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Game Design

Playing games is largely a process of exploration. Often this is in a very literal sense, where you’re given a simulated physical space and part of the challenge is learning the ins and outs of it, but just as often the heart of the game lies in exploring the the edges of the game’s design or of its story. What actually is exploration though? What separates exploring a world from merely experiencing it? How can we support exploration, make it fun and interesting? Or, perhaps more saliently, how can we avoid undermining exploration without meaning to?

There’s two parts to exploring: Methodology and results. Methodology is what separates the process from pure random trial and error – even if you feel that you are wandering aimlessly and finding things as you go, you’re still building up an understanding of the environment in your head and applying that towards your movements. At the very least, you avoid exploring areas you’ve already been through in favor of finding new areas. Results are whatever you get using your method of approach. So, when we’re designing for explorability, we must have both a world that is consistent and predictable, so there can be method to measuring it, and a world that contains interesting things worth discovering. There is also a prerequisite to exploration: In order for something to be revealed, in must first be concealed. In order for it to be discovered, it must first be covered, so the world must also have parts of it which are not immediately obvious.

If you lack consistency of world, then surprises come randomly and without justification, and the player tends to meander interminably before finding anything of interest. If you lack anything worth discovering, that’s obviously even worse, and if everything is already obvious then there’s nothing to find. As an example, if you create a world that’s continuously being randomly generated, it might be an interesting experience but there’s no way to effectively explore it: methodology is useless, the discoveries pointless, and you could never expect to have any more knowledge of the world than one had first coming to it, meaning a world completely uniform in its inscrutability, an open book containing nothing but nonsense. This conflict between randomness and exploration is one reason why games attempting fusion of the randomized worlds of roguelikes with the exploration-heavy worlds of metroidvania tend to succeed far more as roguelikes than they do as metroidvanias.

In creating a simulated physical space to explore, using these concepts of methodology, result, and concealment is a pretty straightforward task to grasp. First, make it so your world has some logical spatial relationship – most games are like this by default, since they’re built on modeling a 3d space, though some like text adventures struggle a bit and map transitions can always throw a wrench in the works. Note that this is not to say you can’t or shouldn’t have weird and impossible architecture, just to note that the more confusing and counterintuitive it becomes the harder it becomes to effectively explore the space, which may or may not be something you want. Second, make the world also have things worth discovering: In purely spatial terms, this would just be an interesting location such as a cave or grove, but more practically this is where the ‘physical’ space of the game starts to overlap into the design and narrative spaces, since most actual interesting locations in games are interesting either because they contain gameplay advantages such as powerups or tactical positioning or because they contain narrative content such as historical information or new characters to meet. Third, make it so it isn’t immediately evident where these points of interest are – this is why having things like minimaps, fast travel, and x-ray vision can work against the sensation of exploration, since providing this information directly often works directly against concealment. Too much information is provided for free, so there’s no real room for method to beget discovery.

So, carrying these concepts over from the spatial realm to the game’s design, if we want to have an explorable design space it must be, first, consistent: This, like spatial consistency, tends to come for free in a highly systemic game but become scarcer the more separate systems or special exceptions exist. If every game element exists within a consistent system, people can devise and improvise interactions, can plan out experiments and log their results. They have a territory to map. Second, the game’s design must have things worth discovering – understanding the bounds of the design is usually a core part of what it means to become better at a game, so this is covered as long as the game’s challenge isn’t trivial. This is part of what difficulty offers us, is a system worth exploring. Third, the system must not be obvious, must conceal parts of itself: This is one that a lot of modern games struggle with. There’s a tendency to clip off surprising and unexpected parts of a game’s design, to ensure that the experience always feels ‘fair’, to set the boundaries of the design strictly at those of the developer’s imagination. It seldom works completely, but to the extent which it works it impoverishes the game.

Narratively, the tenets of explorability tend to resemble a great deal of existing storytelling advice. Avoid plot holes and give characters motivations to create a consistent narrative reality, include drama, jokes, and surprises to generate interest, and don’t lean on cliche and trope so much the entire arc is obvious from the first moment.

As mentioned earlier, these spaces all overlap. The surprises you discover in the spatial layer may have implications for the design, the techniques you discover in the design layer may have implications in the narrative, the story you uncover in the narrative may lead you to new places in the spatial. These aspects are all woven together, and the ability to uncover them collectively is one of the greatest things games can offer as a medium.

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Well, it’s been a busy month. That’s putting it somewhat mildly – the last week or so has been possibly the hardest I’ve ever worked on a project, putting in anywhere from 8-12 hours every day and culminating in one last completely brutal 14 hour day on the first of February to wrap the project up. It’s still not perfect, I could definitely find plenty to do if I wanted to spend a week or so on polish and fixes, but for now I really just need to let this one go, because I’m exhausted and I want to move on to something else.

For January, I participated in Wizard Jam, the Idle Thumbs community game jam. The premise of the jam is to create a game based on the title of an Idle Thumbs network podcast, and since many of those titles tend to be weird and imaginative to start with there’s plenty to work with. I picked The Convergence Compulsion, and then later when I found out that someone else was interested in using the same title, appended the subtitle “The Satisfaction of a Job Well Done”, another podcast title. My very early conception of a game to go with this title was a fast-paced 2d puzzle game in the vein of a match-3 or Tetris where you tried to get different laser beams to line up, but the idea that eventually captured my imagination was a game where you build machines out of elements that emit power, manipulate it, and then turn it into some sort of work. Along the way, it shifted away from the idea of building complex machines and towards figuring out a solution to a puzzle made out of a few components and a number of simple humanoids, kind of like the games The Incredible Machine and Lemmings. At the end it came out pretty close to that, except most of the humanoid behavior had to be cut/simplified.

The concept of Convergence Compulsion is that you work for The Convergence Corporation installing hardware in different locations. The hardware usually consists of at least one power orb, which emits power particles, and at least one converger, which attracts them, and then using these and some other devices which focus, reflect, or split these particles you need to power different machinery. This ended up being kind of a finicky concept – Sometimes machinery ends up getting accidentally powered on just due to random chance, sometimes it takes a while to get the equipment specifically where it needs to be to focus particles, sometimes solutions I didn’t anticipate work and sometimes solutions that should work fail to because I didn’t script the levels to account for them. For the most part, though, I think I’ve managed to achieve the game I had in mind.

Here it is:

Convergence Compulsion: The Satisfaction of a Job Well Done

 

In addition to this, Wizard Jam 8 participants created a number of other great games, many of which I commend to your attention. A few standouts among those I’ve played or seen played thus far:

I’m exhausted but generally pleased with what I accomplished during January, which brings us to February. Now, I had originally planned on making another game this month, a 2d platformer project so I could better understand the capabilities and methodologies of Unity 2d development, but right now I’m really ready to just not work in Unity for a while. Thus, the 2d platformer project is getting pushed back one month to March, and for February I’m going to be focused on writing music, ideally with the end-goal of making another album. I have a few tracks floating around already, so it will really only take maybe 5 or so more to have enough for an album, but we’ll see where I end up. Even if I don’t end up having enough it’s fine, I just want to spend this month making as much music as I can and definitely not programming.

For those who may be unfamiliar with The Return of the Obra Dinn, it’s a first-person adventure game by Lucas Pope (the developer of Papers, Please – a game which I keep intending to play but putting off, probably at least in part because it seems incredibly bleak). Obra Dinn itself is hardly un-bleak: In it, you play as an insurance assessor sent out to the titular Obra Dinn, a recently recovered wreck of a ghost ship. You are sent to deduce the fate of all those aboard, and deduce appropriate deductions for the insurance company to make. In order to achieve this task, you are given the “Memento Mortem”, a pocket watch which, when presented with the remains of a once-living creature, can take you back to the moment that creature died. Once in these memories, you can find other remains and follow them back further, and move from the moment this person or animal died to the moments leading up to it, following the chain of disaster back to its inception.

The style of the game is eye-catching, and along with the reputation of Papers, Please drove a lot of the initial interest in the title. Everything is rendered in a pixelated black and white style – or a dark color and a light color, the specifics of which can vary, but in each case is styled after a classic computer system. This is an interesting choice, since the style is unusual and the classic computer systems it harkens back to don’t really have anything to do with the plot of the game, but it creates an overall sensation of being unstuck in time. Here you sit, playing the game in the modern day on your modern machine, rendering in a style reminiscent of several decades ago, exploring a ship from hundreds of years ago, exploring memories of sailors who died several decades before. It expresses a chain of time very well, and reminds us that these weird chains of causality, of death to life to death to life, are all around us, and dictate the flow of our lives to this day.

Something that struck me about Obra Dinn was how unusual it was to have a game where death is commonplace, but is still treated with respect. There’s two molds that games usually, broadly, fall into: Either death is avoided strenuously, or it’s so commonplace as to be meaningless. Either you’re a gentle spirit wandering the world and trying to achieve your goals without confrontation, or you’re a murderous monster leaving a trail of hewn body parts behind you. While you do, in Obra Dinn, fit into the gentle spirit mold, the world you are trying to navigate is one of blood, desperation, and violence. It neither avoids death nor glories in it, merely tests its boundaries and affirms, for those of us who might ever forget, that each death is unique, that each death comes from a seed of causality and can be tracked to its roots. No one is unimportant. No one is indispensible.

A naive reading of the design of Obra Dinn might believe that there’s little actual “gameplay” in the game – that is, the majority of the actions the player takes are walking to the next cutscene trigger, activating it, and occasionally marking down one of a few options in the big book of names that you begin the game with. We’re not accustomed to thinking of things like the shape of a character’s face, their accent, who their friends are, what their job description is, as components of gameplay – but each of these becomes important in Obra Dinn. Understanding the relationships underpinning the tragedy of the ship, understanding why characters choose to do the things they do, is necessary to unravel the mystery that brought the Obra Dinn to its current fate. So often the concept of ‘gameplay’ is pitted against concepts of ‘narrative’ and ‘graphics’, as though these are all completely discrete components that have nothing to do with one another, as though pouring more resources into one might steal resources away from another. One might consider this to be most literally true in a game like The Return of the Obra Dinn, made by a lone developer, where time he spends on one aspect is time he cannot possibly spend on another. Perhaps it’s because it was made by a solo developer, though, that these aspects work so closely together – the graphics are exactly what they need to be to support the narrative, the narrative is exactly what it needs to be to support the gameplay. No, even ‘support’ seems incorrect: These facets of the game aren’t separable. What seems most remarkable to me about Obra Dinn is how all of these components we regard as discrete combine together and become one complete work – the graphics are the narrative is the gameplay.

I’ve played games that have had more emotional impact, games that have interested me more intellectually, games that have amazed me more, games that spoke to me more, games I felt were more meaningful – but Obra Dinn is still something special in a different way. It’s finely crafted, like a pocketwatch, and I think though the details of the tragic voyage will fade, the Obra Dinn will stick with me for a long time.

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.

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!

ripxcom2.jpg

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.