about the final boss, which is the most significant passage of the game (according the theme of the article) but sounds overlooked in comparison with the rest. ”

Reviewer 1 – Enrico Gandolfi, Kent State University, April 2016. 

” The hierarchy and relationship between the artifact and the paper is not entirely clear. […] As a reader, I had the impression I should 1) read the theoretical intro / literature review in the paper, 2) play the game, 3) come back to the paper. Is this what the author intended? Or should players/readers first experience the game and its challenge to immersion, and then proceed to the paper? Most options are fine for me, but the author should be clearer on this point. As a consequence of this, the clarity of the author’s argument would be improved if he could articulate better what the game actually is in relation to the paper. Is the game presented as some kind of demonstration of the reasoning expressed in the paper? Is the game an incipit for the paper? Should the game stand on its own? Is the game some sort of “Research through Design” effort with which the author aims at developing design sensibilities by means of experimental artifacts? Is it more a philosophical experiment? Is it a critical reflection? Is it more akin to art for art’s sake?”

Reviewer 2 – Wishes to remain anonymous, July 2016. 

Categoria: 5/2016 Journal

Review excerpts for NorthPoint Courtesy Services Development and Design Summary

Posted on 27 Novembre 2016 by Riccardo Fassone
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“The concept of agency is also discussed extensively in game studies, and it would really help if the final submission could provide a contribution to the area of research. What is at stake in playing-as-a-non-playing character? Can this process be represented without introducing a different form of action, as in the game designed by the authors? How could boredom and inaction be (differently) represented and made playable? These questions could help the authors when thinking about how to narrow down their video game eliminating other layers which are probably only distracting and unnecessary when confronted with the statement submitted in the written document.”
“There are in fact some interesting concepts that could be either articulated or just eliminated from the text. The notions of morality and ethics are mentioned at the beginning of the text, through the work of Sicart, but are not brought to their consequences, and the authors should consider whether these are really necessary. Is there really a question on morality in the game? The game could actually be seen from an ethical perspective, but only if the relation player-simulation is somehow put at the centre.”

“[When they write about the player being a NPC in a game] From what I have understood by playing the game, this is not immediately clear to the player. In fact, it was not clear to me until I read your text. You might consider if you prefer to make this explicit in the game, or keep it cryptic until the end (or until the player reads an explanation).”
“[When they write about the game aiming at being boring] This is extremely interesting and provoking, but it does not describe the game you have designed (so far). I found the game to have only limited moments of boredom, and I was killed almost immediately everytime the FPS started. I didn’t have much time to get bored. I believe that period of wait in the 3D environment should be much more central, it should last longer, be more clearly identifiable with the intentions what you have outlined here. It should give a sense of boredom and inaction. Moreover: does the player ‘arrive’, or activate/enact the NPC? There are nuances in your narrative of the relation player-NPC which are really crucial and you need to be more precise about what you intend to say.”
“[The last part, when they cite Galloway saying that the machine keeps working while the user is bored] More and more often, human beings are used to replace AI when the tasks given are too complex for a computer to solve, but easy for humans. Crowdsourcing is the name usually given to this practice. Amazon is one of the most important providers of crowdsourcing services through the Mechanical Turk platform. The slogan used by Amazon to define the service is ‘artificial artificial intelligence’, as the service simulates the presence of AI by actually using human beings to complete the jobs. The service is only available in the US and India, but many other platforms offer the same service in other areas of the world. You can see there how crowdsourcing is expected to be used as if the employees could think as machines: tasks need to be fragmented and presented as in a programming language. The workers usually take jobs that lasts only a few seconds and are paid through micro-transactions. I see a similarity with what you are doing here. In a future where AI is considered to be key in the development of NPCs, it is very likely that actual human beings will be used to pretend to be machine-controlled NPCs whenever the design of an effective AI is too challenging. Some experts are currently speculating that Facebook is developing an AI which acts as ‘Siri’ and ‘Cortana’ do in Apple and Microsoft software, but Facebook is also allowing Indian crowdsourcers to replace the AI whenever the conversation is detected to be too difficult for the AI to comprehend.”
“[when they write that the in-game questionnaire had an aesthetic inspired by job-application kiosks at Wal-Mart] It actually reminded me of online application forms for academic positions :-)”

Reviewer 2 – Paolo Ruffino, University of Lincoln, March 2016. 

Categoria: 5/2016 Journal

Review excerpts for Critical Jostling

Posted on 27 Novembre 2016 by Riccardo Fassone
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“[referring to Dunne & Raby] A key part of D&R’s perspective is the critique of “affirmative design” (e.g. the keeping of the status quo, affirming consumeristic neoliberal attitudes). Another key component, better articulated years later in Speculative Everything, is the idea of producing artifacts that are sitting in our world, yet coming from another, slightly more disturbing one. I also have some issues with characterizing their work as a critique of design and technology: in Hertzian Tales, in Design Noir and in Speculative Everything, they insist on the relationship between society, expectation and design – with the objective of acting on design to reveal how it shapes up society.
There’s a wealth of literature on the (often quite controversial) relationship between D&R and (interaction) design. A key text here is Bardzell, J., Bardzell, S.: What is “Critical” About Critical Design? In: Proceedings of the SIGCHI Conference on Human Factors in Computing Systems. pp. 3297–3306. ACM, New York, NY, USA (2013).”

“[when the 1st draft mentioned a straightforward division between Critical Design being “not working objects” and games having “very real mechanics”] There are examples of critical designs that are completely speculative (e.g. the Teddy Bear Blood Bag Radio by D&R), some others that are at an halfway point (e.g. the Pigeor D’Or ), some others that were perfectly realized and functional. An important text on the functionality of critical designs is Pierce, J., Paulos, E.: Counterfunctional Things: Exploring Possibilities in Designing Digital Limitations. In: Proceedings of the 2014 Conference on Designing Interactive Systems. pp. 375–384. ACM, New York, NY, USA (2014). I would frame it as “some designs are ‘speculative’, whereas games are real objects in this world” ”

Reviewer 1 – Wishes to remain anonymous, June 2016. 

Categoria: 5/2016 Journal

Review excerpts for Self-reflexive Videogames: Observations and Corollaries on Virtual Worlds as Philosophical Artifacts

Posted on 27 Novembre 2016 by Riccardo Fassone
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“The videogame that is part of the article sucks. It is not fun to play, it is not exciting to explore, and its aesthetics are off-putting. In other words, it succeeds in its job perfectly. It provides a functioning role model for academic software: a quickly testable appendix that the reader can consult in case they wish to deepen their comprehension of the verbal argument. As scholars, we do not want to spend our working hours on processes that we already know more than well.
I would, however, like to play the devil’s advocate for one more moment, and point out a potential issue related to the following description of the videogame: “The monster has, in fact, no functionally useful options for interacting with the room: the door does not open for its little red paws, the chest contains nothing, and the objects that are already in the room respond to the players’ actions as if they were cheap theatrical props.” While playing the videogame indeed confirms the description, it also reveals the paradox of play (most prominently addressed by David Myers’ long-lasting position): some players might actually find the unrewarding structure of the videogame rewarding since it enables a unique anti-environment for play. By enabling exploration and potential epiphany via winning (despite the semantically charged “game over” screen), it already succumbs to the standards of genre, mechanics, and theme. Probably, the only way to avoid the paradox would be to not provide the reader the possibility to play at all would be leaving the videogame unpublished cohere with the argument better, reframing it rather a potential, conceptual work of academic software?”
Reviewer 1 – Veli-Matti Karhulahti, University of Turku, March 2016. 

Categoria: 5/2016 Journal

F. Giordano, B. Perron (eds.), The Archives. Post-Cinema and Video Game between Memory and the Image of the Present [Mimesis International]

Posted on 27 Novembre 2016 by Riccardo Fassone
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The volume is the product of the studies presented during the Postcinema section of Gorizia Magis Annual Spring School, held during Udine Filmforum, but this is a case where the value of the contributions exceed the simple proceedings of a conference: the ambitious aim of this book is not only to investigate what is an archive in a time of transition from analog to digital media, but most of all to understand the relation between the notion of archive and contemporary items such as user generated contents, video games, digital art or webseries.
This kind of objects often resist any kind of preservation, or at least pose some relevant questions on the continuity between old and new media, the role of the users in the building of an archive, the concept of memory in the contemporary media landscape.
As Bruce Sterling states in the first essay of the collection, we walked through the looking glass that separates us from the previous order before media transition and nothing can ever be the same: even though this is a dark, resigned vision of our era in which we have to accept the instability of the archive and the impossibility to describe what’s happening, it’s true that the Internet has become a place of mutations that we can’t control, where the new productive processes put an enormous amount of variable in the traditional productive system (the studio system vs. Augmented Reality, for example) that challenges every category we had.
Augmented reality, hybrid digital art (as in Spielmann’s essay), mobile consumption practices (Odin), interactive documentaries (Odorico) are just a few examples of a new relationship between us and the media: art can involve humans within a new living archive; mobile phones force us to think of a democratized archive; the new non-fiction contents offer a new way of collecting and rewriting memory that includes user experiences, emotions and participation.
The “human factor” in the contemporary archive notion seem to be one of the main points of the volume, as clearly pointed out by Jean Chateauvert who gives us an overview on a second level of archive: the reactions and comments to the episodes of a popular webseries like The Guild.
Observing the vast world of the social platform related to the series we can understand how social media enhance our experience as viewers: with different rules and targets for every different platform, from the series’ official site’s forum to Twitter, Tumblr and Facebook, users enjoy the experience of taking part on an archive of activities, being it related to fandom practices or simple comments on the episodes. These new forms of archive, or network of archives, are filtered only by sites and forum administrators, in a contract with users. These examples enlighten us on what has become of the potential of participatory culture, including human activities, albeit volatile, in what will be the future archives of our era.
The first part of the book concludes with an analysis of the preservation problems linked to the obsolescence of digital storage techniques, which leads to new strategies like emulation and to a constant monitoring of the archiving tools in a future constant flux (Alessandro Bordina), stressing once again the “living” feature of a new idea of archive; but it’s in the second part of the collection that the focus moves from a general analysis of the audiovisual archive in the contemporary era to a specific focus on video game.
The result of this focus shows us how the video game universe can be a rich and useful resource to observe the actual form and practices of archiving.
We can enjoy different original and fruitful approaches to the issue, like a comparison between silent films and video games (Garin/Salvadò), where we see how the silent era shares with games a strong stress on visuality, playfulness and gags: their languages seem very close, so that we can talk about games as metaphorical archives of our medial past; another productive comparison is that between old book series and the serialization of video games on the Microsoft Xbox Live service (Fassone), which leads the author to talk about re-circulation and re-contextualization.
The contributions go further focusing also on the issue of practicing the video game, with the rhizomatic and “creative” expansion of the archive in a community of modders (Caruso), the instability and the potentially infinite paths offered by a game like Neverwinter Nights (Fornasiero), not to forget the question of the preservation of gameplay in contents like “Let’s Play” or the “Playthrough”, which represent, according to Dor and Perron, practices with specific archiving needs, linked to the experience of the gamer and difficult to preserve in cases where the game has no ending.
Is it possible, then, to talk about archivality in video games? Yes, if we accept an inevitable loss of the game identity, according to Federico Giordano’s contribution: a game is a social object, and its identity is strongly intertwined with the gamer experience and its relation with an interface in a specific time and space. The need to transfer or emulate a game to preserve and archive it will necessarily mean the impossibility to spot an “original version” of the game itself. The conclusion of the volume, with its last essay, presents not only a more volatile and fragmented idea of a videogame archive, but also a new idea of the archivist who will have to consider this kind of inevitable loss and imagine critical editions and new forms of preservation, being able to follow the “traces” left by the game and its users’ past experiences.
It’s fascinating to see how many of the contributions find inspiration in the history of media, like the magic lantern of Etienne-Gaspard Robertson, the early cinema archiving issue in FIAF activities, the relation between cinema of attractions and videogames, or between literary series and games: all these examples tell the story of a thread that bonds media through history, showing how we manage remediation processes and the complexity of the participatory variables that emerged in the last twenty years.
We have old tools to manage new objects, and we have to adapt them considering how the notion of archive, as shown by this book, has and will become increasingly volatile, living, changeable. This volume clearly points out that we, as users, are one of the more unpredictable variables in this new notion, with our experiences, with our contribution to media content with participation and creativity, with our choices when we operate in potentially endless worlds and stories in video games.
The modern archive is indeed an unstable one, so that we can talk about an anarchive, where traditional rules and criteria of preservation do not work anymore. We just have the duty to observe what is happening, trying to understand and accept the gigantic mutations we found through the looking glass and the inevitable losses that our era is imposing to the enormous amount of cultural products offered by the Internet, always aware that, as historians say – and Sterling quotes – “Much is gone and much remains”.

Categoria: 5/2016 Books, 5/2016 Critical Notes | Tags: Giacomo Nencioni (Università per Stranieri di Perugia)

P. Harrigan, M.G. Kirschenbaum (eds.), Zones of Control. Perspectives on Wargaming [The MIT Press, 2016]

Posted on 27 Novembre 2016 by Riccardo Fassone
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A wargame is a game that “realistically” simulates a military conflict of any size and length, from a one afternoon skirmish between infantry platoons in an area of a few square miles to a global war lasting several years such as the First or Second World War. The majority of wargames simulate real conflicts, from Alexander the Great’s campaigns to the present war in Afghanistan, but some of them depict “future” wars, such as the games imagining a clash between NATO and the Warsaw Pact that were quite popular in the seventies and eighties (after the fall of the Berlin Wall these games became largely outmoded). A wargame can even simulate a conflict with no specific time and space context, like Tactics II (1958), one of the very first recreational wargames ever released, which depicts the struggle between two non-historical twenty century-style armies called Red and Blue. As I said, in order to label a game as a wargame, what counts is realism, the fact that the game portrays war in a detailed and plausible way – different kinds of units (infantry, artillery, tanks, paratroopers, partisans, etc.) with different capabilities, moving on a map with a specific geography (mountains, woods, swamps, rivers) that has an impact both on movement and fighting. Games such as Risk (1959), Diplomacy (1959), or Stratego (1961), albeit they played a role in the birth of the wargame industry, are not considered wargames because their simulation of war is too abstract, too chess-like. The majority of wargames have a mapboard where units – counters of different colors representing the opposing armies – move on a hexagon grid (Tactics II had a mapboard divided into squares, like a chessboard; the very first commercial game featuring an hexagon map was Gettysburg, 1961). In many wargames, units – or at least some of them – exert a so-called Zone of Control (ZOC) on the six hexagons surrounding the hexagon the unit is occupying. For example, units must stop when entering an enemy’s ZOC. Or, ZOCs cut enemy supply lines. So, for the title of their huge collection of essays (the volume counts 806 pages), editors Pat Harrigan and Matthew G. Kirschenbaum chose an actual key concept in wargaming, something that is at the very core of this ludic universe. But at the same time, a title such as Zones of Control evokes the image of moving boundaries, of contesting domains. And this is precisely what this huge book deals with.

Zones of Control: Perspectives on Wargaming – clearly bound for becoming an indispensable reference book in the field – is divided into nine sections, each one addressing a specific topic. The authors are both game designers and scholars from a variety of academic fields, raging from military history to visual culture. Every section has an opening essay which broadly addresses the issue, followed by shorter essays focusing on specific questions. Inevitably, the first section of the book is devoted to history – where and when wargame was born and how it evolved. The following eight sections address various topics, from game design to wargame as an academic instrument, to wargames in literature. So, reading (or skipping through) the book, we move from essays on the problem of space scale and map design to an essay on Roberto Bolaño’s posthumous novel The Third Reich, inspired by one of the most successful wargames ever published, Rise and Decline of the Third Reich (1974); this chapter is written by the very designer of the game, John Prados. As I said, the various sections address different questions but they are not insulated from one another. Going from one section to the other, we find a series of recurring dialectical tensions.
First of all, there is the opposition between recreational and “serious” wargames. The industry of commercial wargames was born, in the United States, between the late fifties and the early sixties, thanks to the initiative of Avalon Hill, a company based in Baltimore, which published all the above mentioned wargames and dominated the market till the nineties (the heyday of wargames was the seventies and eighties, and Avalon Hill’s main competitor was New York based SPI, which went bankrupt in 1982). But wargaming was born well before Avalon Hill’ s Tactics II and Gettysburg. The idea of “realistically” simulating war on paper was developed by Prussian officers in the early nineteenth century. The so-called Kriegsspiel was not a recreational game, but a conceptual tool used by the Prussian – and then German – general staff to study past campaigns and prepare future ones. Since the beginning of the twentieth century, Armies and Navies around the world have used wargames to train their officers and devise their plans. Also some think tanks used – and still use – wargames to study military and political conflicts. RAND Corporation, an American think tank connected to the US armed forces, played a key role in planning the Vietnam war, and many of its suggestions were inspired by its wargames, which probably used an hexagon grid before Avalon Hill’s games. Considering the disastrous outcome of the Vietnam war for the United States, this is not exactly a plea for wargaming for military planning.
Another dichotomy that runs through the entire book is that between analog and digital wargames, in dialog with the dialectics between recreational and “serious” wargames, because the military immediately started to use computers for its simulations. The decline of popularity of wargames in the eighties and more acutely in the nineties is largely linked to the competition with other kinds of games. The first strong competitor, fantasy role-playing, was a spin-off of wargaming itself. The very first role-playing game, Dungeons & Dragons (1974), was the evolution of a Medieval miniature wargame rulebook, Chainmail (1971), which included rules about sorcery and magic. 1 While becoming more and more accurate in their simulation of war, wargames became less and less playable. Rise and Decline of the Third Reich is a wonderful game, but its rules are complicated. Mastering them is like passing an exam at Law School. And it is time-consuming: to play the entire war, you need a couple of days. The game includes shorter scenarios, but playing the entire conflict, from the invasion of Poland to the battle of Berlin, is much more fascinating. In my teens and early twenties I was an avid wargamer, but I had to stop playing when I got to the university. As a Ph.D. student forced to publish or perish, I could not afford to “waste” so much time (after a twenty year pause, being an associate professor with quite a long bibliography, I am happily going back to the hobby – once a wargamer always a wargamer). It is self evident that role-playing, which is relatively “light” as rules are concerned, as well as video games posed a serious threat to wargames. If this hobby is still alive it is largely thanks to card-driven wargames, introduced in the mid nineties. The first card-driven wargame is generally considered to be We the People, designed by Mark Herman and published by Avalon Hill in 1994, exactly when I was dropping out of wargaming. From this point of view, this book, which as a whole I consider really excellent, was slightly disappointing to me, because of the lack of a chapter specifically devoted to the relationship between “traditional” and card-driven wargames. As I said, I am a “re-born wargamer”, and I am trying to catch up with this thrilling novelty of card-driven wargame, that for most people may not be a novelty at all. In card-driven wargames, players can move their units and fight according to the cards they have. The cards – visually and conceptually similar to those used in card games like Magic. The Gathering (1993) – have absorbed part of the rules. Card-driven wargames’ rulebooks are usually shorter than those of “traditional” wargames. These games are not just less complex (even though mastering the cards is still a difficult task), but they are also less time-consuming. It is no accident that one of the most popular of card-driven wargames, Twilight Struggle (2005) – more correctly, a war and political game –, allows players to play the entire Cold War, from 1945 to 1989, in just three hours.
But beside the recent fortune of card-driven wargames, it is self evident that in the digital age, board wargames represent a tiny niche. War simulation immediately moved to video games. First person shooter games have been clearly inspired by tactical wargames, such as SPI’s Sniper! (1973) or Avalon Hill’s Squad Leader (1977). At the same time, board wargames were literally translated onto computer screens, with hexagons and counters. So, the question is, did computers change the design and play mechanisms of wargames? One of the most interesting essays of the book, tellingly titled The Unfulfilled Promise of Digital Wargames, by Greg Costikyan, is adamant in claiming they did not. According to Costikyan, who started as a board game designer at SPI and then switched to computer games, digital wargames were in the position of solving some of the main problems of analog wargames. For example, one of the great flaws of wargames as “realistic simulations” is the players’ omniscience. Sitting before the map, the player has a precise knowledge of enemy forces’ location and strength. It is something that no general ever experienced on the battlefield, not even in the age of aerial reconnaissance and satellites. It is what military scholars call “the fog of war”. There have been attempts to simulate the fog of war on mapboards. In the so-called block wargame, units are not cardboard two-dimensional counters but cubes, where the information – unit’s size and strength – are on the face hidden to the other player (it is a concept clearly derived from Stratego), so you can spot the enemy unit on the map, but you can’t say if it is a battalion of untrained conscripts or a division of experienced and well armed professional soldiers. But of course computers could simulate the fog of war in much more complex and efficient ways. And we can say the same thing about other key elements of wargames, such as space and movement on the map. According to Costikyan software houses refused to even address these problems. They did not want to invest in novel game styles, and were satisfied with cartoonish FPS games and real-time strategy games, much less sophisticated and realistic than analog wargames.
Another question that systematically surfaces in the different sections of the book is that of the “political” – in the broader meaning of the word – connotation of wargaming. In the introduction, the editors openly address the problem: “Much can and should be written on race and nationality in wargaming, but the weight of the hobby’s Anglo-American heritage has so far greatly limited this” (p. XXIII). The editors do not mention it, but it is self evident that a third key concept is at stake here: gender. Wargaming used to be, and still largely is, a predominantly male hobby, both as players and designers are concerned. Even sci-fi novelist and utopian socialist Herbert George Wells, who was a strong supporter of women’s suffrage, in his Little Wars (1913), one of the very first rulebooks for a miniature wargame ever published, is quite suspicious toward women players. In the opening page, Wells writes that the game he devised is meant for “boys from twelve years of age to one hundred and fifty and for that more intelligent sort of girls who like boys’ games and books”. For today’s standard, this is a very politically incorrect sentence. Moreover, as we have seen, wargaming has always been strongly connected to the military establishment. So, wargames are an activity targeted mainly at white men, some of them in uniform. From this perspective, there is some kind of a political problem with this hobby, unless you belong to the Illinois Nazi Party, or at least voted for Donald Trump.
One of the explicit goals of Zones of Control is going beyond wargaming as a white men’s club. And the goal has been achieved. Some of the most complex and stimulating essays of the collection were written by people who do not belong to the club, such as Japanese game designer Tetsuya Nakamura and transgender game designer Rachel/Bowen Simmons. But still, the problem is there. No matter how many essays we can read and write on gender and wargame, or on un-militaristic, pacifist, “philosophical” games, such as the wargame designed by Guy Debord, on which Zones of Control offers a very articulated essay that elegantly mixes Marxism with Clausewitz’s thinking 2, wargame remains an activity with “a dark side”. Playing at war is like watching a war movie. Even in anti-war movies there are scenes that inevitably thrill the audience. Francis Ford Coppola’s Apocalypse Now is no doubt a film against the American intervention in Vietnam, but the helicopters’ attack sequence, with Wagner’s soundtrack, makes war look beautiful. It is the devil’s beauty. But if war were not “beautiful”, if it were not somehow fascinating, at least for some people, the history of the human race would have been very different. As I already said, in my teens I was an avid wargamer, but I was also a member of the youth organization of the Italian Communist Party, and I was fully aware of the contradiction between these two things. I rarely mentioned my hobby to my comrades. And at the same time, I never joined a wargame club, because those places were crowded with right-wingers. In Little Wars, Wells tries to soothe his socialist conscience claiming that his game can help people grasp the horrors of war. His message goes something like: “Do not make war but play it”. It is more or less the same position expressed by Brian Train and Volko Ruhnke at the end of their essay Chess, Go, and Vietnam: Gaming Modern Insurgency. Train and Ruhnke are game designers specialized in counterinsurgency and asymmetric wars; conflicts where politics, economics and diplomacy are as much important as the fighting on the field. They are bright game designers and their essay is definitely very interesting, but when they bump into the “devil’s beauty” question they cannot help playing the political correctness card. They resent the fact that wargames on World War II assemble “detailed and complete orders of battle for the Axis forces, including units of the Einsatzgruppen and lawless SS brigades and divisions” (page 515). First of all, at least to my knowledge, there is no game portraying the Einsatzgruppen, for the simple reason that these were not units meant for fighting on the frontlines. Their only goal was exterminating the Jewish population of the Soviet Union. As far as the SS brigades and divisions are concerned, Train and Ruhnke are referring to the Waffen-SS, i.e. the military branch of the SS. These were military units that fought alongside the regular German Army. Of course their behavior toward the Russian population and the Soviet prisoners was utterly brutal, but in that respect there was not much difference with the regular Army. Calling the SS “lawless” is ludicrous, because in the context of the Third Reich political and judicial system, the SS were the Law. Of course, the Third Reich was a rogue state, but the problem is not just the SS organization per se, but the entire body of the totalitarian state. So, one either does not play wargames on World War II, which as historical simulations need the presence of the Waffen-SS units, or tries to cope with the devil’s beauty. It might be argued that the vast majority of wargamers, even liberal wargamers such as myself, prefer playing the Nazis invading Russia than playing the United Nations trying to stop world hunger. It is exactly what Roberto Bolaño’s novel is about. Some political correctness make-up will not solve this contradiction.

 

Categoria: 5/2016 Books, 5/2016 Critical Notes | Tags: Giaime Alonge (Università di Torino)

Games on Games. Game Design as Critical Reflexive Practice.

Posted on 30 Ottobre 2016 by Riccardo Fassone
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Cover image "The Metagame"

“The Metagame” ©2016 Local No. 12, LLC. Thanks to Eric Zimmerman and John Sharp

In September 2013, the editors of this issue of “GAME The Italian Journal of Game Studies” hosted a panel at the DiGRA conference in Atlanta, to explore video game design as a cultural praxis, as a mediator that allows specific forms of criticims and epistemological inquiry to emerge. The panel, titled G|A|M|E on games. The meta-panel, aimed at constituting “a step towards a playable theory of game studies – a meta-level in which playing, designing and critiquing overlap” (Caruso, Fassone, Ferri, Gualeni & Salvador, 2013), and addressed topics such as the history and theory of self-reflexive games, their presence in the mainstream market, and the implications of designing a game of this sort. In other words, the panel was a first attempt at imagining different forms of game research that would complement or, in some instances, even substitute the written word as the preferred tool for scientific dissemination in game studies as well as certain other context of philosophical inquiry where the experiential qualities of the medium and its interactive affordances constitute definite advantages over – and possibility to complement – text (think of the materialization of ethical scenarios, thought experiments, of the possibilities to access experience of alternative phenomenologies, etc.).

In the last three years, the panelists produced a number of contributions on the subject of self-reflexive video games and playable theory (Fassone, 2015, Gualeni, 2015), tackling topics such as the meta-communicative potential of video games, medium-specific forms and modes of self-reflection, and video games as tools for theory, speculation, and philosophical thinking. This issue of “GAME The Italian Journal of Game Studies” is a provisional conclusion and a partial formalization of this wider – inherently open and rather informal – network of research interests.

In the years following the Atlanta panel, the number of video games that could be legitimately characterized as self-reflexive has grown exponentially, which led to an increased attention from the game studies community on the subject, with papers (Ensslin, 2013), panels (Backe, Fassone, Karhulati & Švelch, 2016), and – maybe most significantly – games being published and presented at major conferences. The interest in self-reflexive critical game design has progressed significantly. In 2013, we presented a series of independent games that showed a disposition towards self-reflexivity, and a game designed as a proof of concept of playable theory – Stefano Gualeni’s Necessary Evil. Just three years later, the number and complexity of examples has grown beyond our expectations. On one hand, theoretically-inclined practitioners have designed and released games-on-games that confront, discuss, and critique different aspects of video game design, development, distribution and culture. On the other one, maybe more surprisingly, also mainstream games seem to consistently adopt meta-referential discursive strategies as a common component of their design lexicon. In the last decade, games like Portal (Valve, 2007) or Eat Lead: The Return of Matt Hazard (Vicious Cycle, 2009) represented the odd emergence of self-referentiality in a medium that seemed to prefer an often crude form of literality. However, more recent AAA games such as Saints Row IV (Volition, 2013) or Grand Theft Auto V (Rockstar North, 2013) have contributed to a popularization of self-reflexivity as a legitimate, and to an extent even desirable, mode of expression with their encased narratives, and their conscious effort to reveal some of the tropes and affectations of contemporary game design. Self-reflexivity, or the more prosaic use of self-aware humour, may have transpired in mainstream games through the mediation of successful experiments such as The Stanley Parable (Galactic Cafe, 2013), in a process that seems to resonate in other media contexts (Quigley, 2010).

Nevertheless, most of the main questions posed by the 2013 panel remained open. Can video game design be compared to more formalized practices of scientific research or speculation within game studies? And, by virtue of an intellectual leap that in itself calls for discussion, can video games be considered as an efficient vehicle for the presentation of certain kinds of knowledge, in the same way in which papers, conference presentations, and books are? What Ratto defines as “critical making” (2011), the practice of producing artifacts of different sorts in order to “supplement and extend critical reflection”, may apply to video games as well. Forms of “research through design” (Zimmerman, Forlizzi & Evenson, 2007), of “carpentry” (Bogost, 2012), and “speculative design” (Dunne & Raby, 2013) have been analyzed, discussed, and maybe most importantly, put into practice in different fields of cultural and scientific production. To address this gap and to map the current (and future) state of self-reflexive games, we asked both researchers and designers to imagine an application of these concepts to video games. Paraphrasing Zimmerman, Forlizzi and Evenson, what does research through game design might mean? What epistemological insights can we derive from the act of designing, making and playing video games?

This issue offers a variety of approaches to these very questions, explored by scholars/designers whose theoretical work significantly intertwines with the practice of game design. Moreover, this issue is in itself inevitably self-reflexive in at least two ways. First, with Games on Games. Game design as critical reflexive practice we consciously attempted at stretching the boundaries of the format of the scientific journal. For this reason, potential contributors were asked to submit not only papers, but also video games that complement theoretical and speculative thinking, prove a specific point, or offer means of playable critique. As we believe that games may in fact offer a viable lexicon for scientific production and that game studies as a field may benefit from some playful research, this issue is a first experiment with producing and disseminating knowledge stemming from research through game design. This inevitably led to a series of questions regarding the integration of text and games. Is a game design document supposed to integrate the meaning of a game on games? Or should the playable artifact stand on its own as a legitimate piece of scholarly work? In this issue we adopted a hybrid policy, with contributions ranging from the purely textual to more complex examples integrating gameplay and traditional written commentary.

Second, this issue adopts a self-reflexive perspective by publishing extracts from the peer-review process. When discussing the implications of publishing a wide and diverse range of materials (papers, games, design documents, etc.), we concluded that exposing parts of the process of peer-review of this multitude of objects may in fact reveal some of the dialogic nature of scientific publication. While, in most cases, scientific papers are published as relatively stable texts, existing for the audience only in their final format, the objects – both readable and playable – published in this issue are presented along with some of the reviewer’s comments that were critical in shaping their final version. Revealing parts of the mechanism on which scientific journals are built – namely the submission-review-resubmission cycle – is our own contribution to the process of research through practice. This denouement frames the larger question of whether a playable critique may be assessed by means of traditional peer-review, and aims at revealing the kinds of insights authors derived from this inevitably asymmetrical dialogue. Furthermore, it is probably only fair that a journal that asks authors to produce self-reflexive artifacts, detailing and critiquing their own craft, takes a step itself towards the exposition of its inner workings.

Stefano Gualeni’s contributions to this issue gravitates around the game Necessary Evil, which was already mentioned as the first experiment that was explicitly and didactically designed and developed with the intention to start a discussion on self-reflexive games that spanned practice and theory. His paper inaugurates our discussion on the possibilities for video games to be mediators that facilitate critical reflections on conventions and traditions in video game design and development. In other words, it introduces self-reflexive video games as video games designed to materialize critical and/or satirical perspectives on the ways in which video games themselves are designed, played, sold, manipulated, experienced, and understood as social objects. The textual academic work accompanying Necessary Evil comprises two interdependent sections: a reflection on the game (as well as the design decisions that participated to its realization), and a wider discussion on the virtual worlds of computer games and digital simulations as critical, epistemological tools, or – more in general – as the philosophical contexts where a new way of pursuing humanism is already arising.

Pippin Barr is present in this issue with two games and a paper detailing the design decisions that informed their production. Jostle Bastard and Jostle Parent are playable critiques of Hotline Miami (Dennaton Games, 2012) and Octodad: Deadliest Catch (Young Horses, 2014), two games that claim to present a critique of video game violence and a humorous take on parenting respectively. Through the use of a design practice described by DiSalvo as “reconfiguring the remainder” (2012, p. 63), Barr points at what is left out of these games, ultimately stating that both fail in their rhetorical intent. As noted by Barr in the commentary provided with the games, Hotline Miami‘s critique of video game violence is contradicted by its very mechanics, that prescribe violence as the only possible player interaction with the environment. In Octodad: Deadliest Catch, on the other hand, the lack of permanent consequences prevents the development of a meaningful narrative in favor of a shallower sequence of comedic skits derived from the player’s incompetence. Barr’s games substitute or reframe a core mechanic of Hotline Miami and Octodad: Deadliest Catch, thus addressing what the author considers to be fallacies in their design, and offering a glimpse at alternative, speculative versions of the two games.

With Nostalgia Videogames as Playable Game Criticism Robin J.S. Sloan posits that not only games designed with precise critical intents may be dubbed as games-on-games, but rather that a critical intent towards other games or game culture in general may be found in most video games. Drawing from a series of theoretical traditions dealing with the concept of nostalgia and its manifestations in cultural production Sloan proposes three close readings. Braid (Hothead Games, 2008) is analyzed as a critique of canonical games such as Super Mario Bros. (Nintendo, 1985), that operates on preexisting player literacy regarding the mechanics and narrative implications of platforming games. Homesickened (Snapman, 2015) engages with discourses on gaming technologies by refashioning specific hardware-dependent aesthetic configurations – for example the CGA colour palette – in the context of contemporary game production. Finally Velocity 2X (Futurlab, 2014) is presented as an example of pastiche, exploring the boundaries and intersections of different video game genres.

Brian Schrank’s analog game Bust A Cup pits two players one against the other in what the author describes as “the LARP of a brawl”. The players wield ad-hoc tools – a wooden structure, a hammer, a chain, and the eponymous cup – in the attempt to smash each other’s cup. In his companion piece to the game, Schrank offers a theory of play within the frame of real-life risk, analyzing the social and ludic consequences of playing a game of Bust A Cup. Schrank claims that the controlled but unavoidable amount of risk implied by Bust A Cup – one can be hit by the hammer, or cut by the shards of an exploding cup – instead of promoting aggressive behaviors invites players to question their sense of the self, and rethink their attitude towards safety, control, and security. Schrank’s piece, coupled with the videos of games of Bust A Cup, argues for a reconsideration of sanitized, allegedly risk-free play.

Daniel Cox and Matthew Beale’s game NorthPoint Courtesy Services tackles the ethics of first-person shooters, by casting the player in the role of an NPC, a low-level grunt at the mercy of the overpowered protagonist. The game asks the player to fill a number of forms and overcome rather repetitive tests in order to assess her ability to sustain the amount of physical and psychological abuse required for the job. By trivializing violence in the context of a first-person shooter, NorthPoint Courtesy Services engages with the morality of violent play and the ethical inflexibility of algorithms. Moreover, the stark, aseptic look of the game operates as a reflection on the form of digital bureaucracy found in video games, “on how algorithms both operate from and perpetuate states of boredom”.

Josef Florian Micallef’s Illusion Master is a short game that tackles some significant issues in game studies, such as immersion, flow and self-reflexivity. Through the game and the accompanying piece, Micallef proposes to rediscuss the notion of immersion in favour of a more nuanced reading of the practice of gameplay as pecuarly ambiguous. In Micallef’s game the player is forced to enact a form of double embodiment, playing both as the avatar and, in the final stretch of Illusion Master as a self-conscious player reflecting on what Micallef describes as “objective self-presence”. The text accompanying the game acts both as a theoretical reflection on phenomenological issues in game studies and as a design document detailing the conceptual and pragmatic implications of producing a philosophically informed game.

Evan Torner confronts the topic of self-reflexivity in tabletop role-playing games, thus providing an argument for the inclusion of analog play in the discussion on games-on-games. Torner analyzes three experimental role-playing games that present different but arguably convergent forms of self-reflexivity and self-referentiality. Epidiah Ravachol’s What Is a Role-Playing Game? is a nano-sized role-playing games that abstracts the fundamental components of the genre into a minimalist set of rules and ask players to reflect on the nature of role-playing. Meguey Baker’s 1,001 Nights is a playable critique of the encased narratives found in Arabian Nights; Nathan D. Paoletta’s World Wide Wrestling is a role-playing take on the milieu of professional wrestling that asks players to conflate performance, storytelling, and kayfabe. Through the analysis of these examples, Torner claims that the free-form narrative structure and the fluid nature of social interaction found in tabletop role-playing may be conductive to self-reflective practices and forms of critical game design and play.

Finally, the cover image for this issue of GAME, found at the top of this page, was provided by Local No. 12, the designers of the card game The Metagame. Since The Metagame was inevitably referenced in every meeting the editors had when working on this issue, it seemed fitting to have it up there. We are grateful to John Sharp and Erik Zimmerman for their contribution.

References
1,001 Nights, Meguey Baker, 2006.
Backe, H., Fassone, R., Karhulati, V.M., Švelch, J. (2016, August). What is the “game” in meta-game?. Panel presented at DiGRA-FDG 2016, Dundee (Scotland).
Bogost, I. (2012). Alien phenomenology, or what it’s like to be a thing. Minneapolis (MN): University of Minnesota Press.
Braid, Hothead Games, 2008.
Caruso, G., Fassone, R., Ferri, G., Gualeni, S. & Salvador, M. (2013, August). G|A|M|E on games: the meta-panel. Panel presented at DiGRA 2013. Defragging game studies, Atlanta (GA).
DiSalvo, C. (2012). Adversarial design. Boston, MA: The MIT Press.
Dunne, A., Raby, F. (2013). Speculative everything. Design, fiction, and social dreaming. Cambridge (MA): The MIT Press.
Eat Lead: The Return of Matt Hazard, Vicious Cycle, 2009.
Ensslin, A. (2013). Playing with rather than by the rules: metaludicity, allusive fallacy, and illusory agency in The Path. In A. Bell, A. Ensslin & H. Rustad (eds.), Analyzing Digital Fiction, London (UK): Routledge.
Fassone, R. (2015). This is video game play: video games, authority and metacommunication. Comunicação e Sociedade, 27, pp. 37-52.
Grand Theft Auto V, Rockstar North, 2013.
Gualeni, S. (2015). Virtual worlds as philosophical tools. How to philosophize with a digital hammer. Bakingstoke (UK): Palgrave Macmillan.
Homesickened, Snapman, 2015.
Hotline Miami, Dennaton Games, 2012.
Octodad: Deadliest Catch, Young Horses, 2014.
Portal, Valve, 2007.
Quigley, A. (2010, September 2nd), The rise of self-awareness in cinema: is film doomed to become a mockery of itself?. Slashfilm. Retrieved from http://slashfilm.com.
Ratto, M. (2011). Critical Making: Conceptual and Material Studies in Technology and Social Life. The Information Society, 27(4), 252–260. https://doi.org/10.1080/01972243.2011.583819
Saints Row IV, Volition, 2013.
Super Mario Bros., Nintendo, 1985.
The Stanley Parable, Galactic Cafe, 2013.
Velocity 2X, Futurlab, 2014.
What is a role-playing game?, Epidiah Ravachol, 2013.
World wide wrestling, Nathan D. Paoletta, 2014.
Zimmerman, J., Forlizzi, J., & Evenson, S. (2007). Research Through Design As a Method for Interaction Design Research in HCI. In Proceedings of the SIGCHI Conference on Human Factors in Computing Systems (pp. 493–502). New York, NY, USA: ACM. https://doi.org/10.1145/1240624.1240704

Categoria: 5/2016 Journal | Tags: Gabriele Ferri (Amsterdam University of Applied Sciences), Giovanni Caruso (independent researcher), Mauro Salvador (Università di Bologna), Riccardo Fassone (Università di Torino), Stefano Gualeni (University of Malta)

Re-framing video games in the light of cinema

Posted on 20 Settembre 2015 by Riccardo Fassone
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In its fourth issue G|A|M|E interrogates the complex relations between video games and cinema, revising and reflecting on a topic controversially debated over the past ten years. The relationship between these two media is layered and they are interconnected not only through their textual fabric (sharing and influencing each other in form and contents), but also in their practices and the theories that accompany them. More than fifteen years ago, in a seminal piece published on Film Quarterly, Mark J. P. Wolf pointed at the relationship between cinema and video games beyond ‘characters and plotlines’ (1997, p. 11), including aesthetics, visual codes, iconographies, practices, social spaces. The connection between video games and cinema (and, more broadly, the tradition of audiovisual media) is conceptually reflected by the compound noun that gives the name to the medium 3, but the two also show similar production models, sharing professional figures and displaying familiar consumption behaviours.
The study of the relation between cinema and video games is connected to the development of game studies as a field and has become part of the debate on the status of video games as an object of academic study, focusing on the definition of methodologies and theories associated with it. In fact, during the past two decades cinema became a privileged means to access video games in popular discourses. Scholars and researchers in games studies developed a strong awareness of the problems intrinsic to this comparative approach, leading to its problematisation within academic contexts. Torn between the need to develop an independent field of studies and the interdisciplinary vocation of the discipline, game studies developed a suspicion towards this relationship, often debated at the margins of one or the other field. The complexity of this debate is dictated both by the nature of the video game as a layered medium (intersecting discourses on technology, cultural studies, aesthetics etc.) that eludes closed definitions 4 but also by the process of negotiation between the fields involved. Most notably, the argument took the form of an opposition between traditional fields of knowledge and the definition of a new area of investigation capable of developing an autochthonous discipline dedicated to the new medium. Among the contributor to this debate, Espen Aarseth (2004) stressed the necessity to develop independent tools of study apt to address specific characteristics that risked to be underplayed in the adaptation of pre-existing theoretical models directly applied from other established fields, calling for an understanding of video games in the respect of their primary ludic function. In particular, the opposition between the ludic character of video games and their narrative aspiration (Murray, 1997) generated a debate that was fundamental to the definition of game studies as a field and its object of investigation. Whether this conflict ever took place or not (Frasca, 2003) 5, its perception somehow had an impact on the development of the field and on its disposition towards certain approaches. On the other hand, the resistance generated within the declaration of independence of game studies only paired with the difficulty of film scholars to engage with the new medium, due both to the lack of suitable theoretical and analytical tools and to the scepticism towards its artistic potential. This situation resulted in the dismissal of video games from the tradition of studies on the moving image. Nevertheless, authors such as David Bolter and Richard Grusin (2000), Lev Manovich (2001) pointed at the possibility of framing these media within a wider audiovisual tradition, tracing connections across their contents, structures and modalities capable of surpassing compartmentalised medium specific positions.

On a first level, game studies call for an updated reflection on what Wolf and Perron (2009, p. 10) call (referencing Francesco Casetti’s work on film theory) the methodological theory. After half a century, film studies developed a constellation of theories that cover the ontological and phenomenological nature of the medium, its practices, its representative strategies, its history and historiographical value, and the politics connected to it, finally leading to question its methodological premises. Can the cinematic theoretical corpus offer a contribution to the development of game studies? If so, what are the possible intersections between these fields? What more can we learn about video games through the lens of film studies?

On a second level, we want to investigate the characteristics of these two media, their similarities and differences in terms of aesthetics, practices and production. The majority of the studies on this topic assume the narrative quality of the cinematic medium, focusing on the continuity between these media in terms of genres, tropes and iconography. This assumption is debatable and in need of renegotiation. If, on the one hand, it is true that the cinematic character of video games is often reflected by its narrative and spectacular bias, on the other hand it is possible to rethink the interplay between these two media in different ways. For example, by positioning video games within the larger history of spectacular media and attractions to which also cinema belongs. It is then possible to frame this medium within the tradition that connects shadow play theatre to the magic lantern and, subsequently, to early cinema and devices for amplified vision (widescreen, stereoscopy).

Since its birth the video game medium established a strong bond with its cinematic counterpart, defining itself in relation and often against it. Cinema has often been used to reach a wider audience, especially with the advent of home consoles, to market video games outside the niche of the arcades and capitalise on the popular culture dominating the majority of households, the one of cinema. For this reason as early as in the  1980s video games such as E.T. The Extra-Terrestrial (Atari, 1982), capitalised on the fame of their cinematic counterparts to attract new audiences. This strategy allowed video games to exceed their technical limits connecting to wider narrative universes. While today discussions relating to IPs and the spreading of their content across different platform, format and different media underline the ever expanding transmedia storytelling strategies, as in the seminal case study of The Matrix saga (Jenkins, 2006), video games always relied on paratexts (manuals, adverts etc.) and, in a wider sense, on other source material to expand their communicative potential. Nowadays, its is not only common for video game franchises to share contents with films and other audiovisual products –franchises such as Harry Potter and The Lord Of The Rings witnessed endless iteration of adaptations, spin-offs and expansions to their universes – but narrative ecosystems became so vast to make it difficult the identification of textual relationships. What is the primary text to Disney Infinity (Heavy Iron Studios, 2013)? Nevertheless the relationship and reciprocal influence between cinema and video games goes well beyond storylines and characters. Instead it is primarily at the level of the interface that cinema’s influence becomes manifest in video games. Conception of space, in commercial products, is mostly tied to the idea of a camera recording the reality before it. The presence of a camera –a virtual one rather than a physical– in video games points at the relevance of understanding this phenomenon “in the light of” cinema, its history and its theories. In fact, not only are game artefacts to be looked at –we look at them while playing, but they also exist in a plethora of other spectatorial practices such as walkthrough on YouTube and live streams on Twitch– but their audiovisual codes become part of their ludic structure. Despite the unfulfilled promise of the interactive movie, titles such as Heavy Rain (Quantic Dream, 2010), and more recently the b-movie inspired Until Dawn (Supermassive Games, 2015) experiment with alternative ways of control that combine interactivity and non-linearity with a cinematic drive and direction. Furthermore, the cinematic is to be found in a much wider variety of products and genre. A game such as Grand Theft Auto V (Rockstar Games, 2013), for example, is extremely cinematic not only due to its dramatic storyline, genre tropes and iconography, but also because it requires the player to develop a nuanced understanding of framing and editing techniques. In fact, players are required not only to switch to different perspectives according to the situation and to individual preferences, but also to alternate between multiple view-point in order to frame the action in functional and/or interesting ways, occasionally in order to record the session and upload spectacular fragments of gameplay. Moreover, the rise of the indie market and the proliferation of tools and commercialised engines allowed the emergence of experimental works that challenge the mainstream identification with narrative models, opening new horizons of research. Titles such as Garry’s Mod (Facepunch Studios, 2004) provide points of intersection with avant-gardes, problematizing the acquired definition of the medium, its strategies and internal structure. The 2000s witnessed an increased attention towards this topic also in academic environments. Scholars such as Geoff King and Tanya Krzywinska (2002 and 2006), Alexander Galloway (2006) and Michael Nitsche (2008), furthered the studies on this subject exploring the ways in which video games intersect cinema in form, contents, and theories.

Finally, with its fourth issue G|A|M|E intends to discuss the place of video games in cinema. Cinematic incarnations have often been overlooked, mostly referenced with regards to their aesthetic and iconographic influence. Nevertheless, more than thirty years after the release of Tron (Steve Liesberger, 1982), video games still influence cinema on iconographic, thematic and linguistic levels. What role do video games play at the cinema? Are video games contributing to the development of a new cinematic aesthetics? Is this process connected to the commercialisation of new technologies? What are the reasons behind unsuccessful cinematic adaptations of video games? Video games provide source material for TV shows and web series, becoming protagonists of transmedial serialisation. At the same time, they are made cinematic subject of both apocalyptic and nostalgic discourses. Film studies have tentatively addressed the influence of video games on cinema accounting for the ways in which film texts and viewing practices have been affected by the emergence of video games and other interactive digital media. Since the appearance of WarGames (John Badham) on the big screen in 1983, cinema constantly reflected on its neighbouring medium, often depicted as a threatening object associated with the dangers of the digital frontier. Accounts of video games in films are generally articulated in three typologies: films that use video games as a trope; films that are influenced by video games in their structure and/or aesthetics; films that are adaptation of original video game materials. To the first category belong films such as The Lawnmower Man (Brett Leonard, 1992) and Existenz (David Cronenberg, 1999). From The Matrix (Andy and Lana Wachowski, 1999) to Gamer (Mark Neveldine and Brian Taylor, 2009), video games and digital media (especially VR technologies that, similarly to video games, project the user within a digital space) are depicted as dangerous tools, cause of personal and social disruption, responsible for the progressive alienation and dehumanization of society. These apocalyptic accounts of video games on the big screen only point at the strong relationship between the two and at the need for mutual acknowledgement and reflection. To the second typology belong films such as Run Lola Run (Tom Twyker, 1998) and Elephant (Gus Van Sant, 2003) that reflect on the ludic medium on a formal ad structural level. Among others, scholars such as Warren Buckland (2009, 2014) and David Bordwell (2006) pointed at the increasing complexity of movie storylines in relation to both new media and new technologies. Audience’s media literacy and their familiarity with digital environments and video games encouraged the experimentation with traditional narrative structure. Moreover, the development of digital supports and the commercialisation of these technologies on a large scale, allowed new practices and forms of fruition. DVDs first and digital content now, bring repetition and fragmentation to the film experience, allowing the viewers to catch up with increasingly complex narrations. The aesthetic influence of video games on films surpasses the complication of their plots, becoming manifest in their aesthetic, formal devices and audiovisual strategies that develop accordingly. While the role and impact of digital technologies in the development and multiplication of dynamic view-point that characterise the sensuous experience of contemporary “camera-less” cinema is widely acknowledged, video games often inform the understanding of time and space in cinema offering new and not-so-new modes of visions. If it is true that the emergence of the point-of-view shot in films largely precedes their dialogue with the digital media, its use represented mostly a form of experimentation usually associated with the altered states of either the subject or the object of the shot (Galloway, 2006, p. 39; Brooker, 2009), on the other hand, recent productions show wider and more diverse use of this technique, often used to evoke a kinaesthetic pleasure and embodiment typical of video games and in interaction with digital environments. From Kick Ass (Matthew Vaughn, 2010) to the The Amazing Spider-Man (Marc Webb, 2012) and Gravity (Alfonso Cuarón, 2013), films increasingly try to achieve and offer a closer view-point (often a POV shot) to the characters trying to convey presence and sensorial experience. Following an initial stage of distrust and competition, films such as Wreck it Ralph (Richi Moore, 2012) and Pixels (Chris Columbus, 2015) nowadays turn video games into objects of nostalgia, becoming part of in the collective memory of the new generations, digested through postmodern referential texts, and consequently accepted within larger popular culture.
With an essay titled Video Games, Cinema, Bazin, and the Myth of Simulated Live Experience Mark Wolf opens this issue of G|A|M|E highlighting the importance and relevance of film theory in relation to video games. In fact, taking inspiration from one of Bazin’s seminal essays, Wolf criticises the rhetoric that promotes the irreconcilability between film and video game theory, stating instead the continuity that can be potentially unlocked within Bazin’s original vision of cinema and its ideology. Through the analysis of the myth of total cinema, the author points at the ideas and ambitions that inspired the development of the cinematic apparatus –above all the one of the total reproduction of reality, to the point of transcending reality itself and capturing its essence– and pointing at similar ideas within the rhetoric of simulation at the core of the medium specificity. In this work, “The Myth of Total Cinema” is expanded reaching for an experience that includes the representation of reality and surpasses it via its simulation. In doing so, the author reframes the realist ideology of cinema within an experience that not only includes it but even exceeds it, reaching a higher ontological dimension already hinted at in the work of Bazin.

The contribution of Dominic Arsenault e Bernard Perron provocatively questions the opportunity and the necessity of using cinema and film studies as a framework to understand video games. According to the authors, this approach has been extensively influencing the study of this medium. The starting point is the concept of cultural series developed by Andrè Gaudreault e Philippe Marion. Arsenault and Perron state that the cultural series of cinema has been dominant in the interpretation of video games, forcing its acknowledgement as a medium only in relation to the film medium, preventing the potential for more relevant models, such as the one of animation. The identity of the video games as medium is tied to its name (video game) that constrains its interpretation to the cultural series of cinema. The use of video game as a label to address genres such as text-based adventure games, games based on abstract representations –which are possibly better related to technical and architectural drawing– is not a neutral act. Arsenault and Perron emphasise once more the dangers of using cinema as a model in the understanding of video games, stressing the need to explore alternatives to a cinema-centric approach.

The essay by Enrico Gandolfi and Roberto Semprebene, aims at studying the relation between cinema and video games proposing a new methodology. Taking inspiration from media sociology, the authors identify five categories and elements that can be found in films based on or inspired by video games texts: the production, the agential dimension, the representational dimension, the economic and cultural impact of the video game/movie. In addition, looking at films that establish a crossmedial relationship with video games, they point at the configuration of recurring categories such as the narrative, the aesthetic, the encyclopaedian and the dynamic. Finally, the authors analyse these categories within a series of case studies. These categories and their overlaps determine the identity of each cinematic adaptation in relation to the original video game texts. More in general, the model could offer some insight on the sustainability of crossmedial adaptation also beyond these two media. Semprebene and Gandolfi use three case studies to test their model, selecting works distant in time from each other, in order to proof how the relationship between the two media is inflected in different ways.
Sarah Atkinson and Helen Kennedy shift the focus from game to game-ness and from cinema as a medium to its manifestations within social reality. The object of this investigation is the London-based experience of Secret Cinema that stages a collective performance. Viewers book a movie event for which they are provided a secret location on the Internet and through social media, where the film is projected within an environment that somehow replicates the one of the movie. While the opening recalls an alternate reality game, the final act instead recalls theme parks and a multimedia performance. The audience is given a film-themed dress code and once at the venue, they can either watch the movie or engage in other unrelated activities, many of which have commercial purposes. According to the authors, the ludic context is not only evoked by the deployment of gamification strategies and by placing spectatorship whithin a more physically engaging framework, but it is mostly reflected by the ways in which video game related competences are mobilised taking part to a hybrid production between game, theatre, cinema and performance.
Lluís Anyó’s article, Narrative Time in Video Games and Films: From Loop to Travel in Time, maps a series of connections between the use of narrative time in cinema and in video games. Adopting Genette’s narratological theories as a starting point for his exploration, Anyó highlights both congruences and distinctions in the analysis of chronology in the two media. The focal point of the research is, as expected, the relevance of player agency in the context of both the representation and the experience of narrative temporality. While cinema, both in the era of classical Hollywood and throughout modernity, has often employed devices such as prolepsis and analepsis, games seem to strive towards a paradoxical linearisation of time. More specifically, in multiplayer games, Anyó argues, the necessity for players to negotiate time intersubjectively allows for a minor degree of design freedom. Finally Anyó proposes an analysis of one of video games’ most recurrent features, that of the loop. Revisiting the same game sequence several times, in order to overcome an obstacle or obtain a better performance, is a recurrent experience in gameplay, but as a transmedia form, that encompasses video games, cinema and digital media, loop seems to characterize many facets of contemporary media production and consumption.
In Bad Objects 2.0: Games and Gamers Steve Anderson analyses the representation of video games at the cinema through a diachronic perspective that reflects on the evolution of the socio-cultural relations between the two media. In addition to the thorough historical path offered by the author, the value of this contribution extends on a methodological level thanks to its original format. The piece is a hypertextual project designed on Scalar in order to inform the reading with a large array of clips providing examples to the points made by the author and allowing the essay to directly quote the referenced films. In this sense, the essay does not only reflect on the history of videoludic representations but also on the methodologies associate with these investigations. Anderson’s piece in fact, is an example of new formats that are rapidly being adopted in academic contexts –such as hypertexts and video essay– that use multimedia formats to bridge the semiotic gap between the critical work (the essay) and its object (audiovisual media). Anderson’s piece allows the reader to unfold a historical organised in decades (1970s, 1980s, 1990s and 2000s) each associated with dominant themes and ideologies that are exemplified via clips available on Scalar. For this reason, the journal directly hosts an introduction to this work that maps it with links redirecting to the Scalar project.
In his article Alex Casper Cline examines three ways in which traditional audiovisual media have represented video games and the social, economic and cultural discourses surrounding them. Cline focuses on what he dubs as the (re)production of the 1980s UK game industry, a productive milieu that is at the same time described and constructed ex-post by a series of films and TV series. Micro Men (Saul Metzstein, 2009) frames the rise of the British video game industry as dominated by the attrition between creative genius and a reactionary approach to media and technologies. The crowdfunded documentary From Bedrooms to Billions (Anthony and Nicola Caulfield, 2014) embraces a more optimistic view, often bordering overenthusiastic technophilia and, Cline argues, constructs a discourse that is largely devoid of a critical focus. Finally, the experimental documentary Spectrum Diamond: The Myth and Legend of Matthew Smith (Lucio Apolito, Paolo Caredda, Alessandro Diacco, 2002) constructs a quasi-fantastic narrative around the production of the games Manic Miner (Matthew Smith, 1983) and Jet Set Willy (Matthew Smith, 1984), blending gaming nostalgia, archival research and pseudo-history in the attempt to re-construct an esoteric segment of the history of video game production in the UK. Cline’s article resonates with Anderson’s Scalar project, in its attempt to shift the focus from the analysis of semiotic traits common to both media to the research around the discourses on video games and those produced by cinema and television.
Over the past ten yeas, cinema and video games have clearly developed a relationship that is as prolific in their practices and production as it is complex and problematic in its theorisation. With its fourth issue G|A|M|E asks, once more, what is cinematic in video games and what is ludic in cinema.

– All images belong to their rightful owner. Academic intentions only. –

References

Bolter, D. and Gruisin, R. (1999). Remediation: Understanding New Media. Cambridge, Massachusetts: MIT Press.

Bordwell, D. (2006). The Way Hollywood Tells It. Story and Style in Modern Movies. Berkeley, California: University of California Press.

Brooker, W. (2009). Camera-Eye, CG-Eye: Video games and the “cinematic”. Cinema Journal 28(3), pp. 122–128.

Buckland, W. (Ed.). (2006). Puzzle Films. Complex Storytelling in Contemporary Cinema. Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell.

Frasca, G. (2003). Ludologists love stories, too: notes from a debate that never took place. In Level Up Conference Proceedings, (pp. 91–99). Retrieved from: http://www.digåra.org/wp-content/uploads/digital-library/05163.01125.pdf

Galloway, A. R. (2006). Gaming. Essays on Algorithmic Culture. Minneapolis/London: University of Minnesota Press.

Jenkins, H. (2006). Convergence Culture Where Old and New Media Collide. New York: New York University Press.

King, G. and Krzywinska, T. (2006). Tomb Raiders and Space Invaders. Videogame Forms and Contexts. London/New York: IB Tauris.

King, G. and Krzywinska, T. (Eds.). (2002). ScreenPlay: cinema/videogames/interfaces. London: Wallflower Press.

Manovich, L. (2001). The Language of New Media. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.

Murray, J. ([1997] 1998). Hamlet on the holodeck: the future of narrative in cyberspace. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.

Newman, J. ([2004] 2013). Videogames (second ed.). Oxon: Routledge.

Nitsche, M. (2008). Video Game Spaces: Image, Play, and Structure in 3D Game Worlds. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.

Perron, B., and Wolf, M. J. P. (2009). Introduction. In B. Perron and M. J. P. Wolf (Eds.), The Video Game Theory Reader 2 (pp. 1–21). New York: Routledge.

Wolf, M. J. P. (1997). Inventing Space: Toward a Taxonomy of On- and Off- Screen Space in Video Games. Film Quarterly, 51(1), (pp. 11–23).

Wolf, M. J. P. (2008). What Is a Video Game?. In M. J. P. Wolf (Ed.), The Video Game Explosion (pp. 3–7). Westport, CT– London: Greenwood Press.

Author contacts
Riccardo Fassone – riccardo.fassone@unito.it
Ivan Girina – ivan.girina@kcl.ac.uk
Federico Giordano – federico.giordano@unistrapg.it

Categoria: 4/2015 Journal | Tags: Federico Giordano (Università per Stranieri di Perugia), Ivan Girina (King's College, London), Riccardo Fassone (Università di Torino)

L. Argenton, S. Tiberti, Psicologia del videogioco. Come i mondi virtuali influenzano mente e comportamento

Posted on 20 Settembre 2015 by Riccardo Fassone
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Identità, immersività, patologia e tecnologia positiva: oltre i luoghi comuni sui videogioco

Stefano Triberti e Luca Argenton, entrambi dottorandi di ricerca, l’uno presso l’Università Cattolica, l’altro presso l’Università Bicocca di Milano, hanno dato alle stampe, per le edizioni Apogeo, un testo dedicato ad una branca peculiare dello studio dei videogiochi. Il titolo è semplice e immediato: Psicologia del videogioco. Come i mondi virtuali influenzano mente e comportamento. Nel leggerlo un videogiocatore esperto potrebbe nutrire qualche perplessità. Se ne potrebbe derivare l’impressione dell’ennesimo testo, come spesso accade per produzioni provenienti da ambito pedagogico-psicologico, poco avvezzo con il medium, che riproduce esclusivamente dibattiti giornalistici sensazionalistici, dando loro una patina di scientificità. Il sottinteso di questi testi, spesso, è una condanna tout court del mezzo videoludico, con annessi moralismi del caso.

Quanto appena descritto è l’esatto opposto dell’operazione effettuata dai due psicologi di scuola milanese. Già dall’introduzione il lettore-videogiocatore viene rassicurato dal programma dei due studiosi, e soprattutto dal loro percorso privato. I due autori in questione si dichiarano dei giocatori e mostrano di volersi allontanare dai luoghi comuni che si addensano nelle pubblicazioni videoludiche di approccio psicologico. Il programma, al termine della lettura, si può dire essere stato pienamente rispettato. Il lettore-videogiocatore si trova davanti ad un testo che si muove con sicurezza fra i riferimenti videoludici e prova a riassumere la letteratura scientifica di settore senza infingimenti su possibili effetti negativi o inutili panegirici del mezzo, né tantomeno prese di posizioni ideologiche preconcette contro il videogame in sé.

Più nello specifico il lavoro dei due studiosi affronta quattro ampie variabili, a ciascuna delle quali è dedicato un capitolo del libro: identità, immersività, emozione e cognizione, psicopatologia.

Nel capitolo dedicato all’identità i due studiosi affrontano il tema della possibile costruzione dell’io suscitata dai prodotti interattivi digitali. I videogiochi favoriscono la costruzione di un’identità proiettiva, il modo per osservarla meglio è soffermarsi sulla dimensione dell’ “avatar”. Il soggetto, di fronte al proprio avatar, può sviluppare con esso differenti relazioni. Un avatar può essere di tipo meramente relazionale, ovvero sostanzialmente identificativo e stabile (come quello che si attiva attraverso l’immagine che appare ad individuare il parlante in una chat), o coprire una funzione agentiva, intessendo una rete di relazioni emotive e comunicative con il soggetto umano che lo interpreta (è il caso della maggior parte dei videogiochi). Gli avatar, poi possono essere a bassa personalità, risultando una pura estensione del videogiocatore, o ad alta personalità, divenendo dei veri e propri alter ego del videogiocatore (per esempio Duke Nukem). In seguito i due studiosi connettono questa teoria dell’avatar a una mappatura delle posizioni rispetto all’identità sociale e personale e al sé reale ed ideale, e si pongono il problema della specificità identitaria del gioco online e delle comunità che si formano attorno ad esso.

Il capitolo che affronta il tema dell’immersività si concentra inizialmente sull’effetto Proteus – attraverso il quale il videogiocatore tende ad assumere, anche nella vita reale, alcune caratteristiche del proprio avatar – e sul “senso di presenza”, connesso alla percezione del sé e dell’altro in un ambiente virtuale. La parte più interessante del capitolo si occupa del concetto di “flow”, ossia dell’assorbimento totale che si ha nel giocare a determinati prodotti, al punto da trascurare il fatto di essere in un contesto virtuale, avvertendo vere emozioni e coinvolgimento. Il testo sviluppa un interessante percorso che illustra come possano modularsi skills, obiettivi e richieste del videogioco, dimostrando come l’effetto di flow possa essere programmato in fase di game design e che esso derivi da determinazioni psicologiche, legate al modo in cui il gioco è costruito. Se ne deduce la conclusione che giochi “poveri” risultino, talvolta, maggiormente coinvolgenti di prodotti che hanno alla base ingenti investimenti, proprio perché sono maggiormente efficaci nel produrre il “flow”. In conclusione di capitolo Triberti e Argenton ci segnalano sia possibile anche un effetto di “networked flow” (flow di gruppo, condiviso), in determinati ambienti, come quelli dei MMORPG.

Il capitolo dedicato a emozione e cognizione è il più complesso. Considerato il notevole sforzo di sintesi degli autori di studi su svariate variabili del tema posto, la lettura è meno agevole e il materiale, forse, meno organico che nei precedenti capitoli, tuttavia, sebbene da esso non si possa derivare una tesi coerente, si possono trarre numerosi spunti di interesse su singole questioni. Se ne segnalano alcune a titolo esemplificativo: la funzione pedagogico-educativa del videogioco e la necessità di apprendere regole e ruoli per incrementare le capacità di apprendimento, il problem solving, e il controllo del comportamento; le possibilità di empowerment di alcune capacità cognitive grazie alle sollecitazioni provenienti dai giochi; lo specifico conseguimento di abilità in ambito della cosiddetta “solution finding” (in particolare all’interno di alcuni generi come le avventure grafiche); la possibilità di proporre approcci edonici ed eudamonici attraverso il videogioco, ovvero suscitare condizioni di benessere, felicità e realizzazione personale; un apprendimento basato “sul fare”, attraverso l’acquisizione delle regole di un gioco e della capacità di orientamento entro di esso. Nell’ultima sezione del capitolo i due ricercatori riassumono brevemente, appoggiandosi ad alcuni esempi concreti, il funzionamento e i benefici cognitivi e pedagogici desumibili dall’edutaiment, e in particolar modo dal serious gaming, nelle sue variegate sfaccettature (advergaming compreso).

Il capitolo finale, dedicato alla psicopatolgia del videogioco, è quello più sensibile a potenziali opposizioni da parte di lettori mossi da posizioni ideologiche differenti. Nel capitolo si tratta, naturalmente, dei temi più noti in quest’ambito: violenza nei videogiochi, dipendenza dai videogiochi, videogiochi come causa di patologie quali obesità, psicosi, disturbi dell’attenzione. L’approccio dei due studiosi è rigoroso, e, al contempo, flessibile. Argenton e Triberti riportano le maggiori esperienze di ricerca in campo, senza acquisire una posizione preventivamente favorevole all’uno o altro paradigma. Quello che concludono, sulla base dei dati acquisiti, è che esiste una possibile connessione fra comportamenti patologici e uso dei videogiochi, o dei media in generale, ma non esiste una causalità diretta fra la fruizione del medium e l’adozione di un comportamento distorto. La patologia psichiatrica ha sempre cause complesse e integrate (fattori ambientali, sociali e predisposizione personale sono le dimensioni preminenti in questi casi). In soggetti già predisposti alla psicosi, laddove l’uso dei videogiochi fosse una delle esperienza significative della vita dei soggetti a rischio, potrebbero favorire l’acutizzarsi delle patologie. Dunque il videogioco non è la causa di una patologia, ma, come ogni altra dimensione della vita umana, può contribuire alla sua composizione.

I singoli capitoli sono accompagnati da interviste finali ad alcuni studiosi particolarmente rilevanti per le questioni affrontate in ciascun ambito. Non sempre queste interviste sembrano essere ben integrate con i contenuti dei capitoli (talvolta sembrano davvero in opposizione), o particolarmente approfondite su un piano scientifico (sono ovviamente discorsive, com’è proprio del genere cui appartengono). Tuttavia le interviste hanno un effetto retorico, spezzando il continuum del discorso accademico, e alleggerendo la lettura attraverso un effetto di variatio. Fra i pochi appunti che possono essere mossi al testo, ben curato da un punto di vista editoriale per altri versi, vi è la non corrispondenza, talvolta, di nomi e date fra richiami bibliografici nel corpo del testo e riferimenti presenti in bibliografia. Si tratta, in realtà, di peccati veniali: la serietà e circospezione dell’ultimo capitolo, può essere uno dei modi in cui si può riassumere l’approccio dell’intero testo. I due studiosi provano ad effettuare una sintesi delle principali ricerche in campo nell’ambito della psicologia dei videogiochi, riducendola a poche linee essenziali, e offrendo un possibile quadro teorico. Si tratta di un primo tentativo, che può fungere da pietra miliare per i futuri studi possibili. Particolarmente apprezzabile è lo stile piano, lineare, che rende il testo fruibile non solo dagli specialisti in ambito psicologico, ma lo rende particolarmente utile anche a studiosi di videogiochi, o semplici videogiocatori.

Author contacts
Federico Giordano – federico.giordano@unistrapg.it

Categoria: 4/2015 Books, 4/2015 Critical Notes | Tags: Federico Giordano (Università per Stranieri di Perugia)

Documentary film and the (re)production of the 1980s UK game industry

Posted on 18 Settembre 2015 by Riccardo Fassone
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cline

 

Abstract
As a medium older and more established than the digital game, film has certainly played a role in documenting its trajectories. Through audiovisual essays and narratives we can be introduced to game artifacts alongside the contexts of their creation, distribution and reception. The older medium avoids a problem of abandonware and emulation, whereby games are preserved but are devoid of the temporal specificity and popular excitement often so important to their meaning. Yet there are always problems with such documentation; film, with its limited capacity for immersion, can only represent and relate narratives about gaming. As such, it alienates viewers from the content and mechanics of such games, relegating them to the position of a passive viewer.

This paper looks at three specific attempts to explore the history of the UK game industry. Micro Men foregrounds a rivalry between two of the largest UK computer manufacturers, Sinclair Research and Acorn Computers. The film abandons the traditional documentary format in favour of a dramatisation with some added archival footage. Of particular interest and irony is the extent to which the focus of the film is on the competition to produce the BBC’s Micro project; while both the aforementioned companies were critical of the state broadcaster’s intervention, both competed for the contract mindful of the publicity and sure sales that would be associated with the project. Unlike computer development in the United States or Japan, British computer entrepreneurs relied on public funding even as they publicly denounced the concept. It should not go unnoticed that this film was itself produced by the BBC, and that it seems to feed into more recent attempts to reform the state education curriculum and to regenerate a UK computer culture.

From Bedrooms to Billions, a crowdfunded project by Anthony and Nicola Caulfield is due to come out this September, and relied on the enthusiasm of nostalgic Eighties gamers and younger retro enthusiasts. From donations they have to date raised over £80,000 pounds, around double their initial target. While they interview a number of significant figures in the game industry from the period, it is perhaps noticeable that many of their interviewees remain connected to gaming in some way and were at least moderately successful. There appears to be little inclusion of those who are now critical of the industry, or who were exploited or marginalised within the game production industry. The title of the film suggests it will be a triumphal narrative for the UK’s £2 billion dollar industry, but the finished film remains to be seen.

Opificio Ciclope’s 2003 Spectrum Diamond: The Myth and Legend of Matthew Smith is an older, more abstract project, created by a collective based in Bologna for Finnish state broadcaster Ele and French network Canal+. Unlike the aforementioned films, the documentary focuses not on the game industry as a whole, but rather on two games, Manic Miner and its sequel, Jet Set Willy. Their plot was numerous, superficial, but nonetheless foreboding, taking place only a year before the National Union of Mineworkers strike and subsequent destruction of the UK labour movement. Rather than interviewing important figures or creating a conclusive narrative, the documentary focuses on replicating the affective context of the games, speculating about the rediscovery of this obsolete console by a Finnish teenager, Theo. Matthew Smith, the young programmer who would disappear before producing a third sequel, is cast as the Syd Barrett of the 80s, producing tortured art that marks the free fall out of industrialism. While the former titles comprise laudable efforts to narrate the past of the UK game industry, only the latter title is able to transcend representation, providing an experience that is far from linear and profoundly ludic.

A punk microeconomy, the UK video game industry in the 1980s exhibits notable differences from similar markets in the United States and Japan. At this point, the global integration of new media production was far from complete. Today, while the United Kingdom still has a lively development community including some notable mid-size, stand-alone developers, some development franchises associated with larger multinationals, and a number of critically acclaimed indie producers, it can hardly be considered an autonomous industry. Vallance (2014) notes the relatively small number of indigenous producers in the modern development ecology, arguing that among other factors this is responsible for the contemporary lack of concentration of software producers around urban or creative centres. Izushi and Aoyama, (2006) on the other hand, argue that there is little evidence in the UK of communication or creative diffusion between the video game industry and local comic or animation production, as with Japan, or with film production, as the United States. The game industry was dependent upon itself for content and experience. Johns (2006) argues that there is still a distinct European market, dependent upon the region’s reliance on the PAL television format, but elsewhere notes historical connections between the UK and US game markets; her work also illustrates that the consolidation of UK developers happened rapidly in the early 1990s. Charting and understanding this trajectory of economic change is difficult process; while there is a range of work in the social sciences on the industry as it exists today, historical quantitative data can only tell us so much about how production was organised. This paper therefore takes an alternative approach, looking for qualitative illustration in a number of documentaries produced in the recent years.

Little work has been done on documentary films that take games and the cultures surrounding them as their subject, despite the increasing popularity of such films. Fullerton (2008) and Poremba (2011) have looked at the relationship between games and documentary, but their work focuses predominantly on how games have remediated the documentary form. “Docugame” developers produce immersive historical simulations that employ archival material and/or historical characters or events to both educate and ethically or affectively provoke players. Another synthetic medium that fuses documentary practice and gaming is the emergent “e-sports”; while there is an impetus towards live material, the inclusion of formal elements such as narration and the focus on characters outside the game – in this case the pro-gamers – mean that there is certainly also influence from other documentary media. While there are films about the experience of players (see Frag and especially Free to Play), increasingly the majority of coverage is live or near-live, following the conventions of television broadcasts of sporting events. Kaytoue et al. (2012) study the twitch.tv platform, arguing that casual gamers often prefer to watch other players than play themselves and that this live streaming represents a novel kind of entertainment that further democratises the so-called gaming scene. Carter and Gibbs (2013) note tensions in another popular e-sport community as the developer alternates between restricting tournament rules to make games fully comprehensible to non-players, and encouraging a vibrant, if sometimes opaque, metagame. This synthetic medium of live-streaming games both draws from documentary practices and ensures that the practice of recording gameplay is normalised, benefiting future archives.

In the game preservation community, a split exists between those who would preserve games in a playable form, and those who would prioritise recording gameplay instead. Newman is foremost amongst those who would argue for the latter; in the 2012 text Best Before he argues that fundamental problems with emulation mean this established model of preservation is flawed. Newman writes:

That so much of what games have to offer is based on contingencies of play must surely lead us to question the primacy of playable games in the game preservation project and encourage us to consider the possibility of a need to shift the balance from game preservation towards gameplay preservation. […] While for many it exists as a valuable supplement to the business of game preservation, I wish to suggest that a documentary approach is well suited to respond to the diversity of play and the susceptibility of games to the configurative, transformative acts of play as well as underpinning any project based around the preservation of playability. (2012, p. 158)

Newman shows his enthusiasm for practices such as Speedrunning and for the increasing popularity of so-called Let’s Play videos: videos where players post themselves playing contemporary or historical games and commentating on their performance and experience (2013, p. 61). The focus on emulators – software programs that allow games from historic platforms to be played on modern platforms – is problematic for Newman because emulated versions of games both differ from original versions of the game and from each other, making authentic experience impossible. Furthermore, contemporary players do not play games within the same social and political context, their experience of the game situates it not within its artistic, generation milieu but instead as a nostalgic or antiquarian fetish. Documentation of gameplay -whether historical or contemporary – can more properly situate games within their context, while foregrounding the subjectivity of the player’s encounter.

Simple video game play cannot, however, tell us altogether too much about the material conditions of development, production and distribution in the video game industry. Furthermore, it is hardly certain that historic games are more than a marginal, passing interest. It is for this reason that longer documentaries about the varied histories of game development are of scholarly interest; both because they can complement more procedurally sound contemporary research in geography, sociology and economics related to the video game industry, but also because their popular reception suggests that this social history of gaming may be of interest to wider audiences. That being said, however, it is clear that documentaries are never neutral. In this paper, it is argued that film and television documentaries have the capacity to illustrate the context in which games are developed, produced and distributed. Documentaries, however, also have their own production contexts; these invariably affect the way in which the content of the documentary is presented, inclusions and omissions. This paper looks at three documentaries on the UK Game Industry of the 1980s; while there is a great deal of room for comparative studies of the way different historical periods or regional markets are presented, that would require a larger study that is beyond the scope of this article.

Dreamland: State Drama in Micro Men
Micro Men begins with a short documentary-style clip detailing Clive Sinclair’s impact on the electronics industry. This sequence is presented in the style of television special from the period in question; while this sequence is fictional construction made for the movie, its usage of stylistic conventions reminiscent of Eighties news broadcast both situates the events within a particular time period and gives the film an authority as guide. The 2009 television film then shifts into its dominant style, that of the dramatisation. Sinclair is told by the government executives funding his company that certain, more exotic elements of his research are not supportable with taxpayer money; he subsequently explodes with rage at everyone around him, his employees included. Contrary to the impression given by the leading segment, Sinclair is not the protagonist; this role belongs to his employee and subsequent competitor, Chris Curry. Sinclair then falls into the role of antagonist; he is paranoid, railing against the limitations placed on him by state control and, in a scene that stylistically references the spy thriller, asking his employee Curry to quit and work for him at a secret Cambridge start-up. In the film, Sinclair is initially dismissive of computers despite Curry’s enthusiasm for them; Curry instead goes into business with Hermann Hauser, founding Acorn. After Sinclair is given a “golden handshake” by the now government-owned Sinclair Radionics, he appears unsettled until walking past a newsagent sign announcing Margaret Thatcher’s ascension to Prime Minister. Sinclair declares a “fresh start”, throwing away his cigarettes, selling his Rolls Royce, and entering the emergent computer business. This marks the conclusion of the first act, which has shown the method by which this film will illustrate the game industry of the 1980s. Its predominant focus is on two specific companies and their key players, rather than the industry as a whole; it also is heavily focused on the production of hardware platforms as opposed to software development. By making a dramatisation, the producers of the film inevitably allow inaccuracies in order to facilitate narrative flow; they compensate for this in their use of archival footage, simulated reenactments of such footage (including mock news reports, used in lieu of narration), and the use of authentic consoles as props. These threads are woven into a film that is very much an elegy for a certain imagined British computer hardware industry.

The second act foregrounds the importance of a BBC project to encourage computer education. Both Sinclair and Curry were initially furious at what amounted to state-funded advertising for a single computer product, but were seemingly also upset that the state-operated broadcaster had not decided the computer to be featured through open competition. Perhaps hypocritically, they both wanted a shot. The film shows Sinclair contacting Curry, conspiratorially suggesting they work together to open up the competition; in actuality, Sinclair had never heard of the proposed broadcast when Curry contacted him about it (Anderson and Levine 2012, p. 36). The change is relatively minor, but is an illustration of how Sinclair’s personality is exaggerated, while Curry is made to appear more neutral. Acorn, who attempt to match the specifications of the BBC, defeat Sinclair, which insists on its own specifications. The foregrounding of the BBC’s intervention and the identification of Curry – the chief executive of the company that would eventually receive the contract to produce its BBC Micro – as the protagonist cannot be ignored for two reasons. Most important is the fact that this television movie was produced for and screened on a BBC channel; it naturally risks becoming a triumphal narrative, a documentation of the computer industry that foregrounds the BBC’s (and indirectly the state’s) role within it. The irony of the fact that characters such as Sinclair, and indeed Curry himself, are critical of state intervention in industry can hardly be lost.

To a lesser extent this also feeds into the politics of the ascendant computing revival; though the film predates the Conservative electoral victory in 2010, and the subsequent announcement of changes to the computing curriculum in 2012, the ideological concept of a synthetic, even “synergetic” relationship between government and business, particularly high-tech, creative sector business, is not particularly partisan. As Barbrook (2006) and Pratt (2008) have shown, such a partnership was also encouraged in the economic policy of New Labour, the formerly social democratic party in power at the time. A critical fragment of the film is the inclusion of an archival clip wherein Margaret Thatcher demonstrates a Sinclair console to the Japanese prime minister during a 1982 visit; in an associated press conference, Thatcher announces: “I’ll be pursuing the possibility of increased sales in Japan of highly competitive British goods and I know that you’re doing more to try to open up the market for more imported goods and I’ll be hoping to strengthen the industrial and technological links between our two countries” (Thatcher, 1982).
Despite the supposed commitment to free market practices, the government is frequently called upon to support businesses. In return, entrepreneurs are held up as national icons; Sinclair was subsequently knighted. It seems unavoidable therefore that due both to its documentary-drama mode and the context in which it was produced that the film would adopt a “Great People” model of history. Perhaps notable is the fact that the screenwriter for Micro Men had produced the screenplay for another BBC historical dramatisation, entitled Margaret Thatcher: The Long Walk to Finchley. While filmmaking is a collaborative process and it would be unfair to conflate the production of a documentary on a person with an explicit endorsement of them, this does suggest the type of character that is conducive to the format.

The third act is introduced with a universal frustration. Curry’s staff realise their platforms are unpopular without a large catalogue of games, and consequently produce a lower cost, stripped down console called the Electron. Meanwhile, Sinclair is having trouble breaking into the professional market; his QL is suffering from significant production problems and consequentially delays. Sinclair alternates between shifting his focus to renewable transportation – his often mocked but remarkably prescient electric tricycle – and berating his employees for the delays in production. After Curry is left with a full warehouse, he worries about his staff; after a film minute of contemplation, he decides to run the advertisement highlighting the Electron’s much lower return rate when compared with Sinclair’s competing ZX Spectrum. A fight breaks out when Sinclair confronts him about it, though this scene is exaggerated for dramatic effect. “Poor Clive was made to look like a lunatic” says Curry (Anderson and Levine 2012, p. 44). A subsequent on screen conversation between Curry and his second-in-command Hauser illustrates the dual messages of the film.

“Curry: It’s official, we’re a joke. Hope all the people we have to lay off see the funny side.
Hauser: We’re not a joke, Chris. The bottom has fallen out of the whole market, that’s all. It’s the same for everyone.
Curry: It’s the same for Clive…
Hauser: Does that make you feel better?
Curry: *pauses, smiles* No, it doesn’t.
Hauser: I’ll go and start letting everyone know…
Curry: What are they all going to do?
Hauser: They’re clever people, they’ll think of something… Maybe they already have… (Micro Men)

In the background, there are two project specifications scrawled on a blackboard. The first, the ARM chip, is perceived to be the lasting legacy of the UK computer hardware industry.

The subsequent scene shows Sinclair and Curry reconciling over a pint in a pub. Sinclair extorts the resilience of British amateurs: “the quiet chap scuttling off his shed to work on that idea that he and he alone knows will change the world”. Sinclair then reveals his plans for a flying car, only to have the landlady call “last orders”. The landlady is a cameo by Sophie Wilson, who is in the real world the author of the instruction set for the aforementioned ARM chip and – it is implied – one of the “clever people” mentioned by Hauser. A concluding scene then summarises the problem with this imaginative, if somewhat distracted mindset; footage of the actor playing Sinclair in one of his patent electric tricycles is intercut with footage of Sir Alan Sugar, the entrepreneur with little knowledge of computing that bought his country. The shot then opens up to reveal that Sinclair is riding this tricycle on the highway – a risky procedure – as lorries pass him on both sides. The lorries are branded with the names of the computing giants of today, all American megacorporations. The film is incredibly enjoyable and a good example of effective mixing of dramatic, archival and faux-archival footage. Nonetheless, it appears overly patriotic; one cannot help but relate this to its conditions of production.

Happiness and Light : Crowdsourcing Reflection in From Bedrooms to Billions
The trailer for From Bedrooms to Billions opens with enthusiastic games journalist Gary Penn describing the affective environment of the early 1980s: “There was that new frontier, there was a sense of a new medium, there was a sense of a cultural thing occurring, there was a sense that anyone could do anything or make anything happen”.
Jon Hare, an artist and producer for Sensible Software asserts that “we were in a position in the UK where we were ready for something to happen”, while Julian Rignall, another journalist, adds that “it was very new, it was an industry that was making it up as it went along”. The approach taken by producers Anthony and Nicola Caulfield is described as the “ensemble interview”; rather than using the voice of a single or small group of narrators, they intercut interview footage from journalists and developers in order to produce a coherent narrative through montage. In an interview with the [London] Metro’s David Jenkins, Andrew Caulfield describes how the project was originally pitched to the BBC and commercial networks, the documentary – originally planned as a three part television series – was rejected because games – particularly retro games – were seen as a “niche” interest (2013). After the successful broadcast of Micro Men, the show was picked up by the BBC, only to be dropped again after a month.

Caulfield describes beginning research for the project in the late 90s, and being motivated by the absence of contemporary UK developers; he also notes specifically the absence of UK producers, something noted in academic research by Vallance (2014). The producer is cautious about how he talks about the integration of UK developers into foreign supply chains; initially, he cages his statement with “I’m not saying that it’s bad…”, but when the interviewer suggests it might be he affirms that actually “it’s a crying shame”. That being said, the documentary appears to be developing in a different direction than the seemingly patriotic Micro Men discussed previously. Here, it is argued that the crowdsourced production has a triumphal narrative, but one that is not overtly about the self-affirmation of British inventiveness. Instead, the documentary is a valorisation of the importance of independent, small-scale developers against larger production companies. Caulfield’s words show the extent of the consolidation also documented in Johns’ (2006) research :

There’s a very interesting statistic actually, in the early ‘90s there was a 22 month period where we saw an almost 78 per cent drop off in financial activity of UK companies working on video games between ’93 and ’95. Which is almost a straight line on a graph. And that means money being generated in the UK by UK businesses and the money staying in the UK. By ’95 most developers were owned by Sony, Ubisoft, and various other companies. So the money was obviously going outside of the UK. (quoted in Jenkins, 2013)

Kuppuswamy and Bayus (2013) look at the vitality of public crowdfunding platform Kickstarter, suggesting that it differs from traditional investment models both in the quantity of investors – there are a greater number of small scale investors – and the quality and level of feedback provided by those who have a stake in the project. The decision by producers Nicola and Anthony Caulfield to raise the funding for their project on Kickstarter and similar platform Indiegogo has invariably affected their product. It is notable that unlike others funded on the platforms, they are not amateurs; both have had considerable success making documentaries and films receiving funding from traditional sources. Employing two different platforms was an unorthodox move, but one that proved to be successful, gaining a greater degree of public and media interest. While in the earlier, Indiegogo campaign uses photos of the producers in archival photographs from magazines and offers material rewards to large-sum backers, the later campaign uses the social capital of confirmed interviewees, including things such as autographs and personal objects, in order to solicit even greater donations. While a detailed study of the crowdfunding campaign is beyond the scope of this article, it is notable that the funding generated by the project exceeded the initial goals and established a responsive target audience before the campaign had concluded. One can discern a third stage of the campaign in the mailings sent to backers; fans were invited to help source archival footage, suggest possible interviewees, and even perform complex technical tasks to facilitate certain sequences. While this engagement is without a doubt rewarding for fans and will enhance the quality of the finished product, scholars have critiqued the capacity of digital media platforms to entangle fans in forms of unremunerated labour. It is also of importance that the creators of this documentary have a background as producers; while the editing and cinematography is of high quality, it could be suggested that production skills are important for all artists in this emergent world of indie production.

The film was expanded greatly due to fan participation and the flexibility of the funding structure, but was not brought out until long after its projected date of completion, making a review of its content for the initial draft of this article impossible. That being said, however, an eighteen minute clip entitled Metal gives a good impression of both the formal structure and the overarching ideological grounding of the film. The title is a reference to “bare metal” coding, the coding in assembly language practiced by early programmers on platforms with limited memory and processing power. One can draw two major messages from this segment. The first is that the limitations of storage formats – which meant computer users had to type in program listings line by line – helped to improve computer literacy amongst the general population, including those who would not go on to become programmers. Another commentator tells us that the network of computer publications acted as an early internet – a distribution mechanism for code, techniques and commentary. Yet the general enthusiasm of early coders also was open for exploitation. Nigel Adlerton recalls convincing a headteacher – who was shocked students would want to attend school any longer than they were forced to – to hand over the keys so they could come in early. Anthony Crowther, another interviewee, recalls that this indulgence went further at his school. Library staff noticed that enthusiastic computer users were skipping lessons to use their computers, and so set them to work producing software that could be sold to other schools; in return, the students got an occasional free lunch. While the computational culture of the 1980s was in some respects more novel and accessible, it is also important that other elements are not obscured: in this case, the problematic use of child labour by school administrators.

In the trailer, to cite another example, an unnamed commentator speaks of the instant acclamation afforded to successful developers: “It was a fame and stardom that none of us were prepared for… and it hurt a lot of people”. The next scene shows Matthew Smith, developer of Manic Miner and Jet Set Willy, asserting that “there’s a group of people for whom the 1980s was a magical time full of… full of happiness and light.” It’s unclear whether Smith is making this comment sincerely or with a degree of irony; it is also unclear whether the directors are using it to contrast with the preceding and subsequent fragment, or in sequence with them. The next scene is from a 1984 documentary – Commercial Breaks (Paul Anderson) – and shows the fall of Imagine Software, as bailiffs lock employees out of their workplace. Along with Imagine’s dissolution, the depression and disappearance of Smith is one of the most well known elements of 1980’s UK gaming mythology. This short sequence is suggestive that the film has the capacity to be self critical of the computational culture of the 80s, but then the film’s criticality is necessarily limited by the biases of its funders, many of whom would not have indulged the producers were it not for a latent and rose-tinted nostalgia that they likely want reflected in the film. The Caulfields are left with an awkward situation; either they abuse the trust of their funders and produce a film that shows all sides of the gaming industry, or they indulge them and produce a film that is simply another form of triumphalism.

Secret Level: Documenting Disappearance
Spectrum Diamond – produced by Bologna film collective Opificio Ciclope – is the shortest film reviewed here, fitting into an hour television slot. It is also the oldest, having been produced in 2002 and screened in 2003. The conditions of production are also the strangest; while the producers were Italian, the film was made with funding from the Spanish affiliate of French television corporation Canal +, to be screened on television in Finland. They use contemporary footage, but a range of obsolete and dated film cameras, giving the footage an aesthetic that is more dreamlike than dated. Unlike the other documentaries mentioned, it uses a narrator; the narration was the first component to be written, and the documentary has been structured around that. The narrator, however, is hardly an authoritative voice; the producers reveal that they “wanted a phantom presence as a narrator, a spirit child to guide thru the years and cities”. The use of a teenager from a foreign country, too young to remember the subject of their documentary, means that the film has a mythological quality. While Micro Men looks at the pioneers of British hardware, and From Bedrooms to Billions explores the software industry as a whole, Spectrum Diamond looks at a single series and its disappearing creator.

The games – Manic Miner, and its sequel Jet Set Willy – were produced by Matthew Smith, at the time a teenager. Jenkins (2013) describes their lasting significance: “30 years later and they’re still the best example of a British made video game that actually feels British”. They hold a psychedelic quality, drawing influences from popular culture, cult media, and current events. Jodi – perhaps the best known producers of game art – created their piece Jet Set Willy Variations in 2004 as a tribute to the series, hacking the titles to foreground their psychedelic qualities. Opificio Ciclope engage in a similar tribute through the medium of documentary video. They explore not only the games but also the spaces in which they were created; Wallasey, for example, where Smith had lived while developing the game. Many segments of the documentary are shot on antiquated film cameras, with special filters or lenses, making the landscapes they shot seem surreal. This is certainly in line with their stated aim; they “tried to look at England like a multilevel game.” While they don’t directly address the wider context of social, political and economic change, it is certainly implied through some of the interviews and sequences. As opposed to the revolutionary moments portrayed in Micro Men, or described in From Bedrooms to Billion, Spectrum Diamond implies a lost battle, adopting an elegiac tone. An interviewee, identified in the transcript only as “man in the pub”, describes how his environment has changed:

Buses used to be on time. Cheap fares. Everyone was subsidized. People were working. Everybody had a job. Families were happy, you know. Now they’ve just build all the promenade… Looks nice, but there’s nothing there anymore. So it’s like a ghost town, really.
It’s changed over the years like…

There is also a fascination with mythologies. Firstly, there are those referenced in the games, which Opificio Ciclope try to understand through local and vernacular sources. There is the “priest’s hole”, for example, a level in the game that has its origins in the hiding spots of 16th Century clerics; the producers ask some of the interviewees to explain it. They are similarly fascinated with in-game characters; in Jet Set Willy, the titular character is ordered to rearrange his house by his housekeeper, and the producers encourage an interviewee to speculate on the strange relationship between them. There is also another type of mythology investigated; that of the game’s production, and of the notable disappearance of its producers. The producers claim they “never looked for traces of Matthew Smith, (the girlfriends, the family…), not really”. Yet this is because their film is not about drawing conclusions, or making statements. Instead, it is about using the ambiguous nature of documentation, and the consequential ambiguity of documentary film as a medium. They open a discussion, asking questions not only of experts but of peripheral and even unrelated figures. They create Matthew Smith as a mythological character, a video game character. One source relates that “He was so rich he could use ZX Spectrums to proper-fix tables, because the legs wobbled, or to hold open the door”. Other sources describe his subsequent disappearance. The producers interview other figures from younger generations; reenactors, who took up the task of producing their own versions of the games they had loved.

After Theo, the teenage narrator, reveals that the disappearing character has been found, it is not an invitation for resolution, conclusion. Instead, they cut to Steven Smith (unrelated), who with others had started a website to track sightings of their programmer hero. Steven Smith relays information received that he was creating new vehicles, or staying in a Dutch commune, or working in a fish factory. Strangely, the narrator joins in, providing information of his own of ambiguous authenticity: “I first met Matthew when he was rich and famous and he still knew how to draw a good party. I recall a free bar under the stairs and magic mushroom tea for all. The rest of evening is lost in a blur”.
Steven Smith repeats another myth; that the programmer Matthew Smith is actually a codename for the computer. Opificio Ciclope follow an exegetical, speculative approach to the information they have obtained. They mix fiction and folklore in with documentary evidence, though not to make the material easier to digest, as in Micro Men. Instead, the inclusion of strange, unrelated statements, characters and material does two things. It creates an interactive, affective environment, similar to that created by a video game, through which the viewer must navigate. In addition, it reflects the winding, quest-like path taken by the film’s producers, who lacked discernible hierarchy or direction. At Software Products, where Matthew Smith worked while producing his second title, one of his colleagues attempted to explain the strange production environment to a visitor: “People see everybody wandering around and think, they’re idle. But as long as they produce a program, we don’t care how they do it. Some of them sleep here” (Bourne, 1984). One might meditate on the extent to which the documentary filmmakers’ loose organisation and random, playful approach mirrored the production conditions of the video game studios where their research subject worked.

Conclusion – Production and Reproduction
This paper has attempted to analyse and contextualise three contemporary documentary films, showing how their portrayals of the British Game Industry are necessarily, though not completely, conditioned by their funding sources and conditions of production. Study of films cannot replace formal research in the social sciences when it comes to understanding the history and modes of production within the industry itself. Yet just as the production conditions of documentaries necessarily affect their content and message, the conditions under which research is produced can similarly affect its conclusions. In thinking about how production conditions necessarily affect – if not shape entirely – practices of documentation and presentation of historical technology usage in the cinematic format, we are implying that other research might be similarly affected. The museum display and the academic paper should certainly not to be excluded from (self-)critical analysis. It is worth noting that none of these documentary ‘films’ has had a traditional cinematic release; two were released on television, while one has only been available as a DVD ordered from the internet. This should not exclude them from analysis as films, but should indeed encourage a renewed commitment to the notion of “expanded” cinema. This concept, originally advanced by Gene Youngblood in 1970, has been reformulated to apply to documentary-inspired art films in gallery contexts, and material distributed through or as digital media (see Rees et al., 2011). Yet the intersection between video-games and cinema provides another space in which the boundaries of cinema are blurred and its practices are altered.

In a large auditorium above EGX – one of the largest trade shows in Europe with a recorded attendance of over 70,000 – a crowd of enthusiasts took their seats for the eagerly awaited premiere of From Bedrooms to Billions. An acquaintance pointed out members of the “retrogaming” scene: journalists from a range of vibrant online (and, increasingly, print-based) communities, veteran developers from the period working on eagerly awaited comeback titles, collectors and archivists whose vigilance ensured the preservation of a great deal of vintage software and hardware. That being said, it was hard not to feel the event was somewhat disconnected from the massed crowds of teenagers below; while indie gaming, following a similar production model to that of games from the era, and retro aesthetics, wherein modern games appropriate low resolutions and limited palette for artistic rather than technical reasons, have become increasingly popular, this has not necessarily translated to a true revival of popular interest. The increased capacity for producers to fundraise amongst dedicated audiences means that projects can be assured of a certain success before they are completed – this applies not just to films, but also books and even projects to replicate hardware.

Many of the published contemporary resources I have been using to study the history and material culture of this era have been self-published; though this practice predates the origin of crowdfunding, recent projects have certainly benefited from the increased visibility and accessibility of audiences. A range of material has emerged, including first hand accounts of working in the game industry, recollections of software and of hardware. While some of the material has been published on larger presses presses, others have been released by small presses or independently the authors. Though it is important to note that this does not detract from the value of the source, methods of production, which increasingly means financing and distribution more than material manufacture, have an effect on the presentation of material. A trade off ensues; what works well with Kickstarter backers and other enthusiasts does not necessarily work effectively with the public as a whole. The result may be beneficial for the technical or social researcher, who can make use of technical specifications or intricate recollections that might be edited out of a mass-market book. It may also be more aesthetically pleasing; recent titles have put to shame the trained designers of major labels. The production model of “by fans, for fans” short circuits the awkward processes of legitimation in an empowering way. That being said, this also excuses the increasing absence of any other model. Graham Smith’s editorial on the popular online games magazine RockPaperShotgun, while specific to audiovisual journalism, makes the case well; he notes the absence of the BBC, the UK’s public broadcaster, in discourses surrounding video-games (2014). As such, efforts at presentation, documentation and analysis are accountable to corporate interests, whether consolidated and large, or small and diffuse.

This note on the relationship between the provenance and consequential perspectives of three films may seem pedantic, and it is hardly conclusive. Yet as the current UK government continues to significantly overhaul its methods of teaching history and computing, films and other forms of documentary media will have a significant influence on audiences seeking to understand the development of the creative industries. This is not to fault the films mentioned here; rather, I am suggesting a diversity of production methods is important to maintain. If care is not taken to ensure a variety of viewpoints, made possible by a range of possible funding sources, it is easily possible that a skewed perspective might inform future generations of designers, engineers and entrepreneurs. Crowd funding, because of its ability to mobilise and ensure the support of certain audiences, may be incredibly appealing, but it is important that other forms of funding – state funding, funding from corporations, academic and cultural institutions – remain available. Video games, because of their mutability, rely on other media such as cinema for their adequate preservation. Yet as they are themselves becoming (or returning to being) increasingly open to experimental mechanics and aesthetics, we can surely hope that they similarly will encourage significant experimentation in cinematic presentations of their history.

– All images belong to their rightful owner. Academic intentions only. –

References
Adamson, I., Kennedy, R.. (1986). Sinclair and the ‘Sunrise’ Technologies : The Deconstruction of a Myth. London: Penguin Books.
Anderson, M., Levine, R. (2012). Grand Thieves and Tomb Raiders: How British Video Games Conquered the World. London: Aurum Press.
Barbrook, R. (2006). The Class of the New. London: OpenMute.
Bourne, C. (1984, December). Matthew Uncaged. Sinclair User, 33, pp.88-92.
Documentary is Never Neutral. (n.d.). Retrieved from http://www.documentaryisneverneutral.com
Franklin, S. (2009a). “We Need Radical Gameplay, Not Just Radical Graphics”: Towards a Contemporary Minor Practice in
Computer Gaming. symploke, 17(1), pp.163-180.
Franklin, S. (2009b). On Game Art, Circuit Bending and Speedrunning as Counter-Practice: ‘Hard’ and ‘Soft’ Nonexistence. CTheory, 5(2) Jun.
Fullerton, T. (2008). Documentary games: Putting the player in the path of history. In: Z Whalen and L Taylor, (Eds.), Playing the Past: History and Nostalgia in Video Games. Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press.
Izushi H., Aoyama Y. (2006). Industry evolution and cross-sectoral skill transfers: A comparative analysis of the video game industry in Japan, the United States, and the United Kingdom, Environment and Planning A, 38(10) , pp. 1843-1861.
Jenkins, D. (7/3/2013). From Bedrooms to Billions – UK Gaming: The Movie. The Metro. Retrieved from http://metro.co.uk/.
Johns, J. (2006). Video games production networks: value capture, power relations and embeddedness. Journal of Economic Geography, 6, pp. 151-180.
Kaytoue, M., Silva, A., Cerf, L., Meira, W, Raissi, C. (2012). Watch me playing, i am a professional: a first study on video game live streaming. Proceedings of the 21st international conference companion on World Wide Web. pp. 1181-1188.
Newman, J. (2012). Best Before: Videogames, Supersession and Obsolesence. London: Routledge.
Newman, J. (2013). Videogames (2nd ed.). London: Routledge.
Poremba, C. K. (2011). Real|Unreal: Crafting Actuality in the Documentary Videogame (Unpublished doctoral dissertation). Concordia University, Montréal.
Pratt, A. C. (2008). Creative cities: the cultural industries and the creative class. Geografiska Annaler, 90(2), pp. 107-117.
Rees, A.L., White, D., Ball, S., Curtis, D. (eds) (2011). Expanded Cinema: Art, Performance, Film. London: Tate.
Scully-Blaker, R. (2014). A Practiced Practice: Speedrunning Through Space With de Certeau and Virilio. Game Studies, 14(1).
Smith, G. (2014). Editorial: We Need the BBC in Videogames. RockPaperShotgun. Retrieved from http://www.rockpapershotgun.com.
Thatcher, M. (1982). Press Conference for Japanese correspondents (coming visit to Japan). Press Conference Transcript. Margaret Thatcher Foundation Archive. Retrieved from http://www.margaretthatcher.org/.
Vallance, P. (2014). Creative Knowing, Organisational Learning, and Social-Spatial Expansion in UK Videogame Development Studios. Geoforum, 51, pp. 15-26.
Wilson, J. F. (2007). Ferranti, A History (vol 2): From family firm to multinational company, 1975-87. Preston: Carnegie Publishing.

Ludography
Jet Set Willy, Matthew Smith, UK, 1984.
Manic Miner, Matthew Smith, UK, 1983

Filmography
Anderson, P. (Director) (1984). Commercial Breaks [Documentary]. UK: BBC.
Apolito, L., Caredda, P., Diacco, A. (Director) (2002). Spectrum Diamond: The Myth and the Legend of Matthew Smith [Documentary]. Italy; Finland: Opificio Ciclope.
Caulfield, A., Caulfield, N. (Director) (2014). From Bedrooms to Billions [Documentary]. UK: Gracious Films.
MacCormick, N. (Director) (2008). Margaret Thatcher: The Long Walk to Finchley [TV Movie]. UK: Great Meadow Productions.
Metzstein, S. (Director) (2009). Micro Men [TV Movie]. UK: BBC.
Pasley, M. (Director) (2008). Frag [Documentary]. USA: Cohesion Productions.
Valve (Producer) (2014). Free to Play [Documentary]. USA: Valve.

Author contacts
Alex Casper Cline – not@territory.cc

 

Categoria: 4/2015 Journal | Tags: Alex Casper Cline (Anglia Ruskin University)

Bad object 2.0: Games and gamers

Posted on 18 Settembre 2015 by Riccardo Fassone
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ANDERSON

Abstract

This is not a history project. Nor is it about video games and the people who play them. Instead, this project focuses on the cultural discourse surrounding digital games as they have been refracted by the lenses of American film and television. This study considers a broad cross-section of Hollywood’s depictions of games, tracing their evolution from objects of fascination and technological possibility in the 1970s and 1980s to catalysts for antisocial behavior in the 1990s and 2000s. This evolution maps revealingly onto the changing economic circumstances of the games industry, describing a direct correlation between the economic viability of the industry and its critical depiction in Hollywood.

The chronological trajectory mapped by this project moves through recognizable stages with the goal of placing equal emphasis on specific media examples as well as broad patterns. This illuminates important but easily overlooked distinctions among various genres and platforms of games and how they are imagined on film and television. Arcade games, for example, were subjected to much less withering critiques than their home console counterparts; PC-based games were likewise more commonly granted nuanced treatment in the eyes of Hollywood. How can we explain these differences? A closer look at the evidence offered by film and television at various points in time, viewed in light of the material circumstances of the industries involved, may provide some answers.

The basic contours of this project’s argument are simple. From its origins in the 1970s and continuing through the end of the 1980s, Hollywood’s vision of games was remarkably accepting; narratives were largely balanced in terms of gender, and the youth culture emerging around games was portrayed with relative dignity. During this time, the games industry was still establishing its foothold in the homes of North America and making its way into the leisure time of families. In spite of stunning profits in the earliest days of the 1980s, the industry suffered a massive collapse in 1983, followed by a rebound of home consoles in the 1990s that placed it in more direct competition with the film and television industries. By the 2000s, console games were thoroughly integrated into American homes, posing for the first time a viable threat to the hegemony of the film and television industries for domestic entertainment. Throughout this period of ascendance, cinematic tropes of gaming grew more critical, with gamers increasingly associated with a range of antisocial behaviors, especially violence, addiction and repressed sexuality. Ultimately, the project argues that depictions of games on film and television include both a dominant discourse of denunciation and notable exceptions that allow for more complex, alternate readings.

This project was created using the electronic authoring platform Scalar, which allows for the inclusion of a large number of clips – probably too many to expect any individual reader to watch them all. Whenever possible, the argument put forward in each of Scalar’s “paths” has been conceived with minimal dependence on adjacent elements. Readers may also explore this project’s complete collection of clips via the Media Chronology page. The goal of this structure is to enable readers to explore the project according to their own areas of interest rather than by necessarily following a sequence of linear arguments. In addition, the collection of clips included in this article constitutes a sub-archive within the critical media sharing site Critical Commons, where all original media files may be viewed or downloaded for further use. Reader-viewers are thus invited to investigate the media and arguments put forward here not as definitive or exclusive readings, but as interpretive beginnings, which will hopefully be generative of further discussion and research.

Click here to see the full article.

– All images belong to their rightful owner. Academic intentions only. –

Author contacts
Steve Anderson – sfanders@usc.edu

Categoria: 4/2015 Journal | Tags: Steve Anderson (University of Southern California)

Narrative time in video games and films: from loop to travel in time

Posted on 18 Settembre 2015 by Riccardo Fassone
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Abstract
Within the broad framework of audiovisual theories, this paper deals with the analysis of narrative time in video games. Starting with the concept of participation time, which is taken from the interactive media, the now classic concepts of the narratology of film studies are applied to clarify the main mutual influences between the two media in relation to narrative time.
Unlike the cinema, the narrative character of video games is not always clear. Generally, video games are always games and often also stories. Certainly, the playable character of these stories confers on them a few specific characteristics that need to be explored.
Two aspects of narrative time are relevant here. Firstly, the loop as an elementary control structure of computer programming and as a characteristic narrative form of time structure in video games, and secondly, the paradox of travel in time in the discrepancy between the time order at the level of the story and at the level of the narrative.

Keywords
Video games, film, audiovisual language, narrative time, participation time

Introduction
In cinema the action is narrated in the present tense. The screening of the film actualises the story each time, even though it was filmed in the past. For Jost and Gaudreault (1995, p. 111) film time relates states or events from the past which we recall as they unfold. The film image shows how things develop, it shows us the past as it takes place before us, in the present, and takes its time to show it.
According to Neitzel, however, the narrative time of video games must be viewed differently. Here, gameplay is the fundamental and distinguishing characteristic: “The process of playing a computer game thus corresponds to the process of narration. This process leaves behind traces on the level of the discourse, which makes up certain relationships with the level of the story, for example, in respect to temporality” (Neitzel, 2005, p. 236)
The player’s actions in the game constitute perhaps the most important difference between video games and other media such as cinema or literature, where the viewer or reader does not intervene. Video games are always games, although they are also often narratives. In the case of narrative games, which are our main focus, the narrated story is determined by the playable nature of the medium. The narrative time in video games will, therefore, largely depend on the player’s actions.
In this paper, we will follow the theoretical perspective of narratology for the analysis of narrative time, starting from the adaptation of G. Genette’s literary theories to film studies. Naturally, the narratological analysis of video games presents peculiarities that we must fully take into account and that give the key to the fundamental differences between film and video games, although also to their extensive mutual influences. We recall that narratology is presented as the study of narrative and thus is applicable to different media, provided they are narrative.
Given that the discourse is created as such from the experience of its enjoyment, a fundamental distinction to be made with regard to the narrative temporality in video games is the control of time by the player.
In interactive media, according to Maietti (2008, pp. 63-64), there are two types of temporal duration, object-controlled duration and experience-controlled duration. In the first, temporal duration depends on the medium and is independent of its reception, as is the case in film, whereas in the second, the player controls the duration of the game in their action of playing. Generally, MMOG (Massively Multiplayer Online Game) impose a tighter control over time, since this must necessarily be shared by all the users, whereas in single player games, the player can have greater freedom to control the time. We’ll see how this is particularly true for loops, which are used in single-player video games, such as Tomb Raider or Resident Evil but are unviable in an MMOG such as Counter Strike, which imposes a rigid, standardised duration on all participants. Of course, single-player games can have a system-controlled duration, for instance in most racing games, such as Need for Speed​​, or sports games, including football and others, such as FIFA. Temporality is never a simple factor in any case, given that the narrative is produced from the interactivity of the discourse.

Participation time: dual temporality in video games
According to Genette (1991 and 1998), dual temporality is required to define a narrative, i.e. there are two temporal components, given that a temporal sequence of events does not in itself define a narrative. Therefore, as regards the dominant temporal relation, in narratives such as books or films, there is a relationship between story time and discourse time, which is required to define any narrative. Eskelinen (2004, p. 39) argues that, based on the traditional definitions of narratology, narrative time in video games should be defined as the relationship between user time and event time.
In this same area of concern, Juul (2005, p. 141) proposes a relationship between what he calls play time and fictional time. Make-believe games have a dual structure, in the sense that the player’s actions belong to a different world from the character’s actions, but the two are connected. Time is the variable that gives us the key to this relationship because it is time in the real world, play time, and in the fictional world, fictional time, time in which the action unfolds.
Although Eskelinen and Juul use different terms, they refer to the same two concepts as Genette – user time and play time are the equivalent of discourse time and event time and fictional time are the equivalent of story time.
However, in Maietti’s view (2008, p. 70) we must avoid the problems involved in determining the duration of an event in the fictional world according to the duration it would have in the real world. In other words, determining play time as the actual time playing can lead to misunderstanding or at least does not contribute to the narrative understanding of the game. Finally Maietti suggests that research should be undertaken into the time of the interaction, the user’s access to the fictional world through the interface (Maietti, 2008, p. 72).
Undoubtedly, the application of narratology to the analysis of narrative time in video games raises some issues. In interactive media, the discourse is not completely fixed or predetermined, instead most of it is generated during the interaction or participation. Since time is linear, the story generated is linear. But the resulting text is not all the interactive text, nor does it enable us to fully understand its nature. At this point we must consider the player and the games, and in this sense, the player’s time and the game time in terms that are rather more abstract but useful from an analytical point of view.
In this sense, fictional time or time of events can be defined as the story’s internal intradiegetic time. Whereas, in our view, game time or user time should refer to the time the game gives the player. This time is written in the rules of the game, but is manifested in playing and should include the ability or possibility that the game gives the player to change the narrative time. This is the equivalent to Genette’s “pseudotime” (1991, p. 144) and measures not only the narrative speed but also, as is inevitable in an interactive medium, the modification of the narrative time by the player. This second aspect of user time, the modification of the narrative time, can only take place at the interface, as noted by Maietti (2008, p. 72). We can call it participation time, as it puts the focus on the user’s interaction in the game through the interface, in the modification of narrative time through the gameplay. In functional terms, this participation time will express the player’s progress in the game, i.e. their linear progress through the discourse via the games.
The narrative time is defined in the same way as in film and literature, as a dual temporality between the story time and discourse time, but in video games there is tension between this narrative time and the user’s participation in the game.
In video games, the dual temporality is defined by the story time and participation time. The story time is the same concept as we have seen throughout the narratological tradition, the internal time in the story which is told, but the participation time is new to the study of video games. It is equivalent to discourse time in film studies but it is not the same, since in film, the narrative time, the duration for example, is fixed in the story and does not depend on viewing. In video games, however, the participation time may be not fixed before playing, and may depend on the player’s actions in the game through the interface. For instance, the player’s skill can make the climbing of the telecommunications tower in Tomb Raider, either a fast and exciting linear adventure lasting 10 minutes or, following successive failures in the ascent, a slow and frustrating repetitive action that lasts twice or three times as long. The story time, and the story itself, are modified by the player’s actions.
Before analysing each aspect of narrative time, we must take into account that the participation time depends on the rules of the game. If the rules allow for it, the player can, by their play, modify the narrative time, i.e. the relationship between the participation time and the story time. In other situations, we find a set time, i.e. a time controlled by the system and by the rules. Eskelinen refers to this same distinction as “event time” for games in which the player can change the narrative time and “set time” for those in which the time is set in the rules.
The dual temporality of all narratives –in film, literature or video games– imposes the variables for the analysis of the narrative time, which are, in any event, determined by the relationship between the discourse or participation time and that of the story time. These variables, according to Genette, are order, duration and frequency. We will now focus on the most contentious issues and also those that are particularly distinctive in relation to each of these variables in the analysis of the narrative time of video games, especially in relation to the concept of participation time.

Temporal order: paradoxes of travel in time
Based on Genette (1991, p. 91), but adapted to the peculiarities of cinematic storytelling (Gaudreault & Jost, 1995, p. 112), we can distinguish three possibilities for the organisation of time: linear time –pure chronology, coincidence, respect for order– between the story time and the discourse time; and two types of anachronism, analepsis (-lepsis, take, ana-, after), the subsequent recall of an event prior to the time of the story, and prolepsis (-lepsis, take, pro-, before), where the event takes place before its normal order in the chronology. In the cinema the terms flashback and flashforward are often used, but they have the drawback of referring only to the visuals. Therefore, there will always be a “récit prémie” or first narrative and an anachronism, which is a second narrative, inserted into the first.
In film, it is often the words that indicate an anachronism, its scope and breadth. Flashbacks combine a verbal backtrack with the visual representation of the events. Especially in classic cinema, there are cues and conventions that denote a flashback (gaze into the distance, fade to black, different appearance of the narrating character, the switch from an indirect style –verbal discourse– to a direct one –dialogues–, etc.). There are numerous examples of analepsis in the cinema, from the most classic cinema to the most recent, such as The Bad and the Beautiful, Citizen Kane, Sunset Boulevard, Lola Montès, Mr. Arkadin, and many others.
Flashbacks or analepses have been used in the cinema almost since its inception, and certainly from the classical period to the present day, due to their dramatic effect, increasing the engagement of the viewer who wants to find out how a particular situation has come about. As a linear narrative medium, anachronisms introduce a non-linear order in the storytelling.
Prolepses, on the other hand, are much less common in the cinema than analepses, which are not only common but much conventionalised in their narrative formulas. A film which contains both in a characteristic postmodern narrative puzzle is Pulp Fiction.
These two devices, analepses and prolepses, are difficult to apply to video games, due to what could be described as paradoxes of travel in time. Variations in the narrative order present some difficulties in video games, in relation to the fact that the game is a narrative experience that depends on the player’s actions to be narrated, which implies that analepses or prolepses will entail a problem of temporal paradoxes. Maietti (2008, pp. 60-61) states that, in interactive media in general, the order of the discourse sets the order of the story, limiting the narrative to a strict temporal dimension in the present tense. If, during an analepsis, the character who is the avatar of the player dies, this creates a contradiction in the present time in which they are still alive. The prolepsis may cause a distortion with regard to the character’s and the player’s knowledge. If the player obtains new information on the future state of the game world, when they return to their initial position in time, their knowledge will be different from that of their avatar. This difference in knowledge creates a paradox in the game, since the behaviour of the avatar will be based on information that the character cannot possibly possess.
Juul (2005), generally agrees with the above statements, in what he refers to as “chronology of time in game” (p. 147), chronological time. However he makes significant qualifications as to the possibility of there being anachronisms. In principle, games are narratives in the present, and there is a risk of creating temporal paradoxes if analepses or prolepses are introduced. However, there could be external analepses in mystery or detective games, etc., with cut-scenes or objects within the virtual world, i.e. in fictional time, which inform us about events in the past and help to solve the unknowns, such as, for instance, the Myst books. Zakowski, in his study of temporality in the Mass Effect series of games (Zakowski, 2014, p. 66), also connects the historical encyclopaedia the Codex to a link to the past, which he describes as a backstory, when information is provided on events prior to the present time in the main storyline.
The order in the narrative time must not be confused with time travel at the level of the story, where it is not the player who jumps in time, narratively speaking, but the character within the fictional world. Similar to time travel films, which can be completely linear in terms of the narrative, we can find an example of this in The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time, where Link travels into the future, and returns to the present at the end of the game, and also the journeys made by Desmond Miles using the Amicus device in the Assassin’s Creed series. In the cinema, the Back to the Future film series is an example of this. In all these cases, they are still linear narratives.
Indeed, the majority of narrative video games found on the market have a chronological temporal order, established by the story. However, in our view this is not due to logical contradictions, which could be quite easily rectified by the use of rules, preventing, for example, a return from the analepsis if the character dies. Regarding the issue of the difference in knowledge, this also occurs in one of the most common video game formulas, the loop, but does not represent a significant narrative contradiction for the development of the game. On the contrary, it is a form of learning by the player, who guides their character using that new knowledge which the character, on the other hand, does not possess.
Eskelinen (2004) defines temporal order as follows: “In computer games this is the relation between user events and system events, or the actions of the player and their interaction with the event structure (happenings) of the game” (p. 40). From the moment we define the order in terms of the relation between user actions and system events, the question is whether or not the user affects the order in which the system events occur: they do in exploration games, but not, on the whole, in arcade games. The difficulty is that we are not referring to the order in a strictly temporal sense of past, present or future with regard to the story and the discourse, but to the moment, inevitably always in the present time, in which the user may or may not change the sequence of events. Indeed, we must study the order in narrative time in video games based on our definition of dual temporality, which we have seen in the previous section. The temporal order depends on the relationship between story time and participation time.
Some video games do not have a pre-established temporal order for the sequence of actions in the fictional world. This is what Herman (2002) aptly terms “fuzzy temporality” (p. 228), an indeterminate or inexact temporality, which heightens the player’s enjoyment in that the sequence of actions may vary, as their order is not relevant to the development of the story. The game unfolds in a given space but the different sequences or missions do not have a temporal order pre-determined in the rules. The journey through the space allows indefinite temporality in terms of the order without making the player feeling lost, since they know where they are, and time doesn’t matter. We find an example of this in the missions of Mass Effect. Although other video games impose a rigid succession in the sequence of actions, this order is, to put it one way, unspecific, in the sense that what really matters is still the spatial journey, which imposes a progression in space rather than a temporal order: a space-related time. This can be found in many games, such as those of Castlevania: Lords of Shadow or Tomb Raider and Silent Hill games series, etc.
Sometimes, in addition to a spatial anchorage, the passage of time can be established through objects. The Legend of Zelda: Majora’s Mask, which is a very comprehensive game in the way it deals with diegetic time, allows the player to be located at any given time due to the possession (or not) of certain objects, such as the Hero’s Bow, which is not lost in time travel. The possession of these objects indicates a linear progression in the game, one moment after another in which the Bow is not possessed.
Space and objects are common devices for marking progression in a game, while the temporal order, in narrative terms, is secondary in video games, unlike the cinema, where this order is narratively essential and always, apart from somewhat experimental exceptions, very clear. In video games, the objects that are possessed or missions that are carried out belong to a participation time, i.e. they mark the progress of the player in the game while the player develops the discourse.
While in the cinema, as we know, temporal order is a common device used, especially analepses or flashbacks, and it carries out narrative functions at various levels, from the characters’ psychology to the dramatic power of the story, in video games the narrative time is linear, in an almost always level chronological order. The most powerful device in video games is the participation time, which measures the user’s involvement, always within the rules, in the narrative time.

Duration and incoherent time
Firstly, in video games, the relative duration of participation time and story time is usually identical in that the actions of the game are displayed on a continuous plane. Therefore the most common way in the cinema to change the relative duration, montage, is not present in video games or is insignificant. In the cinema, the identity between the duration of the discourse and the duration of the story is known as a scene (Gaudreault & Jost, 1995, p. 127). The usual plane sequence of games in the first person, third person or in a God-like view indicates that that relationship of duration is strictly identical.
However, we must take into account what Juul (2005) calls “incoherent time” (p. 152), which refers to temporal violations of the game time-fiction time relationship. Juul identifies three types of violation, which are game pause, subjective time, and shorter game time than fictional time. In this last case, the violation comes from comparing fictional time with real time, such as in Heavy Rain, in the scene where Ethan Mars has returned from school with his son at the beginning of the game and the kitchen clock shows the story time, which is faster than real time. This treatment of time is only incoherent compared to real time. Juul himself refers to it as projection and it is the same as what is known in narratology as a summary, a summary of the story time in the discourse time, such as in the montage sequences of The Hudsucker Proxy or Up. In the case of the videogame Heavy Rain, the duration is controlled by the rules of the game, which impose on the player the difficulty of a reduced time to resolve the scene. In this case, participation time is controlled by the rules.
In the other two cases cited by Juul, pause time and subjective time, we can find explanations without turning to the concept of inconsistent time. In many games, the pause or stoppage of play itself by the player, leaves the story time in relative continuation, for example with the hearing of diegetic sounds. Although one might think that this is a narrative dilation, such as the famous slow motion scenes of The Wild Bunch, we cannot say that when a video game is paused this relates to any kind of narrative function. Rather, it is the participation time, which pauses the game and with it the discourse. The same applies to what Juul calls subjective time, a short pause that takes place when the player reaches a certain goal and changes level, such as in Super Mario 64. It may be considered as a dilation of participation time in relation to the story time, but it is not significant, in our view, in terms of the narrative.
Sometimes story time can be sped up or slowed down using coherent devices at an internal fictional level, such as in Majora’s Mask. Firstly, again we find a narrative summary, where the participation time is shorter than the story time. In addition, playing the Inverted Song of Time halves the passage of time, whereas playing the Song of Double Time takes the player straight to night time or the following morning. The two songs are diegetic and therefore slow down or speed up time from a diegetic point of view, which means that rather than a narrative problem this is an intradiegetic modification, as also happened in The Ocarina of Time. But this temporal modification, which does not alter the narrative time but the story time, forms part of the participation time, i.e. it is the player who, at all times, chooses to use or not the possibility of playing one song or the other and thereby change the time of the story. Here the progress in the game, which changes the story time, is produced by the use of certain objects.

Frequency: the narrative convention of the loop
According to Genette (1991, p. 172), frequency refers to the relation between the number of times an event appears in the discourse and the number of times it appears in the diegesis, i.e. the relations of repetition between the plot and the story. It is a mental construct, since a repeated event is never the same, nor is the repeated fragment of a discourse.
Genette establishes the following types of frequency, which are always considered as mental constructs, between the story (S) and the narrative discourse (N):
– Narrating once what happens once (1N/S): singulative narrative;
– Narrating n times what happens n times (nN/nS): an anaphoric type of singulative narrative;
– Narrating n times what happens once (nN/1S): repetitive narrative. Here the story is told from different points of view or using different styles;
– Narrating once what happens n times (1N/nS): iterative narration, which implies condensation.
In adaptation to film (Gaudreault & Jost, 1995, p. 131), the types of frequency are almost reduced to the singulative narrative, which is exemplified by almost all the films in the history of the cinema, narrating just once events that happen only once. There are, of course, exceptions, such as Rashomon.
Whereas the repeating narrative is an unusual form in the cinema, it has often been said that it is essential in video games, although certainly not in all video games. According to Eskelinen (2004, p. 41) we can distinguish two types of game according to whether the events and actions can happen only once or unlimited times. There is no middle ground: in many games, especially MMOGs, the actions are irreversible, and a previous situation cannot be repeated. In others, it is not only possible but necessary to keep on trying until the solution is found, and this is an option established in the rules of the game and used by the player. Thus, in video games where time is not irreversible, the loop is commonly used as a way of dealing with time.
The loop has become part of the very identity of video games. If the temporal order imposes linearity, and if the duration is identical in the dual temporality, the loop is therefore the most characteristic formula of narrative time in video games. So much so that when the cinema has sought to reflect or take narrative inspiration from video games, it has adapted the loop, which seems very odd. In fact, although until the nineties the use of the narrative loop was unusual and virtually non-existent in the cinema, since then it has been explored by some films, to some extent inspired by the interactive narrative of video games, such as Groundhog Day, Run Lola Run, The Rules of Attraction, Source Code, Triangle or most recently, Edge of Tomorrow.
According to Manovich, the loop is a repetitive narrative. The author, on identifying the three fundamental characteristics of video games, directly linked to the cinema, cites the differential movement, spatial montage and the narrative convention of the loop. In fact the loop, as described by Manovich (2005, p. 392) constitutes the basis of early cinema and computer programming and was used for technical reasons in the first cinema screenings in digital media, just as it was used, for the same reasons, in pre-cinema and early cinema. The loop is inseparable from video games, for instance until a certain objective is reached and the player goes up a level. In this sense we can consider that video games often incorporate a repetitive discourse, where the unity of the story is changed several times in terms of the discourse. Adventure games are perhaps the best examples. Silent Hill, Resident Evil, Tomb Raider, but also God of War series, Death Island, Batman: Arkham City, and many others, force the player to repeat particular moments or scenes of the game to continue to move forward. The loop is integral to progress in the intradiegetic action and it is the player who, subject to the rules of the game, repeats the action however many times they need in order to learn.
For Neitzel, the relationships between story and plot are marked by the fact that a game is basically repetition. Therefore according to Neitzel, the example of Murray on the multiform story of the film Groundhog Day is wrong, given that it is a multiform plot, “because the story has only one form. This form, however, is shown in text in several forms on the level of the plot. The story with its intrinsic meaning holds together the repetitions of almost always the same, which are played out on the level of the plot” (Neitzel, 2005, p. 236).
However, from our perspective, to say that a story is repetitive, i.e. in a loop, the repetition must be at the level of the discourse, on the level of the plot, and not at the level of the story, which remains one. This is Genette’s original definition of narratology which is supported by Manovich. According to analysis based on the narrative levels, the character, within the story, does not know that they are repeating the same moment because it is the player who, from outside the story, is repeating an event time and time again. The story time is singular and the participation time is multiple, therefore the loop is produced by the extradiegetic action of the player. This is the difference between a medium that is interactive, video games, and one that is not, film. In video games, participation time can explain the loop. In film, when this narrative form typical of video games is adapted, the player becomes the character, so that they, within the story, learn over successive repetitions how to act.
Whereas in Groundhog Day and the other films mentioned above, narrations clearly inspired by the characteristic loop of video games are not strictly loops, since there is a multiple discourse and story. This is a case of a singulative anaphoric narrative and not a repetitive narrative. The fundamental difference is the narrative level at which the repetition takes place: if the repetition is intradiegetic, this is an anaphoric narrative, and if it is extradiegetic, it is a repetitive one.
The case of Rashomon is different. We can observe that they are different discourses, and versions, of one and the same story. Here it is the character-narrators who tell, each from their own viewpoint, the same story. Following our explanation, Rashomon sets out two narrative levels. The first is the present tense, the narrators, and the second is the flashback, the story told by each of them. It is a structure at two narrative levels, which is similar, but not identical, to that of video games. Indeed, in video games, the player, in leading the narrative, bears some resemblance to a narrator who tells a story, and whom we see in the audiovisual discourse. Therefore, Rashomon is a narrative loop.
In video games, the narrative time depends on the relationship between the participation time and the story time: the same story is played several times, as many as necessary for the learning and enjoyment experienced by the player. The loop, then, depends on the participation time, which is external to the story time, and forms with it the dual temporality needed for any discourse.

Conclusion
The loop is a narrative device that places tension on the narrative time, i.e. the relationship between the discourse time and the story time. In the cinema, this tension has rarely been explored, and mainly in films inspired by the playable narrative of video games, as a narrative game. In contrast, in the cinema, analepses or flashbacks have a very long tradition, especially from the classical period, and this continues today. This temporal disorder is very useful in narration, allowing very effective devices to be used for linear media, adding to the emotional engagement of the viewer. As we have seen, this is virtually non-existent in video games.
The duration of video games is normally the scene, because cinematic continuity equates the duration of the story with that of the discourse. However, as we have seen, there are discontinuities, which have been especially useful to consider the concept of participation time, which marks the modification of the narrative time by the player, through their participation in the game.
The loop expresses everything said so far. It puts in tension the participation time –discourse time– with the story time. It is the player who, always within the limits of the rules, alters the temporal variable due to their need to learn, improve, understand the dangers etc. and who decides, perhaps because they have no other option, to enter a narrative loop, whose main function is to move the game forward. Here the tension between participation time and story time is clear. This formula, which in some form produces a crisis within the narrative itself, has become a key feature of video games. It has also been transferred to the cinema in films that have played with the narrative, although from a narratological point of view it is not the same type, since the cinema as a medium is not, nor will it be, an interactive discourse, which is a necessary condition of the narrative loop in video games, i.e. a condition of the participation time.

– All images belong to their rightful owner. Academic intentions only. –

References
Eskelinen, M. (2004). Towards computer game studies. In Noah Wardrip-Fruin & Pat Harrigan (Eds.), First person. New media as story, performance and game (pp. 36-44). Cambridge: The MIT press.
Gaudreault, A. & Jost, F. (1995). El relato cinematográfico. Cine y narratología. Barcelona: Paidós.
Genette, G. (1991). Discurso del relato Figuras III (pp. 75-327). Barcelona: Lumen.
Genette, G. (1998). Nuevo discurso del relato. Madrid: Cátedra.
Herman, D. (2002). Story logic: Problems and possibilities of narrative. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press.
Juul, J. (2005). Half-real. Video games between real rules and fictional worlds. Cambridge: The MIT press.
Maietti, M. (2008). Anada i tornada al futur. El temps, la durada i el ritme en la textualitat interactiva. In Carlos A. Scolari (Ed.), L’homo videoludens. Videojocs, textualitat i narrativa interactiva (pp. 53-76). Vic: Eumo.
Manovich, L. (2005). El lenguaje de los nuevos medios de comunicación. La imagen en la era digital. Barcelona: Paidós.
Neitzel, B. (2005). Narrativity in computer games. In Joost Raessens & Jeffrey Goldstein (Eds.), Handbook of computer game studies (pp. 227-245). Cambridge: The MIT press.
Zakowski, S. (2014). Time and Temporality in the Mass Effect Series: A Narratological Approach. Games and Culture, 9(1), pp. 58-79.

Ludography
Assassin’s Creed, Ubisoft; Gameloft; Griptonite Games, Canada, 2007-2014.
Batman: Arkham City, Rocksteady Studios, UK, 2011.
Castlevania: Lords of Shadow, MercurySteam; Kojima Productions, Spain; Japan, 2010.
Counter-Strike, VALVe Corporation, USA, 1999.
Dead Island, Techland, Poland, 2011.
FIFA, Electronic Arts Canada, Canada, 1994-2014.
God of War, SCE Santa Monica Studio, USA, 2005-2013.
Heavy Rain, Quantic Dream, France, 2010.
Mass Effect, BioWare, Canada, 2007.
Myst, Cyan Inc., USA, 1993.
Need for Speed, Electronic Arts Canada; Black Box Games; Slightly Mad Studios; Criterion Games, Canada; UK, 1994-2013.
Resident Evil, Capcom, Japan, 1996-2012.
Silent Hill, Konami Computer Entertainment; Creature Labs; Climax Studios; Double Helix Games; Vatra Games; WayForward, Japan, 1999-2012.
Super Mario 64, Nintendo EAD, Japan, 1996.
The Legend of Zelda: Majora’s Mask, Nintendo EAD, Japan, 2000.
The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time, Nintendo EAD, Japan, 1998.
Tomb Raider, Core Design, UK, 1996-2013.

Filmography
Avary, R. (Director) (2002). The Rules of Attraction [Motion Picture]. USA; Germany: Kingsgate Films; Roger Avary Filmproduktion GmbH.
Coen, J. and Coen, E. (Director) (1994) The Hudsucker Proxy [Motion Picture]. UK; Germany; USA: PolyGram Filmed Entertainment; Silver Pictures; Warner Bros.; Working Title Films.
Docter, P. and Peterson, B. (Director) (2009) Up [Motion Picture]. USA: Walt Disney Pictures; Pixar Animation Studios.
Jones, D. (Director) (2011). Source Code [Motion Picture]. USA; Canada: Vendome Pictures; Mark Gordon Company.
Kurosawa, A. (Director) (1950). Rashômon [Motion Picture]. Japan: Daiei motion picture company.
Liman, D. (Director) (2014). Edge of Tomorrow [Motion Picture]. USA; Australia: Warner Bros.; Village Roadshow Pictures; 3 Arts Entertainment; Translux; Viz Media.
Minnelli, V. (Director) (1952). The Bad and the Beautiful [Motion Picture]. USA: Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer.
Ophüls, M. (Director) (1955). Lola Montès [Motion Picture]. France; West Germany: Gamma film; Florida films; Union-film GmbH.
Peckinpah, S. (Director) (1969) The Wild Bunch [Motion Picture]. USA: Warner Brothers/Seven Arts.
Ramis, H. (Director) (1993). Groundhog Day [Motion Picture]. USA: Columbia Pictures Corporation.
Smith, C. (Director) (2009). Triangle [Motion Picture]. UK; Australia: Icon entertainment international; Framestore; UK film council; Pacific film and television commission; Dan films; Pictures in paradise; Triangle films.
Tarantino, Q. (Director) (1994). Pulp fiction [Motion Picture]. USA: A band apart; Jersey films; Miramax films.
Tykwer, T. (Director) (1998). Lola rennt [Motion Picture]. Germany: X-Filme Creative Pool; Westdeutscher Runfunk; Arte.
Welles, O. (Director) (1941). Citizen Kane [Motion Picture]. USA: Mercury productions; RKO radio pictures.
Welles, O. (Director) (1955). Mr. Arkadin [Motion Picture]. France; Spain; Suisse: Filmorsa; Cervantes films; Sevilla films; Mercury productions.
Wilder, B. (Director) (1950). Sunset Boulevard [Motion Picture]. USA: Paramount Pictures.
Zemeckis, R. (Director) (1985). Back to the Future [Motion Picture]. USA: Universal Pictures; Amblin Entertainment; U-Drive Productions.

Author contacts
Lluís Anyó – lluisas@blanquerna.url.edu

Categoria: 4/2015 Journal | Tags: Lluís Anyó (Universitat Ramon Llull)

‘Tell no one’: Cinema auditorium as game-space – Audience participation, performance and play

Posted on 18 Settembre 2015 by Riccardo Fassone
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Abstract
Taking Secret Cinema as its site for analysis, this article engages with the question what is ludic at the cinema. Secret Cinema delivers live, immersive, participatory cinema-going experiences and is a complex interaction between film, game, theatre and social media. Through the expansion and reimagining of a film’s milieu in both virtual and real spaces, Secret Cinema experiences encourage spectatorial performativity and ludic participation. Through the use of multiple methods, this article presents the formation of a dramatic and playful community in which the impact of game cultures and a ludic aesthetic upon cinematic audience spectatorship is illuminated. Cross-disciplinary in its approach, this article connects the registers of both game and film studies in order to account for this emerging playful engagement with cinematic texts. Through its use of empirical methods, we move towards a fuller understanding of audience experience and affective engagement.

Keywords
Immersive cinema, Ludology, Secret Cinema, Dramatic Community, Play.

Introduction

Secret Cinema (SC) (2007-) launched in the UK with an immersive screening of Gus Van Sant’s Paranoid Park in a disused railway tunnel, and has since delivered numerous expanded cinematic experiences. SC addresses a growing demand for live, participatory and often visceral cinema-going experiences and is shaping a new and highly profitable event-led-distribution-model.  Prometheus made more money as a SC event than at the IMAX premiere and Grand Budapest Hotel’s No1 box office position was largely attributable to the £1.1m generated by SC. These events have garnered a huge following of devotees who are willing to pay premium ticket prices to experience highly crafted and augmented collective viewing events around a particular feature film. The experiences have been marketed in a clandestine way via word of mouth and social media in which participants are instructed to ‘tell no one’. From the moment of the tickets purchase, audience members knowingly and complicitly enter an in-fiction space. Dramatic exposition is presented in social media spaces and audience members receive instructions to make preparations before attending the event, such as how to dress and what persona to adopt as part of the instantiation of the film. The interrogation of such a complex and multi-layered experience requires a multi-modal research design, and in this case will be underpinned by a synthesis of the critical concerns and insights of game studies and film studies. Through participant observation of one event by two researchers, a close textual and aesthetic analysis of the experience has been conducted by building on existing film studies conceptualizations. Drawing on the broad discipline of game studies and the centrality of play theory, an analysis of the affect of the experience has been enabled through qualitative questionnaires and interviews both before and after their experience with a randomly selected sample of seventy participants, who responded to a call for participation through social media channels.

A new cinematic game space

It is Secret Cinema presents… Back to the Future (BttF) which is the focus of the analysis of this article. Announced in June 2014, the event sold out 42,000 tickets in the first four hours, and then went on to sell almost 80,000 for the experience which ran throughout the summer of 2014. The cinematic spaces of the world of BttF were actualized as a ludic landscape, in both online and real-world spaces. In what follows, we look at some of the key qualities of this multi-faceted experience to interrogate the extent to which the aesthetics of games and play form can facilitate greater understandings. If this is ludic cinema – what kind of ludos is present here? We will explore the playfulness of the SC aesthetic experience by drawing parallels to the originating BttF cinematic text(s) and their concomitant audience pleasures, interactions and manipulations, whilst also interrogating audience behaviours and affect both during their preparations for, and at the SC event itself. We will draw on the critical vocabularies of the now established field of Game Studies to examine the extent to which the experience as designed assumes gaming or playful literacies on the part of the participant and borrows from or extends existing game aesthetics in the spatialisation and elaboration of the BttF world. In doing so, we will be drawing from influential approaches which draw attention to the aesthetic and affective dimensions of cultural experience as lived and embodied alongside significant critical work which has deployed early twentieth century play theory in the examination of contemporary games in terms of formal qualities but also in terms of player experience (Dovey & Kennedy 2006, Giddings 2008, Giddings and Kennedy 2009, Taylor 2006). In the following we identify some productive areas for close examination – the extent to which navigation and exploration are central features of the experience as both designed and embodied; the function of role-play as a structuring dynamic for participant engagement and also for designer control and rule formation; the evidence of a system of rewards for expert player/participant performance; the instances of collecting and accumulation as a central element of player engagement with the story as a pre-existing text and in terms of their experience as participants in the SC live event.

Online space – on becoming a resident of Hill Valley – from payers to players

As a participant or player, the BttF experience was shaped and tightly controlled from the moment of successful ticket purchase. Through online spaces and social media channels, participants were able access the fictional spaces of the experience via numerous ‘diegetic portals’ (Atkinson, 2014b), and invited to get into character. The fictional locale of BttF’s ‘Hill Valley’ was recreated in numerous in-fiction websites as well as in the physical spaces of ‘pop-up’ stores which opened up in East London in the weeks leading up to the main event in which visitors were greeted and served ‘in-character’ by Hill Valley residents. There was also the frequent publication of articles (online and in newspaper form) leading up to the Hill Valley fair (the proposed context of the live event), as well as a TV station (HV-TV) broadcasting via YouTube. These elaborations and embellishments of the fictional far exceeded previous events and were aimed at making the shows increasingly interactive and immersive, combining elements common to virtual worlds and pervasive games.

Within the ‘fictional’ social media strategy – ticket-holders were required to log in to the Hill Valley website using a secret access code that was embedded in an introductory email. Audience members were assigned new identities and issued with printable business cards which they were instructed to bring along to the event, which communicated their new name, address, telephone number and assignation to one of Hill Valley’s constituent organizations. Audience members were then given specific instructions of what to wear and what to bring to the event. For example, Hill Valley High School students were required to bring their homework and photographs (at the event students could then decorate their own locker in the school). Town Hall staff members were asked to bring banners, flags, posters and rosettes to support the Mayor Red Thomas re-election campaign (which were then used as props by participants taking part in a pre-screening parade).

Engaging in these activities enabled audience members to begin to immerse themselves into the diegetic fabric of the BttF filmic universe well in advance of attending the event. These interactions also worked on the level of introducing new characters to the audience, who don’t feature in the film, but contributed to an expanded diegetic canvas of the fabula of BttF. They also enabled audience members to contribute to the textual spaces of the experience and provide new content for sharing. For example, on the Hill Valley Telegraph staff page – members were asked to write articles on recent (imagined) news, these were then included on the dedicated website. One of our respondents was clearly delighted to have his pre-event engagement rewarded in this way:

Before the event I wrote a letter to the Hill Valley Telegraph about moving here from New York, which was ‘printed’ online (11b).

Audience members were also provided with instructions on the most appropriate clothing to wear through a downloadable Hill Valley ‘Look Book’. Alongside the issuing of a new identity and the very specific instructions regarding how to engage with the event, these instances could collectively be considered as the ‘rule set’ for BttF as a role playing environment, as we shall now explore below. It is also clear from these pre-experience responses that the participants took pleasure in the elements of role play and performance that were afforded:

I’ve realised you have to put something in to get the best experience. I have a 50s outfits already, I’ve visited the stores and I think I will pretend to be a character when I’m there (10a).

I plan to enjoy the surroundings and interaction with other fans and engage in character roleplaying to enjoy the moment (3a).

These preparations enabled audience members to occupy the physical space of the narrative diegesis of the Hill Valley fair prior to the screening in what we refer to as an intra-diegetic play-space in which participants take on a role through their embodiment of in-world characters to navigate and explore, and immerse themselves in the extensive fabula initially established online.

Players/participants celebrated and shared their preparatory engagements in a series of behaviours which share much in common with Cosplay (see Figure 2). Cosplay is a practice that aligns closely to film-fans, cinephiles, cartoon devotees and gamers (Gn 2011, Lamerichs 2011). In this instance, it was initially very closely policed by organizers and other fans, and in audience-generated tip-sheets – ‘to get the best experience’ (48a).

Despite the presence of a rule-set as described above, since so many of the BttF participants are established devotees and fans of the text, they arrived in their own self-selected identities – many of them choosing to play key central characters from not just the first BttF but also the two sequels. These minor acts of disobedience led to a preponderance of Martys, Biffs, Goldies and Docs whose actions and behaviours were easily confused with those of the actual professional actors who shared the landscape. Said one participant:

I always dress as Doc Brown to fancy dress parties and am a bit of an inventor like him! (7b).

This mirrors the on-screen BttF character engagement in constant ‘cosplay’ throughout the trilogy as key characters don decade-specific disguises. This confusion of the participants performative identity through the juxtaposition of conflicting temporal referents created a verisimilitudinal dissonance within the event.

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The eclectic result of audience ‘cosplay’, captured by the mode and aesthetic of the social media selfie

The eclectic result of audience ‘cosplay’, captured by the mode and aesthetic of the social media selfie

These decorative cosplay activities closely resemble pervasive game behaviours and most specifically the Live Action Role Playing (LARPing) format. The participants consistently described the necessity to be ‘in character’ in order to benefit fully from the experience combined with a consistent recourse to terminology of ‘liveness’ in order to describe the event:

LIVE, immersive, entertaining, exhilarating, escapist, awesome! (17b).

I hadn’t been to the cinema nor had I been to the theatre, it was one massive blend of both that worked so well that it felt like I was actually in the film” (7b emphasis added)

The instantiation and mode of participation was directly similar – characters were ascribed and developed in advance, costumes were adopted and participants were invited to engage with the location, the inhabitants and other ‘players’ as their adopted persona.

Real-world spaces
Upon entering the SC site, participants enter the spatialization of the film’s fabula through the actualization of the fictional locale of BttF, in which the chronological ordering of the filmic time and syuzhet (plot) is recreated through the carefully simulated topology of Hill Valley (see figure 2). The approach to the site is marked with a ‘2 miles to Hill Valley’ sign, which leads the audience through Otis Peabody’s farm – Marty’s first arrival point in 1955. As with a theme park the route around the territory was heavily proscribed but difficult to absolutely control and was subject to meanderings and wanderings. The participants play their own part within this highly crafted mise-en-scène, as residents of Hill Valley navigating the difference spaces and encountering the different characters in order to accumulate knowledge, experience, and souvenir items. Close to the entrance, and right at the start of the experience participants can be photographed by the iconic and familiar sign for the yet-to-be-built Lyon Estates. Just as Marty McFly is a time travelling visitor to these spaces in the film, participants are at times positioned as tourists/flaneurs and later are able to purchase a disposable camera through which to record their journey and the spectacle. The navigable space dissolves into the Hill Valley town square – a miasma of styles, aesthetics, sounds and sensations.

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A plan of the Hill Valley set

The site includes recreations the family homes of the film’s key characters, Lou’s café, the High School, and a plethora of shop fronts. The fabric and iconography of SC’s recreation of Hill Valley is notably drawn from the entire BttF trilogy. This provides a deeper and more expanded frame of reference from which SC has drawn both textual and expositional detail.

Hill Valley’s recreation translates into a ‘film-set’ aesthetic in which all buildings appear as facades fabricated through theatrical flats and materials, and illuminated by stage lighting. The sense of the simulacra of the film set, as opposed to that of a real-world location is further compounded by the context of the Olympic park site which is overshadowed by the highly visible commercialized environment of the present-day consumer Westfield mall and by the UK’s tallest sculpture ArcelorMittal Orbit which looms large over the 1955 landscape. This sculpture is playfully referred to as ‘Doc’s Rocket Propulsion Device’ on the accompanying map of the site.
This confliction of multiple synchronous temporal-visual-referents is further complexified by the audience member’s eclectic/anachronistic dress-styles (as described above). The visual disorientation and temporal incoherence continues throughout the navigation of the various instances of 1950s pastiche and an undeclared corridor through which you can stumble in to a 1980s bar. The confusion of styles across three disparate decades is symbolized by the ubiquitous presence of anaglyph 3D glasses (which can be purchased for £1 in the 80s bar). These have no practical application on-site, instead they are the reproduction of a prop worn by a character in the film. But they can also be seen to act as a coherence device to link the 1950s, 1980s and 2010s – the three key eras in which 3D-cinema technology has been popularised. Moreover, the wearing of the glasses can be seen to symbolize the knowing mediation of the spectacle that the participants are witnessing, an acknowledgement that these are screen-mediated events, both created and experienced through the prism of the grammar and aesthetics of cinema. The absurd redundancy and silliness of wearing the glasses whilst wandering through the Hill Valley environment also signals a ‘lusory’ attitude to experience and indicates an affect of being at play (Dovey & Kennedy 2006, Raessens 2014). This is reflected in one participant responses who described the sensation as:

a three-dimensional entertainment experience. You’re in the film for the length of the film (1c).

This cacophony of styles and time referents unintentionally mirrors the intrinsic postmodern textual aesthetics of the BttF films, in which scenes contain simultaneous mixed time-period metaphors, cross-pollinating through costume, props, dialogue and mise-en-scène. Time itself is a matter for textual and narrative play, for example, in 1885 in BttF 3 – Marty is seen doing a 1980’s moonwalk as the character Mad Dog Tannen fires bullets at his feet. In the same film, we see a modified Delorean which is a hybrid of both 1950s and 1980s automobile features. Just as alternate futures were envisioned in the films of the BttF trilogy (for example, an alternate 2015 and a dystopic 1985) so to are the alternate histories of 1955 recreated in the spaces and costumes of SC’s rendering. The experience presents and perpetuates a version of the 1950s that never existed in actuality through the materiality and digital materiality of the present day.

Roleplay Aesthetics

The experience includes a number of (interactive) narrative vignettes in which audience members are invited to engage with the fictional characters and with one another in activities and games that relate to a specific context. These included competing in the ‘Six at Six’ radio competition, participating in a signing lesson at the school, and joining in at a neighbourhood-watch meeting. The street performers contributed to the gamelike experience by providing the mechanism through which further activity and reward could be garnered. These performers would engage or be engaged by the player, at which point they would reveal the fundamental elements of their character and, if the correct series of verbal responses were given, they were able to assign the player a quest, or, in some cases, a simpler immersive experience such as answering questions on a game-show or being told a story. These mini-quests were occasionally rewarded with souvenirs (see figure 3) or participation in the Hill Valley Parade. As one respondent stated:

…we both got enrolled in the apprenticeship program and had to carry out a few tasks to complete this, unknown to us we had drawn a huge crowd and everyone was cheering us on! amazing. The Texaco guys invited us to take part in the Hill Valley parade before the film, well that was it for me, kid in a candy store! We joined the parade and had to wear Texaco boiler suits and carry a tyre along the route singing the Texaco song! This was a moment, as a massive BttF fan, that I will always remember (7b).

This will be familiar as a structure for creating multiple narratives within one setting to any player who has previously taken part in video-RPG sandbox games or even board-game or live-action variations not based on film text or setting. A notable similarity is the availability of the option for the player to ignore all the quests and even the exploration potential and do something arbitrary or ‘normal’ in the spaces of the map which weren’t reserved for the quest such as sit in a bar and drink. If the player chose this option at the BttF event, instantly the experience would lose most of its ‘game’ elements and simply become more similar to a themed festival or a costume party. In this same vein, fairground rides featured, demonstrating the curious mixture of immersive action and non-specific revelry, or to deploy the Caillois system of categorisation of play – mimicry (playing a role) and ilinx (the thrills of the fair ground).
Along with navigation, acquisition is a key part of many game modes, especially RPGs, whether you’re collecting coins, bottle-caps or medi-kits, and within the Hill Valley site there were a lot of mechanisms through which this could be achieved, not only by way of the quests as mentioned above. A dress shop which sold fifty-dollar dresses and a record shop selling five dollar albums were key indicators of the organisers’ desire to use the experience not only to sell tickets but to sell merchandise (see Figure 3).

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Audience/player generated content accumulated both in the lead-up to the event and during the experience

The BttF experience facilitated two ‘play’ modes which would be familiar to gameplayers; story or sandbox. In story mode gameplay is determined by successful completion of a sequence of events, action or interactions often thinly aligned with an overarching narrative. In sandbox mode players are allowed to interact within the gameworld, complete smaller non-sequential and open-ended tasks. For BttF adept or expert story mode players who knew the precise geographies and temporalities could explore the environment more purposefully and would be rewarded for their successful navigation by being present as the live-enactments took place also allowing them occasionally to play minor roles in this action.

As we loved the film and knew the plot well we had a good idea of where things would be happening when, for example we waited on the residential street for the scene where Marty gets hit by his grandad’s car (9b).

Collecting a complete set of these story driven interactive “cut-scenes” is a clear reward for expert engagement with the story mode. These cut scenes, akin to the non-interactive live action sequences of a computer game took the form of reenactments in locations across the site by key characters in the same chronological ordering of the film’s syuzhet. These span Marty’s arrival in Hill Valley, his encounters with the 1955 version of his parents, and his meeting with Doc. These are uncanny in their emulation – played by actors who resemble their on-screen counterparts in costume, but in features and build – are clearly different. These moments are pre-empted by the growing crowd surrounding the action and through the sudden arrival of ‘out-of-character’ stunt crew surreptitiously whispering into communications devices in order to cue the live action vehicles and to keep audience members away from their approach. These moments reveal the representational practices of filmmaking ‘Style’ (Bordwell, 1997) and signal an emerging semiotics of the artifice of film production which is ever-present throughout and arguably characterizes the entire SC experience, a case of the ‘text making strange its own devices’ (Polan, 1985, p. 662).

Once the screening has commenced the participants are no longer individuals but become part of a community of viewers who engage together in prompted and unprompted behaviours and aesthetic responses. Some of this participant behavior is carefully crafted – just before the screening commences the crowd participates in a ‘dance along’ which is a fitting prelude to the stillness required for group viewing on a single tier simulated lawn. During this aspect of the experience the players are subject to a “recombinatory aesthesis” as they are surrounded (literally enclosed within) screen and live action re-enactments allowing for an “amplification of affect and effect [as players respond to and experience] visual and kinaesthetic pleasure” (Giddings & Kennedy 2008, p. 31).

The viewing experience of the film is augmented by a number of synchronous off-screen reenactments of on-screen action which include the opening sequence of Marty’s trip to school set against the Power of Love soundtrack in which he is towed by a vehicle on his skateboard around the 1985 Hill Valley square; the reveal of a replica smoking time-travelling Delorean; the dramatic chase by the Libyan terrorists and Marty’s arrival in the 1955 town square of Hill Valley. Stunt doubles are used for the main characters in the action scenes – although their costumes are identical, their physical appearances are clearly different – which once again reveals the representational practices of filmmaking style and artifice through the inevitable presence of continuity errors.

As well as these highly choreographed moments of meticulously matched action, actors simultaneously perform key dialogue sequences which include George’s confrontation with Biff at the dance and his subsequent romantic union with Lorraine. These moments which are carefully lip synced (although are invariably ‘out-of-sync’) by the off-screen versions of the characters again invoke a sense of the uncanny, of the familiar made strange. Moreover, these moments of mismatched stunt doubles and out-of-sync dialogue reveal further representational aesthetics of film production. The filmic text(s) of the BttF trilogy also contain such moments during the repeated action, for example, the reenactment of the 1955 scenes in BttF 2 include older (and sometimes different) versions of the actors. This acceptance by the cinema (and SC) audience of the mediation of filmmaking process has become the source of some cinematic fan practices (i.e. spotting continuity errors).

Hill Valley Sandbox & Emergent Play

At one particular moment an unintentional continuity error occurs, which signals a shift towards the experiences becoming a self-referential and playful text. This occurs in the off-screen simultaneous action in which the two versions of Doc are in-sight of the audience – the stunt version of Doc is still visibly uncoupling from his dramatic descent on the zip wire, whilst the actor-version of the Doc appears on the ground to deliver the next scene. This off-screen (SC) continuity error uncannily occurs at the same scene in the BttF 2 film’s syuzhet in which two versions of the Doc are also (albeit deliberately) visible on screen – the original 1955 Doc is seen setting up the electric rig to the clock from the point-of-view of the 1985 Doc. This unintentionally reflexive, meta-fictional (Waugh 1984, Holland 2007) moment mirrors the postmodern aesthetic of self-reference characteristic of the three BttF films. For example in BttF 3 Marty makes a comment about lack of time, ‘ten minutes, why do we have to cut these things so damn close’ highlighting the characters’ awareness of the film’s creation and the dominant running-out-of-time aesthetic. In another instance, Marty and Doc swap their character’s catch-phrases (‘Great Scott!’ and ‘This is heavy’). In SC, this action of dialogue quotation and re-quotation is an act in which audience members delight, for example, in numerous respondents telling us that they approached the character of Goldie Wilson telling him that he should run for mayor. The audience’s pleasure in the repetition of character lines and catch phrases is a playful participatory practice evidenced in other instances of (cult) cinematic reception (such as the The Rocky Horror Picture Show, see Austin, 1981).

Like other forms of live play events and despite the presence of rather precise rules and a tightly controlled environment, the BttF experience produced moments of emergent gameplay. As one participant commented:

It was a completely personal experience that would be unique to each person, depending on how you chose to spend your time and what you happen to stumble across as you explore the world they created (8b).

Emergent play is more open ended and less dependent upon the overarching narrative and more upon elements of chance and the extent to which the participant was willing to engage with others around them. “These occurrences often lead to intensive and fun game experiences, which have not been planned by any designer or participant” (Montola, Stenros & Waern 2009, p. 18).

On arrival at Hill Valley, there was also a school bus recruiting passengers who could travel directly to a point much later in the ‘story’. In this sandbox mode the participants could visit the fair, dance to 80s music, drink cocktails, play videogames & buy 80s themed merchandise, gorge themselves on burgers, fries and milkshakes at Lou’s café and then drink more themed cocktails at the 1950s Enchantment Under the Sea high school dance in the style of the disjunctive, discontinuous, vertiginous and unruly carnivalesque. The story does not entirely drop away of course – SC’s Hill Valley is populated by ‘characters’ from the world of the film delighting the audience with small recurrent set-pieces throughout the environment. The headmaster of the high school, Strickland, is seen issuing detentions, George McFly cycles around the square engaging the audience in conversation, while Police officers reprimand audience members for jay walking. As one participant commented:

I took part in Doc Brown’s experiment (which was hilarious) and got picked on by bullies twice, which was weirdly the highlight for me (3b).

This open mode and the recurrent nature of these behaviours allows for multiple points of view which is also a defining aesthetic feature of the BttF films – whereby similar sequences are repeatedly replayed throughout the trilogy.

Like other forms of game (console, online, pervasive etc.) SC’s BttF can be understood as an event that has been designed, constructed to expect or require specific behaviours, attitudes and literacies on the part of the participants. It is only through these that the event comes into being – key to participation is a willing adoption of this ‘lusory attitude’ – the willingness to engage in the act of playing ‘as if’ (Suits, 1990). In this context, playing ‘as if’ in the world of 1955 as constructed through these film texts. The extent to which the player or participant is willing to ‘give themselves up’ to the required behaviours; to play out a role consistent with the world as designed is seen by our respondents as key to pleasurable and successful experience. As one respondent articulated:

It is immersive. You play a part in it and have a great time interacting with other actors and ticket holders. The more you put in the more you get out (2b).

This description of appropriate affective engagement indicates the extent to which player effort is rewarded by greater levels of immersion and experience of presence.

Conclusion
SC’s BttF is an interstitial experience, one that occupies a liminal space between theatre, game and a filmic text; the simulacra of its making and the playfulness of its reception. It is navigated and ‘played’ by a highly literate audience attune to interactive engagement with cinematic texts through a variety of fan practices and familiarity with video game-play. The event enabled the formation of a playful and ‘dramatic community’ (Atkinson, 2014a) in which the impact of game cultures and a ludic aesthetic upon cinematic audience spectatorship could be clearly identified. This SC project marks a new point of departure in the evolution of what has been described as the ludification of culture and cultural experience (Raessens 2014).
Our theoretical integration both challenges and begins to extend the textual analysis approach of film studies, through an expanded consideration of the permeation and manipulation of the filmic text beyond the screen and by the audience. By recourse to game studies approaches we have been able to tease out the ways in which the designed elements and player responses can be understood in relation to the mechanics of games and play forms.
Bringing together the critical vocabularies of play theory and film theory within this paper begins to afford some purchase on the complexity of this experience. However, this phenomena marks out new territory and an evolution of a new form of cultural experience worthy of its own critical vocabulary sufficiently nuanced to capture its aesthetic and affective complexity which we hope to have initiated. As games become increasingly cinematic and event cinema becomes more gamelike and playful a new integrative theoretical and conceptual model will emerge.

– All images belong to their rightful owner. Academic intentions only. –

References
Atkinson, S. (2014a). Transmedia Critical | The Performative Functions of Dramatic Communities: Conceptualizing Audience Engagements in Transmedia Fiction. In International Journal of Communication, 8 (pp. 2201–2219).

Atkinson, S. (2014b). Beyond the screen: Emerging cinema and engaging audiences. New York, NY: Bloomsbury.

Austin, B.A. (1981). Portrait of a Cult Film Audience: The Rocky Horror Picture Show In  Journal of Communication 31–2.

Bordwell, D. (1997). On the History of Film Style. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

De Mul, J. (2005). The Game of Life: Narrative and Ludic Identity Formation in Computer Games. In J. Raessens,  J. Goldstein, (Eds.), Handbook of Computer Game Studies, 251–66. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.

Dovey, J., Kennedy, H. W‬‬‬ (2006). Game cultures: Computer games as new media, Milton Keynes: Open University Press.‬‬‬‬‬

Giddings, S., Kennedy, H. W. (2008). Little jesuses and fuck-off robots: on aesthetics, cybernetics, and not being very good at Lego Star Wars. In: Swalwell, M. and Wilson, J., (Eds.), The Pleasures of Computer Gaming: Essays on Cultural History, Theory and Aesthetics. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, pp. 13-32

Giddings, S. (2009). Events and collusions: A glossary for the microethnography
of videogame play. Games and Culture: A Journal of Interactive Media , 4 (2). pp. 144-157.

Gn, J. (2011). Queer simulation: The practice, performance and pleasure of cosplay. In
Continuum: Journal of Media & Cultural Studies, Vol. 25, No. 4, August, 583–593.

Holland, N. H. (2007). The Neuroscience of Metafilm. Projections, 1, 59-74.

Hall, S. (2000). Who Needs ‘Identity’? In Paul Du Gay, Jessica Evans, Peter Redman, (Ed.), Identity: A Reader, 15–30. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage.

Jenkins, H. (2004/07/10). Game Design as Narrative Architecture. Retrieved from http://www.electronicbookreview.com/thread/firstperson/

Lamerichs, N. (2011). Stranger than Fiction: Fan Identity in Cosplay. In Transformative Works and Cultures, no. 7.
Retrieved from http://journal.transformativeworks.com/index.php/twc/article/view/246/230

Montola, M., Stenros, J., Waern, A., (Eds). (2009). Pervasive Games Theory and Design: Experiences on the Boundary between Life and Play. Burlington: Morgan Kaufmann.

Polan, D. (1985). A Brechtian Cinema? Towards a Politics of Self-Reflexive Film. In Bill Nichols (Ed.), Movies and Methods: An Anthology. Berkeley: University of California Press.

Raessens, J. (2014). The Ludification of Culture. In Fuchs, M., Fizek, S., Ruffino, P., Schrape, N. (Eds.), Rethinking Gamification (91-114). Leuphana: Meson Press.

Suits, B. (2005/1978). The Grasshopper: Games. Life & Utopia New York: Broadview.

Taylor, T. L. (2006). Play between Worlds: Exploring Online Game Culture. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.

Tolstad, I.M. (2006). “Hey Hipster! You Are a Hipster!”. Oslo, Norway: The University of Oslo.

Waugh, P. (1984). Metafiction: The Theory and Practice of Self-Conscious Fiction. London: Routledge.

Author contacts
Sarah Atkinson – s.a.atkinson@brighton.ac.uk
Helen Kennedy – h.kennedy@brighton.ac.uk

Categoria: 4/2015 Journal | Tags: Helen Kennedy (University of Brighton), Sarah Atkinson (University of Brighton)

De-framing video games from the light of cinema

Posted on 18 Settembre 2015 by Riccardo Fassone
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Interactivity is the cinema of the 21st century.
David Cage (foreword of L’empire des jeux, 2005)

Abstract
In this essay, we shall try to step back from a blinding cinema-centric approach in order to examine the impact such a framing has caused, to question its limitations, and to reflect on the interpretive communities that have relied on film (communities we are part of, due to our film studies background) to position video games as an important cultural phenomenon as well as an object worthy of scholarly attention. Using Gaudreault and Marion’s notion of cultural series and wishing to spread a French theoretical approach we find very relevant to the discussion, we will question the bases on which we frame video games as cinema. This inquiry will focus on the audiovisual nature of both media and highlight their differing technical and aesthetic aspects, which will lead us to consider video games as being closer to other forms of audiovisual media.

Keywords
video game; cinema; theory; history; remediation
It is difficult not to rephrase the theme of this issue and try to see outside its box. It seems that video games, since a while already, have been framed in the light of cinema by the designers, producers and scholars who have begun to study them. Indeed, as we have been doing for ten years throughout the activities of the Ludiciné research group (www.ludicine.ca), film theories have been one of the most important body of works used to analyse video games at the dawn of game studies. It is then hard to see why we should today re-frame such a common mode of examination. Therefore, the real query would not be to see video games through the lenses of cinema, but to show how this view is far from being (an) “objective”. As Godard playfully formulated, there is nothing “objective” in looking through an objectif, the French term for the camera lens. The methodological theories that are now elaborated in game studies show us that the video game’s specificities as a playable and interactive art are calling not for a close-up but for a wide-angle shot on the complex relations between video games and cinema.
In this essay, we shall try to step back from a blinding cinema-centric approach in order to examine the impact such a framing has caused, to question its limitations, and to reflect on the interpretive communities that have relied on film (communities we are part of, due to our film studies background) to position video games as an important cultural phenomenon as well as an object worthy of scholarly attention. Using Gaudreault and Marion’s notion of cultural series and wishing to spread a French theoretical approach we find very relevant to the discussion, we will question the bases on which we frame video games as cinema. This inquiry will focus on the audiovisual nature of both media and highlight their differing technical and aesthetic aspects, which will bring us to consider video games as being closer to other forms of audiovisual media.

In the axis of a certain series-centrism

The link between the video game and cinema has first been made by the industry itself, as both branding and legitimation practices. These roots cannot be clearer than with the names of companies such as Cinematronics and Cinemaware. Founded as early as 1975 (and defunct in 1987), Cinematronics was originally producing arcade games with vector graphics. Despite the label, the wireframe visual representations, as well as the arcade as the context of diffusion, and the short, repetitive and competitive structure of these games’ experience were all very far from the in-theater, collective, feature-length photographic records of reality structured as a fixed narrative that the “cinema” term represented. Cinemaware (1985-1991), who worked to produce games based on genre films or television series, explicitly tried to recreate different aspects of the seventh art by showing the action through different camera angles and shots of diverse scales. Lucasfilm Games, founded in 1982, is another obvious bridge between cinema and the video game, of which George Lucas has never lost interest in. The seemingly ever-present dream of fusing games with film has been fulfilled – materially at least – with the introduction of the Laserdisc and CD-ROM as high-capacity data storage solutions, enabling game developers to include “Full-Motion Video” (or FMV) in their “interactive movies” starting in the late 1980s. The craze – and quick fall, we should emphasize – of these “FMV games” in the 1990s have pushed the ties so far as to make people realize that this bond might not be so natural, after all (see Perron et al., 2009, for an in-depth examination of the interactive movies, and Perron and Therrien, 2009, for an overview of the cinematic aspiration of the video game image), even if a well-known designer like David Cage is, as the epigraph of our essay highlights, widely relying on cinema to justify his work and to qualify the future of video games.
These already debated connections between films and games advocate us to take another step back and look at an even bigger picture. Because, as André Gaudreault and Philippe Marion have appositely stated: «To name a media is to contribute to its identification (to bring out its mediality, to grasp its singularity) and to jointly construct an identity for it, which is sometimes not without producing teleological effects» (2009: 27, freely translated). In their recent study of the identity crisis of cinema in the digital era, Gaudreault and Marion explain how the choice of what they call a cultural series (a series of cultural practices ordered around a common principle or paradigm, and determined by an analyst to be constituting a certain continuity of forms) has an important impact on the study of a media. For them:

Choosing a name for a media always betrays what we propose to call a «series-centrism». This series-centrism is at work when a way of naming a media brings a cultural series to the forefront rather than another. There is always a form of series-centrism at work in the institutionalization process of any media, a powerful series-centrism that, aided by the regulatory power of the institution, comes to dominate and take an appearance of “naturality” even though it is, without contest, a cultural construction.
This concept of series-centrism leads us to believe that one always chooses a side with respect to such and such cultural series in order to identify a media and, inevitably, to interpret its evolution. This choice confirms that a certain constructivism creates and indeed imprints any theory of media identity. Viewed through the prism of a cultural series elected among others, the allocation of the territories and of the media identities is considerably affected (2013: 215, freely translated).

Consequently, the choice to speak about films as motion pictures instead of animated views has placed emphasis on the question of capture (of a photograph) and restitution (of reality), over the important notion of animation which is in the end, according to Gaudreault and Marion, the “hyperseries” defining the movies. This is why they introduce the concept of animage to deal with the «type of film image that is born from the expressive potential of the digital and that crystallizes the current spreading of a cultural series formerly neglected by the cinema institution: animation» (2013: 256, freely translated). This is in line with Edmond Couchot’s claims that the digital marks a major shift in the history of visual media because it replaces the capture/restitution paradigm present in photography, cinema, and some television and video, with the paradigm of simulation, with digital media offering images based on calculations computed by a machine and generated on-the-fly (often in real-time) instead of being previously recorded in detail (Couchot, 1998). This hints towards some significant differences in media specificity between the film and the video game image.

The «Video» Prism

The designation of games since the creation of Spacewar! in 1962 is as interesting as the various markers of cinema. Indeed, the expression used to describe the objects and activities we came to study is far from being “natural”, which is reflected by the fact that our field hasn’t yet adopted a single expression. While the title of this issue is for example referring to video games, the inaugural editorial of Game Studies was announcing the «Computer Game Studies, Year One» (Aarseth, 2001). Our international organization founded in 2003 is named the Digital Games Research Association (DiGRA). We can also bring to mind the 1980s magazines Electronic Games and Computer and Video Games, which posit neatly separated kinds of “digital” games. The last fifty years of writing about games could actually be revisited to trace the ways they created a media identity. However, if we draw on Google Ngram Viewer (an online phrase-usage graphing tool) for indications on the ways games were named between 1962 and 2008 (the year that the chart ends), we discover that «video games» was as early as 1976 more widely utilised than «computer games», and that by 2008, the first expression is about twice as likely to be used than the second, while the references to «digital games» are still pretty rare (see <http://bit.ly/1mZwLq2>). As of August 17th, 2014, a search through Google Scholar shows an obvious preference for «video games» (even if the numbers are less reliable in a simple Google search because they seem to vary too much, and this is why we are not using them, the same conclusion would still be reached):

Term Google Scholar
Digital games 19.600
Computer games 241.000
Video games 384.000

Following Gaudreault and Marion’s theoretical account, it is difficult not to see that there is behind this choice a certain form of series-centrism as well. Such a teleological effect was stressed by Aarseth in his well-known editorial:

Games are not a kind of cinema, or literature, but colonising attempts from both these fields have already happened, and no doubt will happen again. And again, until computer game studies emerges as a clearly self-sustained academic field. To make things more confusing, the current pseudo-field of “new media” (primarily a strategy to claim computer-based communication for visual media studies), wants to subsume computer games as one of its objects. There are many problems with this strategy, as there is with the whole concept of “new media,” and most dramatically the fact that computer games are not one medium, but many different media (Aarseth, 2001).

If Aarseth explicitly and rightfully stated that there are more than one media or cultural series composing what we might call, according to his cybertext theory, an ergodic animage, and that the “new media” labeling blurs boundaries to one’s own advantage, he was also implicitly electing cinema as the first or at least as one of the main prisms on games. In fact, the great majority of game studies scholars have come to show their bias by using “video games” in common parlance. Underlining that “jeu video” has imposed itself in the language of Molière (over jeu électronique/electronic game or jeu informatique/computer game) under the francization of the English expression, Étienne Armand Amato explains how the expression has associated two neglected objects of study. After dealing on the one hand about the “game”, Amato states:

On the other hand, the word “video” highlights the iconic quality of these games. It also evokes the video, this electronic technology of capture-recording-restitution which was long perceived as a poor man’s substitute for film, synonymous with household and amateur usage, or with television and commercial exploitation (Amato, 2012: 21, freely translated).

This assertion reveals two consistent and common assumptions which have shaped the media identity and theory of games in the electronic and digital era.
First and foremost, speaking about “video” games has promoted the importance of the audio-visual display over the computation or, much to the discontent of those more oriented towards the second term of the expression, the ludic dimension of the activity. As we know, the quest for visual realism or the photo-realism of film did not start yesterday. «Better graphics and sounds» has always been one of the best marketing slogans of video game companies, as Mark J.P. Wolf explains in «Abstraction in the Video Game»:

Game graphics were, and to a large extent still are, the main criteria by which advancing video game technology is benchmarked by the buying public; thus representational graphics act as a means of visually benchmarking the computer’s graphics against the visual experience of unmediated reality, while abstract graphics are unable to serve such a purpose (Wolf, 2003: 53).

Even if the ergodic animage isn’t in essence based on the same technical process, the idea of “video” did point toward the implied notion of capture-recording-restitution. Insofar as, and Amato’s remarks are perceptive, the quality of the image did not have the quality of film, people did not – thank God! – choose to talk by and large of “movie games”, nor “TV games” (except when referring to a certain kind of game system, the likes of which Nintendo used to make before its Famicom/NES), even though the latter might have been more relevant.
The expression “TV games” portends a second way of “allocating the territory” of games, to return to Gaudreault’s phrasing on cultural series, and a way that was ironically explored first, notably by the pioneer Ralph Baer. His battle was to sell his “television gaming and training apparatus” (as his 1971 patent was titled) to television manufacturers because «he had to deal with the public perception that television was for watching, not playing» (Murphy, 2009: 202). Eventually, the Magnavox Odyssey was commercialized as the world’s first home video game console in 1972. Though the Odyssey managed to sell 350,000 units by 1975, it equipped less than 1% of active televisions. As William Audureau writes when describing that period:

Though Magnavox’s console is technically in a situation of monopoly in the United States, its position is not hard to attack: it is only distributed in the manufacturer’s own stores, resulting in an unfortunate reputation of being incompatible with televisions from competing manufacturers. Consequently, the console market is still wide open (Audureau, 2014: 33).

In his economic study of the worldwide market of video games between 1976 and 1980, Audureau indicates that the total number of different game systems introduced made a gigantic leap from around 100 models in 1976 to a whopping 744 machines in 1977, thanks to the development of the AY-3-8500 integrated circuit chip by General Instrument, with worldwide sales of electronic games (of which video games made the bulk) amounting to a staggering 272 billion euros (Audureau, 2014: 14). The game system had really gotten into the home.
This access had a certain bearing on the identity of games. Studying the role of television largely gone unnoticed in the history of video games, Sheila C. Murphy reflects on a decisive change:

By the time that Atari’s breakthrough Sears Home PONG console was released, consumers were ready to play with and on their TVs. This shift towards seeing the television as a playable consumer device is crucial. While the histories of both computing and mass media contain important contributions from amateurs and hobbyists, the widespread public acceptance and use of home video game systems by a broader audience indicates that consumers were rethinking television’s role as a home technology in the mid-1970s (2009: 202).

Murphy explains how home gaming systems were seen as «low level home computers» (p. 201) and how the television came to be considered «as part of both a larger entertainment system and as an interactive “computer”» (p. 202), but a computer solely focused on leisure rather than utility. There are much fewer advertisements presenting people gathered around a computer screen than ones showing friends, couples or family grouped in front of a TV screen in order to play or to just watch others do so; it’s indeed an image used from the outset to promote the home gaming systems, from the Atari VCS to the Nintendo Wii. Nevertheless, this new appraisal of TV as an interactive system did not discard the old consideration of the image as a capture-recording-restitution process. The popularity of Atari’s Video Computer System (VCS) was overlapping with the increasing presence of the home Video Cassette Recorder (VCR) in the 1970s, with the Sony Betamax’s 1975 release and JVC’s VHS format appearing in 1976. Although “video games” is not designating a venue as clearly as “arcade games” does, there is a correlation to be made between “video” and “home video”. It might not be mere happenstance that Google Ngram Viewer gives 1976 as the time when “video game” overtook “computer game”. Home video with its cassettes, and home video games with their cartridges, were leading the commodification of visual practices.

The Video Game as Film: A “Scholarly Series”?

The accent put on the relationship between video game and film is certainly not merely a matter of commercial practices. It has also been an academic line of inquiry before this present issue, to the point that we may consider the history of views on games as cinema as forming its own “scholarly series”. It was indeed one of the cases used by Bolter and Grusin, in a seminal book hard to eliminate from the discussion even if it is dated, to illustrate how the new media tried to refashion prior media forms.

Finally, the new medium can remediate by trying to absorb the older medium entirely, so that the discontinuities between the two are minimized. The very act of remediation, however, ensures that the older medium cannot be entirely effaced; the new medium remains dependent on the older one in acknowledged or unacknowledged ways. For example, the genre of computer games like Myst or Doom remediates cinema, and such games are sometimes called “interactive films” ([1999] 2000: 47).

In a sense Bolter and Grusin were right to call Cyan’s graphic adventure and id Software’s first-person shooter «computer» games, since the first was responsible for the popularity of the CD-ROM, and the second for real-time first-person perspective. However, they were wrong to label them «interactive films» (and not even «movies»), as this is reflecting their series-centrism. That being said, the idea behind Bolter and Grusin’s seminal concept of remediation should spur us to be conscious about the fact that even if new theoretical approaches about games remain dependant on older ones, like film theory in our case, they have to be refashioned.
Eventually, the idea of discussing video games through cinema must be engaged with. Games were never “filmic” since the term film is, even in the present-day theory of the seventh art, reserved for the material properties of the film medium – the film stock itself and the mechanical logistics necessary for its projection. Video games have seldom relied on actors and scenes photographed in real-time motion, but have been using motion-capture technologies to better record the movement of objects or people. This doesn’t mean that game developers are not taking clues and inspiration from film in structuring scenes, visual narrative, and dramatic action set-pieces, just as the artisans of cinema in its beginnings looked at theater. This is what Chris Kohler, for example, meant when he described the cinematic elements and mode of storytelling in Final Fantasy IV (Square, 1991):

This was closer than ever to true beginning-middle-end narrative in the true Hollywood cinema sense of the term. Still, the differences between game and film were obvious. The characters and locations were still made out of small, pixilated drawings and 99% of the game’s scenes shared the same camera angle, which wasn’t even a physically realistic one […]. What is important here is that even though these extreme limitations were still being imposed, Square pressed on and attempted to make movie-like games even on computer hardware that couldn’t handle complex animation. (Kohler, 2005: 113-114)

Kohler’s assessment is exemplary of the “cinema envy” (Zimmerman, 2002) that has characterized many video game designers. And while we typically speak of the cinematic ambitions of game developers as if they were caressing an age-old dream or holy grail, it is important to keep in mind that this reality is historically constructed as well. Eric Zimmerman’s 2002 essay “Do Independent Games Exist?” has foreshadowed a lot of the games industry’s subsequent development by weighing the pros and cons of the games-and-cinema movement (p. 125; since Zimmerman uses two columns to contrast his argument, we have kept the original layout for the quotation):

Games are merging with cinema. Games suffer from cinema envy.
Technological advances, particularly in real-time graphics, means that games are becoming more “realistic” and increasingly resemble film. The cinematic turn in games will allow developers a broader palette of expressive tools that will appeal to new kinds of game audiences. Games will absorb and replace film. What passes for “realism” in games is an awkward and unimaginative use of 3D computer graphics. It’s time for game developers to stop trying to replicate the pleasures of film. Games need to find their own forms of expression, capitalizing on their unique properties as dynamic, participatory systems.

 

 

 

 

We’re certainly playing our “game” here, looking at essays with positions that have since been nuanced or superseded and siding with those advocating for taking a step back from cinema, even from a theoretical perspective. However, to play fair, our claim cannot be so clear-cut. For instance, settling on “video” instead of “TV” or “film” is significant, and brings a meaningful question: if games do not rely on the same semiotic materials (live-action footage) and syntactic organization (tightly-edited feature-length narratives) than popular cinema, how can they be commonly held to be “cinematic”? Would video games only be “cinematic” in the specific sense of the adjective? Indeed, nowadays, the qualifying adjective “cinematic” is more used to describe the felt experience of certain games. It is closer to the way we declare that the acting in a film is «theatrical» on the account that it is suiting the exaggeration of an actor on stage, and not because we see the whole work as filmed theater. This is also explaining why we can say that Blacksad (Juan Díaz Canales and Juanjo Guarnido, [2000] 2010) has a «rich cinematic style» (see <http://bit.ly/1ov2eQP>) without taking the comic book for a «filmed book». With this in mind, and following Nitsche’s thoughts, we realize that films do not serve as models for games, but provide a set of necessary viewing space techniques that the video game takes and adapts to its own needs : «Cinematic visualization is seen as the audiovisual means to present game spaces via moving images. Thus, parallels between games and film primarily are meant to be read as space-driven necessities and not as cinema-infused guidelines for games» (Nitsche, 2009, p.74).
Kohler’s previously-cited observation was emphasizing something very important: video games face technical limitations in their visual representation that are very different from those of live-action film, which constitutes the default form of cinema, and are actually much closer to a markedly different kind of cinema: animation. And if the cinematic and the animetic face varying constraints and possibilities, the animetic must also be divided between pre-rendered and real-time animation. The first is the classic way of animating well-defined static pictures by taking photographs and ordering the images as “frames” of animation; the second method, real-time animation, was identified by Eric Zimmerman (cited earlier) as being especially important to video games. This is fundamental: video games do not merely play back pre-recorded “cut-scenes” (these are, very appropriately, called cinematics, owing to the common principle of record/playback that defines the cultural series “motion pictures”), but rather produce their images in real-time using art assets created by artists and simulation routines implemented by programmers.

Thinking About Games and Their Cultural Series

The restrictions placed on the visual flux of video games because of their need for real-time graphics is highly significant when we consider the media identity of games. While cinema may not provide the all-in-one answer, animation film alone is insufficient as well since, just as we noted regarding the focus on video, it elevates the visual aspect of games as their chief characteristic to the detriment of their other aspects, and namely, part of their nature as computer software. In this regard, we should point out a paradox that future work would need to address: of all the computer-mediated practices, the video game is one of the most graphically intensive. By that we mean that even compared to a variety of digital visual practices, whether digital animation, architectural drawing, or the processing of pictures received from giant telescopes, the real-time imperative sets video games in a class of their own. This explains why video games have consistently been the driving force behind the technological adoption by consumers of dedicated graphics cards for their home computers. And yet by contrast, among visual practices, the video game is one of the least graphically intensive. “Hardcore” gamers will routinely lower the quality of graphics rendered and displayed by their computer to optimize the game’s performance; to summarize the gamer’s creed, an ugly game running smoothly trumps a visually beautiful game with frame rate issues, since slowdowns negatively impact the game’s interactivity. The flexible nature of graphics in games is not restricted to the competitive scene either, as “casual” gamers with bare-bone computers missing a dedicated graphics card will likewise experience visually impoverished games due to their system’s performance. Game developers face the same problem, and constantly have to strike a compromise between fluidity of play and responsivity of controls (the needs of the game situation) and visual complexity (the needs of the spectacle). This is evidenced by the very different processes and skillsets implied in the work of 3D modellers in “low-poly” (for real-time graphics rendering, typically in video games) and “high-poly” contexts (for pre-rendered images in animated films).
It should be clear by now that the choice to name our object of study “video games” is not neutral. This is undeniably a question of framing and de-framing since one could just as easily decide to study “interactive audiovisual experiences”, shifting the focus from games to another cultural series. For example, we could have talked about user-controlled images (with ancestry comprising magic lanterns, optical toys, flipbooks, etc.), or indoor sports (noting in passing that Atari’s Home Pong console was originally marketed by Sears’ winter sporting goods department), along with billiards, ping-pong, and so on. Even if we settle on examining these objects through their visual nature, there is no need to look at them through the filtered light of cinema, with its specters and shades in half-life. The interactivity of video games makes animation a much more relevant cultural series to study them, since the animation of pictures can be manipulated in time, and hence adapted to the player’s actions. But if we stop looking at the motion and start studying the images themselves, there is much to say on the properties of individual pictures regarding their point of view, scale, perspective, and so on. In many cases, the realities of in-game graphics are far from those of cinema, and multiple visual cultural series would undoubtedly prove to be more appropriate to study them. Games whose graphics are drawn in parallel projection, for instance, with the game world receding in “tiles” that don’t stretch to conform to a realistic perspective, derive much more from architectural and technical drawing than from the monocular perspective of illusionism in art history and cinema. Other games present their world through an overhead perspective that has more in common with maps and cartography than anything else. And this is to say nothing of text-based games associated with the genre of interactive fiction, or their hybrid cousins, the text-heavy adventure games. Many games are not an extension of cinema (see Arsenault, forthcoming in 2016, for more on this topic). This is exactly what Jonathan Lessard illustrates in his study of Adventure (1977). His article «reframes Adventure in its historical context» in order to show how the game is «the computerized extension of a specific mesh of cultural series familiar to William Crowther and Don Woods» (2013: 122); those series are «programming, hacking, fantasy role-playing, cave mapping and, to a lesser degree, game designing» (2013: 133).
The call for papers of this issue was asking: «Can the cinematic theoretical corpus offer a contribution to the development of Game Studies? If so, what are the possible interceptions between these fields? What more can we learn about video games through the lenses of Film Studies?». Ultimately, we have taken a stand and chosen a perspective, in line with our own scholarly series framed within French theories in film studies. Yet, there is one important answer that our essay wishes to give: it is as important to remove our eye from the camera’s viewfinder as it is to look through the lenses of cinema. It might be our ability to decentre our cinematic view on games that will better help us historically understand the ways we have linked together the seventh and the tenth arts. As we know, it is through montage that a film joins together in a transparent matter shots that are in fact independent. It is also through these montage techniques and all the other film practices that the spectators come to forget that it is the camera that is really doing the looking that they have in their view. As theorists, we should never forget that our responsibility is not only to view, but also to direct and shoot our subjects; more fundamentally, as we have argued through this essay trying to deal with the ergodic animage, our responsibility includes deciding when it is time to put down the camera and instead pick up a pen, a brush, or even a computer keyboard, as appropriate. The real issue is to be conscious of the scholarly series in which we situate ourselves.

– All images belong to their rightful owner. Academic intentions only. –

References:
Aarseth, E. (2001). Computer Game Studies, Year One, Gamestudies, 1(1), July. Retrieved from http://www.gamestudies.org/0101/editorial.html
Amato, E. A. (2012). Communication ludique. Origine et puissance d’un nouveau média. In Hermès. La revue (Le jeu vidéo : Quand jouer, c’est communiquer), No 62, pp. 21-26.
Arsenault, D. (forthcoming in 2016). Pourquoi l’image vidéoludique n’est pas (que) cinématographique: Les racines plurielles des technologies graphiques dans l’historiographie du jeu vidéo, in Dulac N. (Ed.), Du média au postmédia: continuités, ruptures. Lausanne: Éditions L’âge d’homme.
Audureau, W. (2014). Pong et la mondialisation. L’histoire économique des consoles de 1976 à 1980. Châtillon: Éditions Pix’n Love.
Bolter, J.D.,  Grusin R. ([1999] 2000). Remediation: Understanding New Media. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.
Couchot, E. (1998). La technologie dans l’art. De la photographie à la réalité virtuelle. Paris : Éditions Jacqueline Chambon.
Gaudreault, A., Marion P.(2013). La fin du cinéma? Un média en crise à l’ère du numérique. Paris : Armand Colin.
Gaudreault, A.,  Marion P. (2009). En guise d’ouverture sur la problématique cinéma/bande dessinée, in Quaresima L.,  Stangalli L. E., Zecca F. (Eds.), Cinema e fumetto. Cinema and comics (pp. 23-29), Udine : Forum.
Herman, L. (2008). Early Home Video Game Systems. In M. J. P. Wolf (ed.), The Video Game Explosion. A History from PONG to PlayStation® and Beyond (pp. 53-58), Westport, CT: Greenwood Press.
Lessard, J. (2013). Adventure Before Adventure Games. A New Look at Crowther and Woods’s Seminal Program, Games and Culture, 8 (3), May, pp. 119-135.
Murphy, S. C. (2009). This is Intelligent Television. Early Video Games and Television in the Emergence of the Personal Computer, in  Perron B., Wolf  M. J. P. (Eds.), The Video Game Theory Reader 2 (pp. 197-212), New York: Routledge.
Nitsche, M. (2009). Video game spaces: Image, play and structure in 3D worlds. Cambridge (MA): MIT Press.
Perron, B.,  Therrien, C. (2009). Da Spacewar! a Gears of War, o come l’immagine videoludica è diventata più cinematografica. Bianco & Nero, No 564, May-August, pp. 40-50.
Perron, B., Arsenault D.,  Picard M.,  Therrien C. (2008). Methodological Questions in Interactive Film Studies, New Review of Film & Television Studies, December, Vol. 6 No. 3, pp. 233-252.
Wolf, M. J. P. (2003). Abstraction in the Video Game, in M. J. P. Wolf, Perron B. (Eds.). The Video Game Theory Reader (pp. 47-66), New York: Routledge.
Zimmerman, E. (2002). Do Independent Games Exist?, in King L. (Ed.), Game On: The History and Culture of Videogames (pp. 120-129). New York: Universe Publishing.

Author Contacts
Dominic Arsenault – dominic.arsenault@umontreal.ca
Bernard Perron – bernard.perron@umontreal.ca

Categoria: 4/2015 Journal | Tags: Bernard Perron (Université de Montréal), Dominic Arsenault (Université de Montréal)

Video games, cinema, Bazin, and the myth of simulated lived experience

Posted on 18 Settembre 2015 by Riccardo Fassone
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Abstract

Video games theory has advanced far enough that we can use it to reevaluate film theory as a  result, en route to broader, transmedial theorizing. This essay looks particularly at how video  games can be seen as participating in and advancing Andre Bazin’s “Myth of Total Cinema”, and  perhaps recontextualzing it as the Myth of Simulated Lived Experience.

Keywords
Bazin, cinema, simulation, transmedia, imaginary worlds

The guiding myth, then, inspiring the invention of cinema, is the accomplishment of that which dominated in a more or less vague fashion all the techniques of the mechanical reproduction of reality in the nineteenth century, from photography to the phonograph, namely an integral realism, a recreation of the world in its own image, an image unburdened by the freedom of interpretation of the artist or the irreversibility of time. If cinema in its cradle lacked all the attributes of the cinema to come, it was with reluctance and because its fairy guardians were unable to provide them however much they would have liked to. —Andre Bazin, “The Myth of Total Cinema”[Bazin, 1967, p. 21.]

Those of us writing about video games who are too old to have been in degree programs devoted to video games are, like myself, likely to have come out of film and television studies programs; and anyone having gone through them will have encountered the works of Andre Bazin, and his “Myth of Total Cinema”. In this famous essay, Bazin describes how cinema’s advancements, when not made merely for capitalistic gain, propelled cinema ever closer to an attempt at the complete recreation of reality, or what we might more accurately call simulated lived experience. Bazin saw the reproduction of imagery, sound, and motion as the beginning of this endeavor, and the addition of color, sound, and widescreen as bringing cinema closer to our actual sensory experience of the world; and he supposed that other additions like stereoscopy would be added in the future, as the experience that cinema provided grew asymptotically closer to lived experience.
During his time, and perhaps even more so after his death in 1958, Bazin’s stance became placed in opposition to that of another early theorist, Sergei Eisenstein, whose love of formalism, montage, and a screen aspect ratio that was closer to a square, countered Bazin’s love of realism, uninterrupted long takes, and widescreen imagery that let the viewer decide where to look. While such an opposition provided a good entry point for film theory students considering the various positions possible, as a dichotomy it often oversimplified both theorists’ positions, even as it placed them more firmly in the spotlight as foundational figures in academic film studies. Today, while faster cutting, special effects, and an ever-increasing number of image alteration technologies would seem to work against an increase in cinematic realism (although special effects have at the same time allowed for the increase in the realism of what they depict), other technologies, like the recent return of 3-D, and cinematic technology exploring higher resolution imagery and projection with higher frame rates, suggest that the Myth of Total Cinema is alive and well, as does all the hype surrounding the history of virtual reality technology and its cinematic imaginary as found in films such as Total Recall (1990), eXistenZ (1999), and The Matrix series (1999 and 2003), wherein Total Cinema, with its reproduction of experiences indistinguishable from lived experience, has been technologically achieved. And video games can be included in this endeavor as well, not only due to their continued striving for greater perceptual realism, but also for the additional contributions, like interactivity and navigable worlds, both of which increase the hyperreality of the experiences they offer.
Video games, then, can also be seen as a part of Total Cinema, a term which could be seen to be broadly inclusive of all the media available in Bazin’s time, and what we might now refer to as the simulation of lived experience. While their ontological connection to reality is different than that of analog photography (discussed in the next section), they nonetheless can provide different linkages and experiences which can not only be seen in the light of film theory, but which can generalize certain aspects of film theory, and Bazin’s specifically, to cover more than just the photographic representation of reality.
While Bazin’s stance is rightly considered as a realist position, one occasionally finds his position being reduced to something that rejects anything that leads away from increased realism; but this is not the case at all. As Steven D. Greydanus points out in “Citizen Kane, André Bazin, and the Holy Moment”,

Bazin wasn’t against creativity. On the contrary, he believed that the realism of cinema gives it greater creative power because it taps directly into the power of creation itself, to the creative power of God. Bazin’s realism was ultimately personalist, rooted in a belief in the world as revelatory and sacramental, the work of God, the Supreme Person. At its best, film can capture transcendence amid transience and make us aware of sacredness in the midst of fleeting reality: a “Holy Moment,” to cite a catchphrase that is not Bazin’s but has become associated with him.6

While it remains true that the ontological nature of analog photography, with its direct iconic and indexical linkages to the referent, was championed by Bazin in his writings, the capturing of transcendence and the belief in the world as revelatory and sacramental that Greydanus mentions indicates that these connections are only the first step to an ontology of a higher order that is eternal, one that is revealed in the world through the material but does not end there. Thus, Bazin’s theory can be applied not only to cinema, but to anything capable of also tracing the connections to a higher ontological order; it is not dependent on any particular medium, but rather only on the idea of the existence of media and their revelatory ability.7 Seen in this light, one could suggest the motivation behind the desire for Total Cinema or simulated lived experience goes beyond just a technical challenge to be achieved, or a fantasy to be attained; perhaps it could be a way to experience the real world afresh, through comparison with its simulation, and even to begin to consider the real world itself as a simulation of a higher-order world to come, with earthly things analogous to spiritual ones. While Bazin does not discuss the motivation behind the desire for Total Cinema, such speculation is supported by Bazin’s own personalism and Roman Catholicism, which could have provided a foundation for such thinking.
Philosophical musings as to the origin of the Myth of Total Cinema aside, our purpose here is to see how video games might fit into the equation, and whether an ontological theory such as Bazin’s can be applied to a medium notorious for its lack of indexical connections to any real-world referents. Thus we must turn to a discussion of realism, and its relationship to various media, and in particular, film and video games.

Concerning Realism
Realism, as a term, has come to mean a series of attributes or criteria which are used to compare representations of things with analogous entities in the actual or real world of lived, intersubjective experience. While such comparisons were originally made between representations and the real-world objects they represented, implying the presence of a semiotic linkage that was iconic (the picture looks like the object it depicts) and in the case of photography, also indexical (the picture was made from the light reflected from the object itself, providing a direct link between the two), the ability to create images of things that do not exist meant that the comparison which determined how realistic something looked depended not on any particular individual object, but on typical objects of the same type. For example, rather than making a painting based on a real apple, and then asking if the artist had captured how that apple appeared in the representation, an apple could be painted which looked like an apple but was in fact just a collection of traits (redness, roundness, possessing a stem, etc.) which did not refer to any particular apple, but rather to what apples in general were typically like. Likewise, photographs can be altered so that their link to a referent is broken, and today they can be completely generated algorithmically in the computer, with an object’s dimensionality, color, lighting, and so forth all computed from general parameters, and often with the detail necessary to give it the specificity of an actual, physical object. Thus, realism is more about the typicality of a representation than the actual existence of what is represented.
The changeover from analog film technology to digital imaging technology makes such ontologically untethered image production easier than ever. Computer-generated imagery (CGI), however, can still be used to create extremely realistic images, far more visually realistic than even the best photorealistic painters could produce. As I have noted elsewhere, computer-generated images can also be linked to real-worlds referents in a variety of ways, and in new ways that were not possible previously.8 CGI has also brought film and video games closer together, so that an increasing amount of film theory can be applied to video games.
At the same time, game studies has grown enough that it can now be used to refocus the lenses provided by film studies in such a way as to reposition how we think of film studies. If Bazin is right, then cinema’s advance to greater perceptual realism is carrying on the same tradition begun many years earlier with technical developments in painting that moved it toward greater perceptual realism, a move which dominated the medium before the advent of photography. Video games, then, aren’t so much trying to be cinematic any more than films are trying to be painterly;9 instead, video games and film are both moving toward the goal of Total Cinema, the total simulation of lived experience, which can also be seen as the attempt to increase the transparency of mediated experience.
“Why should mediated experiences be transparent?” is a question that is perhaps seen as being so obvious that one forgets to ask it at all. It is the same reason we clean the glass windows of buildings; we want to focus on the view itself, not on the glass in front of us. But, transcendental motivations aside, why do we want our mediated experiences to seem as real as lived experience? There is a need for escape from our present circumstances, but also the need for fantasy, and for new experiences (safe ones that do require risk, and relatively inexpensive ones; which is why so few of us will physically travel to the Himalayas or take part in a shoot-out with live ammunition). New experiences, especially those in a persona unlike our own, may give us greater insight into the Other. Consider the great popularity of the Grand Theft Auto games; the cities they take place in are hardly exotic ones, but the avatar’s social position and occupation —that of a ruthless criminal— is quite unlike that of (hopefully) most players. Just as cinema takes us inside the minds of its characters and into worlds outside our own experience, video games go even farther, inviting us to make decisions as those characters and to interact with their worlds. A transparent experience improves the illusion of closeness to those characters and worlds, which can also explain the popularity of first-person perspectives, real-time action, open-ended sandbox play, and the ever-increasing expansiveness of the worlds to be explored.
Video games can be seen as the next step forward in the journey already begun by painting and cinema. Perspective gave painting its first step along the way, providing a consistent and coherent point of view, and photography added a level of detail that more closely approximated that seen by the human eye, with color photography coming even closer. Vision relating to various subjective states could be simulated with changes of focus, filtering, and other optical tricks, which went beyond merely simulating an optical point of view but tried to convey a sense of the subject’s frame of mind and interior state; painting began adding these features along with photography and cinema, from the visions presented by Impressionism to the emotions of Expressionism. Cinematic sound was a further advance along these lines; it expanded the flatness of the image into three-dimensional spaces where sounds emanate and surround listeners, sounds that appeared to be the consequences of actions occurring on-screen. Moving imagery with synchronized sound also gave these perceptual illusions a temporal dimension, and motion picture editing (at least within the classical Hollywood style) developed in such a way as to simulate selective perception, saccades, and even the temporal elisions of selective memory that result with the psychological chunking of long series of events into a comprehensible narrative framework.10 As cinema developed, the simulation of experience was not only perceptual in nature but became psychological as well, as it tried to simulate emotions and thought processes and convey them to an audience.
Though video games still fall short of matching the visual contributions to simulated experience made cinematic moving imagery, they have made an advance in the psychological area by featuring the addition of interaction and decision-making, in some cases a controlled and manipulatable point of view and choice of viewing angle, and diegetic acknowledgement of one’s participation in a game’s imagery, from simulated movement through a world under the player’s control to the reactions of characters who react to the player’s avatar’s actions. While realism in film usually refers to photorealistic plausibility, combined with the emotionally plausible choices made by characters with whom audience members may or may not identify, video games must try to simulate the affordances interactively encountered in the real world; if I see a closed door, I should be able to open it and see where it leads, if I find an object like a gun or a car, I should be able to make use of it as I would in the real world. Thus realism, in video games, requires everything that cinematic realism requires, and more. And whereas the laws of physics need not be simulated while a movie is being filmed (on the contrary, it is the breaking of the laws of physics which must be simulated), video games have no inherent laws of physics in their worlds; all laws of physics must be simulated by physics engines, the abilities of which have developed tremendously in their attempts at realism though they still fall short of what is taken for granted in cinema.
At the same time, players understand the difficulty that the demands of visual realism, realistic behavior, and realistic affordances place on the production of a video game, and can still be satisfied by depictions and interactions that fall far short of the real world. Even the illusions of presence and free will within the mediated world can potentially heighten the sense of artificiality, since they provide more limitations and boundaries for the user to encounter. So these additions to the Myth of Simulated Lived Experience are more than merely perceptual or even psychological; they add a sense of agency (and diegetic acknowledgement of that agency) that greatly enhances the illusion of lived experience, and this illusion remains even when the imaginary experiences depicted are quite unlike those of the real, intersubjective world that the Myth attempts to simulate. In short, the experience of agency, and of a world in which that agency is active, may be more important to the Myth as that of perceptual realism, at least when it comes to the illusion of a functioning world, especially if that world is unlike that of actual lived experience. After all, our perceptual systems can fill in the gaps and complete gestalten within the game world, but agency is either present or it isn’t, and even the degree of agency available is very noticeable, since it involves effort on the player’s part and influence and feedback once actions have been completed; agency is difficult to fake.
Realism, then, can refer to perceptual realism (visual and aural imitation of the real world), behavioral realism (actions and physics that seem to follow real-world laws of physics), emotional realism (characters who behave in a plausible manner, who seem to act and make choices like real-world individuals), and what we might call participational realism (the ability to participate in one’s environment the way one does in the real world).11 While audiences expect film to have the first three, they do not expect the fourth due to the nature of the medium itself; likewise, video game players expect to participate in their on-screen worlds. Just as film audiences were generally content with silent cinema until sound appeared, and black and white imagery until color became more common, video game players do not expect interactivity and affordances to match those of the real world (and once they are aware of video game conventions, they may automatically fill in the gaps), though they enjoy advances in that direction and imagine what greater interactivity would be like. Thus, when one refers to the participational realism of a game like Grand Theft Auto V (2014), it is praised in comparison with other games, rather than criticized for falling short of the participational potential found in the real world. Because of this, it can be seen as a step forward toward the simulation of lived experience, and most reviews of the game highlight the number of things that the player can do within the game world.
At the same time, the availability of participational realism in video games underscores the lack of it in film and other less interactive media, where visual realism usually makes up for the lack of participational potential. Such comparisons and measures of realism, then, lead us to the final topic to be considered, that of the imaginary worlds which films and video games create, depict, and inviting the audience to enter vicariously.

Entering Worlds
Imaginary worlds have a long tradition, extending back into antiquity.12 Film and video games are two relatively recent windows through which audiences can vicariously experience such worlds, and as cinema’s analog photographic technology gives way to digital imaging technology, computer technology becomes the basis for both media, and the means used to create and depict the worlds in which the stories told in them take place. The technological convergence of all screen media, with computers and CGI as their basis, makes transmedial moves of franchises much easier, as assets can more easily be adapted between from one medium to another.
Overall, more possibilities for the generation of worlds (whether those of film, television, video games, or other media) have become available. Not only perceptually, with computer-generated imagery bringing objects, vehicles, creatures, and entire locations to life with enough photorealism to seamlessly combine them with live-action, but also in the very control and animation of those things. Computer animation not only simulates lighting and physics in ways that are beyond what could be hand-animated, but artificial intelligence (AI) is used to control the actions of crowds of characters in battle scenes, procedurally-generating action shots which are unplanned by human beings and can surprise even those who set the parameters of such scenes.13 Video games also use simulated lighting and physics and AI, but some go even farther by producing entire worlds which are procedurally-generated. Such games as David Braben and Ian Bell’s Exile (1984), Alessandro Ghignola’s Noctis (2000), Tarn Adams’s Dwarf Fortress (2006), Markus Persson’s Minecraft (2009), Hello Games’ No Man’s Sky (2015), and others generate entire worlds and the events in them, leading to not only new experiences from game to game, but even new locations and places. While such worlds are behind their hand-crafted competitors in their perceptual realism, the potential for exploration and new experiences outweighs such concerns in the minds of their players, who value freedom of movement and interaction over graphical realism (perhaps the most popular example of this is Minecraft). Video games, then, ask us to question the relative value of agency and free-form exploration in the Myth compared to the value of perceptual realism; perhaps video games have reached a moment analogous to the shift that occurred in painting when, freed by photography from the need to for perceptual realism, it began integrating subjectivity and experience into its imagery. They suggest that there is more to the simulation of lived experience than the need for transparency, since these games are, visually at least, less transparent (although procedurally-generated content is itself growing more photorealistic as technology improves).
This focus on worlds, instead of just the narratives taking place within them, is a more recent phenomenon. The increasing amount of scholarship on trasmedial narratives and worlds reveals just how medium-specific much previous writing has been, and how limited a critical point of view can result from such an emphasis. There is a shift occurring in media studies which now regards worlds and franchises as the focal point of interest, and media as the varied set of windows through which the world or franchise is experienced.14 Decades before the study of transmedia, Bazin wrote of a similar idea, according autonomy to the subject matter depicted, and looking at the common features shared by cinema and other media, anticipating discussions of transmedial works decades before the terminology appeared. Along with “The Myth of Total Cinema”, What is Cinema? Volume I contains Bazin’s essays on cinema and theater, and cinema and painting, and “In Defense of Mixed Cinema” which defends newer cinematic adaptations of novels and plays, which, unlike their older counterparts, “serve to supply the film-maker with characters and adventures largely independent of their literary framework”, and which “have become part of a mythology existing outside of the novels. They enjoy in some measure an autonomous existence of which the original works are no longer anything more than an accidental and almost superfluous manifestation.”15 One can easily change “film-maker” to “video game maker” for a description of what occurs in many video game adaptations; such games are more like evocations of the original works than direct adaptations; the interactivity alone requires more flexibility in the possible events that will be encountered. And the same applies to transmedial adaptations as well, which give their subject matter an autonomy which is free of any particular medium, and which cause one to view the same characters and worlds through multiple media windows rather than only a single venue. The same can be said about narrative itself; thanks to procedurally-generated content (including an increasing amount of narrative content), worlds are being created directly for their own sake, and not merely as a backdrop in which to place a narrative.
Bazin’s essay “In Defense of Mixed Cinema” also makes predictions regarding the future direction that he expects cinema to take, which was prophetic for its time in 1952 when the essay was written;

The days are gone when it was enough to “make cinema” in order to deserve well of the seventh art. While we wait until color and stereoscopy provisionally return its primacy to form and create a new cycle of aesthetic erosion, on the surface cinema no longer has anything to conquer. There remains for it only to irrigate its banks, to insinuate itself between the arts among which it has so swiftly carved out its valleys, subtly to invest them, to infiltrate the soil, in order to excavate invisible galleries. The time of resurgence of a cinema newly independent of novel and theater will return. But it may then be because novels will be written directly onto film. As it awaits the dialectic of the history art which will restore it to this desirable and hypothetical autonomy, the cinema draws into itself the formidable resources of elaborated subjects amassed around it by neighboring arts during the course of the centuries. It will make them its own because it has need of them and we experience the desire to rediscover them by way of the cinema.16

Here, too, one could change “novels will be written directly into film” to “films will be written directly into video games”, or for that matter, into graphic novels, television series, and so forth; and certainly the “neighboring arts” have supplied a wealth of material not only for adaptation, but for “rediscovery”, as Bazin indicates. Not only can franchises originate in any medium and spread to any other medium, but often works are designed to appear in multiple media simultaneously; for example, the video game Enter the Matrix (2003) was released the same month as the movie The Matrix Reloaded (2003), with storylines interwoven between the film and game, and both film and game sharing the same cast and locations.
Bazin, then, realized at a relatively early time not only the potential for the transmedial movement of material, but the possibility of originating works in other media which carried over characters and story situations, what we would call a transmedial franchise today. Even in Bazin’s day, such things had been going on (to a limited degree) since L. Frank Baum made new additions to Oz which originated in novels, stage plays, comic strips, movies, and more; but Bazin may have been one of the first theorists to notice that this was a direction that cinema would be heading, or to suggest that it had not yet reached its goal. Likewise, imaginary worlds, as the settings of many simulated experiences, are embalmed (or appear to be embalmed) by media just as the actual, physical world is “embalmed” by cinema, as Bazin noted.
Thus, film theory can serve to add to video game theory, without merely overlaying ideas which reinterpret game elements as cinematic ones, precisely where it extends beyond merely discussing cinema itself. Film theory itself, then, needs to be reevaluated, since many of the areas where it departs from strictly looking at film (such as performance, audience response, narrative gestalten and inferences, and the control of viewer attention) may be marginal or underemphasized, although this seems to be beginning to change. Even though he died in 1958, far too early to conceive of the possibilities presented by interactive media, Bazin’s interest in the future of cinema and the unrealized potential it still held helped him to ask the right questions and make predictions that have, for the large part, come true. While his “Myth of Total Cinema” may seem, in retrospect, too medium-specific, the idea behind it, the Myth of Simulated Lived Experience, acts to redefine cinema as something broader than what was available during Bazin’s lifetime, and perhaps why he claimed that “In short, cinema has not yet been invented!”17 In this sense, all forms of media, whether they strive for ever-greater transparency or try to simulate the free-form exploration of and participation in the imagined worlds they depict, could be enfolded into this project of “cinema”, which is still growing ever-closer to its being completely and fully invented in Bazin’s sense of the term, and video games have brought them one important leap toward that goal.

– All images belong to their rightful owner. Academic intentions only. –

References
Bazin, A. (1967). What Is Cinema? Volume I (Hugh Gray, Trans.). Berkeley, California: University of California Press.

Greydanus, S. D. (2011, September 16) Citizen Kane, André Bazin, and the “Holy Moment”. National Catholic Register. Retrieved from http://www.decentfilms.com/articles/citizen-kane-andre-bazin.

Koeppel, D. (2003, January 23). Massive Attack: Fasten Your Seat Belts: Peter Jackson’s Second Lord of the Rings Installment Will Feature One of the Most Spectacular Battle Scenes in Film History, a Product of the Digital Dark Arts. Popular Science, p. 44.

Wolf, M. J. P. (1999). Subjunctive Documentary: Computer Imaging and Simulation. In Renov, M. and Gaines, J. (Eds.), Collecting Visible Evidence, Minneapolis (274-291). Minnesota: University of Minnesota Press.

Wolf, M. J. P. (2012). Building Imaginary Worlds: The Theory and History of Subcreation, New York and London: Routledge.

Author Contacts
Mark J.P. Wolf – Mark.Wolf@cuw.edu

 

 

Categoria: 4/2015 Journal | Tags: Mark J.P. Wolf (Concordia University, Wisconsin)

Lego: When video games bridge between play and cinema

Posted on 18 Settembre 2015 by Riccardo Fassone
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This paper proposes an exploration of the Lego Transmedia World. The starting point is a definition of a Lego aesthetics based on four characteristics: modularity, translatability, intertextuality and a tripartite nature of Lego minifigures. A brief analysis of the most popular types of Lego products – toys, games, video games and movies – will delineate a continuum that goes from different degrees of playfulness to mere readership: continuum in which videogames hold a special position. The final aim of this article is to underline, thanks to the Lego case study, the complexity and variety of the knotty intertextual nets that characterize transmedia realities.

KEY WORDS: Lego aesthetics, toy, cinema, videogames.

INTRODUCTION
Playful phenomena are often exploited as source of inspiration by film-makers. Toys, after videogames, are the most fruitfully exploited playful phenomenon, featuring both films about generic toys (as Pixar’s Toy Story) and inspired by real products – as Barbie, G.I. Joe and Transformers. However the only toy-inspired film that had a genuine success, appreciated both by audience and critics, is the Lego movie.
The path of Lego from toy to cinema features many steps, among which the creation of many video games. This article aims at investigating the role and position that Lego video games hold in the definition of a Lego aesthetics and in its application to different media.

1 – LEGO AESTHETICS.

The transmedia phenomenon that we refer to with the world “Lego”, is complex indeed. It has been analyzed both as a language [1] and as a parallel, alternative world [2]. Undoubtedly Lego aesthetics are very well defined in the collective imagination. We will try, here, to describe it focusing on four main characteristics.

– Modularity
First of all, Lego are bricks, construction sets: Lego are meant to build things. This fundamental characteristic goes through all kind of Lego products: objects (and also people) can be reduced to unbreakable pieces ans used to build other things.

– Full translatability
Objects and people from the Lego world, are alternative to their real-world counterparts. Lego minifigures have their own characteristics: yellow skin, cylindrical heads, few facial traits, polygonal bodies, painted clothes, and limited possibilities of movement. This features can be summarized as a system of differences from humans: applying this system to an existing or fictional human being, allows to translate him or her into the Lego world. The same happens with objects that can be adapted to a set of standardized characteristics (connectivity, standard sizes, reduced range of colors) and become Lego. Lego aesthetics, therefore, are fully applicable to any existing creature or object, making our world fully translatable into the Lego world.

– Characters, roles and actors
In his article “Dolls in the system of culture” Jurij Lotman describes the difference between statues and toys as a matter of details: statues have many details in order to convey the artist’s message, toys, instead, have less details and let the player’s imagination free to complete them.

Lego minifigures can be divided in three groups according to their amount of details:
– Actors: minifigures (the older ones) with almost no detail: they represent simply a human being and they can play every role;
– Role-based minifigures, which display a certain amount of details to indicate their thematic role [3] (medieval warriors, football players, policemen and so on).
– Characters, both from Lego and licensed fictional worlds, the detail and characteristics of these minifigures portray, without any doubt, the identity of one single person, with all his isotopies, background narrations and abilities.
Lego modularity, of course, complicates further the situation: body parts and accessories can be mixed in order to create endless new minifigures.

– Intertexuality
In 1999, in the occasion of the release of Star Wars Episode I: A Phantom Menace, The Lego Company, for the first time, produced licensed theme based construction sets; since then, Lego exploited many other licensed franchises: Indiana Jones, Pirate of the Caribbeans, The Lord of The Rings, Minecraft, Batman, The Simpsons, just to mention a few. Every narration is susceptible to be translated into Lego, and the characteristics of the Lego aesthetics make this translation, not only possible, but suitable, allowing the audience to become playful and to re-enact, to question and to parody the original narration – enjoying the freedom typical of a toy-based playfulness.

2 – THE LEGO TRANSMEDIA WORLD

Lego-related products are endless, counting unofficial fan-made creations and works of art [4]. Here we will list only few of them, reconstructing the path between brick and cinema.
Toys
The construction sets are the first and most important of all Lego creations. Caillois [5] would classify them as paidia, being a free form of play, with very few and neglectable rules.
The difference between the three types of minifigures (characters, roles and actors), related to the evolution of Lego sets through time, is present to its full extent only in toys, and gives rise to different degrees of freedom in play. The increased amount of details, in fact, appeals to the player’s desire of mimicry [6], but at the same time becomes a constriction, directing the course of play. Therefore, the less detailed are the toys, the more freedom has the player; the more detailed are the toys, the more mimicry is involved. Moving in the range between toys and statues, means moving between creation and representation, between authorship and readership.

Lego Games

The Lego Group produces a wide range of games that exploit the Lego aesthetic in a more regulated form of play – what Caillois calls ludus. The Lego Games line consists in 24 boardgames, both based on Lego themes (e.g. Ramses and Ninjago series) and on licensed themes (Harry Potter). The modular nature of Lego aesthetics featured in Lego Games is very productive: boards and dices can be redesigned and their compatibility with Lego toys makes them susceptible to be adapted and modified in order to evolve the game play.
Lego games feature, like most boardgames, a regulated form of play, in which the narration is extremely simple and mostly out of players’ control. The latter, however, thanks to the customization possibilities granted by Lego aesthetics, has an unusual mastery on the game’s rules.

Videogames

Since 1997 The Lego Group, in collaboration with many different developers, has published more than 50 videogames, half of which based on licensed themes. With the possible exception of Lego Creator, all the Lego videogames are forms of ludus: strictly regulated games. The Lego aesthetics has been applied to very different kinds of videogames, as racing games (Lego Racers), simulation strategy games (Legoland), real time strategy games (Lego Battle) and even a MMORPG (Lego Universe). Most of Lego videogames and, in particular, almost all the theme-based videogames (Ninjago, Bionicle, Legends of Chima, etc.) are action-adventure games.
Lego’s modularity holds a central position in the working of these videogames: both for customization and as primary feature. However, differently from toys and games, Lego videogames are most of the times characterized by complex narrations. This is not surprising for action-adventure games, but even the racing or strategic games often have very well constructed backgrounds, interesting plots and enjoyable campaigns.

The Lego Movie

The Lego Movie is a very smart display of meta-Lego thinking. On one side, it explicitly puts the Lego aesthetics in the foreground of the plot: the modular nature of Lego is both opposed by the villain, and praised by the good; intertextuality is stronger than ever (many characters of the film coming from licensed themes); and different kinds of minifigures (role-based and characters) represent different ways to approach Lego building (following the instructions vs free construction).
On the other side, the film give prominence also to the Lego mythology: Benny, a broken blue astronaut from the 80s, represents the bond of affection that players develop with their oldest toys; “relics” (non-Lego objects as coins, rubber bands and similar) parody the disorder that is usually found in every kid’s “Lego box”; and the ending, with the threatening “little sister”, capable of destroying the Lego world, reflects a real-life problem of many young Lego players.
Finally it is important to mention that the Lego Movie has been conceived as part of a transmedia playful narration: both construction sets and a videogame have been launched simultaneously with the film. The latter, therefore, is not considered as the end of a process of evolution, but as a new center of innovation in a knotty intertextual and transmedia net.

3 – BRIDGING BETWEEN TOYS AND CINEMA.

The different Lego products listed above, define a range between playership and readership, according to the amount of details which are present in characters and to the presence of predetermined narrations. Starting from the most free form of play, paidia, we said that toys with more details, create a more effective mimicry, but at the same time restrict the players’ freedom. Games, thanks to their rules, trace a feeble line of narration that players must follow. Story-telling becomes more important and complex in videogames and a real plot finally appears. Finally, with films, the audience no longer participate to the narration, but reaches a degree of mere readership.
Videogames hold a special position in this chain of translations, because, for the first time, they apply Lego aesthetics to a fully constructed narration. Thus they are of central importance in the definition and the translation of Lego aesthetics itself, from toy to film. In addition, Lego videogames are the first Lego product made without. . . Lego. Lego bricks were the raison d’être of all the other Lego products, fan-made tributes (as stop motion brickfilms) and works of art. Videogames substitute Lego bricks with a digital version, similar, but different. The Lego Movie is based exactly on this digital version of Lego bricks.
Alas it’s not possible, here, to investigate more deeply videogames’ role in this transmedia translation. Nevertheless, this few pages are meant as a reflection on the importance of considering the relationship between cinema and videogames as being part of a wider chain of transmedia translations, that pervades all forms of play and of storytelling. Lego, thanks to their wide range of products, is a particularly good case study, but it is no exception. Many transmedia narrations involve toys, boardgames and action figures, that should be taken more seriously into consideration, if we wish to shed some light on the complex relationships between playfulness and story-telling.

– All images belong to their rightful owner. Academic intentions only. –

References

Caillois, R. (1967). Les Jeux et les hommes, Paris: Gallimard.

Couplan, D. (1994). Toys that bind, in New Republic, June issue.

Lotman, J. (1980). Le Bambole nel sistema di cultura in Salvestroni, S. (ed.), Testo e contesto. Semiotica dell’arte e della cultura, Roma-Bari: Laterza, 145-150.

Greimas, A. (1988). Maupassant: the Semiotics of Text: Practical Exercises, Amsterdam, John Benjamins.

Roos, J., Said, R. and Statler, M. (2001). Lego speaks, Working Paper 20, Imagination Lab.

Author contacts
Mattia Thibault – mattia.thibault@gmail.com

Categoria: 4/2015 Critical Notes, 4/2015 Miscellanea | Tags: Mattia Thibault (Università di Torino)

Jenna Ng (ed.), Understanding Machinima. Essays on Filmmaking in Virtual Worlds

Posted on 18 Settembre 2015 by Riccardo Fassone
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Understanding Machinima. Essays on Filmmaking in Virtual Worlds (Bloomsbury 2013, edited by Jenna Ng) is an intriguing incursion into the world of machinima from a Media Studies point-of-view, trying to address the topic beyond game’s environment, in connection with the evolution of the contemporary mediascape.

Machinima is a recent technology/performance/art/tool etc 18 (conventionally born in 1996 with Quake demos) 19 commonly defined as any kind of video artifact produced through real-time gaming graphic engines: in-game recordings, sandbox modes, hacked version of game engines or game-like professional tools are all valid sources to create machinimas. It’s been a decade since it has been bought to the academic attention and to an increasing popularity on web broadcasting (mainly thanks to the web-serieS Red vs Blue, to South Park‘s episode Make Love, not Warcraft or to the political short The French Democracy by Alex Chan).

The collection is built around twelve chapters, split into two parts (respectively Thinking and Using machinima), bringing together contributions from researchers, gamers, directors, artists, curators and machinima makers; every chapter goes along with digital endnotes, that can be seen from the dedicated webpage thanks to QR codes included in every chapter.

This anthology aims to distinguish itself from recent academic researches, analysing mainly the nature of machinima in connection with the universe of cinema, gaming and animation in the eyes of a “convergent” mediascape (Jenkins 2006), regarding machinima as a native-digital medium involving crossbreeding with mediated realities (virtual, augmented, hybrid) and increasingly tied to artistic or political environment. The underlying belief is that, as Jenna Ng suggests, machinima «has become [so much, ndA] connected with many other tools and media forms so that it is now less a discrete, distinguishable media form than a fluid dialogue of and between media».

Understanding Machinima manages to keep together contributions with different theoretical perspectives and aims, and to gather them up in a heterogeneous yet dialogic frame. As a result, the reader will easily identify several recurring themes; this well-directed dialogue among the authors reveals the complexity of the analysed issues, making for a work that is much more than the sum of the parts.

The first topic is machinima’s hybrid nature. Born from game tools, borrowing movie language and techniques, continuously compromising with gaming, film and fandom culture, easily mistaken for digital animation, still unknown outside the gamer’s niche; machinima is certainly difficult to describe and categorise. Several essays try to analyse its affinities and differences with (and within) gaming and movie worlds, its bounds with fandom and remixing practices; should machinima be defined through distinction with other media, or be accepted as a full-hybrid media form? 20 Either way, machinima has become a privileged viewpoint to analyse contemporary mediascape and its evolution; an interesting debate emerges from the anthology about the possibility to fully understand it using previous generic critical categories like remediation, culture convergence or intertextuality 21, or (as Jenna Ng claims) if we should give up talking about a «flow of content in the sense of media convergence (Jenkins 2006) but [rather, ndA] a flow of media and mediation itself.22»

The issue of machinimas’ autonomy comes as a direct consequence of its hybrid nature: being built using pre-existing tools, looking at older and more influential media, yet modifying them, machinima can be considered at the same time a subversive practice (shifting from documentation of high performance play to expressive and performative goals unknown in the original game) or a marginal subject in the mediascape. Some contributions deal with this duality: should machinima be independent, creating its own language and stop mimicking movies and animation (as Peter Greenaway stated in his lectures about Second Life)23, or should it accept its “minor” nature (in a deleuzian sense)24 and carry on a guerrillesque subversion of major languages from within, an act of survivance as described by Gerald Vizenor?25Are these the only paths available for machinima?

It’s not simply a matter of autonomy; at the heart there’s the capacity of machinima to bring innovative contributions to the long-lasting aesthetic development as a full, native digital media, by creating a new visual language or re-shaping the old ones; and at the same time, its usefulness as a newborn practice and technology, its role of innovative digital tool. Currently it is on doubt if machinima is moving towards a continuation of cinematic language, or if it has already developed its own style; if it is pursuing a “gamish” aesthetic26 or a more realistic one. Some claim that emancipation from cinema’s “tiranny”27 will lead to discover the potentiality of a new type of space28 that could be experienced and shaped up to the physics, while others remember that machinima still need to obey to the laws and limits of the game engine itself. Moreover, limits and potentiality of game engines are tied with machinima’s nature as a tool, operation or “craft”; as convincing as it may be Michael Nitsche’s claim that machinima can be considered XXIst century puppetry29, indeed an essential part of its creation deals at the same time with avatars and camera movement30, being more some kind of “puppetry in a cinematic environment”. Can really technology’s evolution shape new possibilities for machinima, or is it a practice born out of its limits and short-lived?

Certainly, whether machinima’s future will be movie-centered or game-dependant, looking at digital animation or at the art of puppetry, it seems that its evolution is getting it closer and closer to trends of digital audiovisual world: realism in animations and in body movements’ capture, growing hybridization in the audiovisual message, demand for affordable and flexible professional tools; all suggesting that machinima’s destiny is deeply tied with recent developments in digital audiovisual culture. Lastly, there’s the recent growing popularity of machinima outside the gamers environment, towards the universe of Digital Arts and for Political Activism; hibridity is not limited to different formats and quality of visual messages, but also in machinima being a part in complex artistic and political performance (live-events); as any remix-remake practice, its full potential lies when the main engine is used to convey a meaning that refers or conflicts with its own source. It’s the opposite of historical “archival machinima”, created to document high-performance play of skillful gamers, actively contributing to the gamer’s community; nevertheless machinima has proved to be a useful and flexible tool in videogame art31 or in digital activism32, being both a mediation form and the tool for gaming culture jamming.

Besides, acting and filmmaking in virtual world imply several new issues in game-related ethics; making a documentary by filming Second Life’s avatars33 can be done without anyone noticing; gamers playing in online matches could unwillingly find themselves within “game-interventions”, being unable to avoid or ignore culture-jamming actions made during the match. They become performers in a double sense, being players and active-spectators of these “digital happenings”[As claimed in Chapter 8, “Playing politics”.]. Certainly, as we experience the rise of persistent world in online games, we believe there will be an increasing need of machinima as a “capture-based technique” for documentation of digital worlds. The ever-growing popularity of massive multiplayer games and the importance of documenting virtual environment could similarly lead to new pedagogical practices: Barwell and Moore34 attested that teaching students how to create a machinima let them learn-by-doing new media literacies far beyond simple tasks involved in everyday computer use; machinima as a new digital craft (as claimed by Barret and Ng)35 could be a useful training ground for digital literacies, requiring competences in audiovideo editing software as well as living and operating in virtual worlds.

In conclusion, Understanding Machinima is a well-written and captivating book, especially for those who want to analyse machinima in connection to the universe of media. It’s reasonably not a book for beginners, but it needs to be considered mainly as a starting point for further and more in-depth contribuitions: recognising machinima as a digital medium, studying its bonds with the worlds of digital animation, game art, cinema, political activism and pedagogical goals, will eventually help us understand several core issues of the contemporary mediascape.

Author contacts
Vincenzo Idone Cassone – idonecassone@gmail.com

Categoria: 4/2015 Books, 4/2015 Critical Notes | Tags: Vincenzo Idone Cassone (Università di Torino)

Towards a typology of video game trailers: Between the ludic and the cinematic

Posted on 18 Settembre 2015 by Riccardo Fassone
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This paper explores video game trailers, their various forms and the roles they play within video game industry and culture. It offers an overview of the current practice of video game trailer differentiation and proposes a new typology of video game trailers based on their relation to ludic and cinematic aspects of a video game, combining the theory of paratexts, video game performance framework, the interface effect concept, as well as the concept of transmedia storytelling. This typology reflects the historical evolution of a video game trailer and also takes into account current trends in the audiovisual paratexts of video games.
Keywords: Trailer, Video Game, Paratext

Introduction: Video Game Trailers as Paratexts

Trailers originated in the American movie industry in the 1920s (Kernan, 2004). Over the course of the 1990s and 2000s, however, they were gradually adopted by other entertainment industries, like video games (Young, 2007), book publishing (Voigt, 2013) and performance arts (Preece, 2011). Originally, the main purpose of a trailer was to promote and advertise a movie. Their deployment was in line with Genette’s (1997) sense of the paratext, functioning as a vestibule or shopping window for the main text. Over time, trailers have become more diverse and their functions and authorships differentiated. While the notion of trailers as paratexts is contested at the moment – some scholars uphold Genette’s tradition (Gray, 2010; Kernan, 2004; Preece, 2011) while others criticize it for its vagueness (Johnston, 2011) – I will stick to the paratextual approach to trailers in this paper to better illustrate different relationships between the trailer and the main text, not just the promotional function. The validity of use of this literary theory concept also stems from its wide adoption by game studies scholars (see Consalvo, 2007; Galloway, 2012; Jara, 2013; Jones, 2008; Payne, 2012).
For the purpose of this paper, I will define the official video game trailer as any official audiovisual paratext that informs the viewer about the existence of a particular video game. In the next two sections, I will first provide an overview of current practices in video game trailer categorization and then propose my own theory-driven typology.

fig1_BioShock

Still from the Bioshock Infinite: Beast of Columbia trailer, an example of a performance trailer.

The Typology Overloaded: From Player-Focused Advertisements to Multiplicity

According to Young (2007), early video game advertising was preoccupied with explaining how hardware works and how it transforms passive entertainment into a more active mode of engagement. After this initiation period, “the actual purpose of the advertising has changed from one of teaching users how to use the system to publicizing specific games in a manner very similar to film trailers.” (Young, 2007, p. 235) If we were to look for the first trailer in the history of the video game industry, the Zaxxon (Sega, 1982) televised ad from 1982 is the likeliest candidate. While the thirty second spot still focuses on the hardware aspect of the arcade machine, the voiceover also describes the specificities of the game and the experience it can provide. In the 1990s, video game trailers became a standard marketing tool. The increasing popularity of this type of promotional content was confirmed by the founding of the website GameTrailers.com in 2002. The site was acquired three years later by MTV Networks. Trailers also play a significant role at video gaming exhibitions such as the Electronic Entertainment Expo which dates back to 1995.
Over time, trailers have diversified, partly due to the development cycles of big budget video games. Carlson (2009) lists some basic types of trailers, but the practice is much more complicated. Publishers use different adjectives to differentiate between specific forms of trailers released for a given game. There is, however, no common approach. Before moving on to a more theory-driven typology, I would like to describe some of the criteria used in PR discourse to distinguish between various official video game trailers. Bear in mind that this categorization is not meant to be exhaustive. Its primary aim is to illustrate the current practice of categorizing trailers without a fixed or shared typology.

1. Content
As Carlson (2009) points out, the first and most obvious criterion is the nature of content (or footage) used in the trailer. We can, for example, differentiate between gameplay footage, pre-rendered CGI animation and live action footage.
2. Date
The second criterion, also noted by Carlson (2009), is the release date of the trailer in relation to the development cycle of a given game. From this perspective, we can talk about teaser, reveal, announcement and launch trailers.
3. Venue
The third criterion is the original venue of a trailer release. While trailers are predominantly watched online (Johnston, 2008), the location of their initial unveiling is occasionally used to differentiate between trailers for one game. Significant examples include E3, Gamescom or Tokyo Game Show trailers.
4. Focus
The fourth criterion is the particular focus of a trailer. While some trailers may strive to represent the whole package of a game, others pinpoint individual features. Such focus can range from story to gameplay, highlighting combat, single-player or multiplayer campaigns.

It is important to note that the above-mentioned criteria are used very freely by publishers, journalists and audiences. Publishers tend to use just use one criterion to describe a trailer, even though it is often possible to apply all four criteria. The trailer types assigned using these four criteria are overlapping as they are in no way mutually exclusive.

fig2_dragonage

Still from the Dragon Age: Origins – Sacred Ashes trailer, an example of a transmedia trailer.

The Typology Synthesized: Paratextuality between the Cinematic and the Ludic

While it is possible to use the aforementioned criteria to construct a typology of video game trailers, the outcome would be very descriptive and overly focused on the formal qualities of a trailer. I can, instead, propose a typology based on the relationship between the video game and its paratext, taking into account the conceptualization of a video game as an interplay between rules and fiction (Juul, 2005). This approach will allow us to look at how these two sides of a nonlinear text are represented in mostly linear trailer paratexts.
As a paratextual genre with origins in the movie industry, a video game trailer comes with an inherited cinematic quality. This cinematic aspect in its linear nature is well suited to the representation of a video game’s fictional world and, especially, its narrative. At the same time, the ludic elements that constitute the cybertext nature of a video game (Aarseth, 1997) should also be represented in any trailer whose intent is to provide a holistic impression of the game. But there are limitations to the ways in which a trailer, a linear paratext, can represent a video game, a nonlinear text.
I will begin my typology in the realm of video game advertising, which focuses on players and their interaction with the hardware. This focus reappears periodically whenever new gaming hardware is introduced to the market. That said, such focus is not restricted to the promotion of hardware; it can be present in the promotion of particular video games, as seen, for example, in the genre of rhythm games. Still, this player interaction is staged for the purpose of a video game trailer. Using the perspective of performance framework (Fernández-Vara, 2009), we can establish a category of performance trailers that show us staged gameplay either from the perspective of a spectator looking upon players interacting with the game, or from the perspective of a spectator looking at the game screen itself. These two spectator positions are often combined within trailers to give credibility to the representation. Performance trailers generally focus on the ludic aspects, showing the viewer a possible gameplay experience in very linear fashion.
We can think of nearly every video game trailer as a case of cross-promotion or transmedia (Jenkins, 2006). Video games and video game trailers are, after all, different media channels. This practice of “exploiting forms of promotion as content, and indeed vice versa […]” (Freeman, 2014, p. 2372) dates back to the early 1900s. In this sense, I talk about transmedia trailers as expanding the fictional world of a video game beyond the boundaries of a video game as a medium. Content-wise, they can consist of a substantial amount of footage – live-action or CGI – specially created for the trailer. Transmedia trailers can be used as a tool of transmedia storytelling and they tend to represent the fictional world of a video game in a linear, cinematic manner.
The last type of video game trailer deals with the inherent interactivity of a video game. Some publishers seem aware of the limitations attendant to representing a nonlinear text through the use of a linear paratext and try to overcome them by creating so-called interactive trailers that enable limited viewer agency by, for example, allowing a choice between pre-recorded stealth or combat gameplay. These trailers strive to recreate the interactivity of a video game by replicating the interface of a video game, effectively establishing two layers of paratextuality. Applying Galloway’s notion of interface effect (Galloway, 2012), interface trailers make the non-diegetic (or paratextual) layer of a video game tangible by mimicking it. Interface trailers, themselves a paratext, employ the notion of interface to represent the ludic aspects of a video game and to convey its non-linearity.

fig3_evolve4v1

Still from the Evolve 4v1 trailer, an example of an interface trailer.

Conclusion

In this article, I quickly covered the theoretical approaches to the genre of video game trailers and created an overview of formal criteria used by publishers to differentiate between video game trailers. I also proposed a typology rooted in the theoretical concepts of performance framework, transmedia and interface effect, consisting of three categories based on the relationship between the paratext, the video game and its ludic and cinematic aspects: performance trailers, transmedia trailers and interface trailers. This typology aims to organize academic discourse on video game trailers and to act as a starting point for further research in production, content and audience reception of video game trailers.

Acknowledgements
This paper was supported by the Charles University in Prague, project GA UK No. 306414.

– All images belong to their rightful owner. Academic intentions only. –

References 
Aarseth, E. J. (1997). Cybertext: perspectives on ergodic literature. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press.
Carlson, R. (2009). Too Human versus the enthusiast press: Video game journalists as mediators of commodity value. Transformative Works and Cultures, 2009(Vol 2).
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Author contacts
Jan Švelch – honza@svelch.com

Categoria: 4/2015 Critical Notes, 4/2015 Miscellanea | Tags: Jan Švelch (Charles University in Prague)

It wasn’t even acceptable in the Eighties: Hotline Miami and snuff films

Posted on 18 Settembre 2015 by Riccardo Fassone
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Abstract
Hotline Miami is a game of massacre whose aesthetics are borrowed from an idealized version of
snuff films. Along with their bloodyness, it remediates their supposed means of production: a poor quality videocassette that is viewed on an old cathode ray tube television. Artifacts of these technologies contemporary to the game setting (the eighties) are hypermediated and used as a narrative device (rewind, white noise…). Along with the use of retro pixelated graphics, it creates a sense of uneasiness within the euphoria of the frantic die & retry gameplay.

Keywords
Hotline Miami; Snuff films; Glitch art; Horror; Remediation.

Article

Admittedly there are quite a few video games that meet the violent stereotype associated with the medium. Most of them are about guns and military power, but always rely on a strong moral about killing the bad guys and being a hero to the homeland. Others embody the full list of stigmas that are still sometimes associated with video game enthusiasts and can be summarized in one accusation: “You are a violent psychopath (and also do drugs)”. This is exactly what Hotline Miami (2012) is about. HLM is a game of massacre created by Jonathan “Cactus” Söderström and Dennis Wedin under the name of Dennaton Games. This top-down shooter puts the player in control of an unnamed protagonist wearing an animal mask and asked to “clean up” some places of their natural fauna of angry mobsters. Unfortunately, he usually leaves the place pretty messed up, with blood and guts splattered from floor to ceiling. HLM is all about over the top action and gore. The first is borrowed from eighties action movies and Nicolas Winding Refn’s Drive (2011), which the authors admit to be fond of (Edge Staff 2012, p. 2). Bloodiness on the other hand is reminiscent of another genre that has an even more controversial reputation than video games: snuff films.

Named after the verb “to snuff”, meaning to put out a candle, their content mostly refers to its slang usage: to kill someone. Right between pornography and horror, snuff movies are “clandestine short films, shot for rich and perverted amateurs, in which the actress is actually tortured and killed (usually a woman, sometimes a teenager)” (Campion-Vincent & Renard 2002, p. 12). According to journalist Sarah Finger’s extensive inquiry, their existence have yet to be proven, which makes them relevant not to film but to urban legend studies. People talk about in fear of an identifiable stereotype that has never been seen, except in works of fiction based on these rumors (ibid. p. 14). The stories are indeed dreadful: although not always about sex; snuff enthusiasts take pleasure in physical abuse, having an erotic and sadistic gaze toward torture and murder scenes (ibid. p. 12).

Born in the early seventies (Lapierre 2013, p. 12), “works of fiction exploiting the snuff movie theme are multiplying” a decade later (Campion-Vincent & Renard 2002, p. 14). HLM’s events take place in 1989, when this urban legend reaches mass media and settles in the collective imagination as a stereotype. Gore is not the only part of this game that makes it consistent with this setting. HLM’s aesthetics are based on technological artifacts borrowed from contemporary eighties technology, namely the VCR/VHS combo and early video games. It makes use of both remediation (transposing a media form into another) and hypermediation (highlighting the media’s specifications), two concepts described by Bolter and Grusin (2000). HLM borrows and reshapes the videotape as well as visual elements exclusive to old arcade and home video games. Although being the work of Wedin, the game’s art is consistent with Cactus’ style that “ricochets between primitive (he favors the chunky, barely expressive pixels of the Atari 2600) and gratuitously stylized” (Mastapra 2012). HLM is an archaic looking piece of software, lo-fi and ridden with technical imperfections.

Hotline Miami Snuff Films 2

Thus, playing HLM sometimes feels like watching a videocassette. The screen flickers with snow when Richard, a cock-headed man, asks: “Do you like hurting other people?” Merely hidden behind a curtain of downwards moving horizontal lines, signature of the good old cathode ray tube, is none other than a snuff movie VHS built on a stereotype encountered in Cronenberg’s Videodrome. In 1983, the snuff film rumor is “adapted to the contemporary media landscape” (Lapierre 2013, p. 72): it is not on film but on tape, leaving the big screen for the television and swapping cigarette burns for an image “riddled with interferences” (ibid. p. 97). HLM remediates the technical imperfections and poor cinematography of these bootlegs filmed by murderers who “just happen to have a camera in hand” (ibid. p. 96). When it follows the player-character, HLM‘s view angle slowly tilts from left to right, copying a crude hand-held unsteady shot highlighted by a hypermedia lo-fi artifact: the retro pixelated graphics lean into chunky aliased lines that emphasize the image’s imbalance. The amateur and minimalist stereotype is further reinforced with remediation of snuff movies overall shortness and the lack of editing (Campion-Vincent & Renard 2002, p. 13) into video game’s brief levels that have to be executed in one single long take.

However in HLM, it takes several tries to successfully slaughter all of the antagonists. They are in fact pretty aggressive, which leads to multiple deaths of the player-character who is immediately prompted to press “R TO RESTART!”. It is an integration in the gameplay itself of the quicksave/quickload feature, the “F5/F9” described by Triclot as inherently videoludic (2011, p. 22). By restarting over and over, the player can experience “the pleasure […] of replaying a sequence until it gives satisfaction” (ibid. p. 21). HLM goes even further than snuff movies in which “the height of assassination is to film the murder, to repeat it endlessly while watching the film” (Campion-Vincent & Renard 2002, p. 22) by acting the killing again and again, swapping one euphoric repetition for another. The “R” key acts both as a hypermediated “F9” quickload habit and as a remediated left-pointing rewind button. Superposing two kinds of media usage, it punctuates the play activity and also becomes a storytelling tool at the end of chapter 11, when pressing “R” to restart actually advances the story. Being mortally wounded and rewinding is part of the gameplay as well as of the scenario. HLM also remediates technical artifacts as a narrative device when, before the biker story begins, the screen freezes. Scarred with two horizontal noise lines, the image distorts to the sound of the VCR’s motor unrolling magnetic tape as it shows dates passing in reverse chronological order. The technical code of the rewinding is used to signify a full-fledged analepsys in the world of continuous flashback that is HLM.

With each restart, the level is left clean, with no traces of the previous mass murder attempts. The player-character then goes on rampage all over again, leaving behind him rounded crimson puddles that have anything but the consistency of the poorly detailed surroundings. Blood appears as liquid and contrasts with the angular pixelated setting: it explodes with each hit and spills slowly like an analog stain in a digital world. It stands out within the stylized low definition art style that blurs all of the graphic and gore content in a screen-wide mosaic. This may look like a censorship, but it mostly creates a strong sense of suggestion. The player knows they crushed bones, they have seen all of the animation and clicked through every one of the three movements it takes to break a skull open with a baseball bat. All that is left is guessing, wondering the rest of the crime that is already shown with great detail in one long take. No ambiguity is left: the player has been there and has done that. It was normal. Life holds little value in HLM, except from the bright colorful score that pops up to confirm each kill. Even dying provokes a satisfactory feeling of restarting. This classic video game discourse provokes an uneasy feeling when put into snuff film context. HLM creates a ludic approach to the act of killing by building up tension through difficulty of a frantic die and retry gameplay. It creates a state of vertigo, or “pleasure within panic”, a kind of play that Callois names ilinx and that, with the highscore motif, can be linked to (eighties) arcade (Triclot 2011, p. 51). Life and death are reduced to numbers evaluating grotesque murders committed to the beat of a mimetic fast paced bass filled musical soundscape.

Hotline Miami Snuff Films 3

And then, nothing. Corpses everywhere, ambient noise and the adrenaline rush aftermath. With this brutal change of pace, a threshold is crossed, leaving some quiet time to the player to reflect on their actions. What is left of their torture and murder is only a bloodshed. For a moment, they were one of “the executioners, sadistic brutes, [that] would usually be men, their faces masked or not being identifiable on the screen” (Campion-Vincent & Renard 2002, p. 13). They were not merely watching but producing a snuff movie. They were the murderer, the shape-shifting beast with dozens of faces none of which are human. The animal masks worn by the player-character are those of another stereotype from the horror genre: monsters. In the videoludic space, Perron describe them as dangerous: both a physical threat with lethal power and a menace to identity and moral order (2005). They are the kind that like to hurt other people, like the player did while enjoying the game. They felt empathy not for the victim but for the monsters and, realizing this, would “want to disrupt the relationship with the monsters” (ibid.). Fear comes from identification to deviant behavior, to one of the most gruesome urban legend that blends horror and pornography into an euphoric and uneasy display of violated corpses.

Within a screen filled with artifacts of a magnetic tape worn though repetitive viewing, Hotline Miami is tinted with the murky aura of snuff films. Through ultraviolence and glitch art, it remediates this urban legend, making it fun in an uneasy way, making a horror monster out of the player. Hotline Miami 2: Wrong Number, which should be released soon, is likely to resume this reflexion in a storyline involving what seems to be a commercial nineties slasher movie named Midnight Animal. Starring the Pig Butcher playable character, it is hinted to reenact the events that happened in 1989, furthering remediation with a film within the game that trailers suggest to be filled with digital aliasing and analog interferences.

– All images belong to their rightful owner. Academic intentions only. –

References

Bolter, J.D. & Grusin, R. (2000). Remediation: Understanding New Media. Cambridge: The MIT Press.
Campion-Vincent, V. & Renard J.-B. (2002). Rumeurs d’aujourd’hui (L’imaginaire de la violence urbaine), in De source sûre. Nouvelles rumeurs d’aujourd’hui (pp. 261-290). Paris: Payot. Revised version, retreived from http://pascalfroissart.online.fr/3-cache/2002b-campion-renard.pdf.
Edge Staff (2012). Hotline Miami: how Drive, drugs and Smash TV influenced one of the most intriguing games of 2012, Edge. Retrieved from http://www.edge-online.com/features/hotline-miami-interview-how-drive-drugs-and-smash-tv-influenced-one-of-the-most-intriguing-games-of-the-year/.
Lapierre, S. (2013). La légende urbaine des snuff movies : histoire, théorie, esthétiques, technologies. Master’s dissertation, Université de Montréal. Retrieved from http://hdl.handle.net/1866/10275.
Mastapra, G. (2012). Fast, Cheap, And Out Of Control, The Gameological Society. Retrieved from http://gameological.com/2012/06/fast-cheap-and-out-of-control/.
Perron, B. (2005). Coming to Play at Frightening Yourself: Welcome to the World of Horror Video Games, Aesthetics of Play. Retrieved from http://www.aestheticsofplay.org/perron.php.
Triclot, M. (2011). Philosophie des jeux vidéo. Paris: Zones.

Author contacts
Hugo Gelis – hugo@notainutilis.fr

Categoria: 4/2015 Critical Notes, 4/2015 Miscellanea | Tags: Hugo Gelis (Université Paul-Valéry Montpellier 3)
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