Cannabis Indica

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LUDONARRATIVE DISSONANCE IN BIOSHOCK

THE PROBLEM OF WHAT THE GAME IS ABOUT

CLINT HOCKING

In 2006, I praised2 Ian Bogost’s critique3 of Bully4 and lamented the unfortunate

lack of game criticism, as distinct from game reviews. Roughly speaking, we could

say game criticism is for game developers and professionals who want to think

about the nature of games and what they mean. Game reviews are for the public

–for people who play games–and they are intended to help those people make

decisions about which games they should buy. Both are valuable and important

contributions, but sadly, we seem to only have one.

So this is not going to be a review of Bioshock. If you want a review of Bioshock,

you can visit some of the websites listed in the reference section for this article5.

This is going to be a critique of Bioshock. I have completed the game Bioshock

once, from beginning to end. Because it unfolds as a narrative and because this

critique focuses heavily on where the narrative and the play intersect, I believe

having thoroughly played the game once is the correct amount of investment that

ought be given in order to form this critique.

Before I tear into it though, I want to apologize to the folks who worked on the game.

If this was a review, it would be glowing, but as a critique it’s going to be pretty

rough. I mostly really enjoyed this game, and aside from a few minor quibbles that

are inevitable coming from someone who lists System Shock 26 as his favorite game

of all time, I basically think the game is great. In a very important sense Bioshock

lives up the expectations created by its ancestor by inviting us to ask important

and compelling questions, which is wonderful. But unfortunately, in most cases, I

think the answers Bioshock provides to those questions are confused, frustrating,

deceptive and unsatisfactory.

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To cut straight to the heart of it, Bioshock seems to suffer from a powerful dissonance

between what it is about as a game, and what it is about as a story. By throwing the

narrative and ludic elements of the work into opposition, the game seems to openly

mock the player for having believed in the fiction of the game at all. The leveraging of

the game’s narrative structure against its ludic structure all but destroys the player’s

ability to feel connected to either, forcing the player to either abandon the game in

protest (which I almost did) or simply accept that the game cannot be enjoyed as

both a game and a story, and to then finish it for the mere sake of finishing it.

So what is the form of this dissonance and why does it shatter the internal consistency

of the work so totally?

Bioshock is a game about the relationship between freedom and power. It is at once

(and among other things) an examination and a criticism of Randian Objectivism7.

It says, rather explicitly, that the notion that rational self-interest is moral or good

is a trap, and that the ‘power’we derive from complete and unchecked freedom

necessarily corrupts, and ultimately destroys us.

The game begins by offering the player two contracts.

One is a ludic contract–literally ‘seek power and you will progress’. This ludic

contract is in line with the values underlying Randian rational self-interest. The rules

of the game say ‘it is best if I do what is best for me without consideration for others’.

This is a pretty standard value in single player games where all the other characters

in the game world (or at very least all of the characters in play in the game world)

tend to be in direct conflict with the player. However, it must be pointed out that

Bioshock goes the extra mile and ties this game mechanical contract back to the

narrative in spectacular fashion through the use of the Little Sisters. By ‘dressing up’

the mechanics of this contract in well realized content, I literally experience what it

means to gain by doing what is best for me (I get more Adam) without consideration

for others (by harvesting Little Sisters).

Thus, the ludic contract works in the sense that I actually feel the themes of the

game being expressed through mechanics. The game literally made me feel a cold

detachment from the fate of the Little Sisters, who I assumed could not be saved

(or even if they could, would suffer some worse fate at the hands of Tenenbaum).

Harvesting them in pursuit of my own self-interest seems not only the best choice

mechanically, but also the right choice. This is exactly what this game needed to do

–make me experience–feel–what it means to embrace a social philosophy that I

would not under normal circumstances consider.

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To be successful, the game would need to not only make me somehow adopt

this difficult philosophy, but then put me in a pressure-cooker where the systems

and content slowly transform the game landscape until I find myself caught in the

aforementioned ‘trap’. Unfortunately, when we take the first, ludic contract and map

it to the game’s second contract, the game falls apart.

The game’s second contract is a narrative contract–‘help Atlas and you will

progress’. There are three fundamental problems with this being the narrative

contract of the game.

First, this contract is not in line with the values underlying Randian rational self-

interest;‘helping someone else’is presented as the right thing to do by the story, yet

the opposite proposition appears to be true under the mechanics.

Second, Atlas is openly opposed to Ryan, yet again, as mentioned above, I am

philosophically aligned with Ryan by my acceptance of the mechanics. Why do I

want to stop Ryan, or kill him, or listen to Atlas at all? Ryan’s philosophy is in fact the

guiding principle of the mechanics that I am experiencing through play.

Thirdly, I don’t have a choice with regards to the proposition of the contract. I am

constrained by the design of the game to help Atlas, even if I am opposed to the

principle of helping someone else. In order to go forward in the game, I must do as

Atlas says because the game does not offer me the freedom to choose sides in the

conflict between Ryan and Atlas.

This is a serious problem. In the game’s mechanics, I am offered the freedom to

choose to adopt an Objectivist approach, but I also have the freedom to reject that

approach and to rescue the Little Sisters, even though it is not in my own (net) best

interest to do so (even over time according to data on the Escapist forums8).

In the game’s fiction on the other hand, I do not have the freedom to choose between

helping Atlas or not. Under the ludic contract, if I accept to adopt an Objectivist

approach, I can harvest Little Sisters. If I reject that approach, I can rescue them.

Under the story, if I reject an Objectivist approach, I can help Atlas and oppose

Ryan, and if I choose to adopt an Objectivist approach–well too bad… I can stop

playing the game, but that’s about it.

That’s the dissonance I am talking about, and it is disturbing. Now, disturbing is one

thing, but let’s just accept for a moment that we forgive that. Let’s imagine that we

say ‘well, it’sa game, and the mechanics are great, so I will overlook the fact that

the story is kind of forcing me to do something out of character…’. That’s far from

the end of the world. Many games impose a narrative on the player. But when it is

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revealed that the rationale for why the player helps Atlas is not a ludic constraint that

we graciously accept in order to enjoy the game, but rather is a narrative one that

is dictated to us, what was once disturbing becomes insulting. The game openly

mocks us for having willingly suspended our disbelief in order to enjoy it.

The feeling is reminiscent of the Spike Jonze Ikea commercial9 where we are

mocked for feeling sorry for the lamp. But instead of being tricked by a quirky 60

second ad, we are mocked after a 20 hour commitment for having sympathy for

the limitations of a medium. The ‘twist’in the plot is a deus ex machina built upon

the very weaknesses of game stories that we–as players–agree to accept in

order to have some sort of narrative framework to flavor our fiddling about with

the mechanics. To mock us for accepting the weaknesses of the medium not only

insults the player, but it’s really kind of ‘out of bounds’(except as comedy or as a

meta element–of which it appears to be neither).

Now, I understand the above criticism is harsh, and also that it is built upon complex

arguments, so let me clarify a few things.

First, this is not a review. If it was, I would be raving (mostly) about the interesting

abilities, fun weapons, beautiful environments, engaging enemy ‘eco-system’,

freedom of choice, openness to explore, and a mountain of other fantastic things.

But I’m not talking about all of the reasons players should play this game and all of

the reasons they will certainly enjoy it. I am talking about the fabric of the game. I

am talking about the nature of the game at the most fundamental levels that I can

perceive. I am talking about weaknesses that I see (or more importantly that I feel)

when I become deeply drawn into the game and really experience what is being

expressed in its systems and content.

Second, the points I am making may seem trivial or bizarre to a lot of people, and

certainly the arguments the points are built on are complicated. I am sure they are

hard for many game developers to understand and impossible for laymen. Honestly–

I only partially understand what I am experiencing when I play a game as thoroughly

as I played BioShock, and frankly I only half understand what I am saying as I write

this. With the ‘language of games’ being as limited as it is, understanding what I am

‘reading’is hard, and trying to articulate it back to people in a useful way is a full

order of magnitude harder.

So take this criticism for what it is worth. It is the complaint of a semi-literate, half-

blind Neanderthal, trying to comprehend the sandblasted hieroglyphic poetry of a

one-armed Egyptian mason.

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In my rebuttal to Roger Ebert’s contention that games will never be Art10–I asserted

that GTA: San Andreas11 was a more important work of art than Crash12. Now, I’m

not going to bother to announce that BioShock is a work of art. I will, however, point

to another often used film-game comparison… the one that states that games do

not yet have their Citizen Kane13. Similarities between Orson Welles and Andrew

Ryan aside, BioShock is not our Citizen Kane. But it does–more than any game

I have ever played–show us how close we are to achieving that milestone.

BioShock reaches for it, and slips. But we leave our deepest footprints when we

pick ourselves up from a fall. It seems to me that it will take us several years to learn

from BioShock’s mistakes and create a new generation of games that do manage to

successful marry their ludic and narrative themes into a consistent and fully realized

whole. From that new generation of games, perhaps the one that is to BioShock as

BioShock is to System Shock 2 will be our Citizen Kane.

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________________

1 Hocking, Clint. Ludonarrative Dissonance in Bioshock.

http://clicknothing. typepad. com/click_nothing/2007/10/ludonarrative-d. html

2 Hocking, Clint. I stand corrected–partly.

http://clicknothing. typepad. com/click_nothing/2006/11/i_stand_correct. html

3 Bogost, Ian. Persausive Games: Taking Bully Seriously.

http://seriousgamessource. com/features/feature_110206_bully_1. php

4 GameRankings. Bully Reviews.

http://www. gamerankings. com/htmlpages2/928128. asp? q= Bully

5 GameSpot. Bioshock Review. http://www. gamespot. com/pc/action/bioshock/review. html

GameSpy. Bioshock Review. http://pc. gamespy. com/pc/bioshock/815688p1. html

GameTrailers. Bioshock Review. http://www. gametrailers. com/gamereview. php? id= 2610

IGN. Bioshock Review. http://pc. ign. com/articles/813/813641p1. html

Fragland. Bioshock Review. http://www. fragland. net/reviews/Bioshock/1067/

GameCritics. Bioshock Review. http://www. gamecritics. com/bioshock-review

GameRankings. Bioshock Reviews. http://www. gamerankings. com/htmlpages2/924919. asp

1Up. Bioshock Review. http://www. 1up. com/do/reviewPage? cId= 3163060

6 GameRankings. System Shock 2 Reviews.

http://www. gamerankings. com/htmlpages2/185706. asp

7 Wikipedia. Objectivism (Ayn Rand).

http://en. wikipedia. org/wiki/Objectivism_% 28Ayn_Rand% 29

Wikipedia. Objectivism (Ayn Rand). Ethics: Rational Self-Interest.

http://en. wikipedia. org/wiki/Objectivism_% 28Ayn_Rand% 29# Ethics: _Rational_self-interest

8 Escapist Forum. Rescuing Versus Harvesting Little Sisters.

http://www. escapistmagazine. com/forums/read/9. 48000# 318863

9 Spike Jonze directed Ikea Commercial on YouTube

http://www. youtube. com/watch? v= TsQXQGaasUg

10 Hocking, Clint. On Authorship in Games.

http://clicknothing. typepad. com/click_nothing/2007/08/on-authorship-i. html

11 GameRankings. Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas Reviews.

http://www. gamerankings. com/htmlpages2/914983. asp? q= GTA% 20San% 20Andreas

12 IMDB. Crash. http://www. imdb. com/title/tt0375679/

13 IMDB. Citizen Kane. http://www. imdb. com/title/tt0033467/

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JAMES PAUL GEE

Snake and I became

good gamers together.

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PLAYING METAL GEAR SOLID 4 WELL:

BEING A GOOD SNAKE*

JAMES PAUL GEE

* Metal Gear Solid 4: Guns of the Patriots, and the whole series of Metal Gear Solid

games, involve an amazingly complex story which is resolved in this the last game

in the series. I will not detail the story in this paper—because it is too long; I have

never fully understood it; I don’t pay attention to its details when I play (though its

basic themes are important to me); and detailing it would give away many things

people may want to discover for themselves. Readers can look up the story and

all the characters involved on many websites and on Wikipedia, just as I do when

I have forgotten something that I need to know in playing and thinking about Metal

Gear Solid games. There is LOTS to say about Metal Gear Solid 4 only a very

little of which I say here.

Seth Schiesel—a savvy technology journalist who often writes about video games

for the New York Times—had this to say about Metal Gear Solid 4: Guns of the

Patriots:

I play games because of the freedom they afford. In contrast to a book

or a film or a theater performance, a game lets me decide what happens

next, or at least lets me operate under the illusion that my actions matter

…. Metal Gear Solid 4 is not like that. Instead it is a linear narrative by the

Japanese designer Hideo Kojima. You, the player, are along for the ride.

MGS 4 is Mr. Kojima’s world, and you are just passing through for the

moment while he tells you where to go next, what to do and more or less

how to do it (Schiesel 2008)

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Well, Seth is a lot younger than I am. And he does, indeed, know his game stuff.

But in my view, he’s wrong about Metal Gear Solid 4: Guns of the Patriots (hereafter

“MGS4” for short). He doesn’t get it.

But then I have to add: Seth would probably think I’m wrong and I don’t get it.

Despite all the Games Studies efforts to search for a grand theory of games, there

is, in my view, none to be had.

Different types of video games are different. Different types of players are different.

And games and players interact in different ways. My MGS4 isn’t yours and isn’t

Seth’s. Yours isn’t mine. And THAT is the freedom I love in video games.

When I say my MGS4 isn’t yours and yours isn’t mine, I don’t mean the obvious

truth, a truth about any media: different people have different interpretations. That

ho-hum truth is true of books, films, games, and any and every use of language.

What I mean is that in MGS4 I (Jim Gee) am Solid Snake, not you, not Seth, not

even Mr. Kojima, the game’s designer. In fact, as far as I am concerned, Mr.

Kojima is just along for the ride—in his own game to boot!

Well, ok, of course, Mr. Kojima IS in this with me. I am willing to say (I guess)

that it is not just me, but him and me together that are Solid Snake, really. We’re a

team, but I hold the upper hand (I say).

At the end of his review, Seth says:

Of course, by the time those credits did roll, I was ready for the MGS 4

experience to be over. Not that I hadn’t enjoyed it. It was probably the best

near-future action movie I had ever seen. But I was ready to make some of

my own choices. In short, I was ready to play a game.

MGS4 does have long, gorgeous, exciting, amazing, over-the-top-by-any-standards

cut scenes. The final one lasts well over an hour. MGS4 is, indeed, a great action

movie.

However, when I played the game the second time around, on a harder mode,

I cut off all the cut scenes: too bad, then, for the millions of dollars Mr. Kojima’s

spent on them. Hey, there are players who cut off all the cut scenes the first

time around.

But, that—cutting off the cut scenes at least the second time around—is what

the game is designed to have you do. MGS4 is one of those games that you are

supposed to play more than once.

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Why? Well that is what this paper is about, so I shouldn’t tell you now. But I will.

It’s because to play MGS4 “well”, YOU HAVE TO BE A GOOD SNAKE. And you

are a better Snake the second or third time around. There is not just one way to

be a good Snake, though.

So Seth, at the end of his first play through, having seen all those great cut

scenes, should have been “ready to play” MGS4 all over again. And he could have

dispensed with the cut scenes. So much for the movie.

But that’s just my view as a player, not necessarily his. We’re different and his

Solid Snake is not mine and mine is not his (remember). Maybe he doesn’t really

care about Solid Snake. But I do.

So what does it mean to play MGS4? What does it mean to play it “well”? These

are vexed questions (forget—so that we can gradually build to a climax—that I

already told you the answer). MGS4, more than any game I have played, makes

them vexed.

Let me start with something really simple: in MSG4—unlike in any other game I

can remember—playing well can mean playing badly. Most anyone would think,

especially if they are thinking of sports, say, that to play well is to get things right

and do well. But this is not always so in MGS4.

One example: There is a moment in MGS4 where Snake—who in MGS4 is sick,

old, and tired—has to remember a code. Surely forgetting the code is not getting

things right and doing well. But when Snake (my Snake, me) forgets the code—

hey, I’m 60 years old—it becomes part of the story.

Otacon is already worried about Snake’s physical and mental deterioration, as

is Snake himself. This code forgetting just confirms (as the game goes on to

indicate), both for Otacon and Snake, that things are getting worse, as indeed

they are. Aren’t you supposed to forget the code, if you want to go along with the

game’s narrative?

When I was playing the game second time round, Snake (I) got the code right and

Otacon was relieved.[See, Seth, my choice made a little bit of difference].

Which way is right? Which way is “well played”. Who is the better Snake? Hey,

my Snake the first time around is not even my Snake the second time around and

he is never your Snake (remember).

In MGS4 Snake is sick, old, and tired, as I said (due to intentional gene manipulation

of Big Boss’s clones, of which Snake is one, if you must know). He regularly grunts

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and holds his back in pain. He has to inject himself with a special medicine even

to keep going at all.

So when I play badly—when I mess up on sneaking or miss a head shot, when I

have to make do best I can after my mess up—am I playing well? Aren’t I playing

Snake as the sick and tired old man he is in MGS4?

Or am I playing well when I and Snake rise above all the pain and succeed in fine

fashion, as a hero like Snake might very well do? But, then, even in some of the

cut scenes in MGS4 Snake doesn’t do so well this time around. By the end of the

game, he is literally crawling on the ground to meet the final boss, Liquid Ocelot.

Which way is being a good Snake for this game?

You see THAT is what it’s all about for me: being a good Snake in this specific

game (having been a good Snake, too, in all the earlier games). And THIS in a

game that ends [spoiler coming] when Snake’s father (Big Boss) tells him that the

world no longer needs any Snakes, therefore:“Go be a man”.

What for heaven’s sake, does it mean to be a good Snake? What does it mean to

“be a man” for that matter?

So what DOES it mean to be a good Snake? Well this is embarrassing, I must

admit. The first thing (though not the last) I have to say about what it means to

be a good Snake is a bunch of “theory” that got me into trouble in my first book on

video games (Gee 2003/2007).

In my first book on video games I said that video games were a “semiotic domain”.

Lots of reviewers decried my “jargon”(but they were mostly, ironically, academics,

not gamers).

I came to regret using the term. Now, low and behold, what does Mr. Kojima

do in MGS4 but shove it in your face that video games are semiotic domains.

He thereby forces me back to my disgusting jargon (and I hear the readers

creeping away).

Saying a video game is a “semiotic domain” means video games are not pretty

pictures, not “eye candy”. They are, rather,“signs” to be “read”. To play well you

have to read the signs well.

In MGS4, being a good Snake means reading the signs well. So, what’s that mean,

“reading the signs well”? Well, let’s take a quick tour through MGS4, because

MGS4 makes a big deal indeed out of reading signs well.

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MGS4 regularly plays with the medium to get players to reflect on the fact that they

are playing a video game [Some people call this sort of thing “post-modern”, but it

is actually “modernist”, but who cares about these sorts of things in a paper like this

anyway?]. Let me just say that MGS4 constantly “goes meta” in the sense that it

makes you think about the fact that you are playing a video game and does not let

you just play it and forget about it.

Remember those great film-like cut scenes? In some of them we see rain or ice

on the camera lens. This makes us well aware that the action is being filmed. But

wait, it can’t be being filmed, there is no camera, this is a video game!

It’sa regular film technique to do stuff like that, showing muck on the camera lens,

to make the viewer aware the action is being filmed and filmed from a certain point

of view. It calls direct attention to the medium (film) as a medium, rather than

seeing the medium as a transparent window onto the world.

But Mr. Kojima is calling attention to the wrong medium: this is a video game and

not a film and there is no camera. Maybe he is calling wry attention to all the

controversy about how games should not be movies (ala Seth) while they get more

movie-like all the time. Maybe he isn’t. I don’t know.

And, of course, he is signaling what genre of Hollywood film he wants you to

compare his cut scenes to, namely an avant garde action film. But, wait a minute,

there is an irony here. When Snake is at his very best—when you are playing him

particularly well—he sneaks quietly past everyone unseen and there is no action.

During game play, often it’s only when you mess up (as sneaky Snake) and have

to fight it out (as violent Snake) that Snake is in an action movie.

Hey, the cut scenes and the game aren’t the same thing (surprise, surprise). The

game is not acting out the cut scenes. The cut scenes aren’t showing you how

to play the game. So we will have to worry later about what those cut scenes

are doing in this game.[Short answer right now: they are telling you what YOU

owe Snake].

But no matter why Mr. Kojima is showing muck on the non-existent camera, he is

surely telling us to pay attention to the signs: to the rain and ice on the camera.

He wants us to see that these signs signal the fact that this is all artificial, not real,

not a transparent window onto the world, even a fantasy world. It’sa video game

pretending to be a movie, knowing all the while it’sa video game.

MGS4 also constantly makes references to earlier MGS games as games. It

makes constant reference, as well, to the fact that you are playing a video game,

even a violent one, and even suggests that maybe such games are training for real

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violence and, hey, maybe you shouldn’t be doing this. MGS4 even makes several

references to the fact that you are playing on a Play Station 3.

The signs that you are playing a game are rubbed in your face. You are told not to

forget that you are playing a video game, not to mistake it for reality any more than

you should mistake those movie like cut scenes for reality (remember the muck on

the camera).

Some specific examples that I love—and there are many in the game: Snake

ends up in exactly the place where in an earlier game he fought and defeated a

tank by throwing grenades into it. I remember. I did it. Did it damn well, if I say so

myself. But Otacon tells Snake that he has checked with an expert and the expert

told him that no individual could defeat a tank that way. It’s impossible. He asks

Snake how it did it; he marvels that he did it—how did he do it? Maybe it was just

a game, not real. Snake just grunts.

Another example: Deep into the game, Otacon tells Snake that the disk needs

to be switched. He asks him if he sees a second disk. Snake says no. Otacon

says something like, oh, I remember, this is a Play Station 3 with Blue Ray disk

technology. We don’t need to switch disks any more like in the old days. He then

marvels at the wonders of new technologies and Snake tells him “to get a grip”.

Here is another example: One level starts off with the exact 2D game level from

an earlier game. This is a level I remember very well indeed. I have even used

screen shots from it in my talks. You (re-) play the old game a bit and then all of

a sudden it stops and you see that Snake was having a dream. Hey, he dreams

video game dreams.

Yet another example: During those gorgeous cut scenes a little “x” comes on in

the corner of the screen every once in a while. If you keep pushing “x” on the

controller you see flashes of scenes from earlier games—scenes thematically

connected to what you are seeing in the cut scene. The cut scene is totally

realistic looking, but the flashback is out of an earlier game and, thus, looks much

more “primitive”. The realism is ruined (and after all that money spent for the

good graphics!).

This juxtaposition of realism and less realistic graphics from earlier games surely

tells the player that no matter how realistic MGS4 looks—thanks to that wonderful

Play Station 3 technology—it is still a video game and, in core respects, not

different than the earlier games, games which were worse as “eye candy”, but just

as good as games. But then it can’t be the graphics that make a game and the

superb graphics of MGS4 aren’t what makes it a great game.

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Indeed, MGS4 is one of the most realistic looking video games in history. But it

regularly undercuts that realism to underscore that you are playing a video game

—and not just any video game, but an MGS game. Not only do we get all the

references to the earlier games. We also get decidedly unrealistic conventions

(carried over from the earlier games) like a question mark or an exclamation point

showing up over an enemy’s head when he thinks he has discovered Snake (the

question mark) or when he definitely has discovered Snake (the exclamation

point). If question marks and exclamation marks are not signs to read, I don’t know

what are.

So, throughout, Mr. Kojima makes it clear that gamers have to read signs: signs

like the water on the camera, the question and exclamation marks, the flash backs

to earlier games, the wry comments on the fact that you are playing a game and

that what Snake has done earlier (and, therefore, probably now, too) can’t be real.

Why this obsession with signs and reading signs? Why the need to keep telling

you to pay attention to the fact that you are playing a video game and an MGS

game to boot?

Two reasons: First, reading signs of a certain sort in a certain way is what you have

to do when you are playing any video game. That’s why I called them “semiotic

domains”, for all the grief it caused me. Mr. Kojima is just making the same point

in a much better and more entertaining way.

Second: This—reading signs in a certain way—is ESPECIALLY what you have

to do in MGS games in a SPECIAL way, not just because they are stealth games,

but because that is one of the things Snake is good at (reading signs) and you are

supposed to be a good Snake.

Well we are very close to the point now. We have come to the heart of the matter.

But, sadly, I have to pause, because I sort of lied to you.

Remember when I told you that MGS4 “constantly makes reference… to the fact

that you are playing a video game”? Remember when I asked “Why the need to

keep telling you to pay attention to the fact that you are playing a video game and

an MGS game to boot?”(it wasn’t all that long ago)?

Well, the weird fact is that MGS4 does not actually constantly remind YOU you

are playing a video game, it actually constantly reminds Snake. Of course, you

are Snake and so it is telling you, too. But it most certainly is telling Snake. So

it is telling a video game character that he is playing a video game! Isn’t that just

plain weird?

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But Snake can’t be playing a video game, he isn’t real. But it WAS him—Snake

—who defeated the tank (the one that a real person could not defeat, remember),

wasn’t it? Well—ok, maybe no—it wasn’t him, it was ME (as Snake) that beat

that tank. But then real people—and I am real—can’t defeat tanks in that way.

But—ok, I almost forgot—I was only playing a video game. But Otacon told

Snake that it was HIM that was just playing and not beating the tank for real. I’m

confused!

Here’s my idea: Snake’sa gamer. So am I. We’re both gamers. Sounds weird,

uh? Well, ok, stay with me. It will get better (no, actually, it’s gonna get worse, then

it will get better, maybe).

Think about it this way. Mario is really good at jumping. But gamers don’t jump.

Mario jumps and the gamer does something else. Sonic is really good at speeding,

but gamers don’t speed. Sonic speeds along and the gamer does something else.

Riddick is really good at beating people up, but gamers don’t beat people up (so

much for that “games lead to violence” nonsense). Riddick beats people up and

the gamer does something else. Mario, Sonic, and Riddick, whatever they are

doing, THEY AREN’T GAMING.

But Snake IS. What Snake is REALLY good at is just what gamers are REALLY

good at WHEN THEY ARE PLAYING WELL.

And what is that?

Well—sad news, indeed, here—(I told you it would get worse) just at the dramatic

moment when I am about to unveil “the point’, when I am about to tell you “the

answer”, I am going to use another piece of jargon. Surely, you would think I had

learned my lesson by now. Alas, I am (and I hate it, believe me) an academic.

It means that Snake PAYS ATTENTION TO AFFORDANCES, just like savvy

gamers do. Good gamers are really good at paying attention to affordances. And

Snake is really good at paying attention to affordances. In fact, it’s his super power.

So, unlike Mario, there is one thing that Snake does that gamers do too. Snake is

good at what gamers are good at.

So, what in the hell does it mean to “pay attention to affordances”?

An affordance (Gibson 1977, 1979—see, this is old stuff) is something in the

environment that you can use to accomplish a goal. A hammer is an affordance for

banging in nails, if that’s your goal. But an affordance is really an affordance only

if you have the skill to use it. No opposable thumb and that harmer is no longer an

affordance (for you) for nailing. Another example: if you have not taken Skinning

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as a skill in World of War Craft, then stags are not an affordance for skinning for

you, though they are for someone who did take the skill.

So to pay attention to affordances means to pay attention to how your skills match

up with aspects of the environment to take advantage of them as affordances for

accomplishing your goals. It’s all about matching your skills with what’s on offer in

the world, what’s out that that can be manipulated for your purposes.

When you are playing a video game, the skills you have pay attention to—that

you have to match up to the world—are:(a) your skills as a gamer; and (b) the

skills you inherit from the character you are playing (Snake in this case, who,

for example, can’t speed like Sonic, but is good at moving quietly); and (c) the

skills you inherit from the character you are playing that you choose to use (say,

sneaking, rather than killing).

So playing video games as a savvy gamer is matching skills to aspects of the

environment that can become affordances to carry out goals. In MGS4 this means

carefully observing the environment to find good hiding places; to find vantage

points for stealth attacks or sniper shots; to find paths around enemies; to find

just the right place to stand or the right way to move in the environment to defeat

a boss. And much more, all with due regard for your own skills as a player, for

Snake’s skills (remember, he can’t speed), and for what sort of Snake you want to

be and can be (say, a sneaky Snake, rather than a lethal Snake).

Once again, Mr. Kojima is well aware of all this, even without using my jargon. For

instance, in MGS4 he gives Snake a device that just shouts out my affordance

theory: it’s all about matching your skills with your environment.

Snake has a special suit that allows him to meld into his environment (like a

chameleon) so well he becomes virtually invisible. With the suit, nearly every part

of the environment is an affordance for Snake to disappear. Without the suit (and

you don’t have to wear it) he cannot meld and no part of the environment offers him

an affordance for disappearing.

OK, I know some of you think I am making all this stuff up about gamers, gaming,

and affordances. But obviously Mr. Kojima doesn’t, since he devotes one level of

MGS4 to a tutorial on the matter, as if the Octocamo suit wasn’t enough already.

In this level, Snake has to use his “Solid Eye”, a device that gives him hyper-vision

where he can clearly see foot prints, hidden enemies, and other “signs”(like where

loot, such as ammo and rations, are) even in bad light conditions. Raiden (yes,

he’s back) tells Snake that he must track the people who took Naomi (yes, she’s

back), all the while watching out carefully for enemy soldiers.

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But Snake says he really has no tracking skills (oops, that’sa problem). Therefore,

nothing in the environment is going to be an affordance for Snake to track.

Raiden comes to the rescue. He gives Snake a tutorial on how expert trackers

like Native Americans use all their senses to pay close attention to every little

sign (eg, broken twigs, heavier or lighter foot prints, the distribution of the weight

shown by a foot print, sounds, disturbances however small in the environment).

He tells Snake he must read these signs carefully (see, I told you, it’s all about

reading signs). After the tutorial, Otacon coaches Snake through the whole thing.

So Snake (and you) learn to pay very close attention to the environment (thank

god for the Solid Eye). Snake (and you) learn to read all the signs, no matter how

subtle. Then Snake (and you) can use them as affordances to know where to

go—which path out of many choices to follow—so Snake (and you) can pursue

Naomi’s kidnappers without being seen. Snake is getting a lesson, and so are

you, a lesson on tracking and, I argue, a lesson on playing video games, at least

games like MGS4.

Because, after all, Snake is usually good (though not this time) at reading the signs

to use his environment to his advantage. It’s his “super power”. He is always

acutely aware of his environment and has many different skills for getting through

it (and, thus, there are many different ways to play the game, to be Snake). And

you need to be good at this, too, if you are going to be a good gamer and a

good Snake.

Snake can sneak past enemies, he can sneak up on them and stun them, he can

snipe them, he can meld into the environment to avoid them, he can check out his

environment with a robotic drone. He can do much more. And he and you need

carefully to match these skills to the environment to find affordances to accomplish

your goals.

I must say that my Snake was not all that good at the tracking. But remember

Snake said he wasn’t good at tracking. He is just learning, like me. And he is

old (so am I) and sick and tired. So this is another case where not doing well is

doing well (being Snake as he is). But he gets through (not all that badly—for

Snake, for me, or for my Snake—I must say, especially the second time round and

remember I said above that the second time round is important).

So that’s what good gamers do: match skills to the environment to create affordances

for accomplishing goals. That’s what they do when they play Sonic or Snake. So

Snake and I both got a lesson from Raiden, Otacon, and Mr. Kojima on the whole

theory. Get some skills and match them to the environment to accomplish goals.

That’s gaming (later I’ll tell you that that’s life, too).

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But, unlike Sonic, Snake himself is good at THAT—it’s his super power, as I

said—and so he, too, is a good gamer. Snake is a model gamer. He and I

are both gaming, just as GMS4 keeps telling us.[If the point is still too arcane,

then consider this: Mario jumps, gamers don’t. Snake pays close attention to

affordances, gamers do too. Snake and gamers do the same thing. Mario and

gamers don’t. Mario’s great, but this paper’s about Snake].

To be a good gamer is to be a good Snake; to be a good Snake is to be a good

gamer. But remember, Snake’s father told us that after our heroic accomplishments

in MGS4, the world needs no more Snakes—“go be a man”. Perhaps, Mr. Kojima

wants us to stop gaming and go out and change the world.

No, that’s not what he means, I think. Or, at least, not all that he means. In “Self,

video games, and pedagogy” Jenny Wright (to appear) compares heroes in Native

American myths and heroes in role-playing video games. She says:“[t] he sense

of achievement you gain from becoming an expert manipulator of any environment

is addictive and affirming”.

Being a good gamer and being a good Snake in fact requires the core skill, not

just of heroes, but of “a man” or “a woman”—of an effective, efficacious human

being—and that skill is: becoming adept at gaining and matching skills with

different aspects of the environment to use them as affordances to accomplish

important goals.

Sounds too academic, doesn’t it? But try changing the world without that skill.

To play GMS4 well means to be a good Snake. And that means to be a good

gamer. And that means to be a hero. And that means to be a thoughtful human.

Pay attention to those affordances.

Every hero, every human has different skills, different desires. Every hero, every

human matches skills and desires to environments to accomplish goals differently.

Every player plays Snake differently. My Snake is not yours, yours is not mine.

My life is not yours, yours is not mine. My excellence is not yours, yours is not

mine. As long as we are trying to play well, to honor Snake, to be good Snakes,

the best we can, we are all the hero crawling to the last boss to become “a man”,

“a woman”,“a human”.

But why does Seth have to play MSG4 a second time and maybe a third too?

Because each time around, you’re a better Snake.

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And why are all those gorgeous cut scenes there? Just to tell you that Snake is a

hero and what sort of hero he is. Snake IS a hero and YOU can’t let him down.

But, remember, too, the best Snake (in fact the one you have to be on the hardest

level of the game) is a sneaky non-lethal Snake, the Snake that always misses

the action movie in favor of disappearing unseen, unheard into his environment,

all the while accomplishing his goals [On “The Boss Extreme Difficulty” level, you

must complete the game in under 5 hours with no alerts, no humans killed, and no

continues, while using no health replenishing items and foregoing the Octocamo

stealth suit. I’ve beat the level. In my dreams].

Being a sneaky Snake is hard this time around, in MGS4, the final game. Snake is

old. So am I. So it’s ok to make mistakes. But we play again. Make less mistakes.

Snake and I get better—perhaps, too, just a bit younger.

And why is it ok to cut off those cut scenes? Because I know Snake already and

have long wanted to be him and have been him now four times. He is my hero.

And what a ride it has been. Snake and I became good gamers together. Time

now to be “a man”. Or find another game.

I have tracked her unique prints in the snow (and they said I was no good at

tracking!). But I am far away. She does not see me or hear me. She does not

know I am here. But I know she is there. I wait. The world is covered in wind and

snow and ice and mist. It is a pure white out. There is no visibility. Then all of a

sudden the mists part. I have waited patiently. I am ready. My silenced sniper

bullet hurls through the air for a perfect head shot. Unseen. Unheard. Crying

Wolf is defeated. I have been a good Snake. Even though I am old. Oh, but I

will be a better Snake next time around. I’ll use non-lethal ammo. I’ll stun her.

And move on.

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A PRIVATE CORRESPONDENCE TO DAVID THEURER

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MARY D. FLANAGAN

Somehow, the

technological light within

matched the ancient glow

of time in a way I could

find no words to describe.

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A PRIVATE CORRESPONDENCE

TO DAVID THEURER,

WRITTEN BY HP LOVECRAFT,

12TH JANUARY 1919

from the Tempest

RELEASED BY MARY D. FLANAGAN

HP Lovecraft (1890-1937) was an amateur American journalist and fiction

writer who crafted short stories and novellas. Letters are also an important

part of Lovecraft’s literary legacy. The following document was recovered

in the papers now archived within the HP Lovecraft Collection housed

at Brown University. This particular specimen was discovered among the

remains of an overlooked trunk, turned on its side, that served as resting

place to the laundry basket of Mrs. Letitia Edgcombe Thistlewaite, great-

grandmother of the discoverer of the extraordinary letter, Mary Dorchester

Flanagan, who has since herewith shared this remarkable evidence with

the public on the 90th anniversary of the fantastical voyage documented in

the epistle.—the Editor

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12th January 1919, Providence

My Dear David Theurer:

You once asked me to explain why I came at all, and why, like you, I continue to

dread the lurking menace of that other world, its thin red and green geometries, that

spider web of vast and clever choreography, the electrified enigma of brightness and

shadow I discovered upon my foray into Your Time. I am certain that the authorities

never noticed my sojourn. I am also assured, from your newspaper accounts, that

the details behind your work and your present state of mind—the fact that the

dark spaces of your dreams were held aloft in shafts of light and rendered so very

real–are nearly forgotten in the frenzy of the new and the visible. The dimensions

made entirely of light where the creatures live puzzles me so, transporting any

body who engages with your mechanical appliance alongside the speed of 10000

dæmons searching for their next fallen, faithless man. I, Mr. Theurer, retain my own

ghastly nightmares conjured continuously since my visit. Like the others, I have

joined you in a humming state of waking and sleeping madness. What can be said

of the abstract shapes still endeavoring to seek me, and destroy me, flipping and

flinging to my side whether I am merely gazing into a window, or strolling down the

walkways of my humble township, when the chill of evening begins to stealthily

creep through the warmth of a mid-autumn day? Out of the corner of my eye, I still

see these light-ridden aggressions now, this very evening. They do indeed persist

here, back in my time, as well.

I am forced into speech after my visit to you, having kept abreast of the varied

occurrences in your time. It is with significant apprehension that I discuss the

impending political crises and the threat of the miniature-working bombs that later

generations have produced As you may know, since the episode of my visit, men

of science have insisted on creating many more worlds within portals of glass such

as those you expressively crafted in the year of 1980. Unfortunately, the others

have refused to follow my heartfelt advice cautioning of the hollow madness,

which may soon follow one’s encounter with the box. As the remorseful creator

of such haunting spectres, you reiterated my warnings to those living in your own

time from the depths of your very heart, but you were taken as mad yourself.

I saw this most apparent when you so frantically noted to those in power your

dire predictions, and ultimately, confessed your demise.“I’ve got this nightmare I

have where monsters are coming out of a hole in the ground,” you famously told

the authorities,“and I must kill them before they kill me.” You reported your fears

to your employers, and your beseeching ran in the free press from periodical to

published volume. But–this colloquial confession fell to those already blinded by

decades of parading lights, and simple men could not imagine that their beloved

machines might conceal something so sinister. Needless to say, your words of the

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creatures, the dream, and the horror of the lights did not fall empty upon these,

my own ears.

It was from your decade that, as a culminating act of desperation, you entreated

me to come have a look at the spectacle.“I’ve got to kill them before they get to the

surface, and kill me,” you repeatedly cried, and thus built a mechanical appliance to

encase the dæmons, and (with hope) put an end to their days. An incredible plan!

But your horror proved difficult to abate. Thus, it is due to this direst of unfortunate

circumstances that, through my looking-glass, I was feverishly summoned to give

whatever assistance I could in the matter, and arrived with my folding and unfolding

technique to your time and your despairing and the ill-named city of Sunnyvale.

While I was to discover that this was not among the wisest of decisions of my

career, it was one I made nonetheless, the summons too vehement to ignore. It was

a simultaneous lesson in the folly of righteousness, curiosity, and selfless sacrifice

I was later to deeply regret.

There’s nothing ill can dwell in such a temple:

If the ill spirit have so fair a house,

Good things will strive to dwell with’t.

—The Tempest, Act I, Sc. II

The long row of shops were laid out together in a concretely bound, orderly assembly

and appeared almost as though Jules Verne’s cities of the future had taken root.

But instead of pyres in the sky, this city had grown elongated and flattened-out, as

though the buildings were themselves a discriminate attempt to disguise the location

of the sublime mechanical appliance among uniform pattern and palette. I was one

of those fortunate enough to knew of the location from the jumbled notes you had

sent on. But Mr. Theurer, I must admit my awe! What fascinating a place to house

a portal so fantastic! I had once glimpsed it on a trip to the market as I settled into

my lodging. The roads all around were cured and hardened, and much wider than

those I am accustomed; the length alone of the seemingly nameless buildings was

something to behold. I found price of goods to be far greater than I had foresaw,

and thus found myself holding currency of little interest even to numistmatists. In

my dress—well, all I can admit is that I managed, but the somberness of my

heavy-coated retinue in comparison to the lines and bright fabrics of the day, as

well as the sheer absence of so many layers among passersby, may have let on my

secret to those with a keen sense of observance to seasonal whims. Nonetheless, I

pressed on in the newly neighborhood with only an air about me of mild eccentricity

or somnambulistic tendency, and, without much interruption, found, and then again

returned to, the source of my mission’s most heartfelt obligation.

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My looking-position was just at the edge of the flattened allotment outside the

shops. From there, I could just barely glimpse the remarkable portal of glass in its

holding-box; said box resting inside a shop with curious, unsightly chairs affixed by

some means to the legs of the table they serviced, as though to keep them from

escaping the curious dim light of the place. At first I surmised that the holding-box

could be a remnant of a battered Mutoscope, but the ambience of the place, and

the material of the object, were quite exceptional. The box itself might also be in use

as a scientific display depicting the modern wonders of electricity—but, why was

it positioned thus? In other words, to my eyes, the majesty and magic emanating

from the holding-box did not fit the decor. The holding-box, positioned near the

back wall (some eight yards from the window), faced the North, with a bias to North

West, as though the box had been jostled by its hosts in a heaving struggle to attain

some ritualistic and proper alignment. It was covered with a strange marking, an

ostensibly graphical depiction of a spider’s web, with what looked to be a set of

explosions emanating from the centre. There were other marks as well; perhaps

these were of mystical origins.

I wished to enter the shop and blend in with the personages of that locale by sitting

down, perhaps to examine the newspaper or eat the type of baked good that seemed

to be the establishment’s specialty–perhaps funnel cake, perhaps pizza. The

seating apparatuses, however, appeared so rigid and foreboding–I feared that I, in

my greatcoat, could not casually sidle in unnoticed. Thus, that first day, I was only

able to spy the holding-box from afar. A sheen from the sadly ordered, overhead,

chemically-infused glowing illumination source—an unnatural phosphorescence,

or perhaps the units were termed fluorescence—glossed the view of the portal

within its holding-box as observed from the wide casement of glass in front of me.

Nonetheless, from its current resting spot, the mechanical appliance projected…

well, a certain… possibility. When I left my perch for the day, the night sky was

ablaze with more artificial light.

Even though there seemed to be a significant challenge in Sunnyvale, I resolved

that the dæmons were naught less than the others I had encountered during the

ongoing course of my chronicles. I anticipated that mine was a relatively easy task: I

would merely silence the monsters you described so eloquently in your missive, lock

them back into the abyss of the mind, and be done with this place, this time. Was it

old Ephraim’s soul that was locked in there too? The thing that calls itself Azathoth?

On the second day of my visit, I again decided to watch from across the glass of

the establishment window wherein the box lie, resting. Due to an afternoon cloud,

I could see a bit more clearly into the depths of the shop. I longed to approach the

box and stare deeply into the portal of glass merely to glimpse flickering signifiers

as they shifted to and fro, if only to confirm that inside, there might be housed some

tremendous types of sentient life. To my astonishment, finally, I saw! Bright blue

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and green lines on the deepest raven black formed on the portal of glass, and these

shifted to form and form again shrieking geometric bodies, but bodies which seemed

at the same time to consist entirely of light. Forms did bustle about within the box,

in a hideous unknown blend of color and tipped with tongues of foul flame. In one

feverish kaleidoscopic instant there burst up from that doomed box a gleaming

eruptive cataclysm of unnatural sparks and substance, of luminous amorphousness

—yet all this without even a concerned look from passersby! The cabinet did not

seem to be the ‘monster-trap” I had imagined at all, but something far more difficult

to comprehend, and menacing. The whole scene, however, was treated by those

of the public as little more than a neglected shrine at which a visitor may make an

offering, or perhaps, a birdcage, where a collection of fantastic finches might flit

about entirely without notice.

I shall admit, I have personally witnessed the nickelodeon, and of course I am highly

aware of the phenomenon of moving pictures, as well as the history of automata

and mechanical devices. But this phenomenon was truly peculiar. This device

lacked a whirring of gears—strange; it must somehow rely upon the wonders of

electricity–and something else entirely. A Dial emerged from a shelf just under the

glass, where a human hand might rest as if upon a holy book while contemplating

this world—also, there lie small raised circles which seemed to promise places for

the fingers, just as the carved tabs in great books helped to mark one’s alphabetical

or biblical progress. As the scene dimmed, I realized I had maintained my cautious

vigilance a goodly number of hours. I believe I saw English words flicker by in blue

lines within the box. The short phrase, in all capital letters, appeared to spell out

“AVOID SPIKES.” Was this a sign of the divination powers of the box? As it infused

the air around me, the smell of the baked dough ravaged the air with potency, but

instead of entering the shop and nearing the holding-box, I returned to my rooms,

watching each step carefully, looking for sharp objects. I consumed a sup of tomato

soup with a strange dollop of yoghurt inclusive (a “fusion” dish the innkeeper proudly

stated), and I took to writing my recollections well into the night.

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I had to return a third day (late, due to an extended rest) to finally see the orchestration

in propinquity. Certainly, not a fresh market lyme could shine as bright, no plum

could ink the brightness from the day with as much exacting sameness as the colors

emitting from that very box. That third day, I encountered the glowing world within

the portal in close proximity. The scene I peered down into seemed like the coming

doom so desperately feared: the world seemed to consist entirely of lines, dominated

by the ceaseless movement of contradictory two-dimensional geometric outlines

that strained on the variable, storm-ravaged surface. These outlines, however,

strangely possessed a strong sense of depth, as though the shadow of nameless

fear went deep into the earth. The world’s initial flatness echoed to add a dimension

–what was a flat web of lines dancing across in patterns became something more.

I cannot describe the emotions when I actually realized that this initial appearance

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was merely a geometrical and dimensional illusion. Once my vision shifted to catch

on to this trick, I immediately began to render the unfamiliar and comprehend that

there was depth in this world. And finally, there it was—a figure-eight-shaped hole

in the ground; and upon peering down into the chasm, indeed, there were creatures

that emerged from this depth—sometimes only intermittently, sometimes with a

fever-pitch (the vantage point entirely arranged in single-point perspective). The

creatures as described in the account of the dream climbed up from the abyss

and emerged to dance about the edges of the mysterious hole—while in my very

company! Then, the holding-box would shudder as the creatures emitted sounds,

and the portal, after a time, flickered, producing an entirely different scenario of

world geometry. After each flicker, the hole appeared as various shapes; new holes

and chasms appeared, which each included ideal vantage points into the abyss from

which the creatures emerged. At other times, the abyss was a mere line, a canyon

straight down into the earth. The variously shaped creatures—some quick and

bow-tie-shaped, some more like glowing balls, and some that careened out from

the cavity as straight lines—these all moved quickly, emerging to the present up

from the long tubes which extended down into the centre of the line-defined earth.

A claw—both a substitute for hand, I discovered, and some sort of arcane looking,

dimensional vehicle—seemed to embody the very agency of the world-watcher

and could be spun around the world’s edge, around the creatures’ hollow place.

Clearly, the creatures were interested in their own behalf, and saw any interruption

as a threat to their livelihood. How can we know how this husk of a world works?

Must we read the scripts of Τάρταρος, the deep place where from the creatures

come? I asked myself. Does it recognize me as part of it? Which world do I in fact

find myself?

Scrutinizing, and entranced, I was suddenly brought to my senses by a bespeckled,

gangly youth who tapped me on the shoulder.“Lights out, dude. Time to go.”

Perhaps I had stood there for nearly two hours—perhaps more—fixated by

the infinite struggle, which lay before my eyes. I still possessed a final, desperate

hope that they were a mere illusion born of delirium. As I trundled limbs limp from

tiredness, shuffled in my greatcoat, and departed, the fluorescence flickered into

to the turbidity of night, bringing phantasmal flashed of hideously familiar patterns

out into the streetscene. I looked back. The box and its portal of glass did not fail

when other light was quenched. Life continued in there, Mr. Theurer. As you knew

it would.

To my initial dismay, I could not reach you to converse about the dæmons, or offer

you any comfort whatsoever. It was all the ultimate apex of nightmare, made worse

by the blasphemous tug of half-knowledge. Nay, it was inconsequential how secret

your captors kept, I knew by my glass where you were held in reserve. Yet merely

appearing to you would seem to manifest one of several dæmons—this might have

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further contributed to raging madness. This is not to say that I avoided my research

and the task at hand. It cost me terrible effort, but through the course of my fervent

mission, I found less and less want for instruction regarding my interactions.

With these questions freshly engulfing the mind, the next morning I again revisited

the scene. The holding-box provided all the visitors just beyond the shop’s ordering

counter with permanent movement, with distraction. Without realizing the severity

of the supreme horror of where the dæmons lay, the holding box appeared as an

innocent, whimsical, and portable sanctuary from the future. Those onlookers would

approach the counter in search of those (I assume now, a regional peculiarity)

baked pizzas of tomato and cheese, and some wandered off to watch the portal.

In this way it provided a waiting haven, and indeed, seemed to shew itself to be an

innocent window to a new possible world. The holding box, perhaps, pleased the

delusional visitors as well as those dark grotesque spirits which lay so close. The

innocents even went out of their way to relinquish themselves and shew respect in

distorted worship, as though one’s higher place in the cosmic order were secured

the longer one spent with the creatures.

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A young girl approached the holding-box with eagerness. With the devoutness of a

pilgrim, she attempted to please the spirits with a well-practiced and an oft-intoned

ritual, inserting a silver talisman (which I have now identified as not just currency,

but a marker for a sacred fund–a coin more or less figured, a talisman with a

memorable carved portraiture) into a slot in the cabinet as a church-goer secures

funds into the hallowed collection box as a payment towards immortality. After

inserting the talisman, the girl proceeded to grasp the Dial, and tense her muscles

for an encounter with the thing extraordinary. This girl understood the creatures

and their lair without the haze of delirium or fear which had become habit in my

adventures. Her eyes widened and she gripped the Dial with ferocity beyond that of

any natural nine-year-zeal I have witnessed. The girl spun the Dial, and I could see

from behind her particular challenges: bow tie monsters “flipping” about the edges

of the lines, diamonds which come toward the Claw, then split into mirror enemies.

Spiral-moving trails left explosive mines in their wake. At one point the girl shouted

“FUSE-BALL!” with rage in her bright eyes. I do not know if that is the name of a

magical portent, or the name of the multiple-coloured sparks moving in the girls’

Claw direction. It became clear that she had complete control of the Claw and its

speed, though her engagement was clearly venturing into more of a frenzy than a

simple interaction.“Perhaps,” I thought, affixed to the scene,“the machine is like a

microscope for a scale at once great and small… there is the possibility that it could

allow the viewer to observe and interact with another dimension that is both inside and

around the present reality.” There were pulsing style zig-zag chargers that appeared

to make electric or otherwise dangerous the bits of the lines in which the Claw was

trapped. The girl stopped short with her actions, a noise was heard of unpleasant

tones, and her hand fell from the Dial. The creatures had won their insidious duel

yet again.

When the girl had gone, and the place was more or less silent but for the tones

emanating from the machine, I approached the counter and requested access

to the Box. I exchanged some paper funds for the talismans, and advanced. I

could comprehend the presence of life inside the mechanical appliance despite

the absence of typical transforming markers of space; indeed, the geometric life

that appeared to me in the portal of glass subsisted as though spawning from a

pond of life, the very primordial soup gone golden through a strange angle of time.

Peculiar in its simultaneous depth and flatness, the lights in fact emerged brightly,

lizard green and peacock blue from directly through anomalously changing angles

and shapes. The creatures’ gestures were formed by abstractions and shadowing.

Green, yellow, and red shapes emerged from other shapes, as though lines

collapsed themselves here and there to form bowties, parallelograms—creatures,

quite frankly, of unfamiliar dimensions. With every moment, my feeling of elusive

cosmic horror increased.

A PRIVATE CORRESPONDENCE TO DAVID THEURER

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Of the progress of time I kept no record, for time had

become to me the merest illusion. I know only that

something very singular happened in this holding-

box, in this world you called “a Tempest,” and no

god or dæmon could have aspired to create among

persons. I shiver as I speak of them. I cannot say

how many talismans I fed the Holding-box. I do

know that if I had been living tiny lives, my progress

was more akin to generations of the fruit fly, wherein

the brief flurry of vibrant life shakes up the otherwise

cold universe in between. My abilities and agency

swelled and stayed as ocean waves, until another

talisman could come to again renew the cycle

of life.

Fool that I was to become inured to your mechanical

appliance in the first place, oh Mr. Theurer! Fool,

too, was I to discover the emanating voice from your

appliance so very musical; the voice tuned to deep

toils, the voice of crystalline spheres. To look at the

appliance was one such hypnotic interlude; but in

the night, I often felt the musical call too great to

resist. Fool that I was to plunge into the fray with

such unsanctioned frenzy. Now, it is clear that it was

a mistake to succumb to the temptation of my own

hero’s-narrative.

The fifth day, I perhaps lost two hours. The holding-

box—that morning, what a longing for its embrace

I can express to you now, even with the foreboding

sense of despair t’would claim me later! To some

unaware, the holding-box merely served to prop up

the Dial for a visitor to your mechanical appliance.

But for me, the shelter of its sides to guard the portal,

to encase the player in a touch of saint’s solitude

—this is what I wished to return to and return

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to again.

Dare I detail the enemies which swirled up and around the varied shapes of sixteen

layers of the spangled night sky, or sixteen shaped dimensions depicted in the

holding-box? I believe myself to have been most able against the Flippers, those

bow-tie shapes which came up, flipping toward me as though they were gymnasts

in search of a lost olympiædic city and burned with wishes they dare not utter in

words but rather shewed through the body. Next were Tankers, alleging themselves

to the grandeur of diamonds and masquerading as mineral when, in fact, they split

into several versions of themselves, untoward, and with utmost intention of driving

us away.

The mischief of the Spikers cannot be overestimated; even then I plunged into

this ocean of nervous ether and the sinister exhortation of the Spikers. Viscous

barriers and barely-fallible obstacles were clawed and chewed and conquered in

rapid succession by each of the subsequent Monsters of this cursed mission. Their

tempest spins with a great speed and creates in its wake new notions of space

and dimensions. Flippers leapt and attacked, Tankers burst into my vision, and

there was nothing. I started again. Over and over again, when actions bound to

perceptions emerged in my consciousness with a most maddening intensity, the

alternating pulsations of joy and thronging urged nervousness and convulsing. I lost

all lost parts of memory, and instead, was all being and presence. It was clear that

my own perceptions of the infinity of time, and the infinity of the place from which my

enemies emerged, converged down in single-point perspective.

I said to myself, with the ardor of a zealot, that apropos of this world, the sublime

adventure of all our days, we may find that there are those who are willing to transpose

themselves into the fantastic world you have dreamed for us. I certainly was one

of those bold adventurers. The fleeting feeling of joy of the most maddeningly

untransmissible sort thronged within me. Indeed, while inching my inch-worm self

across your dream’s invasion, I experienced perceptions of infinity which at the time

convulsed me with joy. Such spinning, of freedom, saturated my consciousness. I

victored against enemies whom I learned were named Tankers, Spikers, Flippers,

and all of their evil bretheren—at least temporarily.

My research observations were cut short by the closing hour of the establishment,

which housed the mechanical appliance, but I was to return again.

You, Mr. Theurer, arrived, in my imagination, and thanked me; this scene repeated.

I took in your gratitude as I grew conqueror, night by night, talisman by talisman. I

subdued the beasts as King George to the dragons of Europe. I was able to enter

my initials on-high with those of others. HPL. HPL. These letters climbed above the

others in the short list provided. I reached the top of the list, but I did not destroy

the creatures. They kept returning, as did I. The quest was taking longer than

A PRIVATE CORRESPONDENCE TO DAVID THEURER

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I had anticipated.

The night was such when winds from unknown spaces whirled us directly into

the nightmare. It required the discovery of one of the hundreds of common silver

talismans in circulation among the general populace. I should tell you I was shocked

to find the silver talismans in such popular use, even though they allowed access

to the hypnotic and dangerous portal of glass, irresistibly drawn into a limitless

vacuum beyond all thought and entity. Nevertheless, in the dreaming portal, I spun

and crossed lines and lines. The creatures seemed to emerge from infinity. I became

gradually aware through the course of my visits that this holding box was as much a

shrine to a type of technological dimension, a realm of extraterrestrials or supreme

beings–not supernatural, but the most natural, the ancient, close to the life force of

the universe. Somehow, the technological light within matched the ancient glow of

time in a way I could find no words to describe. Inside this world, the “enemies” could

not be evil, for they expressed no emotion, and were from that place in existence

from before evil itself reared its ugly head. They appeared ultimately undefeatable.

Even an ephemeral victory over the encroaching monsters would be ephemeral,

because Old Chronos would inevitably resurrect the geometric-prism creatures and

they would resume their perdurable march forward.

There are those who observe my feelings about your world as to be among the

most fearful, of the most entreated fanaticism. This is unfortunately due to what

happened upon abandoning the portal.

Somewhere around the third week of my visit, I learned more of the psychological

controversy surrounding the mechanical appliance holding in the dæmons. This

date is only approximate, as I cannot now recall exactly how the events match with

my journal’s notes, for I had stumbled upon things no mortal ought ever to know.

Vague legends of bad luck began to cluster around similar holding boxes in other

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locales as well as in this local spot. It appears that those who tried their fortunes

with the talismans were haunted by spectres of the enemies in their dreams. This

was a group of at least 10, if not 20 or 30 regular visitors to the holding-box. A

Doctor was consulted, one Dr. Stickgold, who studied these participants’ deepest

sleep. Dr. Stickgold told us all he would observe us, but indeed, in light of historical

examination of madness, these were medical experiments of the kind pursued

by none other than Mse. Charcot, the founder of modern neuroscience. This, of

course, never reached your news media. I am not sure if you are aware of this, and

I must let you know such experiments have indeed been conducted.

Mr. Theurer, the fact of the matter is, now you have intentionally shared your collection

of monsters with me, and with the rest. You have invaded those everyday moments

already awash in the bloody sublime images of the body of Christ, the floating virgin

mother Mary, the mythic battles between angels and devils, the appearance of the

oversexed figure of Gabriel, whose presence seemed to mark the renewed vigor

and birth of the Flippers and Spikers. These are virgin monster births awash within

our dreams. These monsters from the potter’s ground continue to originate in the

deep recesses of Tartaros, and the raven’s black imagination.

Stickgold at once renewed my faith in science, and emphasized the dangers of it.

The doctor determined that, though the perception of the participants grew unstable

through time, their abilities while using the talisman and such mechanical appliances

did increase their expertise—but began to cost them their minds. Men and women

engaged with your dream world, Mr. Theurer, and reported great slippery wings,

shadows overhead of malignant joy. They slept among those unhallowed pits

whither no dreams reach; that last amorphous blight of nether-most confusion where

bubbles and blasphemes at infinity’s centre the dæmon-sultan Azathoth, whose

name to this day no lips dare speak aloud, in your time, or in mine.

The girl whose visit introduced me to the powers of the world in the portal proved

to be a curious anomaly in the study. Stickgold received approval from her parents

and studied her connexion to the monsters and the world beyond. She was the only

one who shewed no signs of delirium, and functioned quite happily in either world.

Her dreams were, on all accounts, much more pleasant than the dreams of the rest,

if a touch mysterious.

What seest thou else

In the dark backward and abysm of time?

—The Tempest, Act I, Sc. II

A PRIVATE CORRESPONDENCE TO DAVID THEURER

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My consciousness had little hint but instinct to work from during the mission. The

comprehension of the potent force of evil, however, became embedded in my

dazed will and buried recollection. In this place, in the holding-box, Mr. Theurer,

your dreams summoned those replaying endlessly in the locked aspects of my

mind. Through time the freezing, petrifying sense of utter alienation and abnormality

swamped a wave of sickness and repulsion. Attending Azathoth at his court, are the

creatures the Other Gods, dancing mindlessly in regular rhythms to the some silent

music playing in the chasms within the cabinet/altar of the holding box. This window

into Azathoth’s court, this gateway to perhaps all close encounters with the forces

of the universe—climbing a mountain, sailing the seas, exploring deep caves—

there is certain risk of death or madness. The gods, though, will never notice.

The end was abrupt, but in a way merciful, your own spirited dæmons finding solace

within the hole, within other pretty mechanical appliances that simply, no longer,

continued hold my attention. This temple or shrine holds a world as indifferent and

destructive to the worshipper or visitor as a tempest on the sea is to the drifting

sailor. After the weeks of capitulation, I yielded, and have finally returned home

through my looking glass. I found out that I was not alone, for others followed this

very same quest. Unfortunately, your cry for help won over not the doubters or cold-

blooded citizens who might fall pretty to these monsters; indeed, rather, the men of

highest moral fibre who would come to make the ultimate sacrifice to assist you–

you, and your spirited dæmons who in the end were merely indifferent to our various

campaigns and missions. The men of science of your own time appear to prefer the

monsters you have offered to any possible risk of madness. Well, that choice is for

your own generation to commend or condemn. The necessity of home out-ruled the

necessity of Azaroth, the unleashing your beginning, but the possible end of us all.

Yes, you gave a cry, and through my looking-glass, I came to help. Now, I am but the

impoverished, soul-tortured victim you are—no more, no less. Out of the corner

of my eye, they continue. I must exist on a daily basis with the comprehension that

these monsters exist not only in your holding-box, but also in a dimension, which

presses against the once-comforting mind we humans hold so much esteemed.

Further (and this may resonate as accusatory) I believe the monsters have a much

easier time crossing the tissues of dimension because of your mechanical appliance.

Therefore, I render you responsible for creating the portal for what amounts to none

other than an invasion of the senses, and of consciousness itself.

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I bid you farewell. I leave you to the nightmares and to your mechanical appliance.

Unlike some rare specimens, such as the girl for whom only joy seemed possible

from the claw, Dial, and creatures, I do not sit well with the portal. I am afraid of it–I

cannot adapt—for when out of its eminence shines certain scenes, even if familiar

and loved, the mechanical appliance fashions them unfamiliar and hideous.

Yours Truly,

HP Lovecraft

________________

Some lines, mood, and tenor of this work were culled from the Collected Public Domain Works

of HP Lovecraft (1890-1937), available at http://librivox. org/collected-public-domain-works-of-

hp-lovecraft/).

A PRIVATE CORRESPONDENCE TO DAVID THEURER

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JASON VANDENBERGHE

I get better at this game

when I sleep. Just like

the real thing.

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I’M HOLDING OUT FOR A (GUITAR) HERO

JASON VANDENBERGHE

I want to talk about my love affair with Guitar Hero. For those living under a sand

dune in Darkest Escarpion, Guitar Hero was something of an out-of-left-field smash

hit rock-and-roll rhythm game, which has spawned multiple sequels and multiplayer

band games.

It’sa game where you play air guitar for points. Pretty much.

It sports the most amazing add-on controller ever: this marvelous creation

called the mini-Gibson SG, a device that is so like a musical instrument as to be

indistinguishable from one.

Note that I did not say it is indistinguishable from a guitar. Because, of course, it is in

practice; comparing the mini-Gibson here to a real guitar is a little like comparing a

kazoo to a trumpet. True, both require breath to make noise, and both require some

skill (in varying amounts) to operate, but there is where the similarities end. One is

a maker of sound, and the other is an instrument.

That said, there is an enormous amount of skill one can apply to this stupid game.

Just imagine: Dance Dance Revolution, only with a guitar.

It’s unbelievably fun. And, I’m really good at it.

Now, I wouldn’t normally make such a bold claim. Modesty is, after all, a virtue, and

it is important to keep your perspective in such things: there is always someone

better than you out there, and it’s best not to over-celebrate your own successes.

I feel these things to be true, in my bones, and in no way wish to misrepresent my

accomplishments.

So I brought proof.

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Before we talk about that, though, I want to break this game down a bit, and discuss

its genius. It’s one hell of a game.

To begin our discussion, let’s establish the Facts:

• In this game, colored dots scroll at you while a song is playing, and you

have to “play” the right “note” at the right moment. If you succeed, yaay.

If you miss, boo.

•“Playing” a note means pressing the right colored button, and

“strumming” the little lever that represents the strings. It feels amazingly

like playing a guitar, in practice.

• There are four difficulty levels in the game-Easy, Medium, Hard,

and Expert.

In “Easy” mode, you only ever have to worry about three of the five buttons. This

is nice for the uncoordinated, as you never have to move your hand, and the notes

come at you in a nice, leisurely pace.

In “Medium”, they add the fourth button, which you have to either press with your

pinky (often awkward), or shift your hand position (tricky to do). And they expect you

to be able to handle faster notes, and more of them.

You can imagine this, I bet: it’sa timing game, like many others, with the added cool

factor that it really feels like a guitar. Hit one of four inputs, at the right time… if you

played PaRappa the Rapper, you’re not too far off here.

… and then the wheels come off.

In “Hard” mode, a couple of important things happen. The first thing you notice right

off: the notes come at you literally twice as fast as in the previous two levels. The

second thing is that the fifth button starts to appear in songs, which makes the skill

of relocating your hand on the neck a requirement, no longer optional.

And… well, you kind of have to start playing the solos. Which means chains of

tightly packed notes, all in a row.

They mean it. It’s hard.

The two most difficult songs (and, not surprisingly, the last two songs in the game) are

“Cowboys From Hell” by Pantera (oh yes, yes, more metal, bring on the metal) and

“Bark At The Moon” by Ozzy Ozbourne. It… took some time, and the development

of whole new playing techniques, to overcome this obstacle.

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See, this is where it starts to get crazy.“Expert” mode is something completely

different.

In Hard mode, one has the impression that the designers are aware of your fear of

the fifth button. They tease you with it, as if knowing that every time you see one of

those babies appear on the screen, scrolling towards you, your stomach cramps,

and you hope you’ll get it. In contrast, the designers working on Expert mode have

only disdain for this fear.“Get used to that button,” they say,“because you’re going

to be hitting it whenever we damn well feel like you are.”

Gone, too, in Expert mode, is any pretention that you will not be hitting every

goddamn note the lead guitarist played in the song. In Hard, they let you off the

hook here and there, and allowed some notes to “represent” note phrases. This

was in order to preserve your sanity. Note to self: the Expert mode designers are

trying to drive you insane. Was the sound in the song a chord? You’ll be hitting two

buttons at once. Was it played at speeds few humans can even comprehend? Join

the band, brother, because that’s your job now.

As an aside, I want to say that it is very strange how much playing this game is like

learning an actual instrument. Anyone who has struggled with real-world instruments

knows the cycle of learning one goes through, and that same cycle repeats itself

here. I would go for days and days without progressing, banging my head against

the same goddamn song, and then one day I would pick up my “guitar”, and a song

that was insurmountable the day before would be simple.

I get better at this game when I sleep. Just like the real thing.

I only have one more thing to say on this topic, and it is this:

I’M HOLDING OUT FOR A (GUITAR) HERO

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WELL PLAYED 1.0

SETH SIVAK

The simple, repeatable

game mechanics coupled

with subtly ramping

difficulty and complexity

creates gameplay chains.

THC Science

Bringing Science to the Cannabis Conversation!

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