It’s especially interesting to read Schiesel’s comments the same week that Spore is out, since Maxis is pursuing virtually the opposite strategy. Will Wright famously has asserted that the solution to the rising cost of content development is to give users tools and let them make it themselves (the fixin’s bar approach). Wright’s game is 50 bucks and has aspirations to suck up a lot more than 4 hours of your time. You are creating life after all. 

Good, cheap, fun.

Neither model is, in fact, the long-term core business model the industry is looking for. First of all, content – great content – is still best when served up by experts. Users can do amazing things with open tools, but their efforts always shine brightest when they are backed up by a well-developed franchise. Anyway, if Spore has demonstrated anything it’s that making good tools requires just as much time and money as making good content. Schiesel, for his part, all but admits that Quest for Booty is only as good as it is because of resources the Insomniac team developed for its triple-A release, Ratchet and Clank: Tools of Destruction. You just don’t get 15 dollar titles with as much polish as Quest for Booty unless they have a more expensive big brother.

This will no doubt yield groans of disapproval from many quarters, but my own take is that better storytelling in serialized form is the best recipe for future success — one that will dovetail nicely with both the Maxis approach and also keep the Schiesels of the world happy — lifting all boats, so to speak. The fact is, the structural problem with most video games is that the novelty wears off too quickly to support multiple expansions without adding significantly new gameplay. Games are long and hard to play because developers are trying to get as much juice out of their mechanics as they can. Admitting that the mechanic they poured thousands of man-hours into only amounts to ten hours of fun for the average gamer is just too depressing. The advantage of developing characters and plots that players actually care about is that they will keep audiences coming back whether the gameplay and graphics are new or not — or at least keep them coming back longer. This is something that Nintendo, alone among game companies, has understood for years —  you always hear people whining that all Zelda games are the same . . . right before they plunk down 60 clams for their 4th and 5th helping of rupee-farming grind.

The only thing the story-driven approach really lacks is a way to test out gameplay/story concepts the way pilots and seasons allow audiences and network executives to test out television shows. The basic problem with games isn’t the cost of content as much as it is prototyping. A top-notch title more than pays for itself – it’s the expense and risk involved in identifying those titles and test-marketing them that looms so ominously over the industry’s financial and creative future. So far, the only “solution” to this problem has been scale — to get big enough to be able to take a few hits. But over time, unless more efficient prototyping and more loveable-despite-lacking-novel-gameplay franchises develop, even the EAs and Activisions of the world will suffer from high levels of instability.

Naruto's Shadow Clone Jutsu

With quick-time events, players typically see a button flash on screen and then have to immediately press it in order to execute some contextual action or sequence of actions. By the mid-2000s, such sequences were no longer found exclusively in adventure games like Quantic Dream’s Indigo Prophecy — they were slowly but surely making their way into action series like God of War and Prince of Persia.

Today, in defiance of the complaints, context-driven control schemes are more and more common. Under the influence of rhythm games, with their abstract streams of cues, and fighters, with their complex combos and special moves, players and developers have both become more comfortable with them. In part it’s a response to the need to map ever greater numbers of actions to the same controllers with the same buttons. It’s hard to believe we’re beginning to outgrow 16-button controllers (not to mention gyroscopic input), but it’s true. Titles like Assassin’s Creed are even beginning to use one button like a “shift” key to change the ”case” of the rest of the controller, thereby virtually doubling the number of available buttons to map.

But this trend is about more than controller economy. Game mechanics enabled by contextual controls are becoming better integrated into game flow and more sophisticated. Case in point: I’ve recently been playing Naruto: Rise of Ninja, whose “justsu”-triggered button sequences add a genuinely heart-pumping wrinkle to fights. Naruto’s “jutsus” also innovate by taking the kind of special move button-sequences typically found only in the arena and bringing them into an open-world context. Naruto doesn’t just unleash heavy damage with his “jutsus”, but also climbs walls and wins over villagers, building on social gesture systems like those found in Fable and The Urbz.

Games like Naruto suggest that more complex contextual controls may well be a crucial piece of video gaming’s future. Their flexibility allows them to move between physical, social, and even emotional representation with fluidity and expressive power. We may, in fact, be moving from a “classical” period of “mimetic”, or strictly representational control schemes to a more self-consciously abstract and experimental phase.

Kaos (1981) might be hard to love at first. But if you’re not charmed by the electrocution animation that plays any time you touch the screen edges, I say you’re made of stone. You get zapped like a classic cartoon character — skeletal x-ray style — makes me laugh every time.

Kaos conjures images of cocaine-fueled coding sessions in the salad days of hackerdom. It’s heavy metal. It’s Dungeons and Dragons. It’s even a little bit punk rock (it’s a Lightning Bolt video waiting to happen).

You play what looks like a princess, though it could be a prince, or a sadistic clown, or a skull with hair wearing lipstick. You’re caught in a vertical maze of shifting platforms — this was one of the earliest types of platform games after Donkey Kong (1981), a setup that would be copied in the equally trippy Zookeeper (1982). Coins drop into the maze randomly and fall towards the bottom of the screen. If they make it down before you grab them, they turn into dragons, which hop around maniacally until they devour you or you kill them.

Killing them isn’t so easy. You have to get to the top of the screen and touch one of the eye-ball pyramids that look like a Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas version of the masonic symbol on the American dollar. If you manage that, you’re immediately transformed into a bearded, sword-wielding king who can kill dragons for a while.

And oh, do the dragons fear you! Watching them squirm is seriously pure sadistic fun.

Besides the totally excellent primitivism of its graphics and sound, a number of things recommend Kaos, in my opinion. The first is that it’s a perfect circle of turnabout, more perfect even than Pac-Man (1980). At the top is your potential for transformation and transcendence. Until you transform, you’re vulnerable. In the middle is money. At the bottom is death for you and also the lurking transformational potential of money itself. If you don’t chase it, it turns on you. This scheme has a kind of formal purity that games don’t strive for anymore.

This leads to the second major thing that makes Kaos great. It’s an almost perfect distillation of frenetic, selfish 1980s America. Grab all the money you can, make yourself king of your own little world, and destroy your competitors — or eventually they will destroy you.  

For maximum effect, play this while watching Wall Street or American Psycho.

While the first two articles are driven by market considerations, Bogosts’ piece is motivated by his idea of what games are. All media do lots of different things, he argues. Video games, as a medium, are defined by rules, so why wouldn’t video games reflect the whole range of things you can do with rules-driven models of human experience?

Good question. I’m all for extending the range of what video games can be. I also would be grateful for a decrease in the influence of anyone who gravitates to hyper-kinetic, hyper-masculine, aggression-and-obsession-rewarding sorts of games (even though, yeah, I play the hell out of them too). The fixation on this style of game has long stifled the creativity of game developers, especially in America.

And yet, I’d also agree with those who feel that Nintendo’s new breed of game doesn’t necessarily bode well for the future either.

I get a kick out of the lo-fi fun of Warioware: Smooth Moves, and I’m happy that people can now satisfy their Sudoku jones on a TV screen. Getting gamers exercising and socializing is a great idea too, so I’m a fan of Wii Fit and Wii Sports. But we should be wary of the way Nintendo’s cues will be digested by a larger game industry that constantly seeks maximum profit for minimum effort. It will look like “Billy Blanks Ab-Incinerator Interactive” is the next Grand Theft Auto. It will look like you can throw together a shoddy party game or adapt some trifle from the Sunday newspaper and make a killing. And maybe you can. Lots of people will try. If their games sell, what’s to stop ever larger chunks of the industry from doing nothing but train your brain? What possible motivation would a publisher have to greenlight a relatively resource-intensive, high-risk project like Bioshock or Okami ?

This is not a new argument, but I’d like to point out that it brings into relief the fact that video games are more than just rules. A form like the video game is a specific thing, with a particular history and culture. Our idea of what video games are, and what they can be at their best, is as much the “medium” as anything else, even if we don’t all agree about what our idea of video games is. Rules don’t make games. Hardware doesn’t make games. “Gamers” make games. Without the people and the obsessive love they have for games, they’re nothing.

In this light, Bogosts’ take on “gamers” begins to look more problematic, even if at first it seemed sensible and open-minded. While a big tent for video games sounds good, the fact is we’re dealing with an industry whose major structural features include limited retail shelf space and skittish financiers whose priority list doesn’t include “advancing the medium”. Video games live and grow along the lines of tension between these limitations and the impossible visions of creators and fans.

What remains to be seen is whether “gamers” can turn their visions into something that matters culturally. Some would say they already have, but there are also those who fear that video games will go the way of comic books, always too hamstrung by the tastes of their core audience to connect with a wider one. Every form makes an uneasy peace with this balancing act — but video games have a lot of growing to do before they make theirs — and Nintendo’s new breed of game is just one piece of the puzzle. 

In the meantime, the only thing that stands between a gaming market that can support titles like Rez or Ico or Fallout and one that can’t is the human effort and human ingenuity of a handful of people. From where I sit, those people appear to be getting older and more marginalized every day. It’s unclear who will replace them when they are gone — not because there aren’t creative young people who want to make games, but because the changing structural realities of the game industry may withhold the clout they need to advance the medium. 

Of course, this battle between large faceless forces/institutions and the humans who are forced to work within their parameters has been waged before. Those who fight the good fight don’t always win, but they deserve our admiration. I don’t know if you’d call them “hardcore”, but you’d definitely call them “gamers”. Here’s to them.