ENGL146EL Final Paper

Bao Nguyen
12/08/2009
ENGL146EL

Citizen Portal: Narrative Art in Video Games

The continual growth of the video game industry, compounded with dramatic improvements in technology, has considerably changed the landscape of video game design. The genesis of interactive entertainment focused primarily on delivering amusement rather than interweaving dense narratives with gameplay, but the aforementioned advances in technology and a perpetual demand for a more sophisticated and worthwhile experience have paved the way for video games that include intricate plots and story devices. The medium itself has utilized the exclusive facets of design, visual elements such as atmosphere and modeling, to breathe new life into stories, while simultaneously embracing literary traditions. Three fairly recent examples of sublime storytelling, Prince of Persia: Sands of Time, Portal, and Grand Theft Auto 4, transcend the labels of childish entertainment to deliver rich and rewarding experiences that cannot be otherwise replicated.

Contemporary trends in gaming, discernible by simple observation, reveal a decisive schism between traditional, linear plots and sandbox narratives. The finest example of the former is the modern classic Prince of Persia: Sands of Time, heralded as the epitome of gameplay and narrative, a shining example that balances both elements. The Jordan Mechner helmed reboot of the franchise draws influence from Arabian myth, telling the story of the eponymous prince, manipulated by a vizier into unleashing the Sands of Time on the city of Azad. People are turned into monsters, and the kingdom is ravaged, setting the scene for the Prince's quest, with the power of the Sands imbued within his dagger. The linearity of the story and the ergodic nature of the game is complimented by the gameplay mechanics, which involve parkour platforming, combat portions against monsters, and time manipulation. The game is also cerebrally rich, raising questions of fate, while at the same time putting spins on ergodic navigation and self-reflexivity.

On a base level, the gameplay and level design, Sands of Time almost stands alone. The majesty of the level design – the ruined palaces and dank caves deliver a sense of immersion and awe that is impossible by a non-interactive medium. The gameplay mechanics are experimental, blending elements of time manipulation, parkour-influenced combat, and fluid platforming. The Prince's dagger controls the fabric of reality, allowing him to undo mistakes, freeze time, and drain the life from his enemies. The combat system espouses improvisation, presenting the player with a wide array of maneuvers to explore, allowing the audience to discover for themselves what the best reaction would be in any given situation. In this sense, Mechner's work is rife with ergodic control, allowing the player to manipulate the very fabric of time itself, to bend a fundamental dimension of the universe to the will of the audience. The combat is also heavily dependent on the player's reflexes, which affords the user that degree of freedom with which to dispatch the enemies. Sands of Time, while quite linear in plot and design, allows the player the creative freedom, the ergodic richness on a solely micro level, that is unseen in similar games, games that try to juggle several elements but end up falling flat.

The writing of Sands of Time further sets it apart from many titles. Despite the fantastic backdrop, Mechner's opus manages to make every facet of the game feel genuine and grounded. The Prince, at first, is resoundingly arrogant, behaving as such to disguise how terrified he is of the task ahead of him. When he meets Farah, the princess of Azad, their initial relationship is based on mutual enmity. But as the adventure wears on and the odds continue to mount, they begin to care for each other, exemplifying the notion that struggle is what brings people together. The Prince, understandably, begins to grow more condescending and sarcastic, which, while annoying, is quite relatable; he's just scared of what's going to happen. His body language, his drooping shoulders and disheveled hair further communicate a sense of exhaustion and sadness. Even Farah is characterized strongly, depicted initially as a disapproving, determined woman warrior, but it's clear that she's forced to adopt this exterior image for the same reasons as the Prince. The relationship between the two characters also sees intriguing interplay throughout the story; there is a considerable amount of chemistry and sexual tension, but it never feels shoehorned. Instead, their affection develops through their mutual reliance on each other: it comes naturally as opposed to some writer fulfilling a cliché quota. Mechner writes characters that are flawed and believable, rather than caricatures of familiar tropes.

The realistic writing lends credence to the idea that Sands of Time is a “literary” game. Mechner's narrative is simultaneously a deconstruction on the typical fairy tale, a clever experimentation in meta-narration, and an exploration on the foibles of fate and destiny. There is a clearly established antagonist and protagonist, complete with requisite princesses and overtones of mysticism. The narrative structure is also interesting; the Prince is the narrator and the entirety of the game are his memories as he recalls them to an audience. This ties into clever moments of self-reflexivity and meta-narrative, which are incorporated when the player dies, during which the Prince's narration stops and he reflects on his atrocious memory. All of these tricks are combined with the age-old question of destiny, and what role predestination plays. The Prince is embroiled in a situation that, despite his best efforts, seems impossible to resolve. He attempts to rewind time to prevent the Sands from ever becoming unleashed, but he's foiled in each attempt, perhaps because fate intends for him to undo his mistake by defeating the Vizier. The question is presented often, but there is never a clear-cut answer to whether the Prince is actually confined by the foibles of fate. The story, while basic on a surface level, is conveyed through very sophisticated narratological methods, literary devices used to both tell the tale and keep it original.

Sands of Time is straightforward in its presentation and themes, a jarring contrast to the Valve-developed Portal. Though simple in concept – escape a science lab using a gun that creates and links portals – the mind-bending gameplay and unconventional modes of storytelling that veil a self-reflexive subtext make it more than the sum of its parts. The player controls the main character, Chell, through a first-person perspective, using the device to solve puzzles in “test chambers.” Portal embraces minimalism, utilizing a single gameplay mechanic and monochrome color palette, while providing plot details through a single narrator, the Kubrickian AI GLaDOS. Its sparse nature ironically hides a sea of depth, making Portal a masterpiece of interactive entertainment.

The most striking feature of Portal is the complexity of its single-premise gameplay and its relation to the monochromatic and boxy levels. Players navigate Chell through a series of rooms that require certain objectives to be accomplished before entering the next one. For example, a room may necessitate the player to use portals to reroute a blob of energy to restore power to a door. The environments, though merely playgrounds for solving these puzzles, are dimly lit and almost always uniformally gray, which gives off a sense of being trapped. Each room is always a clever trial, and the game, though short, is expertly paced, with a uniformally rising difficulty curve. The message that the developers are trying to communicate through the simple premise and design can be construed as a criticism on modern game design. Big-budget titles are crammed to the hilt with physics and damage engines and top-of-the-line graphics and sound. But Portal's rejection of these facets is subversive, and states outright that games do not necessarily require these elements to be fun or successful. The driving force behind Portal is a clear representation of less is more; the premise is almost retro, harkening to the halcyon days of gaming where titles operated on a single premise and style of gameplay. In this regard, Portal is more rewarding, both for Valve and the player; the developer is allowed to create a pure experience rather than tarting it up with unnecessary minutiae that add little to the experience.

The plot, though minimal, is darkly hilarious and adeptly written, and also crucial to the game itself; without the inclusion of a narrator, the game would be moving through a series of rooms with seemingly no intent or purpose. The player character is a silent protagonist, so there is no development in that regard, but the narrator steals the show. GLaDOS is gleefully homicidal and tries poorly to disguise her intentions, traits humorously juxtaposed with her confused and tentative grasp on human emotion. Navigating through the hazard-filled levels are always supplemented by a grimly hilarious aside on part of the narrator. What's impressive about Portal is that it manages to characterize the narrator through a series of one-liners and off-color quips. Until the end, GLaDOS is an unseen character, which makes it incredible how the player can become familiar with her mannerisms without ever seeing her. It takes considerable talent to write humor with minimal context.

Portal is also impressive in its subtexts. The structure of the level progression and the constant reminders from GLaDOS invoke this image of a game designer directing his testers, as they go from level to level, their progress and use of the game's mechanics, complete with observation windows scattered throughout. And as the head designer, the overseer of the experiment, watches his work, he throws obstacles, misleads, directs, and providing a context for our actions, just like GLaDOS. Just as soon as the user believes they've figured out the pattern to the director's mind games, the environments are switched up to dirty maintenance areas rather than the sterile chambers of Aperture Science. In a sense, the metaphorical designer is always in control of his creations. In fact, the ending song declares the experiment to be a “...great success,” which is perhaps true; the player never manages to topple the parameters of the experiment, or beat the designer at his own game. Moreover, just like the minimalist design is Valve's vehicle for criticism on modern gaming's love affair with excess, the choke chain that the game forces the player to abide by, the strictly linear progression, is also their statement on the inherent lack of freedom in video games, despite the constantly parroted notion that anyone can “create” their own experience. The satirical edge to Portal is quite clever; rather than manipulating the audience with suggestion and contextual clues on how to proceed in a game, giving the user an illusion of freedom, GLaDOS provides the instructions directly, shatters all pretension. The narrative in itself is not quite so self-reflexive until one peels back the copious layers to reveal the meta core.

The notion of crafting one's experience is explored overtly in Rockstar Games' recent smash hit Grand Theft Auto 4, a series that bills itself proudly on the sheer amount of freedom afforded through its sandbox style of play. The degree of customizability, however, is questionable. Certainly Grand Theft Auto 4 offers a considerable amount of freedom in whatever actions the player wishes to indulge in, but the player is essentially following the tale of Niko Bellic, Serbian immigrant criminal. The story that unfolds and the nuances of the design present an outstanding take on the American Dream, revenge, and consumerism. Grand Theft Auto 4is interesting in that it presents the illusion of open-ended gameplay, but its main narrative is strictly linear and unfolds in a relatively straightforward manner.

The playground that Grand Theft Auto 4 throws players into is a surrogate New York, a well-designed facsimile of the Big Apple that captures the grime and glam of the unforgiving city. Rockstar's representation is incredibly organic and immersive, which allows the user to lose themselves in the experience, as though they're actually living in the city. The citizens of Liberty City behave just like everyday people, wondering aloud what to buy, what to do when they're going to get home, and other banal thoughts, occasionally interjecting their opinions with irreverent non-sequiturs, as is Rockstar's trademark writing style. These consumerism-focused diatribes, combined with the utterly pedestrian nature of their thoughts is the rather blatant commentary Rockstar is attempting to convey. The average person strives to get a job, earn a wage, and spend it, this vicious cycle, is the subject of Rockstar's misanthropic criticism. Several facets of the game satirize other parts of American culture, presenting radio talk and television shows hosted by extreme caricatures of the political spectrum, as well as humorous pastiches on supercilious celebrities and public figures. Certain landmarks are appropriately grandiose and brightly colored; the Times Square imitation is a pitch-perfect representation of the real thing – full of flickering, neon signs, tall skyscrapers, and congested streets, all comments on the excesses of American culture. No quarter is afforded in Grand Theft Auto 4's searing satire, which doubles as a biting lamentation on the fundamentals of American ideals.

The main story line touches on various themes explored in classical literature, namely the American Dream and the all-consuming poison of revenge. Niko comes to America out of desperation, to indulge in the wealth that his cousin Roman promises him. The impossibility of the American Dream is expressed almost immediately when Niko arrives at Roman's home in the neighborhood of Bohan, the Liberty City variant of the Bronx. Roman, who has worked for years at his taxi depot, honest labor, has never been able to achieve anything other than a cockroach-infested loft. As Niko begins to work for criminals in the Liberty City underground, he begins to climb the social ladder at an alarming pace, allowing players to purchase penthouse apartments and luxury cars, in part achieving what is typically represented as the American Dream – wealth and extravagance. The dichotomy established between these two characters, blood relatives, is striking and an incredibly effective and rather cynical statement on accomplishment; nobody ever achieves anything through honest hard work – being willing to abandon principles and work dirty is what sets the haves from the have-nots.

The other central theme presented in Grand Theft Auto 4 is the idea of revenge, which is also presented in a derisive, but quite serious light. Eventually, Niko's main intentions for moving to Liberty City are revealed – he's searching for the man who betrayed his army unit so many years ago, and is continuing his quest for vengeance. The question that Rockstar presents here demonstrates the consuming nature of retribution; the idea of getting even keeps Niko going, keeps him alive, but ultimately for the wrong reasons. When he finally tracks down the man who sold out his unit, the player has the choice of either shooting him, or simply letting him go. If the player chooses the former , Niko laments how he doesn't necessarily feel better about closing that chapter in his life, as it defined his existence for however long. Should the audience let him go, Niko ponders aloud to his cousin that it wouldn't make a difference if the man lived or died. In that sense, revenge is depicted in this game as a double-edge sword, keeping Niko motivated, but at the same time consuming every fiber of his being.

Ultimately what distinguishes Grand Theft Auto 4 from common literary texts and even its peers in the video game market is the degree of freedom it affords in its sandbox style of play. The player has the freedom to crash cars into busy intersections, shoot up shops, and even commandeer attack helicopters to blow subway trains off their tracks. The liberty that the player is afforded is so expansive that the actions the audience chooses to commit could potentially be construed as manifestations of the player's inherent personality, which, in that case, would truly make the experience that person's own. Niko is his own character, but the player can certainly ascribe their personal desires to his rampages and activities. Grand Theft Auto 4 works quite hard to deflect the ideas raised in Portal's subtext. Obviously, the player is incapable of complete and utter freedom due to inherent software constraints, but Rockstar does a lot to disguise the limitations of the design simply by presenting the game so well. The illusion of freedom and the fact that it's so enjoyable, even cathartic, ultimately dashes away any wondering as to whether it could be improved or expanded upon. Even the story missions, inherently linear with clearly defined objectives, afford the player some degree of customizability. Rather than trying to break through an enemy stronghold guns blazing, the audience can be ingenious and use a fighter jet to soften resistance on the ground before carving a path ahead. So while the player can't take total control of their experience, with Grand Theft Auto 4, they can come close.

The state of art and the development of storytelling has been one experimental gesture after another, attempts to tell stories while offering original takes on structure. The beauty of video games affords them this element of creative presentation inherently. The subtexts, the messages, and the minutiae are presented through intimation in text, but the ergodic freedom and vastly complicated design allows for a multitude of possibilities. Each of the three examples are hailed as classics, and the main reasoning behind this praise is their ability to so easily capture all of these essential facets of experimental art so effortlessly. They each present a fascinating and detailed story, but also manage to convey messages through the design, through the subtleties that nobody thinks about. Modern art strives to present rich experience through the medium, and, despite being the most nascent form of media there is, it's quite remarkable to note how video games have carved their own niche, gaining cultural relevance, so quickly.

Shadow of the Vampire - E. Elias Merhige, 2000.

Sorry for the lateness, but I'm apologizing to hypothetical people at this point. Merhige's film is quite creepy and awesomely meta, with Willem Dafoe giving the performance of his career. The plot twist, if you could call it that was as predictable as the sun rising, but there are a lot of neat spins on the classical vampire tale, as well as the story of Nosferatu. Good, if safe, stuff.

PS. was too busy being social and shit. Bite me

The Woodsman - Nicole Kassell, 2004.

Kassell's take on Lolita is an extremely unnerving and genuinely creepy film, starring Kevin Bacon as the titular woodsman, a pedophile recently released on parole. Bacon, one of the most adaptable actors in the business (for God's sake, the man went from A Few Good Men to Hollow Man) and his supremely muted performance speaks more to the audience than the longest dialogue. A supporting cast consisting of Benjamin Bratt, Mos Def, and Kyra Sedgwick are mostly unremarkable, mostly because Bacon dominates the role so thoroughly. This movie will rattle some cages, but it's ultimately worth it.

PS. Kevin Bacon, shockingly, has never received an Oscar nod. There is no justice left in this world.

Infernal Affairs - Andrew Lau and Alan Mak, 2002.

Martin Scorsese's The Departed was a remake of this film, made with the typical frenetic Scorsese energy we come to expect from the madman, bolstered due in part to outstanding performances from Jack Nicholson, Leonardo DiCaprio, and Alec Baldwin, with most of the rest of the cast being forgettable as a trio of orphan chimney sweeps. Infernal Affairs is the proving factor that remakes are almost always inferior to the original source material. Lau and Mak's film has that Hong Kong style that makes Scorsese's fast-pace seem like a Grandma in the slow lane. Brutally fast-paced, insanely suspenseful, and wrought with style practically dripping from its celluloid, this is probably the best gangster film I've seen since Goodfellas, which, coincidentally is also a Scorsese movie. Watch this movie, it's fantastic.

PS. One of the stars, Tony Leung, is one of the best actors in the business. Apparently, in real life, he's somewhat of a quiet bastard. And who says opposites attract?

A few thoughts and Snatch - Guy Ritchie, 2000.

So December 1st marks the anniversary of my drastic experiment, my attempt at watching at least one film every day for a year. I think it ties in nicely with my OCD and constant desire to have something to do, having abandoned video games almost entirely and finding children's trading card games to be wholly unsatisfactory. What has a year of this bollocks taught me? Well, for starters, a ton about film. Sure, I don't know much about the technical side of the equation, namely what kind of cameras are used and what sort of lighting and editing techniques are going on behind the scenes, but I'll have to take a course or watch a documentary on filmmaking to gain any knowledge of that stuff.

No, what this experiment has accomplished is getting me back into film, one of my biggest interests, aside from designer denim, medicine, and historical trivia. I know directors and their techniques and trademarks. I know which actors are capable of what. I know who's on the scene and what's coming up in the next few months. I know who's best in the indie circuit, and what the summer movies are going to look like. I've even gone back decades to learn about the old masters, and what their influence on the art form was, even if some of their films were drier than a desert on fire. I am an infinitely more educated person now, in regards to film, than I was a year ago. And the path to acquiring that knowledge, watching movies, analyzing themes, reading follow-up material, that has been an incredible amount of fun.

Now, perhaps doing another year of this would be excessive, but I don't think so. Rather, I think it would give me further opportunities to learn. More chances to experiment with genres I wouldn't normally give the time of day to (giallo, blaxploitation, Japanese film in general). Everything is a process and a path, and just chilling out, watching movies is not only good for my mental health, but also for making myself smarter. Or something.

Also, I don't think I update this blog enough, so from here on out, I'm going to use this space as a sounding board for whatever film I watch that day. Today, I watched Snatch, arguably Guy Ritchie's best film, if not his most kinetic. Fast-paced, furious, and full of that smug British dialogue, this is quite a good film. The humor can be a bit wearing at times, with many characters using the same sarcastic rhetoric question as a joke, but the characters are well-rounded and imaginative enough to not feel like caricatures. Ritchie's direction is blisteringly quick, which means the film wastes no time with explication, something also very refreshing. The griminess of London is also well-represented with Richie's picture quality, which, in any other case, would be a point against him, but in this case, works quite well, like Boyle's 28 Days Later, a personal favorite of mine. All in all, a very enjoyable, if repetitive film.

PS. Guy Ritchie went insane after this film, having married Madonna and contracted the crazies, which compelled him to make Swept Away. Ugh.

Return of the Jedi

Hm, perhaps it is because I have nothing to be miserable about or general lack of giving a damn, but it looks like this blog hasn't been updated in a dog's year. Again, I seek to change that, but I usually don't have much to complain about these days that I don't already air to roommates and friends and such. But for my own edification, I feel that I need to start anew my hatred of the Twilight series, the multimedia franchise that has stolen the affections of prepubescent tweens, mentally deficient teenage girls, and desperately lonely housewives that, for some inexplicable reason, has become more popular than Christianity.

The first remark I have to make comes by way of the pretentious film buff in me. The notion of romance with vampires is a road well-traveled, beginning with the brides of Dracula in Bram Stoker's novel. Apparently becoming a vampire also means becoming a libertine, pursuing the sins of the flesh, the ecstasy of carnality. And it makes sense, certainly. It is well-developed in the novel, and further adaptations of vampire stories (Ann Rice, mostly) have portrayed it in a compelling way, see Neil Jordan's Interview with the Vampire. Hell, even Park Chan-Wook's Thirst was a compelling take on the vampire romance, establishing an intriguing dichotomy between a libertine vampire and her more conservative lover. With such representations in mind, how can anyone find it interesting to listen to a bunch of anemic teenagers complain about their tough lives when they're teenagers with typical teenage problems. How can anyone find this interesting? Especially considering the billions of representations of vampires that are infinitely more compelling than this dreck. Admittedly, some of the stuff is obscure, but how that takes away from its genius is beyond my comprehension.

My next point is the inaccurate representation of vampire mythology, something that has been well established throughout the ages. Vampires age slowly, cannot withstand sunlight, sleep in coffins, are remarkably pale, suck blood to survive, and are often endowed with super powers, like being able to turn into a bat or something. Even the little girl from the absolutely brilliant film Let the Right One In ripped people to shreds when the opportunity presented itself. On the contrary, Edward Cullen is a "vegetarian," sparkles when sun hits his accurately pallid face, is too much of a pussy to use his powers, and doesn't have a coffin in his living room. I can understand putting a spin on your story, but when it completely does away with established canon, you should call it something else. Instead of vampires, call them something more accurate, like namby-pamby twatrackets.

The bile machine has fired at full force, I believe. The whole deal with Stephanie Mayer being a Mormon and using the series as a springboard to promote Mormon values really doesn't have any bearing on the bastardization of vampire mythology or inanity of the plot. Blade, embarrassingly, is a better representation of vampire mythos and has Wesley Snipes kicking the shit out of Stephen Dorff. If that doesn't excite you, I don't know what will.

PS. Does anyone else find it funny that Kristen Stewart seems capable of two facial emotions? Apparently her acting coach didn't tell her that 'bemused wonderment' and 'sudden fright' were just a few emotions on the spectrum

One Eighty

There's always this bizarre dose of optimism that overcomes you like a nasty rash the morning after a one-night stand when you suddenly experiment with routine, completely change the people you hang around with, and just generally throw caution to the wind and forget the consequences. Perhaps the good feeling of knowing you're accelerating your mental, and, in this case, physical growth is the contributing factor behind this happiness. Perhaps the change in scenery is refreshing enough for you to prance like a gay little ninny. I believe the point I'm trying arduously to make is that I'm not a whinging little shit any more. I actually feel remarkably ashamed that I was so depressed in a land of opportunity.

Although I still feel as though I need to make a few qualifying statements. There are definitely problems here. The postage service is slightly faster than the Pony Express and when you've been hopelessly hooked on Netflix for the past eleven months, it's like holding a bag of heroin just out of an addict's reach. There's no culture here, other than partying. Everyone is still fixated on partying, getting laid, and drinking themselves onto a transplant table. I'm all for that, but I do have these crises of conscience that demand me to go visit the nearest independent movie theater, something very distressing because there are none. The food is akin to dumpster diving in the slums of Mumbai, slowly poisoning your body as you cry for more, as the alternatives get remarkably expensive.

What I dig the most of this whole deal is the urgency of academic experience. Everything is short, sweet, and brutal. Teaching assistants seem to be on cocaine, and professors disappear into the darkness the instant their class is over. It truly is a dog-eat-dog world, which I kind of get off on. Any success makes me incredibly happy, if only for a few moments. But UCSB is remarkably challenging, I do have to say. I'm behind on my reading, and I have a midterm on Friday. Let's do it.

PS. You would think a beautiful beach community never sees rain, but apparently the man responsible for the weather down here showed up drunk on the job.