Critical Mess 1 of 3: Don’t Forget The Core, Gamers

(Or: “How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love to Ask if Unsure”)

Hello and welcome to this, the first in a trilogy of blogs I’m calling ‘Critical Mess’. Here, I’ll be looking at things that I think people interested in playing and/or making videogames should know – since I’m passionate about both of these things – filtered through my personal spin on such ideas. You are free to agree or disagree, of course, and please do so via the comments section at the bottom of this page.

Whenever I speak to aspiring game designers, I usually take a look at a game they’ve made, either in playable form (if they’re canny enough to bring a portable gaming device that’s ready to go) or in video form (if their distinct, unique and undeniable talent may yet lie somewhere other than forward planning). The fact that they are ‘worth’ talking to is evidenced by their sheer bravery; they want to discuss something they have personally created with another human being! And one who lurves him some of them silly vidya-games, at that.

As you’d expect, they always show what they deem to be their best work; the thing they have made that they feel is closest to the professionally-developed games they love. Typically this is something they’ve poured months of their lives (or their final year at uni) into creating, utilising industry-standard toolsets like Unreal Engine 3, Granny animation blending, advanced shoehorn cat-shaving monkey-toast physics¹, and all sorts of other things I doubt I could ever even comprehend. The game or level they show me is always complex, with many ways of completing many objectives and, surprisingly to some, is almost always some form of first-person shooter.

After letting them shakily finish their memorised bullet point list of what makes their particular game unique amid the likes of DICE, Irrational Games and other FPS industry-frontrunners, I always ask the same question: “Have you got anything that’s a bit more… simple?”

They stand there, seemingly confused that someone, someone who is supposed to implicitly understand their plight, is not instantly shaking with excitement upon seeing their completely personal and revolutionary take on FPS mechanics. “Who,” they ask, “is that enigmatic Gilo fella, a mere designer of social games, to ask such things of me?”

Because I know exactly how I would feel if I were in their shoes at this moment in time, I explain. This is tricky for me, largely because I hate spoilers (with absolute seriousness, I do everything I can to avoid hearing and ruining surprises). But more importantly, I like being the one to help. The lower-rungs of the games industry (my current ‘level’, if you like), is made up of a cowardly and superstitious lot, always afraid that if they give genuinely good and straightforward advice, they may find themselves out of the job they were lucky to land in the first place.

My approach is different. For me, I want the passionate designers-in-waiting and developers-to-be to find their way in, and for the lazy people who think games design is a doss to look (and work) elsewhere. I offer advice that will hopefully lead to people getting that first step into a career within our industry, and I always offer to explain if I am being unclear, in the hope that they will get started with making games and, somewhere down the line, create an awesome videogame experience that I’ll get to play.

If the aspiring designer(s) are still caught off-guard following my request to see a simpler game (and because I know exactly how I would feel if I were in their shoes at this moment in time), I explain. First I ask, ‘What is the essence of your game? What is your game trying to do? What is it about?’

They then go over their well-rehearsed bullet point list another time, emphasising the unique world the story takes place in, before I stop them. Politely, of course. I only reserve the rude awakenings for the rude people. (Maybe I should have issued a spoiler warning? Sorry if you’re a rude berk!)

The essence of a game, or any authored piece of media, I explain, is not based on genre, nor anything you could associate with it, such as its iconography, its audio feedback or its game mechanics.

The essence of the original Star Wars movie, for instance, is not flashy, glowing sword thingies, karate-gi tunics, or a (however you look at it) pretty impressive bear who gets to hang out with Harrison Ford. Its essence, in my opinion, is that of a fairy tale, where the forces of ‘good’ narrowly triumph over ‘evil’; of wish fulfilment, where a normal farm boy begins to become a kind of superhero; of the ‘little guy’ fighting back against the bullies; of the desire and success in finding your place in the world; of the alleged dichotomy between men of science and men of faith; of rewarding heroism and selflessness and punishing the corrupt or knowingly hurtful. This myriad of narrative themes, conveyed through an ensemble of different character archetypes, through stylistic devices and through creative choices, all of which are then filtered through the financial and technical restrictions surrounding the film’s production (which in turn led to many technical innovations) is why the original film is so enduring, and on so many levels.

If being taught about literature, the equivalent discussion is when the teacher asks ‘What is [name of book] about?’. You may notice the same pattern where the ‘learner’ naively tries to answer the question only for the ‘teacher’ to abruptly stop the person answering. All because the learner dared to start listing the story’s key events. The events, the teacher cryptically albeit correctly points out, are what happen in the book; they are not what the book is about. (Incidentally, if teaching anything ‘cryptically’ is how you communicate with others, perhaps go play a particular type of crossword. Maybe even consider a career more suited to you than teaching. A tailor, perhaps?)

In videogames, an often-cited example of this phenomenon – identifying the ‘essence’ of an experience or authored piece of media – is Shigeru Miyamoto describing the original Zelda as being influenced by his own childhood, exploring the beach, caves and his garden, which, you there, yes you, Paterson, sniggering at the back, is not a euphemism.

But we’ll look at that in more detail in Part Two of this Critical Mess trilogy. If you’ve got a question, comment or complaint, please leave it below. You never know, there might be a Critical Mess sequel devoted to the point you raise. After all, it never hurts to ask, and it never should.

1__One of these toolsets, middleware or processes might not be real.