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Mediation Between Player and Game: Coordination and Communication in Video Games

This Friday, we brought in consoles to class and hooked them up to a projector. While seeming like a play party, we were told that we could only play by partnering up with someone and being either the person who shouts commands or the person who holds the controller. Basically, we were to play a game by splitting hand-eye coordination between two people. Interesting premise, interesting results.

I don’t think any of us have ever ventured into playing games this way, and boy was it entertaining to watch everyone trying so hard to just survive. If you were the one controlling the other player, you have to understand the controls and how the visual feedback will affect your decisions. If you were the one being controlled, your main task was to perform actions inaccurately, or at least consistent enough so that the controlling player can get a grasp the new form of hand-eye coordination. So in the case where neither players are very good at what they do (as I was in either position, sadly), inevitable chaos ensues: the player could either see or feel things going horribly wrong without fully being able to do anything about it.

I believe the main focus of this experiment was to see how gameplay changes when players are faced with a game that requires direct manipulation but is operated indirectly where players need to interact through dialogue (Fernández-Vara 2019). Instead of receiving the usual feedback through the game’s black box, the player also needs to coordinate with another player, their skill, quirks, and everything that affects the actions they intend for and the feedback they receive. The feedback loop of the game changes from learning the designed mechanics into learning how to create an environment where both players can utilize what they can respectively provide: input—using hands—and information—through the eyes (Cook 2007). The usual hand-eye cognitive function stretches into external communication between two cognitions. Unlike neurons in one brain that would likely operate under a main command, two brains will have to consider their differences to communicate effectively. Each pair of players eventually came up with schemes on how commands are to be relayed and received. Although this smoothed things out a bit, I believe it wasn’t quite as simple as mashing buttons to get the desired result. There were a lot of instances where players would fail to perform simple in-game actions that turned out to require finer hand-eye coordination abilities (Hand-Eye Coordination n.d.).

Of course, like any other cognitive ability, I believe the we-are-one joke exercise can be a form of training as well. As two players continue to work together and come to understand how they can effectively communicate with one another, steady gameplay can be achieved. One player’s understanding of visual input and how to relay that information and the other player’s ability to perform accurate action within the game can eventually combine to create the input needed for the directly manipulated game. It may require specially designed exercises that take advantage of the brain’s neuroplasticity, but it’s certainly not impossible (Hand-Eye Coordination n.d.). As for whether or not two players who solely excel at either hand or eye coordination can ever be better than one player who’s good at both, I suppose that would be a question to be answered for another day.

Interestingly, I believe there are already games that take advantage of mediation between players to introduce unique gameplay. One of them is #DanceTogether, a game where a group of players is each assigned to a pair who listen to the same song. The players are not allowed to talk or use hand gestures—they can only dance to express the music and find their song partner. This game uses the same principles of altering the feedback of the game by introducing a human element. Players are bound to be confused and need time to get used to the mechanics, but as humans, we can adapt and find ways to communicate (both in terms of transferring and understanding information) the input and output. In this case, the players would serve as the medium for input and output, effectively replacing the machine’s task of displaying the feedback loop of the game (Zarlez 2017). In video games, this sort of mediation may influence the game’s mechanics as well. In Keep Talking and Nobody Explodes, for example, a player is given a manual to decode the bomb while the other player is given the task to relay the code and input the attempts. By dividing the mechanics of the game into two stages, the players need to find a balance between performing their task and passing information over to the other player to complete the objectives (Remly & Rice 2018). Unlike our experiment, the indirect manipulative aspects actually embed well into the game mechanics, so it adds a depth to what would otherwise essentially be reaction-based gameplay.

In conclusion, video games utilize hand-eye coordination and input-output cycles to allow players to interact with the in-game world. This can be done through direct or indirect manipulation, both of which have their own merits and contribute differently to the gameplay. A game can employ design choices that alter common ways inputs and outputs are devised to create a unique experience and use communication mechanics to enhance gameplay. And, if all that’s not enough, players can always find a partner to hold the controller while shouting endless commands at them as a new way to play games they are already familiar with. Who knows, they might just become good enough to play as well, if not better, than they normally would.

References

Hand-Eye Coordination n.d., CogniFit, viewed 25 August 2019, <https://www.cognifit.com/science/cognitive-skills/eye-hand-coordination>.

Cook, D 2007, The Chemistry Of Game Design, Gamasutra, viewed 25 August 2019, <https://www.gamasutra.com/view/feature/129948/the_chemistry_of_game_design.php>.

Fernández-Vara, C 2019, Introduction to Game Analysis (Second Edition), Routledge, New York, NY. Remly, C & Rice, D 2018, Real Bomb Squad Defuses A Bomb In Keep Talking And Nobody Explodes • Professionals Play, Buzzfeed Multiplayer, viewed 25 August 2019, <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BYunaBkn9Ng&>.

Virkus, M 2018, “How Feedback Loops Work in Game Design”, Arcade Rage, weblog post, 11 February, viewed 25 August 2019, <https://arcaderage.co/2018/02/11/game-design-feedback-loops/>.

Zarlez, T 2017, The 2017 Experimental Gameplay Workshop, GDC, <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y4cCCgOXcNU&>.

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Picross-style Procedural Generation: Voltorb Flip

There was a time when I was so feverishly into picross that I thought of generating maps I like and basically shipping a whole game with minimal effort. My absolute lack of skills with programming and maths aside, it’s a fond thought with a seemingly mild level of scope. I wasn’t going to generate 3d meshes or make AIs color in line art. I’ve since come to realize that it’s not that easy and maybe you should finish your high school maths textbook first, but they say it’s the thought that counts, right?

So instead of cracking the code on picross, I’ve decided to grab another example that uses similar principles: Voltorb Flip. This is a mini-game included with the US-version of HeartGold and SoulSilver, another one of the I-spent-too-much-time-on-this-instead-of-actually-playing games. I’ve always played it as a game of chance, and while there is a quasi-puzzle mechanic you can try to solve, there isn’t a skill you can hone to avoid losing forever (except for, well, some soul harnessing stuff I guess, but I digress).

In this game, the player’s goal is to uncover the point multipliers. The player starts out with a 5x5 grid, and by flipping any of the tiles in the grid, they uncover either points (1-3) or a Voltorb which would cause the player to go down a level. Much like picross, the player is given the total sum of points and Voltorbs in each row and column, and they are to deduct which tiles are which. The player moves up a level if they are able to find all point tiles that aren’t only 1 point. The rest of the game is basically like Minesweeper where you try to avoid the bomb (in this case, the Voltorb). The procedure involved in generating each level is relatively simple: within a 5x5 grid, determine which tiles are Voltorbs, and determine the number of points for the rest. As the player goes up the levels, however, the rules start to mold into more and more challenging play.

In the first few levels, the players are given rows and columns with zero Voltorbs. They can quickly uncover these tiles and focus on the rest, using what has been uncovered to work out the other tiles—sort of like sudoku. The next levels lose this trait and introduce more Voltorbs into the equation. The following higher levels actually bring back the zero Voltorb lines, but with the added Voltorbs and goal of finding all the high point tiles (which also increases through the levels), the game becomes much riskier. All in all, the constraints of the game’s procedures doesn’t sound nearly as complex as a picross stage would, but it gives an interesting look into how procedurally generated content can influence a game’s mechanics. The easier level may call for reckless actions and a thrilling gamble, but to reach the high levels, a player will need to understand the finer details of the game.

I believe a lot of procedurally generated content relies on this sort of mechanical manipulation in order to flourish. Generated content still relies on a pool of resources and constraints, so the results may not be as endless or replayable as often advertised (Cook 2016). However, the content and limits create environments for varying mechanics to be used, and through the almost-infinite iterations of, say, a level, the player can enjoy different forms of play, different challenges, and overall a more varied experience despite only being based on a single core mechanic. For example, starting on a plain in Minecraft can motivate players to build a shelter, while finding mines can switch their focus to mining ores instead. Overall, the player is promoted to build upon the world they find themselves in. 

Voltorb flip probably isn’t the most procedurally complex example for generated content, but I think it has its own unique charm by being one (aside from gambling, of course). It has a way to keep players progressing through its levels without needing thoroughly thought out puzzles. Procedurally generated content seems to be more adaptable and flexible than I thought, and I think I’d like to dive a little deeper into this at a later opportunity. Who knows, maybe I’ll get around to lock picking picross next time.

References

Breen, J 2016, Procedural Vs. Random Generation: Is There a Difference?, IndieWatch, viewed 10 August 2019, <https://indiewatch.net/2016/10/05/procedural-vs-random-generation-is-there-a-difference/>. Cook, M 2016, Alien Languages: How We Talk About Procedural Generation, Gamasutra, viewed 10 August 2019, <https://www.gamasutra.com/blogs/MichaelCook/20160825/279938/Alien_Languages_How_We_Talk_About_Procedural_Generation.php>. Mukundan, R 2017, Procedural Generation in Games, Medium, viewed 10 August 2019, <https://medium.com/@rajeev90km/procedural-generation-in-games-9642b71d70bc>. pkmwh1z 2010, How to Win "Voltorb Flip", Youtube, viewed 20 August 2019, <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F-g__cbT_bw>.

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The Life Cycle of Play: Build-Up and Anticipation

In our attempt to play Mansions of Madness First Edition by Fantasy Flight Games in class, we sat down and popped about a hundred pieces off their cardboard backing, then proceeded to continuously reassure each other that we absolutely had no idea how to play the game. Two hours in and we were still putting game pieces together and reading back and forth across the two manuals: one for the “Keeper,” who would basically serve as a game master, and a two-in-one booklet of general rules as well as a guide for the “Investigators,” the role of players against the Keeper. We tried to just start and wing it along the way, but we ended up resorting to online guides and guesses on what the significance of a game piece would be. Suffice to say, in the half an hour we did try to play, there wasn’t anywhere near enough time to complete any of the game’s objectives.

However, we were actually still looking forward to figuring out how the whole thing works, properly this time, and play it again. You’d think we’d be pretty fed up just popping off all those pieces and learning that every tiny piece belongs somewhere but who knows where. Alas, we were set in our ways—optimists, one could say—and we were damn hell going to play through the whole thing even if it drives us to the brink of madness.

I believe one of the main reasons we persisted is tied to the fact that our experience didn’t reflect what the game entails. The pieces, the cards, the handbook, the lore, the mechanics—everything was elaborately prepared, but we had a lot of trouble using them together to create the experience the game supposedly provides. Based on the promise of an interesting premise in return for competent play, we wanted to prove that we were able to construct some semblance of play, almost as if being able to play is an accomplishment in and of itself. 

There was also the idea that we had used up so much of our time setting up that we weren’t willing to let so much effort go down the drain. Among compliance techniques, one of them is called low-balling and much like the name suggests is one that employs the human tendency to commit to something larger by using a smaller token of agreement. Cialdini et al (1992) tested this by seeing if students would be more likely to commit to a difficult task if they had promised to do it without knowing how difficult it was: the answer, to some extent, is yes (Crane, J & Hannibal J 2012, p. 118). Our fight with the game board and rules was no joke: we started by happily popping cardboard pieces, and two hours later, we were desperately trying to learn every mechanic. By the time we actually went on to play, we were in it to win. We wanted to gain something back for all our efforts, and the only viable way was to skillfully take on whatever was thrown at us by the game. I believe it’s very much like winning a race after being in a disadvantageous position. All of the effort believing in a successful end despite everything had been worth it. There is a level of satisfaction unachievable by normal means. At least, we sure hoped it would at some point during play, and that kept us going for the longest time.

It’s also interesting to see that there was another group who played the same game and didn’t actually end up following through the whole class. The only difference between us and the other group was that they didn’t have to pull together all the pieces as their copy had been played before. Our brand new copy gave us the most difficult time setting up, but it also gave us the drive to see it to the end. However, despite one of the groups not having the motivation to continue at the time, both groups were more than willing to give the game another go. None of us believed that the game was so flawed that it didn’t deserve its positive reputation. Of course, much of this can be explained by the fact that we attributed the miserable experience to dispositional factors (and perhaps rightly so), but would a person who had the hardest time skydiving be excited to go bungee jumping? I believe we were riding on expectations other than this one experience we had with this game.

Which brings me to a very interesting question: to what extent does build-up and anticipation influence gameplay experience? If we think of playing a game as a cycle, there would be the agreement to enter ‘the magic circle’ and play by the rules, the play itself, and the moments when the play reaches its conclusion. This can be rinsed and repeated as many times and in any scale within the game, such as with core and secondary mechanics, or the feedback loop. Any prior knowledge of the game becomes preconceived notions that can affect the way players experience the cycle of play.

At the very start of the cycle, a player is confronted by the decision of whether or not to play. In our case, we were immediately excited at the thought of playing a board game with complex lore and an intertwined set of mechanics. We undoubtedly had student obligations to study the game, but after our Dungeons and Dragons session, I think we have slowly come to understand the appeal of games that provide depth by placing humans as the main variables. And then comes the actual transition between reality and play. We are supposed to achieve this through the board game pieces and cards which represent the visual space we were about to enter. However, before we could actually jump into the gameplay, we had to essentially build the world and our understanding of it by going through the pieces and the rules. Firstly, we had to set all the pieces up, and secondly, we needed to understand how every piece comes to play during the game. Through this process, we were exposed to more of the lore and a clearer image of the gameplay, further extending our expectations that we will be experiencing a glorious round of play. Having gone through all of this sort of implies that we had agreed to play the game before we actually went in to set everything up—perhaps a little different to the other group whose agreement was done right before the actual play itself. As a result, our group tried our best in order to experience the gameplay, while the other group found it difficult to proceed with what they had in hand. Another way to interpret the way our groups differ was that the build-up and anticipation we experienced was positive enough to perpetuate the play cycle, while the other group perceived the feedback as something detrimental. In that sense, I believe I can say that our group’s goal was definitely a little skewed from the fun, relaxing play we all thought we’d have.

We obviously didn’t quite move on to the next stage where we fully immersed ourselves in play—although we made attempts, I believe our course of action was more akin to flickering between stages like a bulb trying to light up. We were hyped up to play the game, but at the same time, our prior knowledge regarding the game prevented us from going further. Even so, I believe we can infer quite a lot of things as to how our early experience could or have influenced our play. For example, during one of our many confused bouts, we scrambled through whatever resources we can get our hands on to work out how the monsters move around. We keep flipping pages and searching online, but we couldn’t find a shred of a clue as to how the Keeper was to play his role in this context. At this point, I said that we should just make up something that sounds logical and get on with it. For one, if that was something our group agreed to, it would’ve taken us less time to continue to the next turn. However, I’ve also implied that the build-up to this game (in our case was the grueling set up) is a valid encouragement to potentially butcher a whole chunk of our gameplay experience. Better a weird experience than none, I had noted.

Nearing the end of the cycle, I believe our expectations would have contributed a lot to the emotional investment we have in the outcome. What had happened until that point? What is going to happen next? How is this all going to end? All these questions and possible answers will be affected by what we think of everything we would have experienced so far. Players would start to find clues as to which side was to win the game, intensifying the experience of taking each action all the way to the end. And finally, at the end of the cycle, we may or may not be inclined to loop our way back (or in our case play the game again) and start the whole experience once more. At this stage, I believe whatever we had thought or done at the beginning stages will be brought up as a form of reflection. Whether it fulfilled our expectations, whether we did the right things—in the end, the experience we recall can seem to be merely a comparison to our preconceived notions.

In conclusion, the build-up and anticipation preceding a play cycle are arguably just as important as the gameplay itself. It alters our perception of the game’s experience and at times, it can influence the decisions we make throughout the cycle as well. If mechanics or narrative can make or break a game, a player’s first impression is something that extends beyond that—it can prolong or shorten a play cycle as if it’s a deliberate marketing strategy. All in all, it’s settled that we’re going to play the game again (we were promised the second edition this time), so I think we’re all in this a little deeper than we all think we are.

References

Mansions of Madness Second Edition n.d., Fantasy Flight Publishing, viewed 12 August 2019, <https://www.fantasyflightgames.com/en/products/mansions-of-madness-second-edition/>. Crane, J & Hannibal J 2012, IB Psychology Course Book: Oxford IB Diploma Programme, Oxford UniversityPress, Oxford. Stauttener, J  2016, ‘Review and Showcase: Mansions of Madness – First Edition’, Must Contain Minis [MCM], weblog post, 2 August, viewed 9 August 2019, <https://mustcontainminis.com/2016/08/review-and-showcase-mansions-of-madness.html>.

[c-ornflowertea]

Porting Controls: Handheld Keyboard

I picked up Recettear recently—a relatively old title first released in 2007—and, being the fool I was, almost bust a hole through my mouse trying to click my way through the main menu. I was just about to ragequit from the lack of response when I found that I was, surprise surprise, supposed to use the keyboard instead. Long story short, I quickly swallowed my shame and picked up the default controls.

However, It didn’t occur to me until much later that the default controls were very identical to the Game Boy Advance (GBA) emulator VisualBoyAdvance-M (VBA-M). ‘Z’ was the affirmative button, ‘X’ is a secondary as well as the cancelation button, and moving was done using the arrow keys. There are differences namely with the ‘Start’ button (Enter vs Esc), and I can’t recall Space doing anything (as opposed to speeding up the game in VBA-M). Still, I felt like I could intuitively pick it up regardless of my hideous records in Mario Tennis: Power Tour. My question is, how did I end up being so familiar with this control scheme when it’s nothing like the console it’s based on?

Fast forward a couple of rabbit holes later, I found a few interesting points. First, the development of both PC and console controls have gone a long way. Many consoles and games have gradually evolved their graphics, UI and UX to provide a better experience, and during so, changed the way they expect players to interact with a game. Over time, players also asserted their playstyles and configurations, adding to their own experience. Second, control schemes across the many gaming platforms influenced each other throughout their development. A default scheme in one platform can be implemented in other forms to accommodate similar user experiences. In doing so, players can enjoy cross-platform games without the mess of learning a whole new control scheme. (WULFF DEN 2015). And thirdly, control schemes are born out of a need for the players to interact with the game space. The visual, design and engineering that goes into creating a default way for players to hold a controller, mash buttons or pull a trigger are done with a clear sense of purpose. This purpose is to let players interact with the game (Lu 2003).

The VBA-M control scheme is likely a remnant of the era of PC gaming where controls were purely embedded into keyboards. Doom, for example, had alternate keys implemented on the movement controls for strafing, which in modern control schemes would be taken care of by alleviating some of the controls to a mouse (Controls n.d.). I had trouble finding what sort of game first truly used a Z/X button combination that people eventually picked up on, but it can still be seen even in modern games such as Osu!. Because the game is simple in concept but requires coordination and precision, it benefits from a Z/X button mash scheme and mouse controls. Recettear or GBA games, on the other hand, does not (always) require this sort of player input. A switch in the location of movement and general input (movement to the right, inputs to the left, and vice versa) is therefore not too consequential to how it may fit for a player’s dominant hand.

This is perhaps why I had a lot of trouble getting used to other console emulators—they have more complex control schemes embedded into their controllers, and it may or may not transfer well to the keyboard and mouse. The DS emulator DeSmuME, for example, wires the X/Y buttons on the DS to the A/S keys by default, and strangely, flips the Z/X key combination to suit the DS layout: ‘Z’ becomes the B button while ‘X’ replaces the A button. Either by habit or the mirroring effect of brain coordination, I found it difficult to wire my left hand to play the way my right is trained to do. The keyboard isn’t spaced like the DS either, so the sense that each input has its ‘place’ quickly crumbles down. The left and right triggers both being shoved to one side of the keyboard (when it is meant to be used by each hand respectively) didn’t help either. By the time I caught up to PPSSPP (a PSP emulator), I settled on playing visual novels, and even then, I dreaded each time I had to sort out the menu.

That is not to say that these controls are fundamentally flawed (although it arguably is), or that there is no possible way for a player to learn and get used to them because it’s possible. The more these controls are used, the better the player will be able to use them. As someone who didn’t even know what a crosshair in FPSs was, it’s rather frightening how quickly one can get used to automatically responding to the slightest possible threat by pressing the turret button. It took me fifty lives and dying every time I had to look at the keyboard, but it is not an impossible feat. Considering how players often start playing at a young age, default control schemes can be a matter of conditioned practice. It certainly helps for a player to be able to configure their control schemes when the default one isn’t working out for them. On another note, seeing how pressing ‘F’ to pay respects has become cultural knowledge, there are ways to teach players to play by a control scheme without universally intuitive brain exploits at play.

It’s a little disheartening that control schemes can’t always cross platforms, especially when the true obstacle is a player’s habits. Schemas that we built as we grow and play can become the true underlying control scheme in every hardware we come to use. However, the evolution of control schemes across PC and consoles have intertwined over the years, and attempts to provide the same experiences across many platforms is a reflection of this process. It is likely that we may come to see how these control systems become more and more integrated in the future. Or perhaps, on an egregious twist, we come to see what pure genius a game controller is designed to be.

References

Lu, W 2003, Evolution of Video Game Controllers: How Simple Switches Lead to the Development of the Joystick and the Directional Pad, viewed 5 August 2019, <https://web.stanford.edu/group/htgg/sts145papers/wlu_2003_1.pdf>.

Controls, n.d., Doom Wiki, viewed 7 August 2019 <https://doom.fandom.com/wiki/Controls>.

WULFF DEN 2015, History of Modern Control Schemes PT 2: First Person Shooters (PC), Youtube, viewed 4 August 2019, <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pCgdb6W3Fu8&>.

Ahmad, M 2019, Visual Boy Advance (VBA-M) Emulator Controls, Garoms, viewed 7 August 2019, <https://garoms.com/visual-boy-advance-emulator-controls/>.

[c-ornflowertea]

Cheating to Win (?): Gameplay Experience in the Hands of a Player

We discussed the materials for the topic of cheats, mods, hacks, and bugs amongst ourselves in class. Everyone pitched in on what they think the definition or purpose of each aspect is which gave the topic a lot of perspectives. Essentially, any of these aspects can be embedded into a game and it would influence gameplay, whether intentional or otherwise. Apart from the developers’ vision, the constraint of rules and mechanics, and predefined play space, how do players shape their own experiences?

As shameful as my brother made it out to be back when we competed to see who could play the same games better (he always won in case that needs clarification), I played a lot of DS games with a bloat load of cheats. Harvest Moon DS, Sims Pet 2, all the way to Asterix & Obelix XXL 2: Mission: Wifix, and, of course, the fourth generation of Pokémon. Unlike the other games I “cheated” on, Pokémon was by far the one I did for the most bizarre reason: to play Pokémon without actually playing Pokémon.

Throughout the years of never actually finishing any one Pokémon game, I’ve come to accept that I will probably never play Pokémon as the game it was intended to be. I’m quite horrible at type matchups, I keep trying to avoid battles, and the amount of times I died in the hands of the third city’s gym leader is, quite frankly, disgraceful. However, that is not to say that I didn’t enjoy those aspects of the game nor was incapable of eventually not dying so much. I simply keep finding a different reason to play the game throughout each iteration of Pokémon. Playing Pokémon Emerald was my way to grind for Pokémon Contests, trying to win the most amount of hearts for decorating a Pokémon well. In HeartGold and SoulSilver, I never went past diligently blending Aprijuice for Pokéathlon. By Pokémon Diamond, my heart was sold for the Underground, where players dig around for ‘spheres’ and maintain secret bases. Did I ever come even close to beating my brother in PvP? Heck no. But the alternate mechanics that did not involve nurturing a party, battling, or tough competition kept me, through generations, playing a game that boasted those core mechanics.

So basically,

But I digress.

It’s easy to argue that those mechanics are implemented to be played, and each event space does have their own reputation separate from the game’s overall review. I really can’t say I’m a unique-minded player despite the horrified look my brother gives me when I have to remind him that yes, I’ve never won a single Pokémon battle against another human being, and no, I don’t care, I just want to play Pokémon without actually leveling up, fighting the Elite Four, or finishing the game at all. 

And so I cheated.

At the start, I went through each folder of cheats to see which ones I’d really need, like a bunch of money to buy potions or customization options that didn’t really affect the core gameplay too much. At that point, I was still trying to make my way around every single city and trainer before I arrived at the point of no return because again, those mechanics did provide challenges and bursts of satisfaction that I can take pride in. However, the more those mechanics repeated and the more I had to shave off time to invest in battles over events, I added cheats that let me speed through everything that I no longer cared for. Walking through walls to pass over cities, 1HKO attacks, infinite items a button press away, and so on. Compared to my brother’s slow but sure progress accumulated through properly playing the game, I was (arguably) playing well. My achievements were unearned, but it still felt good to bash through a trainer I had to skitter around otherwise.

Fast forward generations of games later though, I still have absolutely no skill in Pokémon battles. Is it a wonder? I left the machine to do my battles for me and when I actually had to take them into consideration, I had 1) immeasurably damaging preconceived notions and 2) little to no knowledge of the actual depth of the mechanics. I learned through some of these when I joined an online Pokémon battling platform, but alas, a 13-year-old mopped the floor with my Bulbasaur and I was still none the wiser. Move sets, items, levels, abilities, natures, IVs, EVs, mega evolutions, Pachirisu, Kangaskhan, special moves—I could list a billion things I know but have no understanding of, after years of playing iterations of the same game, because I cheated my way through pretty much everything the game had to offer. Cheats had enabled me to play a game I’m dreadful at, but did not actually develop the ability I needed to play the game as it probably should be.

Funnily enough, I had enough mind to never use event cheats and properly go through the grind to be successful at the games’ respectful event mechanics. I saved up every point in Pokéathlon and the Underground to legitimately trade with shop goods, no matter how long it took to obtain thirty thousand to exchange with one measly item. And of course, I never cheated nor skipped the repetitive mini-games I had to go through every round of play. To me, that was the challenge I had to overcome. I suppose my desire to persevere over small increments far exceeded my motivation to complete a complex arc of play.

At some point, I had piled up so many cheats upon themselves that my game (Pokémon Diamond specifically) bugged out. At first, I had trouble opening menus, so I had to be careful when I took out items or trying to save. Eventually, I couldn’t open them at all, and having to traverse through a cave at the time, I encountered a wild Pokémon every three steps. As frustrating as that was, I kept going because there seemed to be a treasure hidden underground at where I was heading towards. And then the party started. The first Pokémon in my roster was a Graveler with Explosion—a self-destructive move—and for some reason, every battle I encountered suddenly became a tutorial stage. The pointer hand automatically self-destructed my Pokémon in every battle without recognizing any of my input. It also magically revives the Pokémon after the battle. And so, with a three-step Pokémon encounter eminent through a long cave, a broken menu, a broken battle system, a broken Graveler, and a broken heart, I had to lay down all my progress for essentially breaking the game with my own hands.

Without personally having ever made any meaningful progress in the game.

It all honestly seems pretty ironic to recount now. I cheated to play what I couldn’t (or wouldn’t) play to the point that I couldn’t actually play the game anymore. Perhaps things would’ve been different if I had tried to play Pokémon by its core mechanics, progress through the battles and challenges, and find other ways to incorporate my interest in side-events with the main narrative. However, I had played to have fun, to take upon challenges I find rewarding, and Pokémon happens to be a game that has a spectrum players can enjoy. If we define a win as achieving what one sought out for, there is an infinite number of ways a player can play and win a game. And, to that extent, I believe cheating to win (?) is definitely a valid way to experience a game.

Except if you cheat so much you bug out the whole game. At that point, perhaps it may be best to tone it down a little.

References Fernández-Vara, C 2019, Introduction to Game Analysis (Second Edition), Routledge, New York, NY.

[c-ornflowertea]

BTS WORLD: A Game Built on a Community

I had been listening to a lot of stories from my brother about the different game communities he has had the pleasure (?) of joining around the time I was researching for this blog. For example, a few years ago, he had played Pokémon competitively both online and offline. His days back then were spent on grinding for good Pokémon stats and natures (did anyone actually understand that back when they played Pokémon as a kid? Like that is seriously a thing?), craftily building mono-type parties to become a community’s Gym Leader, and he even opened a quite reputable Pokémon trade shop to support his eagerness to play in the competitive scene. Compared to the times when he played Pokémon for fun or modded the MissingNo.’s out of the Pokémon Emerald ROM, he had a completely different experience playing the very same game.

At some point, he went on a tangent about another Nintendo franchise, the Super Smash Bros. series. He noted that the game was never really intended to be a part of any competitive scene; the idea was to make a party game, “that was more party than Mario Party.” However, when Super Smash Bros. Melee came out, players saw the opportunity to take the game to another level and created the esports scene around it today. The developers seemed to still be keen on their original direction with their release of Super Smash Bros. Brawl. The game stripped away the more competitive mechanics such as the Wave Dash, guiding players to experience the game within simpler mechanics. The reception around the third installment became mixed; at this point, the competitive scene brewed a specialized community who were primarily invested in fast-paced competitive play. The new game suited players who were more casual and the fact that it was released along with the Wii made it a potential entry point for players new to gaming as well. Super Smash Bros. Brawl simply did not fulfill existing fans’ expectations. Still, the game brought in new fans and expanded the fanbase, albeit having segregation between those who liked Melee (a.k.a. competitive players) and those who liked Brawl (a.k.a. casual players) (Scott The Woz 2018). Future iterations of the game try to strike a balance between these two scenes in the community but still tries to stay true to the developers’ initial vision of an accessible party game.

Through both Pokémon and the Super Smash Bros. series, we can see how a game community influences gameplay experience. Pokémon’s simple premise attracts many children who have just started playing games, but its depth in mechanics allows for more complex gameplay. Depending on who players interact with and how they interact, the community can gear a player towards one playstyle or another, shaping their experience into many forms. On the other hand, the community Super Smash Bros. built up in one installment sets up players’ expectations of their experience. As a result, instead of putting forward initial intentions, developers must also be aware of what fans are attracted to—why do they play the game in the first place—in order to tap into an existing fanbase. It shifts the perspective of why developers make games from creating a game of their dreams into constructing a game that people will play.

This leads to the question of whether or not a developer should stay true to their intentions. Developers want their games to be played a specific way because they want their players to experience specific things, so wouldn’t community input ruin the game itself? Depending on what the game is and what are the intentions of those behind the game, it can make or break a player’s experience. So, following that train of thought, what if, instead of developing a game based on a developer’s personal vision, a game is developed based around a community that isn’t necessarily related to games? What would it be like, what would it take, and why would it be a good idea?

The most obvious reason to create such a game would, of course, be money. There is a community that is already invested in something, and to incorporate that something into other mediums is more or less the 101 of selling more using fewer resources. In a reversed setting, it would be akin to games selling merchandise of their franchise in order to gain more income. The game’s story, characters, and its impression is already deep-rooted in players’ minds. Selling merchandise evokes these impressions without actually having to deliver the actual experience. Utilizing existing properties as a base for a game is, essentially, the same thing.

Another probable reason to develop a community-based game would be to expand a brand. As many have argued, the value of games lies in their ability to create an experience. Having players connect with a brand through a unique experience further develops the brand identity and potentially, a player’s loyalty towards the brand. The brand can introduce new ideas they would like to associate themselves with, but these ideas are also developed through player interaction and interpretation of their experience.

I believe that BTS WORLD is a product of the culmination of these reasons.

The game was released on June 26, 2019, and have since tapped into many channels of BTS fans. As a group that has been operating for more than six years, their fans vary in age, race, gender, interests, and most of all, opinions regarding the band themselves. To be able to cater to a majority of the fanbase requires a product that not only showcases the group’s familiar branding but also integrates a unified idea that represents the group as a whole. The group does not originally represent a body of experienced players so mechanics needed to be relatively simple, but it has to have enough challenge, variety, and depth in order to sell itself as a justified part of the brand rather than merely a shameless cash-grab. Fans’ behaviors would also need to be thoroughly investigated in order to deliver a compelling experience. Any one-note gone wrong and the whole game would be under fire—just like with Super Smash Bros., the community has expectations and they expect developers to deliver (because, y’know, they kinda have the money). The game did actually receive strong criticism for their lack of gender-neutral pronouns, although it was more of a fault on the localization team’s side than the original writers, and was later fixed in an update patch. Being able to monitor community response and adapt accordingly is perhaps one of the reasons that the game launched so successfully as well.

So with that said, how did the developers manifest the community’s investment towards BTS into the game? First of all, they incorporated many of the concepts fans associate with BTS. In the game’s narrative, the player becomes BTS’s manager before their debut, progressing through the chapters with hopes of bringing the group together and helping them to perform under a spotlight for the first time. The experience is very reminiscent of the relationship between BTS and their fans: in many ways, their following had presented them with the many opportunities they have today. The narrative may seem like a superficial, fantastical romance delusional fans would eat up, but the game’s narrative goal keeps the player’s motivation in focus. Instead of pursuing a character in a game, the player is pushed to help BTS to achieve their dreams and become who they are today. Progressing through obstacles, both through narrative and gameplay mechanics becomes an expression of experiencing moments together, which is another concept BTS emphasizes to their fans.

BTS also invested a lot of their primary source of income—as in music and performance—into the game, tying it back to their prevalent branding. OSTs, cut scenes, and even the promotional MV was created with a polish no half-hearted work could have. They brought in collaborators for some of the songs and added references to theories about their MVs’ lore, showing that the game is an extension of their craft, which fans already adore. Seeing the developers put so much effort into the game motivates fans to appreciate the hard work and explore the content, trusting that they will be served with a familiar enjoyment they experience through BTS’s pre-existing works.

And then there is the “Another Story” section to the game; a side-story collection featuring individual members of the group. It can be said that the whole section is a quality recreation of fan fiction (which is probably where most of its appeal comes from), but developers also made sure to include themes of personal growth that BTS is known for in each storyline. In that sense, even though players are given the opportunity to experience a closer relationship with each member, they are also reminded that the player’s support through the narrative is pretty much what they have been doing as fans: giving support and helping the group’s members progress through their lives. Being able to relive the same experiences through the side-story helps to tie the game’s different narratives together.

In terms of gameplay, their solution to the whole ordeal was to use trading card gacha mechanics. Simple, keep people invested even through loses because it’s a game of chance, and could easily be assimilated with BTS’s visual identity. Player progression is not necessarily locked to these mechanics, but securing better gacha items helps players progress quickly and obtain lucrative bonuses. I personally think that this system is very familiar to BTS fans who play a violent game of chance to get tickets, buy multiple different versions of their albums to complete their photocard collection, and spend a hefty amount to obtain an object representing the member they connect the most to. The developers basically migrated that system into a virtual game space to structure their potential cash flow.

True to their visual novel style, there are also affinity meters players can fill by interacting with the characters through texts and social media, as well as choosing dialogue that would appeal to each individual member. Although in all honesty, I have not found a single reason that makes the affinity meter have as much of a significance towards the narrative as they stereotypically would (more cut scenes, story progression, etc.) aside from unlocking side-story chapters. I suppose that can be attributed to the fact that it gives a reason for the fans to focus on the main narrative, arguably the experiences that are most relevant to them.

Classic energy-based mechanics are also implemented to encourage (or maybe even force) short bursts of play over a long period of time over hours and hours of short-term play. I personally swore off this type of mechanics for a long time, but I found myself working around it because of one, I am interested in the content, and two, limited energy (or wings, as they are called in-game) isn’t the only resource preventing player progression. After I’ve spent all my wings in one sitting, I could level up cards, increase stat bonuses, or gacha my in-game money away to ensure my progress the next time I can play wings-restricted content. Instead of feeling like I had to wait hours to do barely anything, waiting resembles the feeling of discerning the perfect timing to seize the day. It took me some time to realize this but the gameplay structure fits the narrative of waiting for the perfect chance to debut: working, progressing, and having off-times to rest and recover, patiently anticipating the arrival of the day. Perhaps because of its simpler mechanics, some fans even choose to lay out a spreadsheet and calculate the most optimal way to play the game, further enhancing the game of chance into a more elaborate strategic play.

What is interesting about the game is that it gives players enough wings to progress through the first chapter seamlessly. This gives players the starting satisfaction of the narrative and BTS-related content the game boasts of while providing enough motivation for the players to strive for the end goal. In the middle of a torturous grind to complete their launch event, I found myself repeatedly thinking that I’ve come so far and there is no way that I could (read: would) stop now, finally realizing that they’ve got me hook, line and sinker. Using BTS as the bait as well as the end goal, somehow everything in-between can be tied to a journey necessary to develop one’s soul.

Lastly, and by far an observation I am most keen on seeing through, is how the game’s narrative, design, and mechanics can appeal to the many types of BTS fans. Those who casually enjoy BTS’s music might be attracted to the OSTs and sound design, and those attracted to their visual branding will find exclusive new content by progressing through the game. I have seen a fair share of players who claim that they play the game so they can draw visually stunning four-star cards instead of actually progressing through the game, which funnily enough, looked like they were faring better than players who were more invested in the gameplay. There are also fans who could relate to the more personal side-stories, earning an emotional investment separate from the group’s debut story. The side-stories developed on the idea of who they were and who they could be, but essentially adding another layer of depth to the fans’ understanding of the members’ characters and personalities. As I’ve said above, it wouldn’t be strange to see players who go above and beyond to play the game as efficiently as possible either, calculating all their moves to not let one resource go to waste. And, even to those who doubt the narrative of the game and worry that it is a way for fans to step outside of their boundaries and affirm delusional fantasies that should not be encouraged, can see that those ideas are not at the core of the game. Despite the title of “Manager” and chances to interact more with the members’ virtual persona, the game is, as a whole, created for their fans, and arguably, because of their fans. Each fan’s way of interpreting the narrative and progressing through the game is as valid of an experience as any other. In a way, even though the game was created through the representation of a brand and the community surrounding it, the experience of playing through the game is personal to each player. And that, I believe, is why and how a game developed based on an existing community can work to a developer’s interests.

In conclusion, there are countless ways in which a game community can influence a developer’s vision of a game. Players invested in a specific style of game and play may contribute to the developers’ and other players’ decisions and alter a game’s experience. Sometimes, this may be detrimental as the development of the game becomes a fight of balance between intentions and what will essentially sell. However, if taken advantage of, such in the case of BTS WORLD, the game opens up to the possibilities of an alternate stream of income and development of brand identity in exchange for the community’s investment. Even though the community is not primarily based around gaming, the narrative, design, and mechanics all contribute to unique yet familiar experience fans would not be able to obtain otherwise—the perfect merchandise for their ever-growing brand and fans.

References RandomTens 2014, Is Melee Better Than Brawl? - A Super Smash Bros. Love Story, Youtube, 6 February, viewed 13 July 2019, <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nhHTF3_pON8>. Scott The Woz 2018, Super Smash Bros. Brawl | The Worst One, Apparently - Scott The Woz, Youtube, 29 July, viewed 13 July 2019, <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zhRx-FHiIvc>.

[c-ornflowertea]

The Diegesis, Functionality, and Style of User Interface Design

There has been a lot of talk regarding implementing diegetic elements in games, one of which is the case of the user interface (UI) and user experience (UX) design. Traditionally, games display information to players through non-diegetic methods, meaning through visual cues that may not necessarily belong in the fictional game world. These methods include a heads-up display (HUD), menus, and anything that players can see and interact with while in-game objects or characters cannot. More recent attempts in designing better UI lead to the idea of diegetic elements. While as non-diegetic UI exists solely for the player’s benefit, a diegetic UI would aim to represent the logic and visual cues that exist within the game world. A map would be accessed by holding up paper or a screen the player character is holding. The player’s health bar would be implemented within the character’s design. The number of bullets left in a (gunpowder) gun can be checked through a witness hole. These UI elements are integrated within the game world and its narrative and are argued to create a more immersive player experience. Theoretically speaking, a UI embedded into the game’s fictional environment would suggest high realism, aids to the world as well as character building, and improve how polished a game would feel. It is believed that a better game overall can be achieved by the use of diegetic interfaces.

However, good design, in general, is not only about how integrated something can be in someone’s life; it also has to serve its function and be visually representative of a style, theme, or concept to be successful. A coffee mug should be able to withstand heat and/or cold, and an appealing design increases the potential of the user’s favorable experience. The same train of thought can be applied to UI design. Aside from being something that exists within the fictional world, the UI needs to convey information that the player needs in order to play the game and styled well to avoid clutter or restrict players from performing efficiently.

Far Cry 2 is a common example brought up when discussing diegetic UI in gaming. It makes use of in-game gadgets such as a map or GPS to display common HUD information. This design adapts player behavior to mimic the character their control in-game: they have to interact with objects to obtain the information they need. The game is novel and provides a unique experience; so much so that Ubisoft marketed it as a selling point. However, the attempt to provide a more organic visual coherency did not follow through the whole game, with HUDs popping up during parts of gameplay due to restrictions to display this information within an FPS environment (Andrews, 2010). The resulting UI, though is integrated into the player experience and styled quite well, falls short in its functionality.

Another commonly cited example, Dead Space, is praised for its ability to assimilate all of its UI with gameplay. It has a sci-fi setting that is utilized well to represent high-technology-based interfaces, and the health bar, as well as stasis meter, can be clearly seen from the player character’s back, all contributing to a well-rounded experience. At the same time, some of its UI functionality such as the 3D map did not meld well with the gameplay and the developers took a turn to find a different solution. In addition, the benefits of implementing a diegetic UI remains unclear, as the interface itself does not greatly differ from traditional game menus (Andrews, 2010). While the UI design mostly functions and aids gameplay well, the stylistic choice adds little to the overall player experience.

There are many ways in which a diegetic UI can present a myriad of problems to the design team of the game developer, especially in terms of functionality and style. In several other games, these problems are solved in interesting ways.

In Rune Factory 4 (on the 3DS), for example, functionality plays a big key. The main UI is a general start menu with an inventory section, with a quick menu that can be accessed by pressing the ‘L’ button. There are key shortcuts specifically assigned for weapons and magic. Whenever a player holds an item and stores it, the item is moved towards the front of the quick menu, therefore making the frequently used items readily accessible. Options to forge, cook, craft, or sell are tied to specific props within the game, so players are not overwhelmed by the amount of activity the character can perform. There are even small diegetic elements such as the save point, which is a diary the player has in their room and has to come back to save to. It probably helps that there are two separate screens to display information in. The UI design feels unified with the game despite being largely non-diegetic, and while it does not specifically highlight one part of gameplay or another, it certainly supports players to perform actions within the game comfortably.

A stylistically dominant example would probably be Persona 5. Bold and flashy, its design certainly doesn’t blend into the background, but it does play into the game’s visual identity very well. Menus, fights and even dialogue cuts are all represented within a specific style, and this, in turn, creates a visually stimulating gameplay experience. In terms of functionality, the UI may look like a mess, but their overall structure is familiarly traditional: a player scrolls through options and opens sub-menus if need be. Shortcuts also help to streamline gameplay and lead the player through the narrative and the fictional world the game has to offer. Persona 5 shows that even though a game can employ traditional means of UI, there are still ways to spice it up and create unique and novel player experiences.

An example of a game that does enjoy the novelty of a diegetic UI, functionality, and is visually presented well is, I believe, Nier: Automata. It is set in the future with android main characters, so its sleek, minimalistic UI design fits well with its narrative. The core hack-and-slash gameplay mechanics are tied to a memory chip system that allows the player to customize their battle style, HUD display, and support systems just as one would be able to customize android parts. The main menu itself is a separate screen and non-diegetic, but the interface ties well with the narrative. Having themes of cycles and death, some theories interpret that God perpetuating the whole game’s narrative is the player, and the menu serves as a representation of that act. In some cases, the menu even serves as the developer’s tool to evoke strong emotions from the player, further creating the sense of unified experience within the game. Even without explicitly diegetic objects in play to serve as UI elements, Nier: Automata’s UI design is crafted to merge with its gameplay in order to create a more meaningful experience.

In conclusion, despite its popularity and occasional success, diegetic UI design still has a long way to go. Problems with functionality and style, despite its novelty and intentions, can detract from the intended goal of the immersive gameplay experience. Other forms of UI in gameplay, such as non-diegetic and its variations, can be modified and improved, as well as combined with diegetic elements, in order to achieve better UI design that integrates with, functions smoothly, and visually presents well within the game.

References Andrews, M 2010, ‘Game UI Discoveries: What Players Want’, Gamasutra, weblog post, 23 February, viewed 7 July 2019, <https://www.gamasutra.com/view/feature/132674/game_ui_discoveries_what_players_.php>.

[c-ornflowertea]

Story in Gameplay: Mystic Messenger

eChapter 26 of the Rules of Play: Game Design Fundamentals book discusses the idea of storytelling incorporated into gameplay, or more specifically, how a game with a simple core mechanic can be uniquely enhanced by giving context to the player’s behavior within gameplay. One of the examples given in this text was the Atari Super Breakout—instead of a ball trying to smash rectangles of pixels, the player controls a space shuttle encountering a mysterious force field that threatens its survival. Through this interpretation of the gameplay, the player gains dramatic tension in an attempt to break through and continue the journey, a motivation to overcome the game’s obstacles and a meaning imbued into their actions within the game. It is through these core ideas that a story, a plot in which the game space exists in, enhances a game’s aim to provide an experience.

This time around, I’d like to discuss Mystic Messenger in relation to this topic. As a supposedly stereotypical dating-simulator style game with the dubious tag line, “Downloading a messenger app leads to chatting with hot guys?”, Mystic Messenger is widely known for its compelling story. Between its notorious 24-hour gameplay and fans crying over strangers with bombs in apartments, how has Cheritz devised their game to receive such acclaim?

Mystic Messenger’s gameplay is relatively simple: for eleven days, the player invests their time and effort in order to get to know the characters. Along the way, the player agrees to assist the characters to organize a charity party and revive their association, something they have long put off due to the death of a member. There are several ways the player can achieve these goals. The player is given options to chat, message and call with the characters, giving a realistic range of possibility to keep contact and interact with the characters through the virtual space. Each option gives the player multiple choices to either favor a character or to go against them, which is the core mechanic of the game. The chat rooms, which is the main interactive space, open during set times in the day for about one or two hours. They can sometimes open at three or four in the morning, which frames them into valuable time-sensitive resources to gain a pursuable character’s affection. Participating in these chat rooms also assist in the goal of organizing a party by allowing the player to invite famous guests the characters recommend. The player is likely to be familiar with these mechanics as they are similar to other chat-based dating simulators. However, the key thing is, by being invested in the game (playing through the mechanics and pursuing a character), the players are awarded an emotional attachment and the ability to reveal the game’s underlying narrative.

The game first proceeds with the usual bouts of trying to gain a character’s affection by choosing actions that favor them. However, instead of steadily following that structure, a player is slowly encouraged to make decisions based on how they can support the characters best. For a character who seeks to live a meaningful life outside her work, the player also needs to heed her decision to stay. Another character who eventually discards the cheerful, likable persona the player is most likely attracted to before pursuing his route is someone who needs the most reassurance to be who he really is. Instead of directly gaining a pursuable character’s affection, the player is given the chance to be involved in a character’s struggle and help them become the best versions of themselves. The gradual reveal of the character’s true personality amongst other characters, the intimacy of opening up through one’s own words, and the player’s choice-driven responses all contribute to creating an experience of building a relationship through trust and friendship.

On a side note, someone I’ve talked to about the game said that they see their own struggles reflected in one of the characters. In this scenario where a player identifies with the characters’ struggles mid-way, the player’s choices towards the character, and hence narrative advancement, become something the player progresses through as a means to develop their own perspective of themselves as well.

The end of each route is marked with the best possible happy ending, a mere good ending, or one of the various bad endings littered across the span of gameplay. Within each iteration of completing an ending, it becomes more and more clear that the story progresses the way it does because the player chooses to invest their time and effort in the character they have chosen to pursue. The numerous bad endings that occur are often the result of the player repeatedly disregarding or misunderstanding the characters, to which the character will develop into a version of themselves that the players project them to be. The player is likely to be complacent in these scenarios, implying that the player has made these choices to intentionally create this path of reality. The player’s minute-to-minute choices, such as attending or missing a chat, choosing a supportive response, or diligently trying to make the long-awaited party come alive once again, becomes much more meaningful in a number of ways. The player becomes a catalyst in shaping the character’s own beliefs, which in turn influences their choices, and eventually, forming the entirety of who the characters are really meant to be.

Despite its shallow packaging, Mystic Messenger’s true identity is a game of sincerely showing each character that they can be understood despite others’ judgment. Even the main antagonist, whom fans very much abhor for abusing several other characters, is revealed in a route that she, too, had only been searching for a way to love and be loved, although she had forgotten to love herself in the process. This route, incidentally called “After Ending: Judge of Forgive”, is something that I believe sums up the core of this entire game: to hear each person’s story and be given a choice, to judge or to forgive. Perhaps in trying to complete the game, and all the times choosing to forgive for the cause, the player, too, is given the chance to live for the better.

Mystic Messenger is a uniquely crafted dating simulator that encourages players to understand how or why people came to be, and what efforts must be made to understand each individual person. As humans in the modern era, we communicate with each other through the digital realm, and sometimes we forget that such technology came to be in efforts to bring us closer with one another. The messages, the chats, the calls, the time and the distance—these are all things that we can all hear peoples’ stories from, and in response, either judge or forgive. By encasing such a theme into mechanics players are likely to be familiar with, players can experience an earnest development of a relationship worth their investment. Even now, Mystic Messenger fans eagerly await future experiences Cheritz may concoct to realize this goal.

References

Salen, K and Zimmerman, E 2003, Rules of play: Game Design Fundamentals, MIT Press, viewed 29 June 2019, <https://gamifique.files.wordpress.com/2011/1/1-rules-of-play-game-design-fundametals.pdf>.

[c-ornflowertea]

Player Immersion and “The Magic Circle”

When entering play, something mundane can suddenly become something that has much more meaning. Silly restrictions become obstacles to power through. Pieces of rocks can become the tool to bring the bravest warriors to their end. Everything is in stake for one to fail or succeed. The moment players enter this zone of alternate meanings, it seems as if they have moved into a different spatial environment. The Magic Circle adopts a different reality, a different set of rules, a different goal in sight—all in the name of play. This boundless yet limiting play space is often called “The Magic Circle”.

In a lot of ways, the name fits its purpose quite well. It’s magical in the sense that it can happen in an instant; it doesn’t take a lot of psychological effort in order to agree upon play and enter this alternate space. In the light novel No Game No Life by Kamiya Yuu, a player can be agreeing to rules, bets, opponents and a myriad of unjust behavior just by shouting one word: “Aschente”, and in reality, the process is much less defined. Players only truly enter this space when they shift their frame of view to suit the play. When or how does it happen? Even the player may have unconsciously made the decision as they enter.

The Magic Circle is also a space that encapsulates various parts of reality. According to Michael Nitsche, there are five planes in which a play space can take the form of:

rule-based space, based around rules that govern the possible scope of one’s actions;

mediated space, the plane of visual presentation;

fictional space, one that lives within the human imagination;

play space, the act of play and player interaction with tools during play;

and social space, where the player interacts with others and affecting other players’ spaces.

I believe the presence of these spaces is the basis of player immersion: the idea that a player is engaged with the play to the point that they understand it as a temporary, alternate space. We often define what is real and what is not by whether or not it interacts with other parts of reality. Many times fans would sigh that they cannot interact with a game world as they do with real places and objects, or there would be remarks on the fact that questionable player behavior will not transfer to real occurrences as it is only part of a game. Someone suffering from schizophrenia may even be able to cope by observing if their pet barks at what is potentially a hallucination. If a game is created (as they usually are) to evoke a sense of the cause-and-effect mentality we carry in reality, players may easily come to believe that the magical space truly exists—no matter how physically improbable—because it reflects the systems of our reality.

Sometimes, a game even borrows our reality and play is formed around it, solidifying its structure and familiarity with players.

An example I’d like to use to further this argument is the award-winning time travel card game Chrononauts. The premise of the game is rather simple: the player plays as a time-traveler with a mission to uncover your timeline.

The rules of the game work together to create this elaborate role. Firstly is the way a player’s action is restricted. A player can only play a card from their hand, and they start off with only three cards. Each turn, a player draws a card and then either has to play or discard a card from their hand. This behavior is very reminiscent of how we move through time as humans. We are given a new opportunity each day, and we can either take it or leave it, and as time passes, these opportunities become a part of a past we can no longer touch. However, a time traveler would have some sort of access to this past. In the game, this opportunity comes in the form of Timewarps, described as “extra powerful Action cards”. These Timewarps cards generally let players access the discard pile, full of opportunities they did not take as well as the ability to perform an action they previously did, and also the potential of utilizing other players’ previous actions. In addition to that, a player can only take action in their turn, leaving wide gaps of situations they cannot control. If one player chooses to flip a linchpin card that creates many paradoxes, other players must decide to work with or against them in order to reach their goal. Players must also maintain a semblance of harmony within the game board so that the number of paradoxes does not reach thirteen. If not, “they will cascade into a chain reaction that will rip apart the fabric of history and destroy the entire universe.” Players are forced to focus on how nothing they did during play is permanent; continuously attempting to regain the control of time each turn.

Chrononauts is presented through a game board made of individual cards lining up into a 8 x 4 grid. The board represents the space-time continuum that is often depicted as a form of meta-physical cloth. The fabric has a wrong side that is not meant to interact with the world, and if one forcefully rips a hole out to expose it, a paradox will appear. The paradox is the base for an alternate reality: in order to achieve something new, something must be destroyed for it to have a place. The idea that the player actually comes from such an alternate reality reminds the player that they do not have a place the normal timeline. They need to reach back to their reality because otherwise, they’re stuck wandering in a reality they do not belong in. The fact that the player has to flip a linchpin that is interconnected to one or more paradoxes gives the player a sense of power and connects to the idea that humans are in charge of time. Over time, the game board will be full of paradoxes, flipped linchpins and patches: its a completely different plane of time. However, as every player has a hand in manipulating the game board, there is no one way to reset the time; not that any player has any motivation to do so anyway. This sort of time-scrambling party is potentially what timelines will become if humans ever chanced upon time travel as we think of it. We use it to change time, jump timelines and fulfill our own goals. In doing so we may prevent people from dying or create new inventions. We could even discover artifacts across all of time and space. The adventure of a time traveler is full of timing and precaution; nothing is ever set in stone, so it’s always time to take the step and seize the day.

Playing Chrononauts will leave a player with a lot of thoughts regarding time travel. One is that it’s so hard to even take a trip back home damn it, but also that there are risks involved: one’s reality can be flipped upside down as a consequence of others’ actions. It explains the reality of timey-wimey madness in a concise bout of timeline construction. The way players interact with the spaces (i.e. game reality), with the rules and each other illustrates a plane of reality that may come to existence within conditions similar to the game’s premise: a social cluster of time travelers with powers to sew time like a cloth. In following this line of thought, the acceptable actions—the player is taken into a place where they would uncover a world where the rules of everyday life do not quite apply.

References Chrononaut Rules 2009, Looney Labs, viewed 26 June 2019, <https://www.looneylabs.com/literature/chrononauts-rules>. Salen, K, and Zimmerman, E 2003, Rules of play: Game design fundamentals, MIT Press, viewed 17/06/2019, <https://gamifique.files.wordpress.com/2011/11/1-rules-of-play-game-design-fundametals.pdf>.

[c-ornflowertea]

Gameplay Mechanics: The Rules, Goals, and Design of Go Fish

In Chapter 23 of Rules of Play: Game Design Fundamentals by Salen and Zimmerman, they discuss gameplay as an experience. When players interact with a game, they obtain output that arouses their senses, leading them to feel and be immersed by gameplay events. A game’s core mechanic can be simple yet intensely stimulating.

I was reminded of something I used to play a lot a while back as I read through this chapter: playing card games. There are many varieties, those from easy all the way to devastatingly friendship-ending, and they’re all played by using a standard, 56-card deck — thirteen ranks and four suits — in many different ways. The idea across all these games is simple: a player is given a goal, and the rules provide the challenges the player must overcome by utilizing suitable cards effectively. Play a card well and the player will be closer to the goal; fail to do so and the goal may then be out of reach. There are a lot of different skills that may come to play in different games. I would like to break down a game variation I often played: Go Fish.

Go Fish is played by a group of people, within a multilateral competition setting. Players are pitched against each other and more often than not, the true end goal isn’t to win as much as to not lose. Player actions during gameplay are often based around this mindset.

In Go Fish, a player is given 4-7 cards depending on the number of players. The more players in play, the fewer cards in each player’s hand at the start. The rest of the cards act as a pile to draw cards from. Each player takes a turn to ask an opponent whether or not they have a card of a specific rank and suit in hand. If the player guesses correctly, the opponent has to hand over their card, and if not, the player fishes from the draw pile. The aim is to collect all four suits of rank, and by the end of the game when all ranks are matched up, the player who obtained the most sets wins the game.

So, what sort of mechanics are involved in this game? During the card exchanges, players have an important task of information gathering. While randomly taking cards from opponents is a viable strategy, a rule in the game states that you can’t ask for a rank that you don’t have in hand. Therefore, when guessing an opponent’s card, a player also reveals their hand to other players. Opponents can easily take advantage of this information to accurately identify cards they would like to acquire from a player.

The role of information in the game can also create sudden turns for the players. There is another rule in Go Fish: a player is entitled to keep asking for cards as long as they guessed right in their previous try. It often happens that when a player seemingly has an advantage with three suits of rank in hand, an opponent would swoop in, with a knowing smirk plastered on their face, to complete the set with the remaining card. There is an element of taking advantage of other players’ efforts to improve one’s play, and my oh my is there an immense amount of satisfaction involved in that (although not so much if you’re the one taken advantage of).

In some ways, Go Fish resembles a puzzle that requires the player to be adept at counting cards. Each move is calculated by who to ask and what to ask for, and by filling in the blanks, the player is able to make better and better decisions towards completing sets of ranks. Not to mention, a player is encouraged to stay in the game as long as possible to obtain the highest possible amount of sets (solving as much as the puzzle as they can). However, there is one more rule keeping all players on their toes: if an opponent takes a player’s last card, the player loses. So, should a player keep playing and risk it or fall back and hope they have collected enough points? All this information play and decision-making happening each turn push players to be engaged at all times. My personal favorite thing about having everyone invested in a game raises the emotional stakes, and it can create wildly entertaining scenarios where players dramatically fight over (fake) back-stabbing betrayals and (fake) deaths for revenge. It’s a pretty cool game.

One other thing I believe is important for this type of (deceivingly) simple gameplay is the feeling that a player who lost can win in the next round. Even if a player did poorly in a round of play, it could just be because they couldn’t guess correctly, or the card they needed was hidden deep in the deck. Most of all, however, the little “wins” a player can achieve in the game builds up this impression. More often than not, a player will be able to complete at least one set during the game. They can also have moments where they guess correctly and gleefully catch opponents off-guard. There are also times where the player has enough information to complete several sets all at once — how amazing is that? Little joyful experiences crafted by overcoming the rules create the sense that no, you didn’t lose, you just didn’t win as much! Try again!

In conclusion, designing rules and gameplay is akin to designing player experience. What the goal is and what obstacles are placed between the player and the goal stimulates what player does, thinks, or feels throughout the game. Go Fish is specifically designed to encourage players to keep track of the whole gameplay and be invested in every decision they are about to make. It’s a party game suitable for multiple plays, fights over pieces of paper, and feeding the human addition for dopamine. Above all, it is crafted to simulate the feeling of overcoming a great challenge.

References Salen, K, and Zimmerman, E 2003, Rules of play: Game design fundamentals, MIT Press, viewed 17 June 2019, <https://gamifique.files.wordpress.com/2011/11/1-rules-of-play-game-design-fundametals.pdf>.