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To play a game is to perform a series of tasks it asks of you. Most of the time, these tasks are some sort of challenge of dexterity, cognition, perception, or some combination thereof. There are also, though, a number of tasks that games ask of us that aren’t challenging – that are simple, rote, and obvious. The example which first brought this to mind is the act of feeding in Vampire, The Masquerade: Bloodlines – in this, since you play as a vampire, you have to find isolated people to prey upon, either by luring someone away from the crowd or just finding someone who wandered away on their own. This is rarely actually very difficult to do, and one would be hard-pressed to argue that it significantly contributes to the challenge of the game – but should it? As a vampire, you should find this act of supernatural predation easy and natural – and so you do. However, one could easily imagine a designer deciding that there was no point to having so much play time dedicated to something obvious and easy to do and either cutting the gameplay element or tuning it to be more dangerous, to be less trivial – and the game would be the lesser for it.

We have a tendency to think of game mechanics solely in terms of the challenges they pose. When we consider a game’s systems, it is most often to see how they collide to provide an interesting problem for the player to solve – that is, a mechanical element ought only to exist if it interacts interestingly with the challenge of the game, a sort of Chekhov’s Gun of game design, where if a gun exists in the world there must also be a terrifying monster to be killed with it. What we tend to devalue in this mindset are the simpler pleasures of existing and acting and being acted upon. Often what provides the most enjoyable sensation in a game is not solving an especially difficult problem, but of feeling entirely a part of the world of the game and of performing the role assigned to you.

Of course, you don’t need to perform your role – a great deal of enjoyment can be head from playing games ‘badly’, from refusing to perform the tasks it assigns or performing them in an intentionally awkward and absurd way – but intentional subversions of the role still position you as a part of the game’s world, albeit an incongruous one, like the Marx Brothers at an opera. Challenge, while it can be enjoyable and can serve to contribute to the plausibility of existence within a space, is not what makes the game – the tasks are the game, whether they are challenging or not.

However, the difficulty of the tasks is still important. There’s a certain amount of wiggle room – games depict herculean tasks managed by fairly simplistic and easy player input all the time while some games, like Bennett Foddy’s QWOP, do the inverse, offering very simple tasks than can only be accomplished by incredibly difficult feats of coordination. There’s a lot of charm to be found in this incongruity at times, but it can also work against the simple joys of partaking in a game’s world – which is why, in general, we are better served by trying to map the systems and challenges of the task reasonably closely to the methods and difficulties such a task would present. This is where a lot of the discourse around challenge in gameplay tends to fall apart – the obstacles in the game begin to be viewed entirely in terms of the difficulties they present, and not in terms of how they express the world of the game and how the difficulty inherent to those obstacles fit into that expression.

Another example of mundane tasks presented to provide a feeling of satisfaction and investment in a space is the house cleaning game in The Beginner’s Guide. This is a fairly small part of a fairly short game: You walk into a house, and someone there, who looks like a generic placeholder dummy, welcomes you as though you’re a friend and starts asking you to do small tasks around the house, picking things up and cleaning them and so forth, and eventually these tasks start to repeat because there’s only a few of them to be done – and, as in life, it’s only so long after the floor has been swept that it must be swept again. Nevertheless it creates a small and intimate atmosphere of participation and care which has interesting implications within the greater narrative of the game. Similarly, many of the interactions in The Walking Dead games from Telltale weren’t challenges so much as they were prompts asking you to participate in the story, in tiny unpleasant chores and in the mechanical necessities of survival. These are tasks which must be done, but which aren’t meant to challenge.

Even when tasks aren’t meant to be challenging, though, they’re still part of the mechanics of gameplay, and can have significant consequences. Though feeding in Bloodlines is usually trivial, under some circumstances it can become much more pressing and far more difficult because you’re already dealing with other problems such as pursuit by police or vampire hunters. Similarly, in Far Cry 2, you occasionally have to contend with short debilitating bouts with malaria, during which you can’t do much of anything. You have medicine you can take to recover, and all in all it only takes a few seconds, but a few seconds is all it takes for something to go disastrously haywire, a car to run off the road, a barrel to blow up, an ambush to be sprung – so depending on timing this mundane but necessary task can become a huge wrench in the gears.

There are plenty of games that press against the presumption of challenge, but most of these are presented as open-ended, with no particular required tasks but many possible activities. As many options as we have to make games that aren’t based around proving technical skill, that still tends to be our fallback position. The earliest games were entirely about such skills, with paper-thin narratives built up around them to contextualize and justify the simple gameplay – as games got bigger and more complex, as the actions they could offer gained more capacity for nuance and expression, the stories got more complex as well, but stayed largely in the mold of their predecessors, simple stories that justified simple mechanics. The restraints that held us back from envisioning wildly different experiences at the advent of the medium still hold us back today, just because so much of what we understand a game to be is rooted in the simplistic challenges that the technology once held us to.

Perhaps it’s time to make more games that are as much about existing, about being in a world and performing to the expectations of that world, as about solving, discovering, and controlling.

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Most games are competitive in nature – some might argue that as part of the definition of game, that anything that isn’t competitive is really a puzzle or some other sort of interactive entertainment. What the word ‘competition’ even means in a simulated environment isn’t necessarily obvious, though: Some games have very direct competition between human players – most traditional games and sports fall into this category, alongside multiplayer shooter and real-time strategy games and so forth – but, more recently, video games have created the ability to have simulated competition, other entities which act like competing players but which don’t require a person to provide the input. One could regard these as, since they’re not actually being controlled by a person, being essentially a puzzle to be solved rather than in competition – but they are presented as competition, and provide much of the same sort of satisfaction that we seek from competition.

What many single-player games then boil down to is a sort of competition pornography, a way of simulating an interaction between people in an experience built for just one person. The problems that emerge in these interactions tend to be the same as those that emerge with pornography– the sensations most desirable in the interaction become isolated, then amplified, then exaggerated to grotesque proportion. That which was meant to be intimate becomes raucous, that which was meant to negotiate dictates, and that which was meant to be understanding becomes controlling. This isn’t inherently a problem – it’s fine to enjoy ridiculous exaggerated entertainment as long as we understand it to be entertainment – until it becomes the default, the status quo. When we solely understand conflict and competition through obscene hyper-competition, just as when we understand sex through contrived hyper-sex, we begin to cede the ability to understand how to actually interact with other human beings.

Most of us can figure it out, anyway, but the more artistic license and exaggeration that is taken, the more it feeds into a solipsistic view of human interaction. What separates a game that is grotesquely hyper-competitive from any other competitive game? Is it possible to create a game that simulates the sensation of competing with another person without implicitly boiling human lives and interactions down into insultingly simplified systems? The question of how to portray something meaningful without suggesting that it has only the meaning we assign to it is one that rests at the core of art. How can we reduce something to its appearance, to a set of symbols, to a series of words or interactions or moments, without removing something vital? How can you taxidermy emotion?

The presentation of a game as competition doesn’t rest in any one place within the game. The mechanics contribute by creating opponents with similar capabilities to the player, the presentation contributes by making them look and sound like a person, and the narrative contributes by giving them motives and backgrounds that place them in opposition with the player. Most single-player games function by generating a huge field of completely committed enemies that are categorically opposed to the player and whose only call and only response is lethal violence – which, again, is fine as far as it goes, but is also extremely limiting. Even in most games where they are motivated to oppose the player through more robust systems, enemy NPCs rarely prioritize protection, preservation, escape, or survival as tactical goals – they merely flip a switch over to hostile and attempt to fight the player to the death.

What makes this uncomfortable now is how often we see real groups of real people portrayed this same way. There are those, so the rhetoric goes, whose way of life is inherently incompatible with ours; there are invaders; there are gangsters, there are born criminals, there are those whose only understanding of the world is through violence, and to defeat them we must become the same and only understand the world through violence against them. While I love much of what we have achieved artistically within the medium of electronic entertainment, it has become terrifying to see the rhetoric of dehumanization and the necessary evils of simulated competition slowly grow and knit their leaves together until they become so similar.

It is not the violence that is the problem. It is the understanding of violence as an inevitable consequence of an inevitable action, of the world as a zero-sum game, that is the problem. It is coming to no longer see these contrivances and assumptions as assumed or contrived that has become the problem. Of course it’s not the games that are to blame, and it’s not the competition that has made the world a blood sport. The systems these games are made of are just revealing, and reinforcing, the things we have believed all along.

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I’ve been drawing for a while now, and the mindset of art has changed the way I understand human beauty. I find it strange now that people can admire the beauty of a body as a whole without really noticing the shape and movement of the limbs, the folds of nose and eyelid, the manner of the fingertips, the position they take, the way they hold steady or fidget or tremble. It’s strange that people can love the beauty that’s skin deep without really seeing the muscles and fat underneath that skin, how they slide over under one another and give that skin shape, the bones they attach to creating levers and joints to move that skin, give it ways to touch the world and interact with the world with purpose, with meaning. And below the fat and muscle and tendon and bone is the brain and other assorted organs, keeping it all moving, giving it all intent and life. How odd to only feel the exterior of that system is the beautiful part. The exterior is the part we see, the exterior is the part I draw, but every part of how that exterior is shaped and positioned is a symptom of and consequence of these underlying structures – what makes it beautiful is this relationship, this system of causes and effects, this machine that we call human.

It’s not actually drawing that made me feel this way, though. I’ve always solved problems by tracing backwards, to determining, once I find an end-state, what must have occurred to bring it about. I’ve always observed the reverse to revere the obverse, understanding things from both ends, conflating the effects and their causes: What is effect and what is cause is mostly a matter of perspective. It’s how a lot of humor works: Show the audience a situation that is, at first, inexplicable, and then connect it just tenuously enough to its antecedents to give them the delightful sensation of discovering the explanation for the inexplicable.

When we tell stories, if we tell them well, every moment leads to the next in a way that seems inevitable. We create not just a series of moments, a set of scenes, but also a set of connections between those scenes. A moment in the story may be exciting and beautiful, but what gives it meaning isn’t just that moment, it’s the moments that made the moment happen. There’s the whole ‘butterfly effect’ idea, of how a butterfly flaps its wings and down the line by the by eventually causes a great storm – but it’s never just one butterfly, it’s the breeze of a million insect wings, heartbeats, falling leaves, that somehow coalesce into a great consequence. There’s nothing special about the butterfly or its breath, and the great consequences could descend from any sufficiently long chain of insignificant events, moving the world by weight of a sufficiently long lever and place to stand.

You can’t be so blinded by the beauty of the system at play that you cease to care about results though. Every system is equal if you stop caring about results – death and life, sickness and health, liberty and fascism, these all may emerge from systems of beauty and elegance, but some are far less agreeable than others to those of us doomed to live in these systems. There’s no difference between the accidental systems of natural happenstance and the (supposedly) carefully cultivated systems of human society – except that (again, supposedly) the systems of human society provide results more congruent to the purposes of living a comfortable human life.

There’s a sense of inevitability when you look at the moving gears, at the anatomy of the world. But there’s no reason why the gears need to be where they are. There’s no reason for us not to move them as needed. We may, in fact, only be a tiny part of the system. It may, in fact, only be guesswork what will happen when we move things around, when we seek to change the system. And yeah, occasionally our spasms will cause earthquakes and our wings will cause hurricanes… but earthquakes and hurricanes happen anyway. We’ve lived in a system long enough to have some idea, some idea of what might lead to what. We can move. We can change. And though we will be attended by disasters and though harm will be caused, the world will change with us, and we will create more than we destroy, and we can slowly tune the heartbeat of the world into harmony.

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I’ve been having a hard time writing recently. Sometimes it feels like I’ve got nothing left to say – not necessarily there aren’t any ideas for topics, but that all of them seem thin or redundant, either something I could only say one or two facile things about, or something I’ve already written about, or something that anything I wrote about would be so close to the common pre-existing conception of the topic that I might as well not bother. Usually I figure something out. Every time, though, it gets harder – not consistently, since some are easier and some are harder, but steadily, over time, the resistance builds up.

The world is vast, though, far vaster than my meager writings. Even my chosen niche, that of games and art and how we touch them and they us, is wide enough that I ought to be able to write on it indefinitely. Still, it becomes more difficult to do so meaningfully. Every time, there’s a part of me that’s scared that maybe I’ve mined this vein out, that maybe I’m running dry and I’ll just be unable to say anything more that means anything – without, perhaps, going out and finding new experiences, without prospecting the stories out from the world at large.

This fear reveals a gap, a hole, a bleeding wound in my conception of what creativity is. I have a tendency to view creation as the act of taking something out of myself and polishing it and presenting it to the world, and in exchange I take whatever their response is, be it emotional or fiduciary, and digest it, and then along with other bits and pieces of myself use that to fuel the next work, and so on, and so forth. The factory model, the miner model, where resources are stripped away and manufactured and sold and then more resources are acquired to replace them. It is a very American mindset. I am colonizing myself, stealing my territory, stocking my shelves off of my shipments of vital supplies.

Why would I think about myself this way?

I am not plundering when I write. I am not burning resources – even the time and energy it takes to write are still mine, as much as any time or energy were ever mine. I am just mapping the territory, charting the ever-changing landscape of my mind, of the world as I understand it. The work will always be incomplete, because both my inner world and our outer world which it resides in are in a constant state of flux. The work will always be imperfect, because it is impossible to understand anything completely.

We do not understand anything in the world as it is, but approximate it successively through symbolic analogy. The painting The Treachery of Images, by René Magritte, shows an image of a pipe with the caption “Ceci n’est pas une pipe,” or “This is not a pipe,” written underneath. This illustrates the difference between the real and the image – but even the physical object we call a pipe isn’t itself a pipe, at least not on its own. What makes it a pipe is its perception as and use of as a pipe – the ‘pipe’ symbol, stored in our brain, as it is applied to the pipe-shaped object with pipe-like properties. This is the way we understand the world: pipe symbols, tobacco symbols, fire symbols, smoke signals, none of which are quite directly related to the world objects they refer to, and we become adept at understanding how the real-world objects can interact so that we can abstractly model these interactions using the symbols in our mind. This is what applied mathematics are as well: A methodology for converting objects into symbolic representations and performing abstract operations on them in an effort to predict how they will behave.

All of this is a long detour to state that, no, I can’t strip-mine my mind, because my mind cannot store a language to completely describe itself, just as a book can’t losslessly contain the description of a book ten times its length. No matter how much of myself I can strain to successfully describe, there will always be uncharted parts of my mind, left covered in clouds, stamped with a legend that says “Here be Dragons.”

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The monthly project thing didn’t work out. There’s a few reasons for that, but the biggest one is the issue of enthusiasm management, a skill which I’ve had to improve at over the past few years. I guess some people call it passion when they’re able to work on the same project for half a decade. It’s passion in the way that gripping onto a flotation device in the ocean is passion, I suppose. It’s passion in the way that being compelled to return to the scene of the crime is passion. In the way getting a song stuck your head is passion.

I like making things – or, at least, I get restless very quickly when I stop. However, I have a hard time caring about any particular thing consistently. Something that seems extremely important one day can seem utterly pointless the next. It’s a toxic amount of perspective. EverEnding is the rare project that still interests me on successive days, weeks, months… and when I have something that I can care about consistently, that still feels like it has meaning from one day to the next, I cling to it. Perhaps I cling too tightly. Perhaps I sabotage myself in terms of completing the project because I’m not sure what will come next. I think I could come up with another project, though, if I needed to, once this one’s done – what I can’t do is commit to a bunch of small things, objects made to be practice, to be stepping stones, to be disposable, forgettable, irrelevant. I know that’s a bad way to think about them. I know that you never know where a work of art might lead, what might reveal itself to be important later, what might be the actual core of who you are as an artist.

Nevertheless, if the work feels trivial, I cannot do it. Not for long. So it seems.

And yet, if all I want to work on are large projects, then I can work for a very long time while achieving relatively little. If I spend weeks making an animation or a feature, and the game never comes to fruition, then what have I done with those weeks? Are they wasted? Evaporated?

Is this a question that only makes sense to ask because I have little else in my life besides my work – work which seldom seems meaningful to anyone besides myself?

Sometimes all it takes is a change of perspective to see value again. I don’t like anything to be forgotten, to be just a point in between, to be flyover country, so I’ve started to change the way I think about work. Every game is made of hundreds, of thousands of tiny components – art and music and writing and so forth. I’ve tended to think of these as being stepping stones: of being necessary components to create the game I envision. That’s not inaccurate, but each of these creations also exists in its own right, each is something I’ve made, each is a work of art. It’s time I took pride in that. It is necessary: Otherwise every today becomes dependent upon an unknown tomorrow, instead of each tomorrow extending from the foundation of today. At a time in the world where tomorrow is so uncertain, when I don’t know how long I will be able to work before disaster begins to overtake us or who will be left to be interested in my work, I have to find value in what I am doing now. Later can wait until later.

Rather than every month being a new monthly project, every month from now on is both part of a large overarching project and a succession of micro-projects, which I will do my best to share with you. I may withhold bits and pieces here and there if I think it would be spoiling a surprise, but short of that I will try to be as open as possible. I’ll also be, once I get a bit more groundwork laid, setting myself milestones. If I commit to the idea of a large creation as a series of smaller creations, and if I’ve proved that I can do smaller creations to deadline, then there’s no reason why I can’t create, and perhaps even release, the entire project that way.

So far, EverEnding is one of the few projects I’ve managed to care about for more than a month or two, and also one of a very few among those few that I have a chance to actually bring to fruition. As overambitious as the concept may be, it’s fairly modest in many ways. If I was less particular about the methods of its execution and more consistent in my ability to work on it, it would likely be done by now.

That was the main thing I wanted to talk about. But something else is gnawing at me, and I can’t exactly describe its outline. I feel so strongly about imparting emotion and experiences to others that I feel like I’ve numbed myself, cloistered myself, robbed myself of emotions and experiences of my own. My world is a world of words and lines and numbers. It is beautiful and these are good and necessary things, but it’s nutritionally incomplete. If the unexamined life is, as they say, not worth living, what about the opposite? Is a life comprised entirely of examination any more worthy? It feels like half to two-thirds of an actual human life. I don’t know how to finish it – but I suppose life, like all art, is never finished, only abandoned.

If nothing else, I will continue to write. More than being a consistent creative outlet, more than it hopefully providing interest and insight to readers, this has become an invaluable tool for sorting out and expressing my own ideas and emotions – not to mention archiving them, since it is terrifyingly easy to forget things that seemed very important just days before.

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Is there a name for the deep hunger for evidence that we actually exist? “I think, therefore I am” is a pretty flimsy reassurance. Every character we write believes that they think; every character we write believes that they are. It feels all too likely sometimes that we’re just Bruce Willis at the end of The Sixth Sense, suddenly noticing that we aren’t here and never were. We crave evidence – evidence that there is an “I” that can be, evidence that there are thoughts separable from background noise, evidence that the world is in some way measurably different than it would be if we were not here. We can only seek within our perception for proof of our existence, though: What measurements can we meaningfully take when every data point is filtered through a suspect perception?

It’s a need without a name. Not quite social, since the evidence needn’t come from other people, but one often fed by friends and family. Not quite self-fulfillment, since in many ways it doesn’t actually matter if the role we play is one we particularly enjoy. It isn’t recognition because the only person whose perspective matters on it is ourselves. It isn’t a craving for power, though power is often necessary to fulfill it. Where does it come from? A multi-millennia old optimization, ensuring that if we don’t play a vital role in constructing our environment we slowly come to feel apart from it and unwelcome within it.

Why does it feel like so many are left hungering, looking for any evidence that their life, body, and mind, are tangible?

This craving always existed but it has also been fostered. We always wanted to be valued, to contribute, but the cultural narratives we are given of what work has worth and who can contribute has been constrained to a terribly narrow slice, defined in capitalistic terms of ceaseless and blind growth and ambition. To truly exist becomes defined as achieving success, and achieving success is measured by generation of profit. We are told that it is not just an opportunity but an obligation for us to make a difference. We are told stories of great men who shaped the world instead of the stories of good people who improved it. We are told to work hard, to make money, that the only way to feel like we exist is to produce value – though, in the end. we keep little of the value that we have produced.

There is, in each of us, a craving to be part of something greater than ourselves. There is also, in each of us, a craving to stand out, be seen, to be an individual. There is a fear that we are disconnected; there is also a fear that we are replaceable. And we spend our lives seeking some way to balance these cravings and these fears.

Different cultures push further towards one or the other of these as a norm. While elsewhere there is greater emphasis on defining yourself on being part of a family or community, here in the USA we tend to push way over towards the individualistic side, to be unique and to be seen, to tell ourselves that until we’re somebody we’re nobody. There’s a huge drive to distinguish ourselves in some way, to become singular, outstanding. Being the best at something is a common desire but is just one obvious path. There are many paths to individuality, and as many lead to infamy as lead to fame.


In our stories, we create conflicts between characters, between individuals. Often their motivations are entirely personal: Greed, jealousy, anger, fear. Rarely, though, do we explore where greed comes from, where jealousy and anger and fear are created – perhaps, at best, the proximate cause, the slight or the insult or the disappointment, but extremely rarely the characters’ cultural understanding that the right way to respond to these infractions is with revenge, with conflict, with violence. This, perhaps counter-intuitively, becomes even more true as the media becomes more prestigious: High art is rarely concerned with why things are, only that they are. It is concerned with the specifics of trauma and violence and lust, and never with the underpinnings of where these emotions are seeded. It is concerned with the individual, and not with the society they emerged from.

All this is exemplified by and to some degree stems from the prime edict of ‘good’ writing: Show, don’t tell. Show the characters’ internal lives, don’t tell what gave rise to them. Show the sex and violence, the immediate and visceral interaction, without attempting to impart any understanding of where the desires towards intercourse or physical harm emerge. These are just human nature, right? Right??

Lust and violence, urges to power and protect, love and hate, these are all part of our species-wide heritage – that much is undeniably true. However, the form that these take, the things we come to lust after or hate, hurt or protect, are shaped by the culture they exist within. But ‘good’ art is not allowed to question these, because that would be telling – not showing. We are concerned with only the proximate cause and effect, and never the long chains of systemic causes and effects that lead to them. So every villain in our stories is on trial for war crimes, saying over and over that they were just following orders – and we never stop to wonder who gave the orders in the first place.

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In games, actions have consequences. This is broadly true in all cases: The game is defined by its reactions to the actions you take within its spaces. However, when we talk about games – and when games talk about themselves – the concept of ‘consequence’ tends to take on a very specific meaning: When a game says that actions have consequences, it means narrative consequences – and, though this is not so much stated as assumed, it also tends to mean that these consequences are karmic. That is, good actions achieve good results, bad actions achieve bad results . If you’re not sure what good or bad are, don’t worry: The game will tell you.

While consequences in these games may be unexpected or even unintended, they almost always fall within the broad moral scope of whatever choice you’ve made. If you choose to kill, more people die, more chaos is created, the world is made worse, and if you choose to spare the world is made happier, safer, more predictable – regardless of who or what it is you choose to kill and what mayhem it may cause in the future, or how cruel the circumstances of ‘sparing’ might be. Obviously, cause and effect are not always this predictable: The world is capricious, and when you take an action within its systems the consequences that emerge from it are often quite unpredictable and unrelated to whatever moral reasoning was used to arrive at that decision.

This abstraction would perhaps be less galling if the games using these karmic systems weren’t premised on the justness of violent intervention under all circumstances, with only these specific predetermined pivot points being where the use of violence to achieve your definitely just and righteous goals was questioned.

Even if this is frustrating, it’s also revealing. We take a lot of cognitive shortcuts when it comes to moral reasoning. Often, legality comes to stand in for morality, which is convenient because then the flawed mechanisms of human justice can appear as some sort cosmic justice, and the consequences of our actions can seem, if we squint, to take on a moral dimension. The worst evils, though, are frequently entirely legal, and performed by organizations rather than individuals, while the law often punishes courageous moral acts performed by individuals. First legality, then morality, comes to be defined as that which stands with power and protects the status quo. No one with a heart and mind could believe that this is a good measure of ethics. Many people manage it, regardless.

Most games are either interested in an absolutism where the law is the rules and any infraction is a failure to play the game properly or in a nihilism where all legality and morality is irrelevant and the player can cause as much mayhem as they wish without thinking about its impacts. However, when we try in games to explore moral gray areas it mostly comes in the form of individual decisions – and overwhelmingly often in taking shortcuts to ensure extralegal punitive justice is meted out. This is in some ways an acknowledgment of the limitations of legality as a system for approximating cosmic justice – but always by stating the system is insufficiently punitive to some person in particular. We know the law and its enforcement is often unjust, so standing against it might not seem morally gray at all if we don’t tack on some other ethically questionable action such as vigilantism – but this leaves a gap. Morally gray action 1: Uphold the law, which is questionable. Morally gray action 2: Defy the law in order to do something questionable.

In aggregate, most of the options offered by games are: Follow all the rules, break all the rules, or selectively break rules to enforce punitive justice. Rarely do we actually have the option of defying the law in order to do something morally just beyond punishment. This gap between legality and morality is vital to explore, and yet because of how we have defined our moral terms it becomes invisible to us. When the law bans compassion, only the outlaws will have compassion.

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