It seems I keep finding myself talking about video games, recently. Which is strange, I suppose, since I only play two or three of them a year.

Anyway, Roger Ebert (who is my favourite movie critic) recently responded to some of his critics in his Answer Man column, who objected to Mr. Ebert’s disdain for movies based on video games, and his feelings that video games are inherently inferior to movies and books. His response contained some specific points which I felt the need to counter. And as this is the first time I’ve captured my feelings about this topic, I figured I’d post the letter here. You can find the Answer Man column that sparked this letter here (it’s the third letter on the page).

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> Hi Mr. Ebert, > > In response to Andrew Davis’s letter, you wrote: > > > “I [do] indeed consider video games inherently inferior to film and literature. There is a structural reason for that: Video games by their nature require player choices, which is the opposite of the strategy of serious film and literature, which requires authorial control.” > > That’s an interesting point, and one I mostly agree with, except that many video games do indeed operate under authorial control. In fact, any game in which there is a significant storyline will usually work that way. Brenda Laurel wrote a great book called “Computers as Theatre” (not directly on point), in which she argues that good user interfaces are all about building good constraints: you give the user/audience the illusion of freedom, by building a “world” in which they will only think to do what they are allowed to do. Story-based video games (at least, those in which there is only one possible ending) operate on a similar principle — they allow you to make only “trivial” choices that don’t affect the overall outcome. The “game” is what takes place between the pages/frames of the story. Those choices feel important primarily because making the wrong ones will delay the revelation of the story. > > I’ve had two video game experiences that have rivaled my favourite books and movies for emotional resonance and lasting impact. In both cases, the stories were as tightly constrained as the ones you would find in a non-interactive form. In particular, the only real impact the gameplay had on the story was in the costuming of the characters in the story scenes. > > Movies and books have different strengths. Movies leverage the immediacy and bandwidth of a visual medium, communicating “pages” of body language and vocal inflections and other subtext in an instant. Camera angles and lighting communicate mood and direct attention in a way that is very hard to duplicate in text. Books, on the other hand, have space, enabling the author to tell a story of far broader scope than can be fit into a movie. And books allow for reflection, as the reader can progress at their own pace, and can live with and in the story for days or even weeks. At their best, both forms can be deeply moving. > > The thing about those two video games I mentioned is that they draw on the strengths of both movies and books. The storytelling medium in a video game is quite movie-like, and these particular games used all the tricks to their advantage — body language, vocal inflections, camera angles, lighting, soundtracks, etc. But they weren’t limited in scope as a movie would be: they had room for hours of story. And the combination of the game “fill” and the ability to save and resume later provided the opportunity for reflection, the opportunity to “live with” the story for a long period of time. For instance, one of those games had about 20 hours worth of story, spread over 40-60 hours of gameplay. The authors created an entire world, with people and cultures and history and mythology, and gave you time to see it come to life around you. They wrote tons and tons of dialogue, and included maybe a dozen minor characters with arcs of their own. They gave you time to “be” in quiet moments, and moments of awe, and “unimportant” conversations amongst friends. And when all the threads came together, and the story played to its inexorable conclusion . . . to say that it was an intense experience would be to play with understatement. > > I will not argue that very many games take this approach or do it so well. Most are primarily about adrenalin and killing time, as you have suggested. Unfortunately, those are almost invariably the ones that get made into movies. In such cases, the movies are far more about merchandising and “brand” than they are about story, and the result is seldom any less a “diversion” than the game it was based on. But the medium can be a very effective one for story, if the pacing of the game elements is controlled to reinforce the gamer’s involvement with the story. Even in those two games I so loved, that balance is not always perfect, but I think the storytellers who work in gaming are still learning that balance. One day, and maybe even one day soon, people won’t laugh when you tell them what a deeply moving experience you had playing a video game. > > Yours truly,
> Chris Poirier.

I just posted a comment on a blog in regards to Ico, and thought I’d repost it here as background for the review of Shadow of the Colossus I’m planning to write (short version: Colossus is no Ico). You can find the article and discussion that spawned it here.

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A friend sent me a link to this article while we were discussing Shadow of the Colossus, and I found the discussion interesting. I’m a little late joining the fray, but I felt compelled to add a few comments.

Ico, as a game, isn’t brilliant. The gameplay is simple, the camera control a bit finicky, and the puzzles merely a 3D update of the old Prince of Persia games. If you want a great game, there are probably better alternatives.

But, for me, Ico is the best video game experience I’ve ever had, because it is far more than a game. The game is merely what gives me something to do, but it’s the place and the characters that I’m there for. It’s that vast castle, and the subtle but constant change of the lighting, and the mists and haze . . . you can almost taste the salt from the wind. It’s the sound of the wind, sometimes whispering, sometimes howling, but ever-present. The sound of that place haunts me to this day. It’s the soundtrack that’s so subtle, and so other-worldly, that it just becomes part of the fabric of the dream. It’s Ico’s echoing, gentle call of “entwois” when he wants Yorda to catch up; it’s the soft tug on his arm as he pulls her along; it’s his desperation when he fights off the monsters with nothing more than a stick and his determination; his boundless energy as he climbs around the castle looking for a way for them to move forward; and his earnest concern for Yorda’s well being, told primarly in body language and gesture. I’ve read novels that were less emotionally resonant and involving.

I bought Ico on the strength of one television commercial I saw late at night. I never saw the commercial again, and it was months before I could afford to buy the PS2 I needed to play it. Yeah, I bought the PS2 in order to play Ico. And that was before I knew it was anything more than beautiful to look at. Quiet, thoughtful, beautiful things appeal to me, and Ico struck me as being just such a thing. I didn’t know the tenth of it.

I think the problem — the reason Ico “failed” financially — is that nobody in the marketing department knew what to do with it. It’s hard to sell new things, and Ico, at the time, was very new. It was a genre-bending amalgamation of video game and virtual reality and impressionist painting, all wrapped up in a simple, archetypical story of two kids abandoned by the world, and told in actions, instead of words. How do you sell that to an audience that is used to adrenaline-charged, reflex-demanding killfests? The answer, in hindsight, may be obvious: you don’t. You sell it to somebody else. Sony didn’t do that.

For my part, my life is better for having played Ico. It sits on a shelf with my favourite books and movies. It will always have a special place in my heart. If Sony never does anything right again, I’ll still always respect them for having had the courage to try something like Ico, and I very much hope that they — or someone else — will try something like it again. Perhaps it didn’t make bags of money. I hope that isn’t to become the only measure of success.