Jamey Stevenson

Who Dares Wins: ProtoPlay 2010 Report

Fri, 03 Sep 2010 06:53:20 +0100

Continuing on with my theme of looking at the positive aspects of the Dundee game development scene, I wanted to highlight one of the more enjoyable events I have experienced recently: Dare ProtoPlay 2010. ProtoPlay is the showcase event for Dare to be Digital, a game development competition that originated at Abertay University in Dundee and consists of student teams from all over the world converging on Scotland to make games together over the course of ten weeks. This year's ProtoPlay event was held in Edinburgh, and it marked the eleventh year that the Dare competition has been running. This was my first time attending, and I was astounded at the sheer quality and diversity of output that was on display.

Diversity was evident in every aspect of ProtoPlay this year. First and foremost was geographical diversity, with the 15 participating student teams hailing from all over the globe including China, England, India, Ireland, Sweden, Scotland, the United States and Wales. Dare has been increasing in scope with each successive year, and the international flair lends ProtoPlay a worldly atmosphere, with the show floor taking on the character of a multicultural game development bazaar. This year's bazaar was teeming with riches, with games encompassing an impressive variety of platforms. I have never witnessed any competition, including the IGF, where the final selections spanned such a wide range of devices. Within my first hour of walking around, I saw games targeting Android, iPad, Windows 7 Phone, PSP Go, Xbox, PC, and Wii - and that's not including the exhibitors that weren't a part of the competition itself, as there were also playable demos on hand showcasing games for Bamboo tablets, XBLA, Kinect and more.

Of course, having a heterogeneous set of platforms represented doesn't mean much in itself, particularly if all you end up with is a slew of nearly identical puzzle platformers for each device; thankfully, the versatility displayed by the student teams also extended to their game designs. Upon entering the main hall of the show, I was greeted with the sight of a soccer game that utilized a Wii remote strapped to the player's foot. Directly opposite this game, another student team was showing off a turn-based, 3D dice challenge that pitted players against each other in a battle of wits, enticing them to flex their spatial reasoning skills on a large numerical game grid. Moving past these, I quickly encountered a four player co-op brawler, an RTS, an inventive stealth/racing hybrid, and (my personal favorite) a fast paced overhead fighting/strategy game that involved unicorns vomiting rainbows at each other. There were games where players navigated the environment by shapeshifting, painting, playing music, shooting grappling hooks, controlling the weather, switching dimensions, and even altering the emotions of their avatar. In all fairness, there was no shortage of the requisite puzzle platformers in the mix as well, but these generally acquitted themselves nicely through sheer ingenuity, attention to detail, and solid execution of their underlying concepts.

Apart from the eclectic approaches to genre and platform, the other aspect of ProtoPlay that struck me was how adept the students were at marketing their games during the show. Seemingly every team had a cornucopia of promotional items on hand to offer to players and passersby. This is becoming the norm at some of the more prominent competitions such as the IGF, but in my experience most student competitions tend to overlook marketing entirely. Not so at ProtoPlay. Honestly, the consistency of the students in evangelizing their games was superior to what I have seen even among indie developers at the IGF - I think some of those folks could actually take some lessons from these students with regard to self-promotion.

I was so baffled by this discrepancy between ProtoPlay and most other student competitions that I did some additional research, and it turns out that the Dare teams are judged based on how well they promote their games in addition to the overall quality of the finished product. Students are strongly incentivized to blog about their development process, and are even encouraged to assign a specific team member to handle interfacing with the game's target audience. This was a revelation to me, despite the fact that it couldn't be more obvious in hindsight. Students understandably tend to have a myopic fixation on the development process itself when entering these sorts of competitions, particularly when they are still unaccustomed to dealing with the logistics of implementing a complex game under strenuous time constraints. But why don't more of these events incorporate marketing into the criteria when evaluating the efforts of student teams? Purists may scoff at this notion, arguing that having to consider something so base as promotional appeal would stifle the creativity of the students, but the ProtoPlay entrants I saw this year stand in marked contrast to this objection.

Overall, ProtoPlay was an absolute blast and I am really looking forward to next year. I thought I'd close by sharing a few tidbits of advice for students entering ProtoPlay, or similar competitions, in the future. These are not ironclad rules, merely suggestions based on my own observations of what works and doesn't work in an environment where teams are creating a game in a condensed period of time, with the intention of demonstrating it publicly upon completion:

Focus on a single core mechanic or concept rather than attempting to cram in every interesting idea the team generates. It's easy to delude yourself into believing that the kitchen sink approach will work, but a ten week timeframe really doesn't lend itself to a large set of features. More likely, you'll end up with a buggy, unpolished tangle of loosely integrated concepts that require a lot of apologizing and explanation. Players still expect a cohesive experience regardless of how short the development period was, and if you don't provide one they will be justifiably frustrated.

Related to the point above, prioritize polish over content. Having a strong central idea doesn't mean your game needs to be simplistic, but it will help to prevent your game from becoming unmoored as new features are added. With each new element you add, ask yourself how it relates to the central concept and whether it enhances or detracts from the core of the game. Try to get a working proof of concept running as quickly as possible, then continue to buff that initial prototype until it shines. The reality is that many players are only going to check out your game briefly anyway, but you increase the odds of this exponentially if your key mechanic is not engaging. It's pointless to begin adding adornments like additional levels or bosses before ensuring that the overarching framework itself is fun.

Frontload your best content. If you do end up with multiple levels, make sure that you evaluate the quality of each one and arrange them accordingly. Be brutal and unsparing, and try to be as objective as possible during this process. One game in particular that I sampled at ProtoPlay had an incredible amount of content, but the first few levels were a complete slog, to the extent that I had to be persuaded to continue playing based on the assurance that the last level was by far the best one. As promised, it was vastly superior to the preceding levels in every way - but under ordinary circumstances I couldn't imagine many players persisting for long enough to discover this fact on their own.

Accessibility is crucial. It is imperative that you consider the context and audience when designing your interface. This was another aspect where the ProtoPlay games generally impressed, as intuitive presentation was clearly another criteria upon which the teams were being ranked. Playing a game on a loud, crowded show floor is an entirely different experience from playing it in a more relaxed, comfortable home setting. I have seen people at the IGF essentially give up on trying to demo their work, frustrated by the failure of their otherwise compelling game to transfer to that particular environment. These pitfalls can be avoided if you design your game with context in mind. Does your game have a tutorial? If not, be prepared to stay glued to your station explaining the unintuitive aspects to new players over and over again until your bladder explodes.

Be ready to help people, but don't hover. Again, this advice is easier to follow if your explanations are already integrated into the game. You can learn a lot from watching your players, but resist the urge to be a backseat driver. If you aren't allowing players any opportunity for trial and error before swooping in, you will make them nervous. There are exceptions, of course, but it will behoove you to trust your players to ask questions when they get stuck rather than breathing down their neck. Of course, if players are frequently walking away without comment, it doesn't hurt to engage them and attempt to gain some insight into where the recurring snags are located. Use your discretion here; if a player is getting visibly frustrated while playing your game, it's simple etiquette to at least offer some assistance - but be sure to at least obtain their consent before blurting out the solution to a puzzle.

Playtest your game early and often, lest you go astray. I once judged a game jam where all the teams demonstrated their games to the entire room prior to allowing the judges to play them. One of the projects was a puzzle game that received harsh criticism when it was initially demonstrated to the room - however, by the time the judges got around to actually playing the game, the creators had already incorporated all the feedback and improved the game immensely. The result was that the game ended up winning the entire competition; the moral being, never underestimate the value of playtesting. If your first time obtaining feedback from players is on the show floor, be prepared to develop thick skin quickly. Trolls exist in real life, too, as anyone who has demonstrated a game publicly can likely attest.

Finally, and most importantly, have candy on hand. Stated more generally, don't be ashamed to attract players to your game in any way you can. You don't need to be like Acclaim, but you shouldn't be shy either. Be a hustler, a busker, a carnival barker. If you made something great, the show floor is no place to be reticent about it!

Dundee Dispatch

Sun, 29 Aug 2010 23:51:39 +0100

The past few weeks have been a bit crazy here in Dundee.

How's that for an opening? I'll be submitting it for the "understatement of the year" awards later on, so please remember to cast your vote.

I suppose at some point I may follow the examples of a few of my former colleagues and write up my own impressions on just what happened, but this in not that entry. If I do write that entry, it will be after I have had more time to process and unpack my own experiences. I'm not there yet. For now, I will simply say that I wish all the best to the many talented folks who have been displaced and I hope that everyone manages to land safely.

As for me, I am obliged to stay in the UK for the time being. I would prefer to stay in Dundee if I can manage it, although that may prove difficult.

Truthfully, the game development community in Dundee has been having a tough time for longer than just the past few weeks. Many of the more prominent studios in the area have been struggling recently, with the Realtime Worlds diaspora simply being the most high profile instance. These problems certainly aren't unique to Dundee, but neither can they be attributed solely to the prevailing economic climate. Regardless, there is undoubtedly a pronounced atmosphere of tension and gloom in the region at the moment.

Now, I am not what you might call an optimist by nature, but I believe that the cloud will pass. Let me explain.

First of all, there is now and will continue to be no shortage of talented, determined, and ambitious developers in Dundee. What ties the disparate studios in the region together, in my mind, is an endemic strength that allows them to persevere and rebound from setbacks. Dundee has weathered large studio closures in the past, and has emerged on the other side with a cohesive network of developers intact. There is a survival instinct here that reaches beyond the lifespan of any individual company, a stubborn refusal to be disillusioned by dissolution.

Perhaps more importantly, there is a clear recognition among those who know Dundee's history that game development is a crucial part of the fabric of the region, both economically and culturally. The substantial investment from Channel 4 that was recently announced is just one indication that others are aware of the considerable talent base that continues to reside in Dundee. It might not seem obvious, but this perception really does makes a huge difference. Dundee's legacy of embracing game development is an important distinction that sets it apart from any number of post-industrial, rust belt cities struggling to find a replacement for the manufacturing base that once succored them.

So, there you have it. My own little paean to Dundee. Admittedly, being a game developer here is not easy right now. But then, when has game development ever been easy? It was a challenge getting to Dundee in the first place, and plenty more challenges lie ahead. But speaking on behalf of those of us who choose to remain in the area, I remain confident that we will endure. We always do.

These are the Devs I Know, I Know

Tue, 23 Feb 2010 03:14:05 +0000

IGDA Board Elections are upon us, and Scott Macmillan of Boston Post Mortem has put together an invaluable guide to this year's list of candidates. I strongly encourage all IGDA members to closely examine the supplementary material presented on Scott's page alongside the formal candidate statements on the IGDA site. Once you feel confident that you are fully equipped to make an informed decision, please be sure to vote before the deadline of February 28th.

In previous years, voting for the IGDA Board has involved a fair amount of guesswork, as members have typically been faced with scant data on which to base their decisions apart from the modicum of information provided by each candidate's brief statement and bio. Precautions such as vetting the candidates were unheard of, since most of the people who actually cared about the outcome of the elections were busy trying to rouse enough votes from the rest of the association's membership to achieve a quorum.

But the landscape has changed over the past couple of years, largely owing to a few seismic shifts that have resulted from a one-two punch of recent controversies.

I will not recount these incidents here. Suffice to say, even the most charitable appraisal of the IGDA's current reputation within the larger development community would have to acknowledge that the organization is currently faced with a credibility deficit. I have been an avid supporter and advocate of the IGDA for a long time, and yet I must admit that some of the issues that have plagued the organization of late have been disheartening enough to cause me to reconsider my once favorable outlook regarding the IGDA's merit.

Ultimately, however, I emerged from my soul-searching with an abiding belief that the IGDA still has a great deal of worth, and I believe that it remains a vital organization with a great deal of potential value to offer developers. Through the IGDA, I have met some of the most amazing, talented, dedicated, and inspirational people I have ever known -- and I believe it would be a shame to allow the exceptional actions of a discredited minority to distort our perceptions of the very real, tangible contributions being made by the rest of the passionate and hard-working folks that comprise the true heart and soul of the IGDA's membership.

This is undoubtedly a crucial year for the IGDA, and the necessity of remaining credible and relevant in the eyes of the development community is far from a trivial challenge. My sincere hope is that the increased scrutiny that the IGDA is currently receiving will prove to be a catalyst for some useful reforms, and will continue to energize the more apathetic pockets of the organization's membership into becoming actively engaged in influencing policy. The IGDA is not one person, it is all of us -- pariahs and paragons alike. If we are dissatisfied with the direction in which the organization is heading, we can channel that energy through a conduit of action to help shape the organization into the image we desire. Your next chance to make a difference is right before you.

Destination Disappointment

Sat, 31 Oct 2009 23:57:02 +0000

“Wow them in the end, and you've got a hit.”

So claims screenwriting guru Robert McKee (or rather, a thinly fictionalized McKee surrogate created by Charlie Kaufman) in Adaptation. But while it may be true that a compelling ending can heighten the perceived quality of an otherwise flawed film, I often find the emphasis placed on resolutions to be slightly perplexing. Looking back on some of my favorite books and movies, it's striking to realize how many of them either fizzle out toward the end (see The Long Walk, and most other books by Stephen King for that matter) or make a point of subverting or even outright mocking the traditional notion of a climactic conclusion (American Gods, No Country for Old Men, the list goes on).

I may be atypical in this regard. For instance, even if the writers of Lost were to completely drop the ball in the final season, it wouldn't negate my enjoyment of the entire rest of the series leading up to that point. With respect to my personal preferences for traditional media, the journey pretty much always takes precedence over the destination.

When it comes to games, however, trying to expand this same sentiment into a general principle becomes counterintuitive at best. After all, games typically require that a substantial amount of effort be made, beyond merely investing in a premise or set of characters, in order to reach the conclusion. As such, it is only natural for players who expend this effort to expect us to provide rewards that scale suitably in proportion to the struggle required to obtain them. This issue of justified entitlement is further compounded by the length of many games, as we are understandably reluctant to stray from our adherence to the balanced payoff model when players are spending upwards of fifty hours trying to reach the end points of our games. As a result, the potential to inadvertently disappoint players by providing a more elusive, offbeat, or even outright frustrating ending is anathema to most game designers, who instead opt to play it safe, even if the result is a less memorable resolution than it could have been if they had considered an alternative option.

Strangely enough, there appears to be an equal dearth of games that allow players to truly savor the flavor of their labors (sorry, I just can't help it sometimes). In this month's 'Blogs of the Round Table' discussion, Corvus Elrod posed the question of how designers can effectively incorporate the denouement directly into gameplay, rather than the more traditional approach of relegating any post-climax action to a brief, congratulatory cut scene. I'm a bit late to this party, so I'd like to start by addressing one of the responses that has already been posted before I move on to contribute a few ideas of my own.

The response that I want to discuss is one written by Emily Short, and I mention it here because I strongly agree with many of the points she made and, as usual, she expressed her ideas both succinctly and eloquently. To paraphrase, Emily writes that the challenge of having a playable denouement is that the 'climax' of the game typically coincides with (or at least, is analagous to) the accomplishment of the primary goal, so making the denouement playable would necessitate either tacking on a set of anticlimactic secondary or optional goals (a 'Scouring of the Shire' segment, if you will) or switching over to a more open-ended, sandbox style of play which risks being formless and causing the game to end with a whimper rather than a bang.

When I initially read Corvus' question, I was a bit wary of how seemingly cavalier it was in attempting to map a narrative concept directly onto the domain of games, but Emily's response helped me to move beyond this initial trepidation and begin to conceive of how the idea of denouement could be made relevant to a wider variety of games, even those without any especially prominent narrative elements. In order to expand the denouement analogy to encompass this greater range, I am admittedly stretching the definition into the considerably looser notion of “any actions that occur after the completion of the primary goal.” As with the more strict definition used for narrative, these actions typically involve sifting through the prior events that have taken place, either to sort out the ramifications or otherwise reflect upon what has happened over the course of the game.

So, having shamelessly altered the question into a much more nebulous one than the original, I would like to look at a few examples of alternative approaches that game designers can (and in many cases, already do) utilize to help shape their post-climax gameplay. Not all of these are playable, and not all of them necessarily fit even my own lenient definition of denouement, but they are all viable techniques for ending a game in a more memorable fashion than simply throwing up a 'Congratulations!' screen.

The Mood Piece (Example: Ico) – The 'Mood Piece' style of denouement provides players with a brief, playable coda that serves to reinforce some of the emotions or themes evoked by the main game. As in Ico, this can often take the form of a short vignette that occurs after the main antagonist or conflict has already been dealt with.

The Role Reversal (Example: Shadow of the Colossus) – In the 'Role Reversal', players suddenly find themselves placed in control of another character, often one than is far removed from their accustomed avatar or protagonist, and are provided the opportunity to experience the action from this fresh perspective. This technique is distinct from simply offering another playable character with slightly altered controls (such as Symphony of the Night allowing players to use Richter instead of Alucard), and can be used to create a greater sense of empathy, for instance with a character than was previously portrayed as alien or even adversarial.

The Recontextualization (Example: Metal Gear Solid 3: Snake Eater) – This technique takes the primary mechanic performed by the player throughout the course of the game, such as the simple act of pulling a trigger, and reframes it within a scenario that encourages the player to reconsider how they feel about this action. This can be particularly effective when used to get a player questioning what has essentially become a reflex.

The Smash Cut (Example: Station 38) – Also known as 'The Sopranos Ending', this is less a denouement than a willful lack of denouement, more akin to a sudden cut to black. While effective as a shock technique, this is undoubtedly one of the riskier ways of ending a game. When utilized correctly it can be surprising and memorable, but it has mostly been relegated to being used in shorter games and 'chapter breaks' such as the end of a level (players of Eternal Darkness know a little bit about this).

The Bait and Switch (Examples: Castlevania: Symphony of the Night, BioShock) – Like the 'Smash Cut', the 'Bait and Switch' confounds expectations by building toward a conclusion that either never takes place at all, or swerves toward an unanticipated outcome. Also like the 'Smash Cut', it is typically used at a midpoint, level end, or some other locally climactic moment rather than during or after the overarching climax of the game; most game designers are brave enough to inform players that the princess isn't in the first castle, but there are far fewer designers willing to leave her out entirely.

Great Power, No Responsibilities (Example: Metal Gear Solid) – After the player has completed the primary objective, the game bestows on them a shiny, new toy that converts the game world into their own personal playground, then turns them loose to run wild. Since there is no reason to fret about breaking the balance at this point, these powerful gifts often remove any semblance of danger from the game and allow the player to waltz through previously challenging locations while experiencing the thrill of pseudo-omnipotence.

The Personality Test (Example: Silent Hill 2) – While still a somewhat nascent technique, the 'Personality Test' attempts to track player behavior throughout the course of the game using various metrics, and then analyze these metrics in order to present a conclusion that reflects the perceived personality they have exhibited. Rather than using the denouement to reflect on the larger plot (if any) of the game, the 'Personality Test' acts more as a direct comment on the player and a prompt for introspection regarding the choices they made throughout the game.

Naturally, this list is neither comprehensive nor definitive, and the individual categories are not mutually exclusive. In fact, many of the techniques mentioned can just as easily be used elsewhere in the game aside from the denouement.

Ultimately, it doesn't take much incentive to encourage players to continue exploring your world after the main quest is completed. If you create a compelling enough space, many players will still wish to hang around there even if you only provide the flimsiest excuse, such as exploring every corner of the environment in order to collect all the hidden Bafomdads (alright, bad example). 'The Quest for More Money' may be an overused form of denouement, but it remains effective.

For more traditional games, there is one final form of denouement that bears mentioning: the post-game discussion. Technically, it would probably be more accurate to label this a meta-denouement, but I feel douchey enough after having used the word 'denouement' so many times in one post, and the 'meta-' prefix is notorious for its doucheyness amplification properties so I will avoid it. Of course, contemplating post-game discussions is probably not the most useful exercise for designers given that they typically can't exert any control over them (unless they're extremely influential). Nevertheless, the discussions that take place among friends after a game of Magic: The Gathering or Settlers of Catan also serve as a kind of reflection on the events of the game, causing players to formulate new perspectives on what has already taken place – and that fits my lazy man's definition of denouement just fine.

Please visit the Blogs of the Round Table’s main hall for links to the rest of this month’s entries.

Who's Afraid of Interactivity?

Sat, 12 Sep 2009 15:26:34 +0100

Recently, I went to see a performance of Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? at Dundee Rep. I originally read the play as a teenager, but this was my first time actually seeing it performed. Afterward, as I was thinking about the contrast between the feelings evoked by reading the script on my own as opposed to watching the same events being enacted onstage in front of a packed house, I realized that there was another relevant experience to consider: the act of playing through Façade.

As game developers, we often discuss the contrast between our medium and others such as film and literature, trying to suss out the endemic strengths of our chosen form. But rarely do we have the opportunity to compare a series of artifacts that manage to retain so much commonality across all the different formats they span that the primary difference becomes the medium itself. Having worked on games based on movie licenses in the past, I know all too well the tenuous relationship such adaptations typically have with their source material. This isn't necessarily a problem, but it can make it more difficult to compare the forms in a meaningful way when attempting to glean insight into the nature of interactive media.

Yet, watching Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, it occurred to me that Façade, without having any direct relationship to Edward Albee's play, manages to be one of the most faithful translations of the spirit of an author's work into the medium of games to date (at least until Dante's Inferno comes out, amirite folks?). Whether intentionally or not, Façade creators Andrew Stern and Michael Mateas captured not only the setting and premise, but also the tone, tenor, and, I would suggest, even many of the themes of Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, while still retaining the essential core of interactivity that, certain critics would proclaim, ought to have inherently unraveled any such artistic trappings into an indecipherable mess.

Not to say that the experience of playing Façade is entirely analogous to watching a performance of Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, any more than seeing the play in the theatre was equivalent to reading the script. In fact, despite all the thematic underpinnings they share, the emotional effects that each individual incarnation had on me were quite distinct. About the only thing that all three had in common was that they all proved to be compelling, albeit for entirely different reasons. But the point is that, in this instance, these differences in effect are primarily due to the medium in which each was rendered, and herein lies the opportunity to throw these differences into greater relief for the sake of analysis.

For instance, when I first encountered Albee's Woolf in print, the acerbic exchanges between George and Martha lead me to envision these scenes of smoldering domestic hostility as taking place within a prevailing context of deadly seriousness. But watching it in the theatre, the tension that I had originally imagined to be unrelenting was in fact leavened significantly by the actors, who were able to imbue even the most mean-spirited quip with subtle undertones of playfulness and time-wearied affection. Another factor that made a substantial difference was the reaction of the live audience; the brutal jibes between the older couple came across quite differently when accompanied by smatterings of knowing laughter from the crowd.

But of all the differences between reading Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? and seeing it performed live, I was most surprised that the print version actually felt more tense than the theatrical rendition. Though I expected the opposite, the inflexible bluntness of the written word made the emotional violence that much more vivid and stark in my imagination.

So, what about Façade? How does participating in this sort of interpersonal turmoil compare to simply reading about it or watching it?

Back when Katherine Isbister was teaching at RPI, I had the chance to ask her about her reaction to playing Façade. Given that she is one of the most interesting writers on the topic of character development in games, I was especially interested to hear her take on the experience, and her response surprised me. Apologies to Katherine for paraphrasing here, but essentially she said that, while she respected Façade as an artistic accomplishment and admired the intentions of its creators to push the medium forward, the actual scenario presented made her uncomfortable, particularly when she was placed in the role of a participant.

Of course, pointing out this discomfort was not necessarily a criticism on Isbister's part, as it is likely that it was actually the intent of Mateas and Stern to evoke this feeling in the player. Still, it surprised me, primarily because it couldn't be further from my own experience with the work.

Façade did not make me uncomfortable. If watching Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? was less tense than reading it, Façade was far at the other end of my personal spectrum, practically devoid of tension. The reason for this was precisely the fact that I was a participant. Not only was I a participant, but I was a participant with substantial power to alter the outcome of the events taking place. It's become a cliché to point this out, but there's something fundamentally empowering about encountering a dramatic situation in a simulated environment where you have the ability to return to the initial state at any time, as opposed to merely watching a slow-motion train wreck as a silent observer. Call it agency or whatever else you will, but in Façade I always had the sense that if I just said the right words or took the correct action, I could help make Grace and Trip reconcile their differences (interestingly enough, a notion I am highly resistant to in real life).

Again, please allow me to clarify that this is not meant as a criticism of Façade. I love Façade. But I enjoyed it much more as an interpersonal puzzle, as an exploration of the dynamics of a relationship, and as a treatise on the importance and difficulty of honest communication, than I did as a dramatically charged work. Further, I don't believe this to be a failing of Façade itself, but rather a natural entailment of the interactive medium and the mental state we occupy when we are placed in the role of a participant. This state is not quite immersion, but something more akin to Bolter and Grusin's notion of 'remediation', or to use a theatrical analogy, Brecht's 'verfremdungseffekt'.

What does this imply for us as game creators? Have I simply validated Ebert's claim that games are inherently incapable of eliciting a true emotional response on the part of their audience? Is interactivity actually the boogeyman that he portrayed it as, a concept to be feared for its capacity to ruin our chance at crafting emotionally resonant experiences? As it turns out, not remotely.

First of all, it bears reiterating that my response to Façade is not everyone's response, and some, like Isbister, have seemingly been profoundly affected by it on a primal, emotional level. But even if, as I suggest, we have a harder time achieving this emotional connection in games by means of immersion, I think we can still get at the hearts of our players by way of their minds. Playing Façade made me think more deeply about the nature of relationships than either reading or watching Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, and those thoughts in turn evoked a wide range of emotions in me. The only inherent difference was that Façade did this via a slightly more indirect route, not by struggling against the nature of the interactive medium, but by seizing on its distinctive advantages.

So, in the end, just who is afraid of interactivity? Not Mateas and Stern, and not the rest of us either - nor should we be.

HopeBlog

Mon, 06 Jul 2009 09:00:48 +0100

Just wanted to mention that HopeLab has a new blog called Sticky Notes, as well as accounts on Twitter, Facebook, and Slideshare. For those who are not familiar with HopeLab, they are the nonprofit organization behind Re-Mission, a PC game designed to help children and teens cope with cancer, and they do a lot of really interesting work using games and technology as a means to improve the lives of young people, particularly those battling chronic illnesses. They even received a recent shout out from President Obama for the positive impact their work is having. Definitely worth checking out!

Strange Synthesis: Final Fantasy IV + Apollo 18

Fri, 26 Jun 2009 23:44:49 +0100

Multitasking has never been an inherent strength of mine, yet I find this changing gradually with each passing day. My usual tendency to pore rather than skim is slowly being subverted by the sensory bombardment of competing signals, all vying for the limited commodity that is my increasingly diffuse attention. As a result, I occasionally find myself succumbing to the dreaded "tl;dr" effect, despite my innate resistance to this affliction.

When I first noticed this behavioral trend within myself I found it alarming, but my feelings about it have since shifted closer to ambivalence. After all, such symptoms of the "hypermediated" lifestyle are not purely a recent development, but rather endemic of a larger, ongoing cultural shift that (believe it or not) can be traced all the way back to that hazy period of history predating the advent of YouTube, Facebook, and Twitter. Though Web 2.0 makes for an easy scapegoat when lamenting our collectively dwindling attention spans, our brains are thankfully equipped with natural distraction filtering mechanisms that are more than sufficient to cull this swelling computer-amplified cacophony.

For me, the main challenge lies in taming the urge to pay attention to everything at once in favor of seeking a happy medium between the magnetic twin poles of schizophrenia and tunnel vision. Somewhere within this shifting juxtaposition of input streams lies a form of media literacy that is at once entirely instinctive and maddeningly elusive - a melding of fragmentary forms into a hidden image that can only be discovered by allowing one's eyes to defocus. This is synaesthesia's ghostly cousin, an odd echoic mixture: a strange synthesis.

The extent to which I can even perceive the aforementioned phenomenon is limited, so I can understand if my attempted description of it seems frustratingly ethereal. Most often, this bizarre blending process manifests itself in the form of some unexpected resonance between seemingly incongruous media artifacts - for instance, a certain song that I come to associate with a specific book or even a particular friend, despite the absence of any consciously discernible connection between them. Examples of this abound for me, but thus far I have not been able to identify any real, coherent pattern underlying them all; sometimes it's a matter of proximity, while in other cases it might result from a similar mood evoked by two individual pieces of art. But regardless of the cause, the result is always the same: formerly disparate elements begin to coalesce in my memory, becoming inextricably linked within my mind's synaptic fibers.

My earliest recollection of such an occurrence emanates from my original experience of playing through Final Fantasy IV on the SNES. As I was guiding Cecil through the perils of paladinhood, my father was simultaneously spending a good portion of each day blasting the album Apollo 18 by They Might Be Giants, which was also released around the same time period, over speakers that seemed to permeate every room in our small house. As a result, it took me a long time to realize that the song "I Palindrome I" was not actually entitled "I Paladin I" as I had originally perceived.

Then there was Mt. Ordeals, with its inimitable twangy theme music that always seemed to correlate in an odd way with the beginning of "My Evil Twin" until the two eventually became conflated in my mind and the song morphed into an eerie power ballad for Cecil's battle with his own dark side on the mountain's summit. I slowly began to associate other songs from the album with characters and events depicted in the game - "She's Actual Size" with the white mage Rosa, "Spider" with the scheming pair of Golbez and Kain, "If I Wasn't Shy" with Edward the cowardly bard, and "The Statue Got Me High" with the sacrificial petrification performed by the twins Palom and Porom.

As I progressed through the game, the synth-laden songs of Apollo began to sound more and more like they were composed using the native sound chip of the SNES. Meanwhile, the plot of FFIV itself was leading me to the moon and beginning to more closely echo the outer space motif embodied in songs like "See the Constellation" and "Space Suit".

My most enduring memory, however, comes from the game's final dungeon. I spent a good deal of time in the last few areas, fighting enemies in order to level up my characters prior to braving the climactic battle against Zeromus. One of these enemies, EvilMask, was a giant, disembodied purple head that, to this day, I still contend is exactly what my father would look like were he in fact a nightmarish space demon rendered in the form of a two-dimensional sprite. I should also mention that while I was repeatedly fighting this disturbing replica of my father's floating head, I had the television muted - partly because I had already spent enough time in the same location to grow tired of the in-game background music, but also because I had long since conceded the futility of attempting to compete with Apollo 18 blaring on an endless loop just outside my bedroom door. Of course, I wasn't really complaining as by that point my Stockholm Syndrome-induced obsession with the album had reached its apex, and in lieu of being involuntarily subjected to it I probably would have been listening to it of my own volition anyway.

Just in case repeatedly fighting the space dad monster mask while my real father was dancing around our living room wasn't enough future therapy fodder, the reoccurring song that is now indelibly linked to that experience is TMBG's "Hall of Heads". Even now, hearing this song immediately conjures up images of crystal stairways brimming with leering, lavender monstrosities. If I may pilfer some Killer Instinct terminology, I believe this is what one would refer to as the cognitive equivalent of an "Uuuuulttttrrrraaaaaaaaa Cooommmbbooooooo!".

But for me, it remains an unmistakably strange synthesis.

Cheat Code: Mirch Besmirched

Sun, 14 Jun 2009 21:27:47 +0100

As someone who was born and raised in Rensselaer County in upstate New York, I have a request for my fellow citizens who also hail from this region:

Please don't re-elect Robert Mirch.

For those of you who haven't been following his recent escapades, a bit of background. Mirch, who is currently the Public Works Commissioner for the City of Troy and majority leader of the Rensselaer County Legislature, has been accused of improperly wielding his authority to close down The Sanctuary for Independent Media, in a rather transparent attempt to censor a Sanctuary-hosted art exhibit by visiting artist Wafaa Bilal to which Mr. Mirch personally objected.

The controversy has also garnered attention within the game development community due to the nature of the exhibit, a mod of the commercial video game Quest for Saddam:

The game is a reimagining of the Islamic Media Group’s The Night of Bush Capturing, itself a simple modification of the first-person shooter Quest for Saddam. In the original, the goal of the game was to kill the former dictator of Iraq, fragging as many Iraqis as necessary. In the IMG version, the game’s goal became the killing of President George W. Bush, waylaying the expendable population now reskinned as Americans.

In Bilal’s version, a suicide bomber—the avatar bears his own image—can be recruited by the player and sent on a mission that ends with President Bush’s murder. The idea came to Bilal after his own brother and father were murdered in Iraq. Grieving his loss, it became understandable to him how easy it must be for the enemies of the U.S. occupation to find recruits, and he wanted to find a way to express this violent reality. [1]

The latest salvo in this ongoing saga was fired recently when the New York Civil Liberties Union filed a federal suit against Mirch and the City of Troy for First Amedment Rights violations stemming from selective enforcement of building codes. [2] Mirch, who has a reputation for these kinds of strong-arm tactics [3], responded to the allegations with characteristic sneering [2] and false bravado. [4]

The entire story leading up to this point is well-documented, and is considerably more involved than my own terse explanation can adequately convey. I would encourage readers who are interested in obtaining more information to refer to the links I have provided below.

However, for purposes of juxtaposition, allow me to share a few interesting tidbits:

Mirch questioned why the lawsuit was given to the media. "Since I haven't seen it, I can't comment on what I haven't seen," Mirch said. [2]

Certainly, Mr. Mirch would never be the sort to leap to conclusions about something he hasn't seen.

"I have no interest in seeing a video that portrays the assassination of our president," said Mirch, explaining why he hadn’t actually seen the art he was protesting. [1]

"Obviously there is a political motive since they chose not to address RPI." [2]

Mirch naturally attempts to cast dispersions on the motives behind the suit, and frankly, I think he's on to something. How can the NYCLU possibly justify not holding a private institution that chose to discontinue hosting Mr. Bilal's exhibit to the same standard as a public official who wielded the power of an elected office as his own personal truncheon to censor others and deny them their constitutional rights to freedom of speech and freedom of assembly? This glaring omission clearly belies an ulterior political motive and Mr. Mirch is staunchly opposed to such politically motivated actions.

"There seems to be a pattern of selective use of code enforcement to punish political enemies. As an elected official, representing taxpayers, we have to make sure we are not using code enforcement for political purposes." [3]

The demonstrators decried the use of a code violation to shut down events at the Sanctuary as a politically motivated attempt by the city to shut down an art exhibit that key members of the administration found distasteful. [3]

Of course, finding quotes that cast Mr. Mirch in a poor light is a bit of a fish-in-a-barrel exercise. We are, after all, talking about the same man who once expressed his opposition to funding the Troy Library by stating "I don’t know how much the library gets used, with the Internet and computers nowadays." [5] Then, as an added bonus, he went on to further clarify his stance against the library by comparing himself to literary figures such as Sherlock Holmes and The Hardy Boys.

So, enough of Mr. Mirch. Out of curiosity, what did Troy Mayor Harry Tutunjian have to say about the Sanctuary closure?

“It isn’t about the content,” [Tutunjian] said. “It is about the venue. That building wasn’t safe for a large gathering of people. That is my only concern as mayor of the city. The liability issues that it would have posed, to have people gather in that building when the city knew it wasn’t up to code would have been staggering had something happened.” [3]

Mayor Tutunjian makes an excellent point here. Never mind the fact that every other building in Troy is old and dilapidated, it is still the responsibility of the city government to stay on top of these matters to ensure that such issues are resolved in a timely fashion. Case closed!

Water is coming back at a trickle as the pipes thaw, said Mayor Harry Tutunjian. [...] The pipes are the latest piece of the decaying City Hall to malfunction. There have been problems with the elevators and a portion of the parking area beneath the building is closed because of falling concrete. [6]

Does that building code cover glass houses, Mr. Tutunjian?

I will leave you now with one final quote, a little bit of food for thought:

Mirch began collecting signatures today on petitions for his re-election bid for the Rensselaer County Legislature. [2]

Let's try to do something about that, shall we?

References:

1. The Art of Terrorism - Controversy recap

2. Troy sued for blocking anti-Bush art - Lawsuit against Mirch, City

3. Code of Unethics? - Mirch building code abuse

4. Bring 'Em On - Mirch responds to NYCLU suit

5. Book Stupid - Mirch opposes library funding

6. Troy City Hall pipes freeze - Speaking of unsafe buildings

Further information:

Game Politics - Coverage of the controversy

RPI free culture wiki - Timeline of events, including additional links

Youtube users FreeTroy1 and TroyisFree - Videos of Mirch-organized protest at the Sanctuary, as well as the Troy City Hall protest following the Sanctuary closure

Next Stop, Hypesville

Thu, 11 Jun 2009 00:15:18 +0100

Well, another E3 has come and gone, leaving us all to bask in the postcoital afterglow. This year brought us some of the most groan-inducing marketing ploys this side of Acclaim, the world's first motion-sensing Jackson Pollock simulator, and (in keeping with the postcoital theme) the latest progeny of Seaman, currently known as 'Milo' until Peter Molyneux decides to go with my infinitely superior moniker suggestion of 'Seaman Junior'.

More than anything, watching the hype train roll by this year made me realize how much of a thrall I am to brands with regard to my game purchasing habits. I once told a friend that the trailer for the next Zelda game could just as easily consist of Miyamoto kicking a puppy, and I would still lap it up based on pedigree alone (get it? puppy, pedigree... eh? yes?). Well, that and the fact that I happen to be a huge fan of puppy kicking. Miyamoto, if you're listening, I hope you're taking notes for the inevitable Nintendogs sequel, because I would hate for Molyneux to be the only one benefiting from my great advice.

In considering my Pavlovian response to brands, I realized that there are actually different strata of effectiveness occupied by different brand types. The most compelling type of "brand" for me is the name of an individual whose work I have always enjoyed, followed closely by the logo of a favorite development studio. Slightly less powerful, but still effective, is the name of a franchise or game series of which I am a fan, although such cases tend to suffer from diminishing returns on my excitement-o-meter.

But enough Marketing 101, on to the real reason we're all here: Jamey's E3 Picks. These are the games for which I am not only riding the hype train, but preparing to don my conductor's hat, sound the whistle, and shout "All aboard!". To underscore my earlier point about my slavish brand loyalty, I have listed the developer alongside the title as an illustration of what a crucial factor this was in determining my choices.

Heavy Rain (Quantic Dream)
Uncanny valley be damned! I'm pumped for the next game from the creators of Omikron and Fahrenheit/Indigo Prophecy, enough to overlook the continued reliance on stale quicktime events. Here's hoping they loosen the linearity a bit this time around and also manage to tone down the confusing, arbitrary plot twists that marred the latter sections of Fahrenheit.

Sin & Punishment 2 (Treasure)
Show me the Treasure logo, and I'm sold. Yes, I'm that kind of fanboy. It doesn't hurt that I thoroughly enjoyed the first game, either.

Brütal Legend (Double Fine)
Again, in a just world, certain names ought to be synonymous with "instant sale". In this case, the power of Tim compels me.

Scribblenauts (5th Cell)
I am convinced that 5th Cell is a perpetual entertainment machine. From Drawn to Life to Lock's Quest and now Scribblenauts, they just keep getting better. While the rest of the world is distractedly fretting over red herrings like the Y2K compliance of the Large Hadron Collider, 5th Cell has been gradually generating a positive feedback loop of goodness that threatens to engulf the galaxy.

New Super Mario Bros. Wii (Nintendo)
Oh, how I have waited for this day. Ever since experiencing the unadulterated, friendship-destroying bliss of Four Swords, I have been earnestly praying to the Gaming Gods for a Mario-ized incarnation of the concept. I am going to go out on a limb and predict that this will be the best mixture of cooperative and competitive platforming since Chip 'n Dale: Rescue Rangers on the NES.

The Last Guardian (Team Ico)
As far as I'm concerned, this was the crown jewel of the glittering, sequined jumpsuit that is E3.

There you have it, ladies and germs. With the exception of the last two (previously unannounced) titles, I probably would have written the same list if you had asked me which games I was most excited about prior to E3.

Of course, I always have a soft spot for the underdogs, the dark horses - the Little Hype Trains That Could, if you will. If you listen closely, you can hear the low murmur of their tiny engines struggling to crest the steep hill of mainstream awareness...

hypeituphypeituphypeituphypeituphypeitup... 'Splosion Man ...hypeituphypeitup... Shatter ...hypeituphypeituphypeitup... Muramasa ...hypeitup... Gravity Crash ...hypeituphypeituphypeituphypeitup... Fragile

Thus ends our brief but glorious sojourn in Hypesville. See you all again next year - same pap time, same pap channel.

Devs Deem Dundee Dandy!

Fri, 20 Feb 2009 00:51:27 +0000

Confession time: Despite the fact that I currently reside in Dundee, Scotland as a UK transplant, I must admit to strongly preferring the American version of The Office to the show's original incarnation.

This shames me deeply, so in an effort to make amends to my Scottish brethren (and sistren) I would like to take a cue from my hero Michael Scott and announce a new awards feature that I like to call 'The Dundees'.

Unlike the Dundies from the US version of The Office, my entirely original version of this honor (look, they're even spelled differently!) is designed to pander shamelessly to the Scottish crowd by recognizing the efforts of those who have contributed in some fashion to the local game development community right here in Dundee.

So, without further ado, allow me to announce the inaugural recipient of this highly coveted prize. The Dundee goes to...

Keith Stuart of Guardian Gamesblog, for his recent series of profiles highlighting various game development studios in the Dundee area, including Tag Games, Denki, and Proper Games.

Congrats to Keith! While this accolade may not come with a gleaming statuette, or any associated monetary reward, or, for that matter, even a modicum of prestige, I'm sure that such fringe benefits would only be burdensome to someone of Mr. Stuart's altruistic disposition.

I can see that he's beginning to tear up already... not to worry, I'll handle the acceptance speech:

What is particularly striking to me about these profiles is how all of these companies are thriving in the margins of the gaming market, forging sustainable business models with a focus on small teams bringing fun and unique concepts to a wide array of platforms such as the iPhone, XBLA, and even (in Denki's case) interactive television.

Anyway, I can hear the music starting to play, so I'll wrap this up by once again encouraging all of you to check out these fantastic articles by Dundee-award-winning scribe Keith Stuart.

On a more solemn note, our first posthumous Dundee award goes to (you guessed it) Consolevania, for their classic short film entitled A Scottish Games Industry Fluff Piece.

Consolevania: Lament of Innocence

Sun, 18 Jan 2009 05:09:53 +0000

Well, it appears Consolevania has ended, which means that Scotland just lost approximately ten thousand cool points.

If Double H from Beyond Good & Evil has taught me anything, it's the importance of following the manual; and the manual clearly states "D.B.U.T.T. - Don't break up the TEAM." So, what gives?

One of the primary reasons for the show's demise, according to Rab, was burnout caused by the strain of being expected to constantly review new games, rather than having the freedom to simply enjoy them. Rab also cites compliments that he and Ryan had received regarding some of their harsher invectives, indicating that certain fans seemed all too eager to reward them for (what was evidently perceived as) the show's increasingly acerbic tone.

Obviously, there is a distinction to be made between the act of criticizing a game out of a sincere and abiding love for the medium, as opposed to just savaging something for the sake of savaging it - but personally, it always seemed apparent to me that CV was on the proper side of that boundary, and I was surprised to learn that the creators themselves felt otherwise. Even in the rare instances when their satire veered into outright castigation, it was usually directed at a target that undeniably warranted such treatment.

Rab's explanation also contained a miniature existential crisis regarding the triviality of game reviews (particularly negative ones), in which he heralded the process of providing recommendations as more fulfilling and, ultimately, more valuable than formulating scathing deconstructions. His thoughts on the subject actually reminded me a lot of a speech I really enjoyed from Ratatouille, delivered by the reformed (I'm not evil!) food critic Anton Ego:

In many ways, the work of a critic is easy. We risk very little yet enjoy a position over those who offer up their work and their selves to our judgment. We thrive on negative criticism, which is fun to write and to read. But the bitter truth we critics must face is that, in the grand scheme of things, the average piece of junk is more meaningful than our criticism designating it so. But there are times when a critic truly risks something, and that is in the discovery and defense of the new.

Here's a story for you: A few years ago, I got into an argument with a fellow game developer over whether or not there is an inherent contradiction in being both a fan and a critic of something. His stance was that I was unqualified to recommend a game to an average player because my tastes had been refined to the point of irrelevancy. In essence, the amount of critical thinking that I applied to games had, in his view, made me an "elitist," thus precluding me from being able to evaluate them from the perspective of the common fan.

This infuriated me at the time, but the point he was making has stayed with me ever since. While I still disagree with the assertion that the roles are mutually exclusive, I do think that it can be difficult to prevent them from interfering with one another.

Take GameFan, one of my all-time favorite video game magazines, and one that leaned heavily toward the "fan" end of the spectrum (hence the name): By the time Super Mario 64 was released, the staff had already awarded so many '100/100' scores to other games that they were forced to give it a rating of '100+' to help distinguish it from the many "perfect" games that had preceded it. The heightened level of ardor was generally one of GameFan's strengths, but in such instances it did occasionally serve to damage their critical credibility (and Play, the magazine's spiritual successor, ought to include a free grain of salt with each issue, but that's another matter entirely).

Having listened to Rab's farewell address, I still believe that both praise and derision are vital to the continued evolution of the medium. But if a choice really had to be made between being game fans or being game critics, there is no doubt in my mind that CV TEAM made the right decision.

Errata

Sat, 17 Jan 2009 00:53:25 +0000

Of course, no sooner had I gone out of my way to compliment Apple on their efforts to create an open platform for developers, than I turned around and saw this:

"Seaman Developer's iPhone Game Canned By Apple"

Weak sauce, Apple. Mighty weak.

Next on the list of corrections, regarding Castle Crashers:

"[The release bugs] are currently being addressed, but it remains to be seen whether the resultant blight will have a detrimental effect on the game's overall sales."

As it turns out, not so much. This is one instance where I am extremely pleased to have been mistaken. Congrats and big up to The Behemoth!

Finally, and most importantly: in my previous entry, the phrase "I believe that video games are on the cusp of a true renaissance fueled by independent game development" should instead read "I believe that video games are on the cusp of a true renaissance fueled by Dew."

Of Castles and Consoles: Coda

Sun, 11 Jan 2009 18:20:29 +0000

Looking back at my previous entry, I realized that it might appear as if I was primarily lambasting Microsoft, since the list of independent games I cited contained a disproportionate amount of XBLA releases. Ordinarily it wouldn't make any difference, but in this instance I think it's important to clarify that the Microsoft-centric focus of my examples should not be construed as an implication that the company's certification policies are somehow more draconian than those of its competitors. Having gone through cert for competing systems, I can personally attest that this is not the case. The fact is, all three of the major players are equally complicit with regard to the misplaced certification priorities under discussion. If anything, the heightened amount of public criticism being targeted at Microsoft is a direct result of the greater level of interest the company has managed to engender among indie developers; more people making games for XBLA naturally leads to increased scrutiny of the platform.

Hey, remember when I said that all three console manufacturers were equally complicit? Yeah, I lied. From a historical perspective, there is one company that has had a greater influence than its peers in shaping the certification system into the form we know today. Since the internet has taught me that it's always better to be accusatory than discreet (at least in terms of attracting website traffic), I shall now reveal this company's name:

I'm talkin 'bout Nintendo. Can you dig it?

In his highly engrossing book Game Over, author David Sheff chronicles Nintendo's initial, faltering steps toward North American retail conquest in the wake of the video game market crash of 1983. It was during this time period that the "Official Nintendo Seal of Quality" was established, primarily for the sake of reassuring wary retailers and consumers who had turned away from video games thanks to a cacophony of dubious products and overhyped, ephemeral consoles.

Since visual aids are always helpful, I have included an image of the Nintendo Seal's current incarnation above. Take a good look. Notice anything missing?

Perhaps a key word that is conspicuously absent?

Somewhere along the way, the "Official Nintendo Seal of Quality" became simply the "Official Nintendo Seal." Now, anyone familiar with the spate of shovelware available for the DS and Wii might say that this alteration reflects a change in Nintendo's outlook - an expression of a newer, perhaps laxer approach to quality control. However, that would imply that the term 'quality' was not entirely nebulous from the outset.

Rather, I like to think of the new wording as the subtle admission of a longstanding truism that is just as valid today as it was when the seal was first introduced:

The truth is, the presence of the Nintendo Seal indicates nothing beyond the fact that the developer of a particular game has paid their tithe.

Now that's inflammatory! At least, it would be if most gamers hadn't already been aware of it all along.

Observant readers will note that I began this entry with an assurance that I was not trying to single out Microsoft, then promptly turned around and singled out Nintendo instead. The main difference is that in this case, it is intentional. However, my purpose in doing so is not merely to criticize Nintendo, but to highlight their status as the pioneers (and, I would argue, still the most avid practitioners) of the 'gatekeeper' approach to console development.

A console manufacturer that subscribes to the gatekeeper model views their console as a closed platform, and assumes the mantle of arbiter regarding what content is deemed acceptable on that platform. To this end, they impose stringent 'quality control' criteria; ostensibly, this is done as a service to the consumer, but in practice the actual motivations are often substantially less benevolent. In Nintendo's case, quality assurance has been cited as a justification for censorship, for imposing a stranglehold on manufacturing, and for ruthlessly excising any attempts at legitimate homebrew development for their platforms (just ask Bob about that one). In exchange for providing these and other such 'services', the gatekeeper takes a share of the profits from any games sold on their console. It is therefore in the best interest of the gatekeeper to intentionally hinder any attempts to democratize the console, because the more open the platform becomes the harder it gets to collect the aforementioned tithe.

Flagrant abuse of the word 'quality' aside, the real problem with the gatekeeper model is that, while it might have been a suitable approach back in 1983, it is hopelessly antiquated with regard to the modern technological landscape. In particular, the notion that consumers require a gatekeeper to protect them from being burdened by an overabundance of options, which could charitably have been described as 'spurious' even back in the NES era, is downright laughable in an age where the internet has drastically increased our capacity to sift through large amounts of data with ease. Individually and collectively, we have grown accustomed to separating the wheat from the chaff; the continued success of Kongregate alone is proof that a less than ideal signal-to-noise ratio is not a substantial deterrent for modern users.

Here's the closest I have to a point, and in accordance with my typical writing style I'm going to state it as floridly as possible:

I believe that video games are on the cusp of a true renaissance fueled by independent game development and user-created content, but in order for console makers to fully benefit from this emerging movement, they must first abdicate the traditional gatekeeper role and embrace a different stance, what I refer to as the 'community conduit' mentality.

What does it mean to be a community conduit? It means trusting gamers to make their own judgments regarding quality. It means providing intuitive tools to help consumers sort through available products to find what they want, rather than artificially limiting their choices in a misguided attempt to prevent confusion. It means opening up your platform and reducing barriers to entry for aspiring developers. Making this transition requires concrete action, not just empty rhetoric.

What it doesn't necessarily mean (and, in all likelihood, probably never will) is the abandonment of the tithe. Even some of the most enticing attempts at community coaxing are currently saddled with restrictive licensing agreements that require creators to forfeit an exorbitant portion of their revenues to the console makers. As always in business, community means nothing if you can't profit from it.

As a final note, lest you decry my comments about Nintendo as an indication that I have come full circle and am now actually favoring Microsoft, I would just like to mention the company that I feel is currently doing the best job of acting as a community conduit: Apple.

From what I have seen, the iPhone is poised to be an extremely successful platform for games, in no small part due to Apple's efforts to open it up to the community by providing hobbyists and tinkerers with access to the tools needed to generate compelling content. Seal or no seal, that's a recipe for quality.

Of Castles and Consoles

Sun, 16 Nov 2008 23:59:01 +0000

All things considered, the landscape in Scotland is not drastically different from the scenery I'm used to seeing in upstate New York. The most striking contrasts actually stem not from natural, but from architectural differences - most notably in the case of the various castles which adorn the countryside.

I recently had a chance to get a closer look at one of these awesome structures when I attended a bonfire at Balintore Castle. Standing in the glow of the firelight, gazing up at the castle's high towers, I felt the distinct pang - no, not the fun kind - that serves as an acute reminder that I am currently living in an unfamiliar country.

Adjusting to life in Scotland has occasionally been challenging, but the day-to-day hurdles are infinitesimal in comparison to the monumental ordeal of getting here in the first place. What should have been the relatively straightforward task of obtaining a visa morphed into an arduous, months-long battle of attrition characterized by more migraine-inducing, arbitrary setbacks than I could have ever fathomed in even my most pessimistic contingencies.

Reflecting on these visa struggles during that cold night at Balintore, it occurred to me that the only other comparably vexing experience that I had ever previously endured also resulted from an eerily similar approval process, one that most commercial game developers know all too well: namely, that oft-maligned mug's game known as console certification.

The more disturbing realization, however, was that in comparing my visa approval and console certification experiences in hindsight, I honestly don't know which was more frustrating.

As with all bureaucratic systems, both visa approval and 'cert' deal in obfuscation and red tape as their primary stock in trade. Functioning bureaucracy, like software development, relies on hallmarks like modularity and indirection (some would argue misdirection) in order to manage large influxes of requests and exert tight control over information flow. Unfortunately, these same properties can easily malfunction and lead to nightmare scenarios where lack of accountability and rigid adherence to protocol transforms the bureaucratic system into a mindless hydra that utterly demoralizes anyone trying to obtain something as simple as, for instance, a minor clarification.

In the case of cert, one needn't search far to uncover numerous tales of well-intentioned developers who became disheartened while wrangling with the inherent vagaries that must be surmounted before that ever-elusive ratification becomes a reality. Unsurprisingly, the adverse effects are felt most severely by independent developers - people like Jeff Minter, Jonathan Blow, and Jamie Fristrom; incidentally, the same folks who are producing some of the most unique and intriguing (if not always the top selling) output on consoles today.

Before I proceed, a few clarifications. Although I am being critical of the certification process, it is in the interest of reform rather than abolition. I have mixed feelings about the conflicting motivations that shaped the evolution of the modern cert process (further elaboration on this topic to follow in an upcoming post), but I don't think any game developer will dispute the importance of cert's ostensible purpose: namely, ensuring that all releases on a particular console are as stable and user-friendly as possible.

Nor is this discussion intended as an objective, definitive examination of all relevant factors from every possible perspective. I do not have any experience working for a console manufacturer; I am a developer and a gamer, and I will be viewing the issue primarily through these lenses. If you're into that whole "coherent and balanced" thing, I recommend checking out Simon Carless' thoughtful dissection of the matter over at GameSetWatch. For my part, I'm more interested in how the approval process can be improved and streamlined to better facilitate independent developers, since their experiences often seem to contrast sharply with those of more established names.

Alright, back to Balintore:

Perhaps due to the surroundings, the first game that popped into my mind with regard to the certification process was Castle Crashers. I am a big fan of The Behemoth's previous effort, despite the fact that (as I stated in my review of the game) it did contain an occasional bug or two. As a gamer, I did not consider these a hindrance to my enjoyment of the title, instead chalking it up as a natural side effect of the game's outsized ambition relative to its compact development team and comparatively meager budget.

When Castle Crashers was first announced I was thrilled, but part of me remained slightly apprehensive - here was a game that not only promised to be much grander in scope than Alien Hominid, but that also intended to dive headfirst into the certification abyss known colloquially as 'network play'.

The primary mitigating factor for these concerns was that Microsoft appeared to have a reasonably solid testing infrastructure in place for networked games. This is, of course, especially crucial on consoles, where procedures such as public beta tests and patching (pillars of online game development on the PC) carry a greater associated overhead and can be cumbersome to mobilize. Surely the XBLA certification process, with all its attendant rigors and promises of localization and testing assistance, would serve to expose a majority of the potential issues prior to the game's release.

Alas, when the fateful date finally arrived it quickly became clear that this was not the case.

These problems are currently being addressed, but it remains to be seen whether the resultant blight will have a detrimental effect on the game's overall sales. Regardless of the financial impact, it is clear that the stigma now associated with Castle Crashers in the collective consciousness of gamers will continue to haunt The Behemoth for some time.

While it's difficult to surmise exactly what lead to this unfortunate circumstance (much to the chagrin of the aforementioned gamer hivemind, which typically yearns for easy scapegoats), I believe the results provide a potent indication of how the certification process has gone awry, simultaneously failing both gamers and developers. That's right - in the same sentence where I decry the hunt for scapegoats, I'm turning around and blaming cert. The gamer in me will not be suppressed!

This is where much of the antipathy indie developers have expressed toward cert seems to arise. Developers will gladly agree to wade through even the most egregious morass of onerous requirements and burdensome mandates, but only if this effort will ultimately yield a corresponding benefit for their final product.

To hear the console manufacturers tell the tale, this is simply a problem of perception on the part of naive developers who underestimate the importance of factors like intuitive gameplay and stability. But how, then, does a game with such a heavy emphasis on online play manage to slip through the certification system with such glaring networking flaws intact? At the very least, the story of Castle Crashers would seem to indicate that the accusations from indie creators regarding cert's misplaced focus are not entirely unfounded.

It doesn't need to be this way. There are plenty of feasible measures that can be taken in order to improve the certification experience - not just on the part of the console manufacturers, but developers as well.

As developers, particularly those of us making networked games, it is our responsibility to devise an adequate test plan that can scale appropriately within the scope and budget of our projects. If your budget doesn't include support for testing, it's time to consider either reducing the scope, as Jamie Fristrom pragmatically suggests in his Schizoid postmortem, or even - gasp! - signing a limited agreement with a publisher, an alternative that Simon Carless has previously proposed (albeit hesitantly). In any case, relying primarily on cert for testing is clearly a recipe for disaster.

At the same time, game creators must also strive to eschew the mentality that the initial cert submission is the end of the development process. No matter how anxious we are to reach the finish line, pausing for a self-congratulatory high five before actually clearing the final hurdle doesn't help matters, and in fact only serves to heighten our fans' (already considerable) impatience. As my own struggles with the visa approval process taught me, bureaucracy is never beholden to our desired timeframes.

Ultimately, however, individual developers can only change their own approaches to certification; widespread reform of the cert process itself lies chiefly within the domain of the console manufacturers. To that end, improved transparency is essential, alongside expanded partnerships with external QA providers that can help fill in the gaps in testing that are currently allowing major issues to slip under the radar. Alternatively, console manufacturers that aren't able to provide an adequate safety net should utilize other methods to facilitate smaller developers and budgets, either by providing more flexible business arrangements (don't hold your breath) or lowering the priority of cert requirements related to feature additions in order to allow indie developers to focus on stability first.

While necessary, these steps are, in fact, only a prelude to what I believe is a more fundamental shift that console manufacturers must embrace in the near future, namely the impending transition from "gatekeeper" to "community conduit" - more on that in a future entry.

Aurora Feint

Wed, 12 Nov 2008 00:06:46 +0000

1UP just posted a preview offering a brief (yet intriguing) glimpse of Aurora Feint: The Arena, the upcoming sequel to the popular Aurora Feint: The Beginning.

For those not in the know, Aurora Feint is a free puzzle game that has been receiving an overwhelmingly positive reception since its initial release on the iPhone. The sequel is set to expand on the puzzle and RPG mechanics of the original, while simultaneously bringing the series into full-blown MMO territory with a bevy of online competition and communication features.

I must confess to being more than a little biased in this instance, given that the series was co-created by my good friend and erstwhile partner in crime Jason Citron. Knowing Jason, I'm sure that the series will only continue to get more ambitious as time goes on, so keep an eye out for further developments in the near future.

Scotchtoberfest Time Capsule Extravaganza!

Wed, 05 Nov 2008 23:58:32 +0000

Greetings, intrepid readers. The date is November the 5th, and you all know what that means - gather round the old campfire of burning Guy Fawkes effigies, and join me for a look into the murky past as we crack open the patented Scotchtoberfest Time Capsule.

Verily, in these tumultuous times, a fond remembrance upon days of yore becalms a weary soul. These are times of great change, not only for our solemn nation of Americæ but indeed, for this website as well. For lo, it is given to me to declare that this space shall be made into a blog, that most foul and loathsome of creations that has laid scourge to mankind since the dawning of the internet.

As if this alone did not constitute a stark enough betrayal of our once proud lethargic traditions, let it furthermore be known that this blog shall be written not from within the United States, but from a fortified bunker inside the belly of the Loch Ness Monster in the obscure, distant realm known as Scotland.

Yet, do not weep for the fallen. As long as we remember those simpler times - times when people named Jamey attended educational conferences, and regaled us all with tales of their daring exploits - that glorious heritage shall live on.

It won't be easy, but I know that we can make it through this together. As we seal the Time Capsule once again, we must put aside this wistful nostalgia and turn our gaze toward the future.

(Groundskeeper Willie Van Gogh image by limpfish)

Learning To Play, Playing To Learn: Games in Education Symposium

Wed, 25 Jul 2007 13:27:08 -0400

This past Monday I attended the Games in Education Symposium in Troy, NY. The event, which was put on by 1st Playable Productions and WMHT, offered a chance for educators and developers alike to rub elbows, share experiences and insight, and exchange ideas about the future of game-based learning, both in and out of the classroom.

In some ways, it seems as though the state of games in education has taken a step back since its heyday, when classics such as The Oregon Trail and Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego? conquered classrooms alongside a bevy of other high quality, albeit slightly less ubiquitous, titles like Lemonade Stand and Number Munchers. Even with the unabashed success of Brain Age, the stigma that the modern game industry associates with so-called "edutainment" products remains on par with the stigma assigned to most other kinds of video games within the culture at large. Some would even go so far as to argue that the recent "Serious Games" movement is nothing more than a semantic sidestep intended to avoid the prevalent disdain for the "spoonful of sugar" methods that have often characterized the worst aspects of previous educational efforts. But if games and education really are two great tastes that taste great together, why do those of us within the industry feel the need to disguise our own efforts to combine the two? Have learning games truly plummeted so far from grace that even those who create them are wary of admitting to it?

Now that I've painted an appropriately dire backdrop, allow me to share the good news: having returned from the symposium, I am pleased to report that the rumors of educational gaming's demise have been greatly exaggerated. In fact, the aforementioned "fall from grace" as perceived by many developers (including myself) is actually less of a decline and more of a diaspora. The ingenuity and variety of approaches displayed by the participants was truly inspirational.

On the academic side, there were games dealing with such diverse subject matter as epidemiology and scientific inquiry (River City Project), constructivist learning and genetics (SciCentr), history (Freedom Fighter 56), politics and diplomacy (Making History: The Calm & The Storm), and, of course, mathematics and literacy (Dimension M, Labyrinth).

Commercial developers haven't been slouching either, as evidenced by playable demonstrations covering topics which included language and skill training (Bookworm Adventures, Typer Shark), mathematics and reasoning (Brain Age, Big Brain Academy), science and creativity (Whyville, Armadillo Run), exercise and rhythm (Dance Dance Revolution, Wii Sports), and historical simulation (Civilization IV).

As a developer, my main interest in attending this event stemmed from a desire to learn more about the academic vantage point. How do the goals, assumptions, and concerns of, say, a middle school teacher contrast with those of the average game creator? Assuming there are some gaps between them, where do these separate contexts align? Do they commingle smoothly and naturally, or are there a few bumps in the road?

In a speech at this year's Game Developer's Choice Awards, Greg Costikyan discussed the innate potential of games to illuminate a subject in ways that are "complimentary to, and different from" text. This topic was a recurrent theme at the symposium, where much of the conversation centered on the inherent challenges of incorporating games within traditional curricula. Current methods typically provide an oily integration at best, often alternating between what Education Arcade Creative Director Scott Osterwall described as the two polar extremes of "just let them play games" or "stuff educational content in."

The need for a more nuanced approach was also a concern of Muzzy Lane Sales & Marketing VP David Martz, who highlighted the usefulness of games in getting a conversation started, but stressed that teachers still need to be present to help direct that conversation in a way that effectively conveys the desired knowledge. In an echo of the movement toward abdication of authorship that is rapidly gaining purchase among game developers, Ocoee Middle School Principal Katherine C. Clark's keynote address also urged teachers to embrace the role of "the guide on the side" as an alternative to their more traditional function as "the sage on the stage."

One of the most surprising and compelling examples of using games as a catalyst for discussion was provided by Brock Dubbels, a Minneapolis Public School Teacher who uses ostensibly non-educational games to bolster debate and critical thinking skills among his students. By encouraging them to bring in their own games from home for group play and analysis, Brock said he was able to engage students much more actively in subjects such as genre studies and dialogic reading. The key, he said, is to honor the activities that students find meaningful. Brock also expressed a fervent belief in the educational value of all games, even going so far as to cite raid planning in World of Warcraft as a way of learning valuable skills such as teamwork and hypothesis formation.

In the end, I left the symposium feeling encouraged about the future of both games and education. Still, there are clearly a few hurdles left to overcome before true harmony between the two worlds can be achieved. As developers, we need to work to dispel the negative connotations that continue to haunt educational software within our industry. In addition, we must strive to educate teachers, many of whom are "digital immigrants," about the importance of technology, and to help them overcome the challenges they face when attempting to integrate games within the scholastic environment. For now, the best remedy for these problems is to foster communication between developers and educators, and events like this are an integral part of that.