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Game Design

Everything in a game is there for a reason – whether that reason is because it’s necessary for the player to progress, because of aesthetic appeal, or because of an oversight on the part of the developers, there’s some history behind every bump and nook and crevice of the world. Much of the time, this history is merely of idle curiosity – the sort of stuff that’s interesting in developer commentaries but doesn’t really get talked about elsewhere.

Frequent players of games, though, tend to notice the patterns of this history. If two objects have a particular spatial relationship to each other – say, they’re just close enough to jump from one to the other – then we start to infer the intent behind the placement. This is particularly noticeable when solving puzzles in games. When the developer has created the environment to be navigated in one specific way, everything about the structure and layout of that environment becomes significant. It’s like a cryptogram: there’s a meaning behind this arrangement of elements which is directly being communicated to us, but the meaning hides behind a layer of obfuscation. And, like a cryptogram, solving the puzzle is mostly just a process of sorting all the information available to us properly: Once you know what every element’s role is, the solution becomes obvious. This is, more often than not, why people see twists coming in a story as well – not because the thing that happens next is likely, but because all of the pieces of the story moving to set up the twist lack subtlety and too clearly show the aims of the author. As with games, every part of a book was written for a reason, and if you’re good at seeing what that reason is then the shape of the story will start to take form long before it is read. Writers who are invested in creating a sense of surprise and discovery often need to find newer and more subtle ways to create surprise as we get better and better at reading their intent. We could view this as a sort of game itself: The artist’s attempt to create a surprise vs the reader’s ability to decode their intent prematurely.

Real spaces, too, have a history that is shaped by cause and effect. Places where people walk become trails and trails become roads – spaces not made to create puzzles, but merely to be traversed and lived in. The ability to infer the history of a space, whether virtual or real, can be a useful skill. It is not, however, a generalized problem-solving skill. That is to say, if you’re very good at solving puzzles, that doesn’t necessarily make you very good at solving problems. The problems we encounter in the world aren’t very much like the problems that games propose to us. They are not bounded or discrete, their elements are not carefully placed to be used. They are inconvenient and messy, and it’s not always clear when one has found a solution – or what other new problems that solution may pose. Problems may not even be solvable at all. The obstacles that games present may be useful for keeping your mind sharp, but the amount of transferable skill between the tiny constrained problems offered by a game and the huge incomprehensible problems proffered by day-to-day life is minimal.

While the skills games teach may, at times, have utility, that utility is rarely anything like the way those skills are represented in-game – that is to say, while the manual dexterity and tactical thinking needed to become a martial arts master in Street Fighter may have other applications, it won’t help you win many actual street fights. It’s sometimes difficult to accept that the skills don’t transfer, though, because to accept this is, some feel, to denigrate their validity as skills. Beating Dark Souls doesn’t mean you can fight a horse, but it does mean you’re capable of a certain degree of patience and care and precision. Doing something that’s difficult doesn’t necessarily mean you can do anything else that’s difficult, but it does mean you have the capability to face and overcome a difficult problem, if perhaps a very constrained one.

It may be obvious that playing video games isn’t generally good training for real life problems, but it’s worth restating because we tend to believe in the idea of generalized mental capability, in a sort of hierarchy of intelligence, to believe that if you can do one difficult thing that smart people do you can probably do other difficult smart-people things. What lets people do difficult things, though, isn’t some sort of abstract intelligence, some numerical value that makes them better at brain stuff than other people. It’s skill and it’s practice. We have a very easy time with this idea when it comes to athletic pursuits, to the idea that the abilities that make a person great at one sport probably don’t lend themselves to making them great at another sport, but have a harder time with it when it comes to mental skills.

Movies and television like to use a visual shorthand to show that a person is smart, so that we know to respect whatever they’re about to say. They show them playing smart-person games like chess or playing smart-person instruments like violins, have them wear smart-person glasses and speak in smart-person voices. And, of course, we know that wearing glasses or playing chess don’t necessarily make you smart – but we still believe there must be such a thing as smart, and that there must be a certain set of pursuits and attributes that belong to this class of smart people.

Pursuing skill in any endeavor is admirable in its own right, but it won’t somehow train up your intelligence score. You can’t grind your stats. All you can do is get better at doing a thing, and sometimes that will also be helpful for doing other things. Even then, there’s many ways to get better at a thing – for instance, if you want to play the piano, you could improve at sight-reading music or at improvisation, you could improve at jazz or classical music, you could improve your ability to play quick phrases or to make big jumps across octaves on the keyboard. These are all related but distinct skills, and together they can make you “good at the piano” – but what does “good” mean to you, then?

It takes a whole other skill, a whole other kind of dedication, to be able to face a problem of unknown size and indefinite scope, and slowly pick away at it bit by bit, unable to know when or how it might be solved. That’s one I think we’re all still trying to get the hang of.

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The first of what will hopefully be many monthly projects is complete! This ended up being a little bit more along the lines of a prototype than a complete game, but I expect that most of them will – and it’s still quite playable for what it is, I think. Click this text or the above picture to download the game.

I learned a lot about how Unity works doing this. Starting from the incredibly basic Roll-A-Ball tutorial provided by the Unity team, I added a jump (which didn’t make it into the release version, but which I am quite pleased with nevertheless – if I end up creating a more complete and sellable version of the game it may find its way back in), then added an advanced camera and gravity beam. Most of the development time went into implementing and tweaking these effects, and I’m very pleased with the overall feel of it now, though certain aspects, such as the simple “X” beam cursor and the occasionally clumsy camera, could use improvement. The game is unfortunately still rather unoptimized – I’m unused to 3d optimization in general, and also more specifically unused to optimization in Unity, and also most of the few things I do know about optimization have to do with ensuring that the game doesn’t render things the player doesn’t need to see – which, in this game, is honestly not very many things, since movement speed can be so fast and can change very quickly the player really needs to be aware of where all the platforms are at all times. That’s one reason I wanted to make the player character reflective, so that you have some idea what’s around you even if you’re not looking in that direction. Unfortunately, because the character is reflective that means even the parts of the level you’re not looking at need to be rendered, so it really does affect the performance.

So, what did I learn from this project? What went right and what went wrong? About halfway through, I was imagining a game with approximately the same gameplay but set inside a giant office or other mundane room. This would have been difficult to do, because I have very little experience creating a realistic 3d space, so eventually I decided to make a more abstract “cyberspace” world. This helped me create a simple level quickly, since I could really just throw together whatever geometry seemed interesting without any concern as to creating textures or ensuring everything was to scale, and also allowed me to create a very open space where the player could do almost anything with the gravity beams. I knew early on that I wanted the player to be a glass sphere which shattered on hard impacts, partially inspired by Marble Madness. It took me quite a while to figure out how to create the shattering effect – I eventually found code to create something along the lines of what I needed, but had to modify it slightly but significantly to suit my purposes. I’m pleased with the final shattering effect, though it sometimes renders in ways I don’t expect.

I tend to think of music creation as coming fairly quickly and easily to me, but it was actually difficult under the time pressure of the last few days of the project. While I like the track I came up with well enough, it’s shorter and simpler and has less production work than I usually like to put into my musical work. I think it’s well suited to the game though, and I haven’t gotten tired of listening to it yet which is a good sign. The sound effects were mostly pulled from freesound.org, though I modified many of them quite significantly, mostly to make the glass sound a bit more musical when it struck or rolled.

All in all, I’m quite satisfied. It might not be the most ambitious project, it might not have a ton of content, but I do feel it offers something unique and that I have executed it to a reasonable level of quality. I may revisit this project sometime next year and try to develop it into a complete game, which would involve adding a bunch of new levels, leaderboards, and ideally some sort of head-to-head racing mode.

For December, I’d like to try to patch up a weakness of mine: The same way as P1aySpace ZER0 was an opportunity to learn Unity, I would like to take this opportunity to learn to create the kind of realistic 3d space I opted out of making for this project. I’m not sure yet what kind of game I would be setting in that environment, though I have a few ideas — first I want to plan out and construct this space, then I can see how much time I have left, during this very busy month, to build a game into it. Hopefully I will be as pleased with that project as I was with this one.

Oh, before I forget, since this game turned out quite a bit more difficult than I had initially expected it to, here are a few tips:

  1. Use the repulsor beam. Though going fast is fun and satisfying, you will almost certainly destroy yourself if you don’t use the repulsor to slow yourself down sometimes.
  2. Don’t worry if you miss a gate. Until you get down to the last couple of gates, missing one usually sets you on a trajectory to hit another. Every missed platform is an opportunity to swing around and fly in a different direction.
  3. Rapidfire the beam to climb. Once you’re holding yourself close to an edge with the beam it’s usually possible to climb or swing up, but getting there in the first place requires you to pull yourself up with the beam.

Happy rolling!

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This week my first attempt at a legendary difficulty campaign of the XCOM 2 expansion, War of the Chosen, went down in flames. Also this week, I started my first real and persistent attempts at learning Unity and building a game in its toolset. It’s been a week of exploration, unfamiliarity, and uncertainty.

I’ve learned something about challenge, this week. I learned that you can either give yourself a difficult task or an unfamiliar task, and either of those might go poorly, but if you give yourself a task that is both difficult and unfamiliar you are really asking for trouble. When I started the War of the Chosen campaign, I assumed it was mostly the same as XCOM 2 with a few additions. It turned out that almost every mission type was completely different than before. It turned out that many of the things I’d learned about how to play the game from playing before the expansion either were no longer relevant or came with new caveats I wasn’t aware of. It turned out I shouldn’t position a soldier on a fire escape attached to a building that was slowly caving in on itself. It was very educational.

Not only does War of the Chosen introduce a lot of new mechanics to the game, the mechanics it introduces are comparatively opaque, driven more by narrative than mostly systems-determined missions of XCOM 2. This isn’t a bad thing, but it is a thing that will completely destroy an unprepared player who has reduced their margin for error to close to nil by playing on the hardest difficulty.

But what about Unity? Fortunately, in that case I was smart enough to not try to overlap two kinds of difficulty, and I set myself an easy task to do in an unfamiliar environment: Make some sort of game or game-like experience by the end of the month. Of course, my approach to doing that still makes things characteristically difficult for myself, such as by getting deep into the specifics of the physics system to get a jump animation to work just the way I want it to or to make a cursor in 3d space lock onto the closest available surface, but I’m getting somewhere and I’m learning a lot.

It’s important sometimes to be able to embrace ignorance. Having an appreciation of learning is only possible when you have an understanding of just how much you don’t know – the reason why so many people resent education and expertise is not resentment at the knowledge and skill people accumulate, but resentment at the implication, by having knowledge and skill, that those who do not have it are ignorant and unskilled. Learning becomes an insult, training becomes a prank. Everyone has this seed in them, a part of them that hates their limitations so much that they can’t stand to see anyone excel. Only by accepting our ignorance can we learn to move past it. It’s not like Socrates’ knowing enough to know that he knew nothing: It’s knowing that you know nothing so that you are able to replace the nothing with something.

Sometimes it helps to take a dive into the unfamiliar. Not only is it a necessary prerequisite to making the unfamiliar familiar, old assumptions and habits start to be cast into a new light and questioned anew. Scraping away superficial layers of knowledge sometimes helps one to attain a more complete, clarified knowledge.

Or, at least, these are pleasant things to tell oneself while one is being reborn, unaccustomedly ignorant, weakened, and infantilized.

In the Big Rock Candy Mountains
All the cops have wooden legs
And the bulldogs all have rubber teeth
And the hens lay soft-boiled eggs
The farmers’ trees are full of fruit
And the barns are full of hay
Oh I’m bound to go
Where there ain’t no snow
Where the rain don’t fall
The wind don’t blow
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains

The perspective I usually like to take on art is that we enjoy it because it serves some sort of emotional need for us. We all like a certain amount of joy and sorrow, a certain amount of anger and laughter, and when life can’t provide those sometimes we seek out art to fulfill those needs – or, alternately, sometimes we are overwhelmed with sorrow or anger, or some other strong and unpleasant emotion, and seek out art about and evocative of these sensations to help us make sense of what we’re feeling. This is a helpful perspective to see from, because if a work is extremely popular even though I personally dislike it I can still examine it and gain benefit from it by trying to determine what needs it serves and how it serves them. Inversely, if I like something I can also use this as a lens to examine why, and what part of me is hungry for this kind of art.

This is not to say that all art is equal and that judgment is impossible. Some ways of serving needs are irresponsible or malicious – for instance, it’s quite common to salve the wounds of an inequitable system by blaming all the world’s ills on minorities. Some ways of serving needs are also predatory, selling snake oil or risky gambles. Many things you might consume to serve an emotional need are like drinking sea water when you’re thirsty, seeming to ease the pain for mere moments before they make it come back worse than it was before. In this way, the lens of served need can be turned to also show the many harms that can be done by art, as well as its benefits.

As someone interested in games, then, I start to ask: What needs are served by most games? What needs are served by the most popular games, and what less predominant needs are served by games with smaller followings, and what needs of mine have made the games I love my particular favorites? Most games feed the need for learning and self-improvement: Whether directly, by giving the player a challenge that they can learn to tackle over time, or indirectly with some sort of simulation that recreates the sensation of self-improvement, like an experience system. Others feed a need to feel like we can change the world by making a world malleable, allowing the creation of grand projects, cathedrals and magic machines, in relatively short order. Many games also feed the need to feel that we are gathering things, accumulating wealth or other material to make ourselves feel safer. Some games feel rewarding just because they acknowledge when we do well in a way that the rest of the world does not. Sometimes games are enjoyable just because the tasks that they offer have clear-cut parameters with definite boundaries, so you know whether a task is solved or not in a way you frequently cannot in your daily life.

There’s another step, beyond noticing what needs are fed by games, and that’s then interrogating the systems that give rise to these needs. The lives people lead, and the lacks that they perceive, are going to lead them to seek out different gaming experiences that offer different things. The world we live in, and the governments and systems that organize those worlds, are going to create the needs that create the cravings that create the games. In each instance, once we identify a need that people feel a game serves, comes the next question: Is this an inherent need that is being unsatisfied by the system, or is this a need created by the system in order to sustain itself? That question might not make intuitive sense, so let’s look at the list I mentioned in the previous paragraph, one by one.

  1. The need for self-improvement and learning. This may be an innate need, but it’s also deeply tied into our society’s conception of a human being as a commodity that has worth. By getting better at something, even if it’s trivial, you are demonstrating a capacity to learn and improve, and thus your worth to the system. Do you want to improve for your own sake, or to be a better cog in the machine? It can be hard to tell.
  2. The need to have an effect on the world. This one is, interestingly, relegated almost entirely to indie games – and likely reflects as much of the needs of the creators as it does the needs of its consumers. It’s probably not a coincidence that these building games have achieved their most massive success among children, largely prevented from manifesting any substantial effect on the real world
  3. The need to accumulate material wealth. This has obvious parallels in the capitalistic systems, but it’s also rooted enough in the hunting/gathering survival instinct that one can hardly lay the blame entirely at the feet of capitalism, as much as one would like to. However, the specific model of accumulation favored by games, where everyone has the same capacity to do it and every action has a predictable result, probably serves to prop up the concept of meritocracy, which is a vapid lie.
  4. The need to have one’s accomplishments acknowledged. I think this is an innate need to be seen, but is also exacerbated by a system where excellence is supposedly recognized by financial reward, but where that reward is increasingly withheld to line the pockets of the already extremely wealthy.
  5. The need to have a distinct task. This is probably a relatively recent one. Not too long ago, everyone expected to have basically the same job for life, and could wake up each day with a certain amount of confidence about what to expect next. Though many deride repetitive and simple games as seeming like work, the kind of work they supposedly seem like is becoming rarer and rarer, and some people do miss it.

When making a game, it’s important to think a bit about who wants to play it and why. Are you making something that feeds needs created by an unjust system, something that will only serve to act as propaganda for that system? Or are you creating something to serve a need that the system has failed to serve, something that will serve as an escape? Are you justifying evil, or positing good? These lines can become very blurry.

Difficulty has come back into fashion for video games. Many games now specifically go out of their way to cultivate a reputation as especially difficult, whereas not too long ago it was common for designers to regard any failure of the player as a failure of the game’s design. While I’m glad that we’re no longer assuming difficulty is bad or undesirable, I’m not really in favor of considering it inherently good or desirable either – and, in fact, I’m not entirely comfortable with using the word ‘difficult’ or ‘challenging’ as a descriptor, except in the most abstract approach to a game.

There’s a lot of different things that difficult could mean when describing a game, and a great number of them have little to nothing to do with each other. Most obviously, there’s a huge difference between games that challenge your reflexes, games that challenge your strategic ability, games that challenge your ability to solve puzzles, and games that challenge your knowledge. Though most games have more than one of these elements, they frequently only offer meaningful challenge in one of them. The difference between these starts to seem extremely relevant when you remember that, depending on the challenge proffered and who’s playing, the game may not even be possible to complete!

In addition to these different skills and abilities that can be challenged, there are different ways of challenging them: The obstacles themselves can become more difficult to navigate or the resources you have for navigating them can become scarcer such that you have less room for error, the obstacles can become more complex and numerous or failures can be punished more harshly. Even if the main skill being challenged by the game remains the same, changing how this challenge manifests can make for radically different experiences.

But that’s not all! In addition to the actual challenge of the game, there’s also the way the game presents its challenges. Part of why people responded well to the at-times punishing difficulty of Dark Souls is because the world is overtly harsh and intimidating. It’s easier to swallow getting your ass kicked when, rather than being some sort of god or legendary knight, you’re just another hapless undead. Now, you may end up becoming an undead who beats the shit out of legendary knights and gods, but that’s as much of a surprise to you as it is to anyone. The XCOM games script their tutorial missions to create the expectation that shit will go wrong and your soldiers will die, so that you know going in what the stakes and challenges are. The greatest part of making a challenging design that works is in conveying what the challenges of the game consist of – and what it means to fail at them. This is what we mean by fairness: The game establishes the parameters of its challenges and conveys those to the player effectively, and those parameters do not change.

Just using the word ‘difficult’ to describe these varied concepts creates a number of issues: When used to describe the ambitions of a nascent project, it can easily lead you astray, because there’s a lot of types of ‘difficult’ that won’t work with the rest of your concept. When selling the game, it tells the potential player nothing about what sort of challenge is being offered or how that challenge is presented. And, as a catch-all term, it obscures important components such as they conveyance of the challenge’s parameters. It’s a difficult challenging tricky term to get away from, though! In order to be more precise and avoid pitfalls of design, we may need to build an entire new vocabulary of difficulty.

It may be quite a challenge.

I’ve noticed that when I get frustrated with playing a game, there’s usually a very specific way it happens. When I play, I keep in my mind a model of how the game works, what optimal and interesting play is, and how to achieve that. I attempt to play using that model: If I succeed, then great! I’ve made progress. If I fail to execute on the approach I have in mind, that’s also fine, since I just need to try again. The point of friction, though, comes when I succeed in doing the thing I had in mind, but the thing I had in mind completely fails to work – because that means the entire mental model I had of the game is skewed somehow. There’s a desync, somewhere, between the game I’m playing and the game that actually exists. This is a dangerous moment, because now it’s very easy to come to the conclusion that the game that exists is just an inferior version of the game I’m trying to play in my head, one which fails to account for being played in the way I expect this game to be played.

This point of friction usually emerges sooner or later, to lesser or greater degree, even in games I love. With Dishonored it came when the game provided me no avenues to non-lethally disable an opponent once they were alerted to my presence (a lack thankfully rectified by its sequel). With XCOM 2 it came with the realization that flanking tactics were sometimes far more dangerous than they were worth simply because the cost of accidentally revealing an enemy unit could be so high. At some point, inevitably, the actual design of a game tends to diverge from what I believe the most beautiful, elegant, or intuitive way to play that game to be – and, being a stubborn person in certain very bizarre ways, I still try to play it in the way that I perceive it should be played, even in the face of the actual designers of the game obviously disagreeing with me.

I may be a bit of a standout in how stubborn I get about these things, but I’m hardly unique in my initial approach. Everyone has an idea of what ‘good play’ is supposed to look like in a game they play – whether it’s based on other games they’ve played, movies they’ve played with similar theming to the game, or just on the way the first couple of times they played went, very quickly they build a mental model of what’s desirable and what isn’t. Hypothetically, that model could even line up perfectly with the game’s systems – more often than not, though, there’s a disconnect here. The ‘right’ way to play the game, from the player’s perspective, is not the same as the way most likely to actually achieve success. In order to do well, they might have to do something that feels wrong, incorrect, suboptimal – that can be a bitter pill to swallow.

In this way, it pays to be aware of what baggage players are likely to bring to your game. This is why the history of similar game designs matters to your game design, because the expectations fostered by those games are going to affect how people see, understand, and play your game. This is why understanding what your art style conveys about the nature of your design is important, because people who find the style appealing are going to come in with certain expectations about the gameplay. This is why it’s important to ensure your player has some way to understand the breadth of the design, rather than just giving them one sample encounter and leaving them to infer that the rest are pretty much like that one.

When a conflict between the player’s conception of the design and the realities of the design occurs, it can only be resolved by the player changing their mental model of the game, and not everyone’s going to be interested in doing that. There’s an art of persuasion to it: The game has to, by its design and theming, forward an argument as to why its way of doing things is better than the way the player has in mind. Does it make more sense? Is it because the opponents have some special countermeasure grounded in the narrative? Generally, players are going to be more accepting of their approach not working because they haven’t accounted for other factors in the game (such as not defending adequately against a new technique) than because the game doesn’t reward, or even punishes, their approach (such as not having an old technique work when one would expect it should).

There’s a sense, as designer, that the design of the game should stand alone, should contain all the context it needs to make it make sense to the player, and that everything they learn about how to play the game should come from the game itself. Even someone who has never played a game before, though, comes to a game with some conception of how the game should be played. If you want people to learn the game, to stick with the game, then it is your job to, no matter what these preconceptions are, guide them and endeavor to reshape them to align with what the design of the game actually is.

I’ve been playing a lot of XCOM 2 recently, and after a discussion on the differences between it and its precursor the other day I started thinking about the nature of decisions in games. In XCOM (the first one), you’re expected to make a few very clear-cut decisions in the strategy layer – what to research, what abilities to train, what missions to take, and so forth. Each of these has extremely clear trade-offs. The tactical layer, similarly, has fairly clear-cut decisions, though the effects of decisions can be a bit confusing – it’s not clear, for example, whether you’ll be able to see an enemy unit if you reposition, or see why your odds of hitting are particularly high or low. In XCOM 2, the strategy layer has more decisions with murkier effects: Rather than having a choice of three missions pop up periodically, events you can investigate are constantly popping up all over the map, and since it takes time to investigate these or to do anything else on the map you can realistically only get to so many of them. The tactical combat, however, is much more clear-cut: You can see everything that affects your shot percentages, and the UI will tell you whether you can see an enemy or not when you move, and helpful icons will show if you’re moving a soldier into harm’s way.

It’s interesting to me, given all this, that players generally seem to prefer XCOM to XCOM 2. I think there are a few reasons for this, but the confusing unquantifiability of XCOM 2’s event system is probably the main turn-off, especially nestled, as it is, within the highly regimented and quantifiable decision-making that defined XCOM and, to a lesser extent, its sequel.

It all just goes to make me think about the old Sid Meier quote (or misquote?) about a game being a series of interesting decisions. Though I love XCOM, a game with a relatively few important decisions, a lot of the games I like most have you making little decisions constantly, all of which add up to a big effect in aggregate. In a game like PlayerUnknown’s Battlegrounds, the decision to crouch or not to crouch, lean or not to lean, go full-auto or single-shot, equip an angled or a vertical foregrip, run into the circle at a 5 degree angle or a 6 degree angle, any one of these can be the difference between life or death – and that’s what makes it, despite its many flaws, still so fun to play for me.

In thinking about this, I started classifying the differences in decisions. In general, I think a decision in a game can be considered in two parts: One, how the decision is made (choice properties), and two, the effects of that decision (effect properties). Each of these have three parts – that I’ve thought of so far, anyway.

Choice properties:

  1. Frequency: How often decisions are made
  2. Quantity: The number of options available with each decision
  3. Temporality: How much time pressure there is to make the decision

Effect properties:

  1. Impact: How much they can change the game state
  2. Clarity: How evident these changes are beforehand
  3. Expression: How much the player can express themselves using the decisions

Different games prioritize aspects of decision-making differently. XCOM has medium-low frequency decisions with little temporal pressure and high impact and clarity, with little focus on player expression. The Street Fighter games have fairly high frequency of decisions, making choices at each moment of where to position yourself and which attack to use, with a fairly high quantity of different attack maneuvers, high temporal pressure and impact and moderate clarity (since move effects depend on what your opponent is doing) and a small-moderate amount of player expression… except, that is, in the menu where you select which character you want to use, which is a single (minimal frequency) choice with large quantity, no temporality, and huge impact, clarity, and expression. Super Hexagon is a game with extremely frequent decisions with almost no quantity (left, right, or neither), unbelievably high temporal pressure, high impact and clarity, no expression. The Walking Dead, Season 1 has low-frequency, low-quantity decisions, with some temporal pressure, moderate impact, relatively little clarity, but a huge amount of player expression.

Genres start mapping pretty closely to different decision models, when viewed in this respect. Strategy games prioritize low frequency and temporal pressure with high impact and clarity, tactical shooters like PUBG value high frequency, quantity, temporality, and impact with moderate clarity, RPGs like Fallout medium frequency, impact, and clarity, high quantity, low temporality, and extremely high expression.

From this viewpoint, it becomes clear why many of the decisions made in XCOM 2 rub people the wrong way. The decisions presented to the player in the strategic layer of the game don’t hew as closely to the ideal of what strategic gameplay decisions look like, and though they’re valid as a design in their own right, and I still find them enjoyable, and while they don’t necessarily make it a worse game, they may, in fact, make it a worse strategy game.

It’s important to know what sorts of decisions you want to present to the player, and what sorts of decisions they came to you to get. Trade-offs which may seem like good design when viewed through the lens of balance or of excitement may simply not fit the type of decision system the game is most suited to.