Intermedia Games—Games Inter Media: Video Games and Intermediality 9781501330490, 9781501330520, 9781501330513

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Intermedia Games—Games Inter Media

Intermedia Games—Games Inter Media Video Games and Intermediality

Edited by MICHAEL FUCHS and JEFF THOSS

BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC Bloomsbury Publishing Inc 1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, USA 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK BLOOMSBURY, BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published in the United States of America 2019 Paperback edition published 2020 Copyright © Michael Fuchs, Jeff Thoss and Contributors, 2019 For legal purposes the Acknowledgments on p. vii constitute an extension of this copyright page. Cover design by Louise Dugdale Cover image: Martyn Evans/Alamy Stock Photo This work is published open access subject to a Creative Commons AttributionNonCommercial-NoDerivatives 3.0 licence (CC BY-NC-ND 3.0, https:// creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/). You may re-use, distribute, and reproduce this work in any medium for non-commercial purposes, provided you give attribution to the copyright holder and the publisher and provide a link to the Creative Commons licence. Bloomsbury Publishing Inc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Fuchs, Michael, 1981-editor. | Thoss, Jeff, editor. Title: Intermedia games—games inter media: video games and intermediality / edited by Michael Fuchs and Jeff Thoss. Description: New York: Bloomsbury Academic, [2019] | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2018059458 | ISBN 9781501330490 (hardback) | ISBN 9781501330506 (ePub) | ISBN 9781501330513 (epdf) | ISBN 9781501330520 (xml-platform) Subjects: LCSH: Video games—Design. | Multimedia systems. | Intermediality. Classification: LCC GV1469.3.I47 2019 | DDC 794.8/1536—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018059458 ISBN: HB: 978-1-5013-3049-0 PB: 978-1-5013-6812-7 ePDF: 978-1-5013-3051-3 eBook: 978-1-5013-3050-6 Typeset by RefineCatch Limited, Bungay, Suffolk To find out more about our authors and books visit www.bloomsbury.com and sign up for our newsletters.

Contents Acknowledgments 



vii

Introduction 

1

Jeff Thoss and Michael Fuchs

PART ONE  Video Games’ Incorporation of Other Media  13 1 The Spectacular Design of First-­person Shooters: Remediating

Cinematic Spectacle in Call of Duty: Advanced Warfare and Battlefield 4  15 Håvard Vibeto 2 The Discourse Community’s Cut: Video Games and the Notion

of Montage 

37

Bernard Perron, Hugo Montembeault, Andréane MorinSimard, and Carl Therrien 3 Camera Ludica: Reflections on Photography in Video

Games 

69

Sebastian Möring and Marco de Mutiis 4 Inscribing the Lone and Level Sands: Technoromanticism at

Play in Elegy for a Dead World 

95

Jason I. Kolkey 5 Lost in the Static? Comics in Video Games  Armin Lippitz

115

vi

Contents

PART TWO  Intermedial Exchanges between Video Games and Other Media  133 6 Game and Watch: Machinimas, Let’s Plays, Streams, and the

Linearization of Digital Play 

135

Riccardo Fassone 7 Video-Gaming in(to) Literature: Virtual CorpoReality in Chloé

Delaume’s Corpus Simsi 

153

Laurent Milesi 8 Edgar Allan Poe Simulators: On Dream Logic, Game Narratives,

and Poesque Atmospheres 

167

Marco Caracciolo 9 Interference as Artistic Strategy: Video Game Art between

Transparency and Opacity 

189

Stephan Schwingeler

PART THREE  Video Games and Their Transmedia Environments  205 10 Music across the Transmedial Frontier: Star Trek Video

Games 

207

Tim Summers 11 Transmediality and the Brick: Differences and Similarities

between Analog and Digital Lego Play 

231

Mattia Thibault 12 Transfictionality, Thetic Space, and Doctrinal Transtexts: The

Procedural Expansion of Gor in Second Life’s Gorean Role-­ playing Games  249 Christophe Duret Notes on Contributors  Index  277

271

Acknowledgments T

he editors would like to thank the many friends and colleagues whose eagerness to talk about video games and intermediality at various occasions over the years has contributed to this volume. Special thanks are due to Mary Al-Sayed and Erin Duffy, who guided this volume from the proposal stage to its final realization and graciously dealt with several delays. We are also thankful to the anonymous peer reviewers, whose suggestions helped make this volume more coherent and focused. Finally, we would like to thank the University of Graz for their generous financial support of the translation of Stephan Schwingeler’s chapter.

Introduction Jeff Thoss and Michael Fuchs

I

n 1982, at the height of the golden age of arcade video games, Disney released TRON, a film today largely remembered for its pioneering use of computer-­generated imagery. However, the movie also constitutes an interesting early example of the kind of phenomena this collection examines. TRON is not only a film about video games featuring a game developer and arcade owner as the hero, it also seeks to emulate the spatial logic and audiovisual make-­up of classic titles such as PONG (Atari, 1972), Pac-Man (Namco, 1980), and Battlezone (Atari, 1980) in the iconic scenes set in its cyberspace world called “The Grid.” In a smaller-­scale version of contemporary transmedia franchising strategies, TRON’s release was moreover accompanied by an eponymous arcade game (Bally Midway, 1982), which recreates a number of the film’s action and game sequences in the medium they are based on. The TRON franchise has since expanded to include other motion pictures and games as well as novels and comic books, but the basic premise of the franchise rests on the idea of the interrelatedness of the media—intermediality. As early as 1982, TRON thus showcased elements of the complex intermedial network in which video games exist, as they serve as the inspiration for the aesthetic of particular cinematic sequences, which are, in turn, adapted for the medium of the video game. These media entanglements have only increased in more recent franchise entries. For example, not only does TRON: Legacy’s (2010) opening sequence intelligently interweave the built reality of American cities with their virtual doubles, but the film also incorporates the first film’s iconic arcade hall. Covered up in a corner stands TRON—the arcade game. However, it is misplaced in the arcade, since, in the original movie, there never was such a game. As Jason Sperb has concluded, “[t]he image of that game . . . foregrounds a larger nostalgia for the era of general public video-­game arcades whose immense popularity came and

2

Intermedia Games—Games Inter Media

went somewhere in the thirty years between the releases of these two movies.”1 The score supports the trip down memory lane, as Journey’s “Separate Tunes” (1983) accompanies the scene from an intradiegetic jukebox. With its synth rock sound and Steve Perry’s characteristic 1980s rock voice, the selection of a song could hardly be more appropriate to evoke nostalgia for a bygone era (that never was but always could have been the way it is produced by the media). Through intermedial references, TRON: Legacy, a movie, thus exploits the history of video games and classic rock music to tap into the nostalgia for the 1980s, which has been nearly omnipresent in early twenty-­first-century popular culture. The relationships exemplified by the TRON franchise are a hallmark of the media landscape as it has recently been theorized. In their book on Understanding New Media (1999), Jay David Bolter and Richard Grusin famously argue that “all mediation is remediation,” since “[o]ur culture conceives of each medium” on the basis of how “it responds to, redeploys, competes with, and reforms other media.”2 Drawing on this idea, André Gaudreault has suggested that media, at any given time, do not aim to create independent, unique media, media different from another, characterized by media specificities.3 Indeed, as Gaudreault stresses in his history of the interrelations between cinema and (all sorts of) attractions at the dawn of the twentieth century, film was not simply influenced by other media and cultural practices, film “was vaudeville, magic lantern show, magic act[, and so on].”4 Digital media occupy a privileged position in this constellation. As early as 1984, Alan Kay described the computer as “the first metamedium,” since it “can dynamically simulate the details of any other medium, including media that cannot exist physically.”5 More recently, Lev Manovich has echoed Kay’s view, propagating a notion of digital media as software-­based simulations of “previously existing” and “non-­existent media.”6 Indeed, digital games are enmeshed in a network of media that shape one another. Cinema and literature have not simply influenced video game narratives; games have also long simulated and integrated other media in their gamespaces and user interfaces, from the remediation of print books in games such as Ultima VII (Origin, 1992) to the modeling of a fully-­fledged media ecology in games such as Grand Theft Auto V (Rockstar, 2013). In turn, other media have responded to the emergence of video games with a range of intermedial practices and strategies, ranging from the inevitable screen adaptations of popular titles (e.g. Super Mario Bros. (1993)) and imitations of game aesthetics in television shows such as Spaced (Channel 4, 1999–2001) to novels featuring video games as central plot elements (e.g. Ernest Cline’s Ready Player One (2011)) and artistic appropriations of games, as in Cory Arcangel’s installation Super Mario Clouds (2002). Since convergence defines contemporary popular culture, digital

Introduction

3

games are, moreover, often part of (if not the foundations of) larger transmedia universes, while walkthroughs, Let’s Plays, and e-­sport broadcasts have effectively transformed (inter)active video-­gaming into a (more or less) passive spectator sport.7 Indeed, Steven E. Jones has suggested that “video games must be understood as parts of complex social networks.”8 The media, and the texts these media produce, are part and parcel of this social environment. Accordingly, Rune Klevjer has noted that various aspects of the “ ‘alien’ dimension of cultural conventions” feed into gameplay, which is, he argues, always also a “textual practice, at once configurative and interpretive, both unique and intertextual.”9 This collection explores the place of video games in these intermedial networks as well the nature of the various relationships between video games and other media. As such, we evidently take our cue from the above-­mentioned scholars and the discussions that have shaped Anglo-American media studies over the past two decades. However, our endeavor also arises from the context of intermediality studies, which has largely been developed in continental Europe, taking its conceptual inspiration from, among others, Dick Higgins’ notion of an “intermedia” art that is situated in-­between established forms.10 Less concerned with the development and nature of the mediascape as such, scholars such as Irina Rajewsky and Lars Elleström have instead developed fine-­grained models of intermedial relationships, offering a range of analytical tools to describe the precise nature of these relationships.11 These theoretical works have vested the field with ideas for a wealth of studies covering the most diverse media artifacts. Video games, however, rarely take center stage in these discussions.12 In one of the few explorations of video games from the vantage point of intermediality studies, Hans-Joachim Backe presents an in-­depth overview of the connections between comics and video games. His typology differentiates between various kinds of relationships, which are primarily arranged along two interrelated axes: whether the focus lies on the ludic or narrative dimension, on the one hand, and the difference between digitality and analogicity, on the other. Based on these principles, Backe carves out nine different types of connections. Digital-­to-analog transcreation denotes analog ancillary texts (often referred to as “paratexts”) accompanying video games (e.g. prequel novels and sequel comics). Digital-­to-digital transcreation describes the phenomenon where a digital paratext, such as a digital comic, accompanies a video game. Analog-­to-digital transcreation, on the other hand, comes in two shapes: individual transcreation (trying to recreate the features of a specific analog text in the medium of video games, such as the video game XIII (Ubi Soft, 2003)), which adapts a comic and adopts its aesthetics (see Armin Lippitz’s contribution to this volume), and systemic transcreation, such as

4

Intermedia Games—Games Inter Media

when Elegy for a Dead World (Dejobaan Games, 2014) refers to Romantic poetry at large (see Jason Kolkey’s contribution to this volume). Representation is the wholesale inclusion of another medium, such as Ellie reading comics in The Last of Us (2013) or college students playing Halo: Reach (Bungie, 2010) in the opening minutes of the movie Shark Night (2011). Integration, on the other hand, refers to the “invisible” incorporation of another medium, such as the frameless “Previously On” segments which recapitulate Alan Wake’s (Remedy, 2010) earlier episodes and the “re-­start” logic character­istic of video games driving movies like Edge of Tomorrow (2014). Pastiche describes a mere surface aesthetic “without content-­level references,” as Backe stresses. He uses the example of a cel shader mod for Crysis (Crytek, 2007), which has been hailed for its photorealism, suggesting that cel shading recreates the visual style of comics. However, we do wonder how this type of a visual reference to another medium can ever remain “merely on the surface.” Does the appropriation not highlight the constructedness of photorealism? That even comics, which are visually much farther away from physical reality, can create realism without being photorealist? Finally, appropriation includes all sorts of “less apparent” (as Backe puts it) interrelations between comics and other media. In the particular case of the connections between comics and video games, Backe singles out visual elements that are not part of the diegetic world but still visible to the reader/player, such as motion lines in comics and experience points popping up after eliminating an opponent in role-­playing games.13 As with any typology, Backe’s model quickly reaches its limits—a fact that he himself acknowledges. Accordingly, we have decided not to establish a working typology for the case studies which follow. After all, this collection seeks to demonstrate that video games are one of the richest areas with regard to intermedial phenomena in the current mediascape. In so doing, this collection places European and North American scholarly traditions into a productive dialog that enables a deeper understanding of the intermedial dimension of video games, on the one hand, and their various roles in today’s media environment, on the other. Still, we have divided our subject matter into three main areas of investigation, each of which features several essays. To begin with, there is the question of how and why video games so frequently incorporate other media. This dimension covers what intermediality studies has discussed under terms such as “intermedial reference”—one medium “thematizes, evokes, or imitates elements or structures of another, . . . through the use of its own media-­specific means”—or, more generally, the representation of one medium by another.14 In the case of video games, such evocation, imitation, or representation, of course, often takes the form of a literal simulation. The focus here is on the specific techniques games use for the incorporation of

Introduction

5

other media as well as the resultant effects this has on their place within the wider mediascape. A second line of inquiry leads us to what one might dub the reverse side of the equation, the ways in which other media have responded to and used video games for their own ends, as well general processes of exchange between video games and other media. Here, we are once again looking at a range of practices that fall within the category of intermedial reference or media representation, but also at the classic case of adaptation, the transfer of one medium’s content into another.15 The section hence includes one case study of video games adapting subject matter from another medium, without however, integrating the other medialities. As before, we consider individual relationships between digital games and other media to reveal something (and we are decidedly vague here) about the intermedial network at large, be it in the way that “old” media react to the emergence of a “new” one or in how the relationship among “new” media is itself continuously renegotiated through intermedial transfer. A final section deals with video games’ location in transmedia universes, where the concept of adaptation, with its clear-­cut relation of source and target medium, yields to a notion of content being simultaneously distributed across multiple media.16 Here, our interest lies specifically with what video games bring to the table as specific gateways into a transmedia universe. The first section opens with two chapters exploring digital games’ debt to cinema for numerous of its stylistic devices. The connection between video games and film was among the first to be explored systematically, and it remains one of the few that has a substantial body of criticism devoted to it.17 Håvard Vibeto takes us right into the matter of games imitating cinema, as he focuses on the ways in which the contemporary military first-­person shooter adapts the spectacular aesthetics of Hollywood blockbusters. Rejecting the notion that graphical prowess is mere “eye candy” that detracts from gameplay, Vibeto argues that audiovisual spectacle instead constitutes the main attraction in a genre whose gameplay mechanics have not substantially changed since the 1990s. Vibeto shows how recent entries in the Call of Duty and Battlefield series have used increasing hardware capacities and advances in game engine design to recreate the “impact aesthetics” audiences know from blockbuster cinema. In the second chapter, Bernard Perron, Hugo Montembeault, Andréane Morin-Simard, and Carl Therrien deal with one of the most frequently discussed notions in the context of the interrelations between video games and film, namely that of montage. However, theirs is not another argument against or in favor of a particular critical vocabulary. Rather, the authors adopt a metaperspective on the issue and, departing from the sociolinguistic concept of discourse community, examine how and why the connection to concepts

6

Intermedia Games—Games Inter Media

from film (studies) was made in the first place. Surveying a broad corpus of journalistic writing on the one hand and scholarly writing on the other, this contribution not only shows how the understanding and purpose of particular terms differs in the two communities but also how strongly it is shaped by the social context in which communication takes place. The next three chapters in this section examine video games’ connections to three different media: photography, print literature, and comic books. Sebastian Möring and Marco de Mutiis map the increasingly complex field of in-­game photography. Bringing together concepts from visual culture studies and game studies, they develop a typology of four basic forms of intermedial relationships that are situated between simulation and remediation of photographic practices in digital games. The authors distinguish two cases where photography is directly implemented into a game, either as a central part of gameplay mechanics essential to the progression through a game or as an optional photo-­mode suspending the actual gameplay. Moreover, Möring and de Mutiis also consider two cases where photography is brought to the game from outside, either through the practice of taking screenshots or through photo-­oriented user modifications. Next up, Jason I. Kolkey tackles Elegy for a Dead World, an indie game drawing its inspiration from Romantic poetry whose main form of interaction consists in prompting users to compose short pieces of literature. For Kolkey, Elegy’s reference to the Romantics is no coincidence, for they developed the notions of creativity, genius, and collaboration that are still valued in today’s digital culture, especially in the guise of technoromanticism. The game, however, is no emphatic celebration of these concepts but rather uses them to critically reflect on our understanding of games as well as on the ideological underpinnings of authorship as it is understood in the context of digital media. In the closing contribution of the first section, Armin Lippitz examines the incorporation of comics into video games. For Lippitz, these amount to more than aesthetic or narrative effects; in a series of case studies ranging from the 16-bit classic Comix Zone (Sega, 1995) to the mobile game Framed (Loveshack, 2014), he discusses operational borrowings that games have made from comics, attempts to transform elements such as panel borders and the space between them—the gutter—into gameplay mechanics. As seemingly media-­ specific features are thus “gamified,” the resultant games also dynamize their source medium and avoid merely static reproductions of comic book pages. The four chapters in the second section look at examples of how other media have taken up and transformed elements of digital games for their own ends as well as at the phenomenon of adaptation. Up first, Ricardo Fassone discusses a number of related phenomena that have radically transformed video-­game culture and as well as digital games’ place within the mediascape

Introduction

7

at large—the emergence of Let’s Plays, streams, e-­sports broadcasts, and machinima. The author notes that the activity of watching video games, though always present in the culture, has generally been sidelined in academia, where the theorization of users’ ergodic interaction with games has been a prime concern. What can be observed in these new media formats’ remediation of games is, following Fassone, a linearization of play that brings back the issue of video game spectatorship with a vengeance. The chapter explores this issue in connection with the notions of aspiration, nostalgia, and performance. The next two contributions examine intermedial transfers between digital games and literature, albeit in different directions. Laurent Milesi takes on French avant-­garde writer’s Chloé Delaume intricate engagement with The Sims games in a series of works—including the author’s website—created over several years. As Milesi demonstrates, Delaume’s texts do not merely attempt to recreate game-­like structures with the means of a novel or blog; they fundamentally blur the border between literature and video games as well as that between reader and player, author and character, reality and simulation. Drawing upon the tradition of French autofiction, Chloé Delaume fashions herself as an avatar to be performed and played with by recipients, as a being that is virtually embodied in game and text form. The chapter thus highlights how intermedial strategies are used to question identity constructions as practiced in this age of the multiplication of online selves. Marco Caracciolo, in turn, studies video game adaptations of a literary classic, Edgar Allan Poe’s body of short stories. He specifically focuses on the dream logic and oneiric atmosphere characteristic of Poe’s writing. Caracciolo argues that Poe’s handling of dreams can be considered “realistic” with regard to how current cognitive scientists conceive of dreams, and that it is this cognitive realism which serves as the basis for adaptations. What video games take from Poe’s tales, then, are not simply narrative elements but an atmosphere in line with the structural features of dream experiences, an atmosphere which is translated into a multimodal and interactive form. Stephan Schwingeler concludes this section with a study of video game art. Based on philosophical discussions about the transparency and opacity of media, he argues that artistic appropriations of video games tend to interfere with and disrupt the drive toward hyperrealism and illusionism characteristic of digital games’ development. Schwingeler discusses artists who modify games to render them virtually unplayable or in some cases even create self-­destructive games, foregrounding the medial and technical apparatus that ordinarily ensures gamers’ seamless immersion into virtual spaces and effaces itself in this process. As the author shows, these artistic strategies do not exist in isolation, but are interrelated with an art tradition that ranges from early modern meta-­painting to Dada and Fluxus takes on mass media as well as analog games.

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Intermedia Games—Games Inter Media

Our collection concludes with three explorations of video games’ role in the transmedia franchises that have come to dominate the popular imagination over the last few decades. Tim Summers surveys the varying functions of scores in Star Trek games, beginning with the re-­use of the original TV series’ music in Interplay’s adventures games. Here, the author finds a remarkable congruence between the two media, facilitated by the score’s emphatic, repetitive, and modular nature, which works equally well in both contexts. Later film or television productions, in contrast, starkly differ from Star Trek video games with regard to their scores. While the former have generally favored subdued background music, the latter have continued to use music that is clearly “to be heard,” leading to the same composers adopting different styles for different media and, at least in one case, a prominent song spreading from a game to other Star Trek works. Mattia Thibault examines the transmedial expansion that has arisen around the Lego construction sets. His interest here is first and foremost with a comparison of analog play and digital games, in which a seemingly insurmountable gulf between the two becomes visible: video games have typically eschewed the open-­ended, free-­play potential of the Lego bricks in favor of a stringent narrativization with limited to no possibility of building without restrictions. Yet, as Thibault demonstrates, Lego construction toys are nevertheless ideally suited to the demands of convergence culture. Their semiotic properties, notably their modularity and high degree of abstraction, make it possible to produce Lego versions of virtually any existing franchise. Our final contribution comes from Christophe Duret, who examines Second Life role-­playing games that have been created in the Gorean subculture surrounding John Norman’s series of fantasy novels. Duret shows that, as with other popular cases of transmedia storytelling, what is translated from the novels into the games is very much their world (Gor), and his interest lies specifically with how the RPGs handle Gor’s ethos, its society’s organization, customs, laws, etc. The author terms the mechanism via which these are recreated on the Second Life platform “procedural expansion,” meaning that Gor’s social configuration is used to create gameplay possibilities and constraints. The result is a gameworld that Duret describes as a “thetic space,” as the manifestation of a particular political doctrine, philosophy or ideology, which, due to Norman’s controversial views on gender, also causes divisions within the Gorean subculture. Compared to many of the examples discussed by our contributors, the relationship between films and video games as evinced by TRON in the early 1980s may seem almost quaintly straightforward. As digital games continue to make inroads into the very heart of contemporary culture, and as new media forms continue to populate the mediascape, the complexity of the

Introduction

9

intermedial networks games find themselves enmeshed in will likely only increase. Stemming from a diverse range of disciplinary backgrounds, the twelve chapters in this collection propose to conceptualize and thus reduce some of that complexity. It is our hope that they will spark discussion of the intermedial dimension within games—their being intermedia games—as well as games’ relationship to and place within a larger media ecology—their being games inter media—among researchers and students alike.

Notes 1 Jason Sperb, Flickers of Film: Nostalgia in the Time of Digital Cinema (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2016), 133. 2 Jay David Bolter and Richard Grusin, Remediation: Understanding New Media (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1999), 55. 3 André Gaudreault, Cinéma et attraction (Paris: CNRS, 2008), 44. 4 Ibid., 113; our translation; emphasis added. 5 Alan Kay, “Computer Software,” Scientific American (September 1984), 59. 6 Lev Manovich, Software Takes Command (New York: Bloomsbury, 2013), 44–5. 7 Henry Jenkins, Convergence Culture: Where Old and New Media Collide (New York: New York University Press, 2006). 8 Steven E. Jones, The Meaning of Video Games: Gaming and Textual Strategies (New York: Routledge, 2008), 2. 9 Rune Klevjer, “In Defense of Cutscenes,” in Computer Games and Digital Cultures Conference Proceedings, ed. Frans Mäyrä (Tampere: Tampere University Press, 2002), 194. 10 Dick Higgins, “Intermedia (With an Appendix by Hannah Higgins),” Leonardo 34, no. 1 (2001). 11 Irina Rajewsky, Intermedialität (Tübingen: Francke, 2001); Irina Rajewsky, “Intermediality, Intertextuality, and Remediation: A Literary Perspective on Intermediality,” Intermédialités 6 (2005); Lars Elleström, “The Modalities of Media: An Model for Understanding Intermedial Relationships,” in Media Borders, Multimodality and Intermediality, ed. Lars Elleström (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2010); Lars Elleström, Media Transformation: The Transfer of Media Characteristics among Media (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014). 12 Studies rooted in the discourse of intermediality studies which tackle video games include: Britta Neitzel, “Performing Games: Videogames and Intermediality,” in Handbook of Intermediality: Literature—Image—Music— Sound, ed. Gabriele Rippl (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2015); David Ciccoricco, “Games of Interpretation and a Graphophiliac God of War,” in Intermediality and Storytelling, ed. Marina Grishakova and Marie-Laure Ryan (Berlin: De Gruyter,

10

Intermedia Games—Games Inter Media 2011); Benjamin Beil, First Person Perspectives: Point of View und figurenzentrierte Erzählformen im Film und im Computerspiel (Münster: LIT, 2011); Kevin Corstorphine, “ ‘Killer7’ and Comic Book Aesthetics in Contemporary Video Games,” International Journal of Comic Art 10, no. 1 (2008).

13 Hans-Joachim Backe, “Vom Yellow Kid zu Super Mario: Zum Verhältnis von Comics und Videospielen,” in Comics intermedial: Beiträge zu einem interdisziplinären Forschungsfeld, ed. Christian A. Bachmann, Véronique Sina, and Lars Banhold (Essen: Bachmann, 2012). 14 Rajewsky, “Intermediality,” 53; Elleström, Media Transformation, 27–35. 15 Adaptation goes under such names as “media transposition” (Rajewsky) and “transmediation” (Elleström) in intermediality studies. 16 Jenkins, Convergence Culture. 17 Studies on the interrelation between film and video games include: Tanya Krzywinska and Geoff King, ed., ScreenPlay: Cinema/Videogames/Interfaces (London: Wallflower, 2002); Robert Alan Brookey, Hollywood Gamers: Digital Convergence in the Film and Video Game Industries (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2010); Gretchen Papazian and Joseph M. Sommers, ed., Game On, Hollywood! Essays on the Intersection of Video Games and Cinema (Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2013); Riccardo Fassone, Cinema e videogiochi (Roma: Carocci Editore, 2017).

References Alan Wake. Developed by Remedy Entertainment. Microsoft Game Studios, 2010. Xbox 360. Backe, Hans-Joachim. “Vom Yellow Kid zu Super Mario: Zum Verhältnis von Comics und Videospielen.” In Comics intermedial: Beiträge zu einem interdisziplinären Forschungsfeld, edited by Christian A. Bachmann, Véronique Sina, and Lars Banhold, 143–58. Essen: Bachmann, 2012. Beil, Benjamin. First Person Perspectives: Point of View und figurenzentrierte Erzählformen im Film und im Computerspiel. Münster: LIT, 2011. Bolter, Jay David, and Richard Grusin. Remediation: Understanding New Media. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1999. Brookey, Robert Alan. Hollywood Gamers: Digital Convergence in the Film and Video Game Industries. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2010. Ciccoricco, David. “Games of Interpretation and a Graphophiliac God of War.” In Intermediality and Storytelling, edited by Marina Grishakova and Marie-Laure Ryan, 232–57. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2011. Cline, Ernest. Ready Player One. New York: Century, 2011. Corstorphine, Kevin. “ ‘Killer7’ and Comic Book Aesthetics in Contemporary Video Games.” International Journal of Comic Art 10, no. 1 (2008): 68–73. Crysis. Developed by Crytek. Electronic Arts, 2007. Windows. Edge of Tomorrow. Directed by Doug Liman. Warner Bros., 2014. Blu-­ray. Elegy for a Dead World. Developed by Dejobaan Games. Dejobaan Games, 2014. Windows.

Introduction

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Elleström, Lars. Media Transformation: The Transfer of Media Characteristics Among Media. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014. Elleström, Lars. “The Modalities of Media: A Model for Understanding Intermedial Relationships.” In Media Borders, Multimodality and Intermediality, edited by Lars Elleström, 11–48. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2010. Fassone, Riccardo. Cinema e videogiochi. Roma: Carocci Editore, 2017. Gaudreault, André. Cinéma et attraction. Paris: CNRS, 2008. Grand Theft Auto V. Developed by Rockstar North. Rockstar Games, 2013. PlayStation 3. Halo: Reach. Developed by Bungie. Microsoft Game Studios, 2010. Xbox 360. Higgins, Dick. “Intermedia (with an Appendix by Hannah Higgins).” Leonardo 34, no. 1 (2001): 49–54. Jenkins, Henry. Convergence Culture: Where Old and New Media Collide. New York: New York University Press, 2006. Jones, Steven E. The Meaning of Video Games: Gaming and Textual Strategies. New York: Routledge, 2008. Kay, Alan. “Computer Software.” Scientific American (September 1984): 53–9. Klevjer, Rune. “In Defense of Cutscenes.” In Computer Games and Digital Cultures Conference Proceedings, edited by Frans Mäyrä, 191–202. Tampere: Tampere University Press, 2002. Krzywinska, Tanya, and Geoff King, ed. ScreenPlay: Cinema/Videogames/ Interfaces. London: Wallflower, 2002. The Last of Us. Developed by Naughty Dog. Sony Computer Entertainment, 2013. PlayStation 3. Manovich, Lev. Software Takes Command. New York: Bloomsbury, 2013. Neitzel, Britta. “Performing Games: Videogames and Intermediality.” In Handbook of Intermediality: Literature—Image—Music—Sound, edited by Gabriele Rippl, 584–601. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2015. Papazian, Gretchen, and Joseph M. Sommers, ed. Game On, Hollywood! Essays on the Intersection of Video Games and Cinema. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2013. Rajewsky, Irina. Intermedialität. Tübingen: Francke, 2001. Rajewsky, Irina. “Intermediality, Intertextuality, and Remediation: A Literary Perspective on Intermediality.” Intermédialités 6 (2005): 43–64. Shark Night. Directed by David R. Ellis. Rogue, 2011. Blu-­ray. Sperb, Jason. Flickers of Film: Nostalgia in the Time of Digital Cinema. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2016. TRON. Directed by Steven Lisberger. Walt Disney, 2011. Blu-­ray. TRON: Legacy. Directed by Joseph Kosinski. Walt Disney, 2011. Blu-­ray. Ultima VII: The Black Gate. Developed by Origin. Origin, 1992. MS-DOS. XIII. Developed by Ubi Soft Paris. Ubi Soft, 2003. Windows.

PART ONE

Video Games’ Incorporation of Other Media

1 The Spectacular Design of First-­person Shooters: Remediating Cinematic Spectacle in Call of Duty: Advanced Warfare and Battlefield 4 Håvard Vibeto

T

he convergence between the film and video game industries has been an ongoing project since the 1980s. Admittedly, this endeavor has not always been a successful one in terms of financial earnings and review scores, let alone when it comes to artistic and aesthetic aspects.1 Nevertheless, this continuing convergence has had a profound influence on the evolution of video game aesthetics, as games draw on audiovisual strategies known from the older medium. In particular, I will suggest in this chapter, the first-­person shooter (FPS) has tapped into the audiovisual spectacle characteristic of the Hollywood blockbuster, recreating spectacular, awe-­inspiring moments within the interactive environment of video games. Accordingly, this chapter sets out to discuss two FPS games, Call of Duty: Advanced Warfare (Sledgehammer, 2014) and Battlefield 4 (Digital Illusions CE, 2013). I will explore the indebtedness of these video games’ audiovisual effects to the spectacle characteristic of blockbuster cinema and how audiovisual spectacle affects the ludic qualities of these games.

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To be sure, triple-A FPS titles like Advanced Warfare and Battlefield 4 set new benchmarks for audiovisual qualities in games, particularly through the use of excessive visuals and amplified sounds. These audiovisual spectacles have reached a point where triple-A video games perhaps even surpass the spectacles of action movies. As Robert Brookey has pointed out: “[T]he technology of video games has improved significantly, allowing games to offer cinematic visuals and complex narratives. In other words, video games have become more like movies.”2 Although the spectacular aesthetics of film and video games have converged, there is still a fundamental difference in how it is used. After all, video games are an interactive medium characterized by the illusion of player agency. Thus, this chapter will focus on spectacle in these two games, particularly in interactive, in-­game sequences where the player is in control (i.e., not the cinematics and cut-­scenes, where the player has no interactive control over what is going on). In order to explain video game spectacle, my chapter will combine game design theory with the academic discourse on cinematic spectacle. In particular, I will focus on the remediation of what Geoff King has called the “impact aesthetics” characteristic of the contemporary Hollywood blockbuster in the FPS genre.3 As I will suggest, the spectacle of these games operates in unison with gameplay and, in fact, even amplifies it; however, audiovisual spectacle and gameplay also have intrinsic values in themselves. Together, spectacle and gameplay produce an exciting game experience, but these two layers can also be judged on their own merits and enjoyed. Similar to how game studies has been haunted by the separation of video games’ narrative and ludic (not to mention other) dimensions, film studies has long relied on a dualism which generated a gulf of exclusion between spectacle and narrative. This aspect is made most explicit in Laura Mulvey’s famous argument that the visual spectacle of the female body “freeze[s] the flow of action.”4 However, more recently, scholars have come to agree that spectacle may support the story, while at other times, the audience may simply marvel at and enjoy spectacular images.5 In movies, Geoff King has argued, spectacle makes viewers identify with the object of the action instead of the characters and provides sensory pleasures.6 Spectacle, I would argue, serves a similar function in video games, even though they adapt spectacle to suit and support their interactive nature. To better understand how the use of spectacular and fast-­paced action in games fits into these views, one may take a closer look at game design books, which try to explain how to make a good video game. These guides clearly emphasize the ludic aspects of video games. Books such as Chris Crawford’s On Game Design (2003), Katie Salen and Eric Zimmerman’s Rules of Play (2003), Game Design (2001) by Bob Bates, and Richard Rouse’s

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Game Design: Theory & Practice (2001) all draw attention to rules, interactivity, core mechanics, gameplay, the development cycle, and commercial questions.7 In particular, game designers (but also game studies scholars) have highlighted gameplay as the key element which separates video games from other media. Rouse, for example, has argued that a “game’s gameplay is the degree and nature of the interactivity that the game includes, i.e. how players are able to interact with the gameworld and how that gameworld reacts to the choices players make.”8 Gameplay is thus linked to video game’s interactivity. Accordingly, game design has to focus on determining the choices available to the players and considering the ramifications of the preferred alternative.9 However, these publications largely ignore the ways in which audiovisual aspects impact the gameplay experience. Indeed, game design literature limits the discussion of audiovisual aspects to the practical questions of designing animations, objects, and audiovisual effects: learning the code and mastering the software rather than the effects (and affects) of the audiovisual environment. As evidenced by books such as Jean-Marc Gauthier’s Building Interactive Worlds in 3D (2005), Phil Co’s Level Design for Games (2006), and Aaron Marks’ The Complete Guide to Game Audio (2001), the predominance of practical, technical, and ludic questions easily eclipses the more theoretical understanding of how audiovisual elements affect the game experience.10 Indeed, some game designers, like Chris Crawford, even dismiss the audiovisual dimensions of games, as he has stressed that a video game’s audiovisual elements are not as important as core gameplay mechanics and rules of the game, going as far as cautioning game designers against the use of “eye candy,” i.e., cosmetic elements used to enhance the look and the sound instead of furthering gameplay.11 But why do FPS games put so much emphasis on (and money into) creating audiovisual spectacle, if not for enhancing the games’ ludic qualities?

Images, sounds, and the FPS genre From the perspective of game design, Call of Duty: Advanced Warfare (CODAW) and Battlefield 4 (BF4) do not present anything new, as they adhere to the same logic, game rules, and game mechanics introduced in the classics Wolfenstein 3D (id Software, 1992) and Doom (id Software, 1994). The most central features in FPS games are the first-­person view, the visual presence of the barrel of the avatar’s gun, and the focus on conflict.12 In addition, the first-­person subjective perspective constantly moves. The player experiences the action through the eyes of the avatar. As a result, it seems almost as

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if a camera was attached to the avatar’s head, moving through the world in one long take. Running, jumping, looking around, and crouching—these movements all affect the player’s view. Finally, games in this genre are less cerebral than adventure, strategy, or puzzle games. Instead, a player starting up an FPS desires an adrenaline rush and fast-­paced action that requires snap judgments and quick reflexes.13 While there have been some changes and refinements to the game design formula, when it comes to gameplay mechanics, not much has changed since the genre came into being a little over two decades ago. FPS gameplay depends on action hooks: the player traverses a three-­dimensional world and shoots enemies, choosing from a wide range of weapons.14 While CODAW’s futuristic setting provides some variation from the formulaic gameplay that is the staple of the Call of Duty franchise (for example, the player character has new abilities when it comes to movement, such as dash, boost and sky jump thanks to a futuristic exoskeleton), with respect to its gameplay mechanics, CODAW is little different from its iconic forebears and essentially the same game as the first Call of Duty (Infinity Ward, 2003), which was released more than a decade earlier. However, the game’s use of audiovisual effects has dramatically evolved. To be sure, the FPS has always put great emphasis on graphics. Genre-­ defining games such as Doom and Quake (id Software, 1996) pushed the technological limits of what the player could see and hear, introducing new aesthetic experiences.15 As one of the most popular genres today, every new game is expected to continue this tradition of pushing the aesthetic experience, to flaunt more photorealistic, more eye-­popping, and crisper imagery as well as dazzling sound effects.16 It is an important marketing tool that differentiates a game from the competition. As a result, triple-A FPS titles such as CODAW and BF4 even incur higher production costs than the average Hollywood blockbuster.17 Some reviewers have hailed these games as more spectacular than games that have come before, highlighting the audiovisual mayhem, graphic and sonic fidelity, and fast pace in both multiplayer and single-­player action.18 Comparisons to Hollywood action and blockbuster movies repeatedly pop up in popular assessments of these games: “If director Michael Bay made videogames, he would undoubtedly have produced BF4, an explosion-­ridden, duck-­and-dive first-­person shooter with more than its fair share of ground-­shaking blow-­ups,” David Crookes remarks in his BF4 review for The Independent, for example.19 Indeed, FPS games such as CODAW and BF4 utilize sounds and images indebted to Hollywood’s spectacle-­driven aesthetics, which transforms the audiovisual experience into a core ingredient in the enjoyment of these games.

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The evolution of technology: audiovisual effects, spectacle, and impact aesthetics Audiovisual spectacle is a major selling point for Hollywood blockbusters, to the point that blockbusters and spectacle have frequently been used synonymously.20 In film studies, the term “spectacle” is used to refer to audiovisual elements that create action-­filled and awe-­inspiring stop-­and-stare sequences. Spectacle offers a range of pleasures associated with the enjoyment of “larger than life” representations, more polished and intense than reality itself, a kind of escapist fantasy grounded in physical reality. Accordingly, the term “spectacle” seeks to explicate all the elements the film industry uses to entertain audiences and attract new viewers.21 Cinema has always been fascinated with spectacle as spectacle. Tom Gunning has pointed out that early cinema was defined by an aesthetics of attractions, a spectacle which solicits a conscious awareness of the film images that were engaging the viewer’s curiosity as film images.22 One of the many forms of cinema spectacle is called “impact aesthetics.” Geoff King coined this term with reference to the Hollywood blockbuster, and it describes strategies such as rapid editing, unstable camerawork, and the propelling of objects toward the screen.23  These techniques create a subjective experience of the on-­screen action, as the movie effectively bombards the audience with audiovisual effects targeted at viewers’ sensations.24 This affective cinematic environment immerses viewers corporeally in the spectacular action.25 Indeed, in cinema, spectacle has repeatedly become a major attraction during periods of paradigm-­shifting innovation, such as the coming of sound, the introduction of color images, the switch to widescreen formats, the use of computer-­graphics technology, and the various cycles of 3D cinema.26 Video games, on the other hand, have always been affected by the constant technological innovation in the computer industry. This continuous (or, rather, serial) development has influenced all aspects of video games, from control options and gameplay mechanics to graphics and sounds. A good example is BF4’s graphic engine Frostbite 3. It epitomizes the serial cycle of technological developments that fuel the perpetual search for improved audiovisual effects, which triple-A video games are required to fulfil as much as blockbuster movies must have state-­of-­the-­art special effects. After all, graphics ranks among consumers’ main criteria for purchasing a video game.27 While the significance of audiovisual elements differs from genre to genre, for the FPS, the absence of eye-­popping graphics equals commercial suicide.28

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The importance of audiovisual qualities to CODAW and BF4 becomes apparent in the distributors’ marketing efforts: images, videos, and texts which highlight the game engines’ audiovisual qualities were released and distributed before and after the games’ respective launches. For example, DICE, the creators of BF4, released a four-­plus-minute-­long video boasting the new engine’s power prior to the game’s release, emphasizing its ability to showcase destructions, physics, dynamic environment, water effects, animations, and so on. This steady technological progress has transformed some video games into arbiters of spectacle as spectacle. This final point is of particular interest, since audiovisual spectacle, in fact, allows players to immerse themselves in the game; to interact with, react to, sense, and enjoy the digital environment they project themselves into. This applies in particular to FPS games because such games are designed to deliver an interactive, adrenaline-­paced and immersive action experience through the audiovisual surface. As video games by definition are interactive, the FPS game is dependent on making the player connect to the fast-­paced action it showcases through the first-­person view. One of BF4’s claims to fame is a feature called “Destruction 3.0,” which allows players to destroy virtually every part of the environment. BF4’s game engine supports high-­resolution graphics, sports a complex physics engine, and reproduces life-­like sounds, providing a myriad of audiovisual options to produce immersive spectacle. Players may destroy buildings piece by piece and mow down trees with gunfire, while tank shells and artillery punch holes into the surroundings. The spectacular effects are enhanced by a feature called “Levolution,” which allows players to dramatically change the virtual environment. Here, the focus is clearly on explosive destruction, which produces breathtaking and intense moments of spectacle. The sights and sounds of collapsing houses, the sights of debris filling the air, and the sounds of exploding walls help substantiate the intense atmosphere of violence and war BF4 wants to create. Since players move in destructible environments, no building or cover can provide safety, which has a dramatic impact on gameplay. For example, an enemy hiding inside a house can be put down by firing a 40mm grenade at the wall, blowing the house and avatar to pieces. While the Call of Duty games also feature destructible environments, unlike BF4, the destruction of the environment is primarily scripted; i.e., triggered when players reach an invisible point in a given level. But even though the player is not allowed to exert control over the destruction in the same interactive way as in BF4’s gameplay, the player still has to react and navigate through the mayhem. While the two games thus feature different types of spectacular destruction (emergent vs. scripted), both games employ these spectacles for similar purposes.

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First, the spectacular destructive mayhem showcases the power of the technology—that is, the power of both hard- and software—that makes possible the creation of these immersive environments. This technology allows the games to employ a multitude of audiovisual effects, intensifying the game experience through spectacle. Shots, explosions, and collapsing buildings assault players with their impressive audiovisual quality, shaping the players’ experience of the gameworld. Accordingly, the quality of the spectacular audiovisual effects supports the video game tradition of investing in surface realism.29 The pleasure that players derive from destroying an authentic­looking gameworld which behaves in a credible physical way and from experiencing the mayhem elevates the gameplay in the sense that feedback to actions becomes richer, but also in the sense that the pleasure of experiencing the high-­fidelity imagery and sounds of the game increases.30 Significantly, CODAW’s scripted destruction (which also exists in BF4) gives the game a chance to construct spectacular scenes that the player navigates and fights through. Normally, these scripted sequences feature moments of loss of control to force the player to look at a certain set piece or to perform specific actions, such as falling to the ground or turning the first-­person perspective to view a collapsing building, but player control is swiftly restored, so the player can partake and experience the destruction. For example, in CODAW’s mission “Fission,” a nuclear cooling tower is destroyed when the player walks by. Even though the destruction is not actively triggered by the player as a part of gameplay, the explosion does intensify the spectacle of war and the feeling of imminent danger as the power plant is about to explode. The camera shakes, debris fills the screen, making shooting and movement harder as the player actively partakes in the scripted spectacle taking place. The scripted destruction forces the player to react and experience the audiovisual spectacle the game designer planned. Gameplay and spectacle are joined together in both games, but in different ways—as something the player often can exercise continuous control over, as feedback to actions, but also separate, as something the player has no control over and is forced to navigate through as well as experience and marvel at.

The spectacular first-­person perspective Traditionally, scholars have conceived of the first-­person perspective characteristic of FPS games as a vehicle for bringing the player closer to the in-­game action. For example, Bob Rehak has pointed out that, when compared to other perspectives, the first-­person point of view offers players a better

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perception of the interaction with the gameworld and a better feel of the body the player controls.31 Similarly, Geoff King and Tanya Krzywinska have claimed that “the first person experience is generally closer to one of immediacy than the third person.”32 Alexander Galloway has expanded on this idea, noting that the use of the first-person view is a visual technique that both film and video games use in similar and different ways. He divides first-­person view into two categories; the subjective shot and POV (point of view). Subjective shots create the illusion that we see the world through the eyes of the character, while the POV shot merely approximates what a character would see. Subjective shots often reveal the psychological, physical, and emotional condition of the character and place us inside the head of the character. According to Galloway, the subjective shot is unstable and volatile. It shakes, changes pitch, goes blurry, and gets blinded by light. Galloway notes that subjective shots are rarely used in film because this type of shot is often perceived as problematic in relation to narration and immersion. The closeness to a character over a long period of time may create a perceptual confusion and create an alienating effect, since it positions the viewer inside the body of another person. In video games, on the other hand, this strategy is used quite often to create a sense of motion and action.33 Thus, the first-­person perspective produces a more immersive experience for the player than witnessing the action from a godlike position placed above the action, for example. Enemies attack the avatar, and players experience the combat at close range.34 The participatory dimension typical of video games accordingly forces the audiovisual elements to convey this quality, which makes the use of spectacle the perfect fit for these games. The first-­person perspective brings the physical conflict close to the player and generates the impression of conflict, stress, fast-­paced action, and mayhem. More importantly, FPS games depend on the player’s active involvement in violent actions in order to create an immersive and, in fact, enjoyable experience. Indeed, game designers such as Chris Crawford have suggested that players demand violence as part of the gameplay experience because it provides the most intense, direct, and physical form of conflict.35 Visual spectacle and graphic depictions of blood, gore, and explosions thus produce a more enjoyable playing experience.36 Witnessing this spectacle from the first-­person perspective makes the action seem more direct, practically attacking the player, thus enhancing both the gameplay and the gaming experience. The direct, physical, and violent nature of the game affects the first-­person view in a manner similar to the techniques found in blockbuster action movies. Video games remediate cinema’s impact aesthetics through constant changes

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of the first-person perspective, as the view shakes and tilts—is manipulated in a number of different ways, in short. In these games, the perspective is under a constant attack by external forces that heavily affect the perspective. In CODAW and BF4, in particular, the perspective often resembles a handheld camera due to the quick movements and the constant shaking of the “camera.” The player-controlled perspective from inside the body of the avatar and the lack of editing in video games enhances the effects known from cinema. Indeed, gunfights in BF4 and CODAW are simply spectacular experiences. Bullets, explosions, and avatar movements shake the camera in every direction, making the image unfocused and blurry, sometimes covered by fluids, dirt, and blood. As a matter of fact, the visuals even portray double vision and other effects of head trauma. For example, the avatar’s close proximity to an exploding flash grenade makes the screen become burned-out and shake violently, as images become overlaid by other images and sounds other than a loud beeping noise imitating a pierced eardrum disappear (see Figure 1.1). In addition, the shaky handheld camera effect applied the moment the player is hurt underscores the fact that the avatar has taken a hit. When taking a hit, the image becomes blurry, the color of the image is lost, the player’s ability to move is reduced, and tunnel vision is depicted. Moreover, the shaking movements indicate the position of the shooter, combined with a red marker pointing in the direction of the enemy. The blood-soaked first-person view in CODAW and BF4 notifies the player that the avatar is nearly dead and must

FIGURE 1.1 A flash grenade obfuscates the player’s view. Screenshot from Call of Duty: Advanced Warfare (Activision & Square Enix, 2014).

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FIGURE 1.2 The visuals indicate that the avatar is severely injured. Screenshot from Call of Duty: Advanced Warfare (Activision & Square Enix, 2014).

take cover. Whereas blood splatter on the camera is a well-known convention in action films, in these games, blood splatter also functions as a life-meter. In CODAW, when shot, the player can hear the avatar’s heavy breathing and the heartbeat growing louder, muzzling out all other sounds. The audiovisual assault thus not only intensifies the perception of peril, but also indicates how to escape the situation and what is happening in terms of gameplay (see Figure 1.2). In particular, there are several sequences in CODAW and BF4 in which the view is constantly out of level and focus, making it difficult to see and move. In BF4’s mission “South China Sea,” for example, the player boards a sinking battleship. The level and tilt of the view is off and constantly shifting as the ship is going under. This alteration to the view, combined with all the audiovisual effects affecting it, makes the firefights aboard hard, but also intense and adrenaline-packed (see Figure 1.3). Here, the spectacle impacts and enhances the gameplay experience. Spectacle is not just “eye candy”; spectacle helps or challenges the player in terms of gameplay. Moreover, not just the enemies, firefights, and action sequences attack the first-person view, for players trigger effects such as muzzle flashes and smoke from the player’s gun. In CODAW and BF4, changing a magazine prompts an animation that blocks a large portion of the view. Accordingly, changing the magazine when in a firefight, as rockets and bullets are flying toward the avatar, adds to the richness of action experienced by the player

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FIGURE 1.3 The chaos draws players into the gameworld in the mission “South China Sea.” Screenshot from Battlefield 4 (Electronic Arts, 2014).

FIGURE 1.4 Changing the magazine obscures the player’s perspective. Screenshot from Battlefield 4 (Electronic Arts, 2014).

(see Figure 1.4). Similarly, the different perspectives offered by different weapons alter the depth of field. When looking through a gun sight, the world exterior to the sight becomes unfocused and thus makes the player experience tunnel vision. The player becomes more vulnerable but also more accurate.

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The different gun sights are actualized through visual specifics, such as the depiction of an aim point and the sniper scope. Both games encourage players to use these gun-specific perspectives, as they serve the double function of making players better marksmen and creating a hectic atmosphere, as the sight zooms in and out of the action. Referring to film, Alexander Galloway has called this type of perspective “the masked POV” shot. As Galloway explains, this shot provides a visual indicator of looking through an instrument, which equates the viewer’s perspective with the character’s.37 This function is exploited in games, since it supports gameplay but also calls to mind that the player is simultaneously in control of the action and placed in the front seat of the action. In addition to the perspectives particular to specific weapons, CODAW features a thermal sight which renders the environment in blue and enemies in red (see Figure 1.5). The change between the regular first-person view and thermal sight significantly alters the audiovisual presentation, both in terms of gameplay and spectacle. This view makes it easier for the player to spot enemies and changes the aesthetical properties of the action. Similarly, the advanced sniper scope in BF4 allows players to see everything through its magnified sight, thus limiting players’ vision. Players can only see what is right in front of the avatar as well as the extreme close details of the killing and mayhem (see Figure 1.6). The change of perspective which different gun sights provide in terms of color scheme and the possibility to zoom enhances the spectacular mayhem of the combat.

FIGURE 1.5 Thermal sight in Call of Duty: Advanced Warfare. Screenshot from Call of Duty: Advanced Warfare (Activision & Square Enix, 2014).

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FIGURE 1.6 Looking through the sniper scope in Battlefield 4. Screenshot from Battlefield 4 (Electronic Arts, 2014).

Attacking the player with spectacle King has pointed out that action movies propel objects such as debris, parts of vehicles, and bars toward the camera in select scenes.38 However, the FPS experience is orchestrated in such a way that every single action sequence assaults the player. In contrast to a movie, many of the video game’s audiovisual elements constantly attack and fly into the first-person camera and create the perception that the player is under attack. Games such as CODAW and BF4, which make use of destructible environments, propel objects, fireballs, bullets, lights, dust, sparks, and ricochets into the first-person view at an astoundingly high rate. Since everything disintegrates in a firefight, players may not see the enemies they are fighting, as debris and dirt fill the screen. This spectacular aesthetic underlines the chaos and action felt in the game. In particular, this feature is used in the game’s vehicle levels. For example, in the BF4 campaign mission “Fishing in Baku,” the player drives a vehicle at high speed whilst getting shot by a helicopter, causing debris of different sizes and speeds to be sent into the view (see Figure 1.7). CODAW’s action-packed turret, UAV, and vehicles sequences employ a similar strategy. Here, the action also sends explosions, debris, and sparks at the screen at high speeds, an effect that is enhanced by the camera shaking, lens flares, and motion blur. The feelings of assaulting impact and spectacular sensation are central features in games which involve combat of one kind or another.39 In particular,

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FIGURE 1.7  The screen gets filled with debris and dirt. Screenshot from Battlefield 4 (Electronic Arts, 2014).

the FPS is a genre that utilizes and even relies on audiovisual effects and objects to assault the player-­controlled view, thereby supporting the gameplay and enhancing the spectacle. The constant waves of objects and effects resembling film’s impact aesthetics, in combination with the avatar’s movement, make the games feel more intense, frantic, and adrenaline-­ pumped. Similar to the typical blockbuster, CODAW and BF4 fire a seemingly never-­ending amount of objects at the first-­person camera. These objects include grenades, bullets, fire bolts, explosions, and even cars and boats. Some of these objects may affect the player’s health, such as grenades and bullets. For the most part, however, these objects do not have direct effects on the gameplay. However, their very existence underscores the feeling of being assaulted on a subjective level and intensifies the spectacle. In addition, both games use particle systems, which may be described as generators churning out little images, known as particles. Ash, sparks, paper, leaves, smoke, rain, and even snow make the gamespace seem richer and help create a believable world.40 Some of these particle effects have a gameplay function. Smoke, rain, and snow make it harder to see the enemies. However, these spectacular effects also aid the player, as they may block the NPCs’ sight lines too (see Figure 1.8). Beyond the gameplay function, these visual effects command attention and admiration. In moments in which there are no enemies to fight and no explosions to dodge, the particle system ensures that the player does not lose attention. In anticipation of what is to

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FIGURE 1.8  The player-­character looking at a wall of smoke. Screenshot from Battlefield 4 (Electronic Arts, 2014).

come, this semblance of surface intensity helps uphold the impactful sensation of the game during moments of pause from the action. As King has outlined, one of the primary techniques supporting impact aesthetics in action movies is fast editing, thereby heightening the feeling of action and speed. Explosive editing provides a powerful source of impact, combined with the movement of objects toward the camera.41 Since video games do not use editing, the need to constantly manipulate, affect, and fill the first-­person view with audiovisual effects is necessary to create the feeling of action and speed. The shaking, tilting, blurring, and blinding of the perspective generates the feeling of being inside the body of the avatar. As the player affectively inhabits the virtual body, the player’s body is assaulted, too, both through images and sounds. The cinematic image can certainly not be put under the same amount or duration of audiovisual mayhem and movement that befalls the perspective in BF4 and CODAW in its moments of spectacle. This strategy thus highlights the interactive control the player has over the body of the avatar and gives the player challenges when it comes to control and gameplay. The shaking of the camera in third- and first-­person view is a familiar effect used in action movies to convey the action, physical assault, and violence the viewer sees. It is an important part of the impact aesthetic that film uses to make the viewer feel that what is happening on the screen is happening to them. The game cinematographer has an advantage in this respect. Since the

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camera is digital, it can be placed everywhere and used in every conceivable way.42 The camera enjoys easy access and can portray and experience anything, thereby heightening the gameplay and the spectacle of the FPS through the use of subjective shots from any conceivable source. The use of unmanned aerial and ground vehicles (UAV) in both CODAW’s and BF4’s multiplayer and single-­player modes illustrates this point, but also shows how the use of the first-­person view creates the feeling of putting the player in the middle of the action. In CODAW, the player is allowed to control many different UAVs, often from a first-­person perspective, and bring them into the theater of conflict. For example, in the campaign’s second mission, the player can control a small UAV from the first-­person view. The drone’s movements are fast and the screen resolution is low, which creates the impression of seeing the battlefield from the UAV’s point of view through its onboard camera. Importantly, the player does not see the drone’s view of the battlefield from a screen or a portable device through the eyes of the avatar; instead, the player becomes the drone, changing the view, effectively transporting the feeling of embodiment from the avatar. The view shakes from the gunfire, digital glitches, and noises fly across the screen and players may zoom out and in on targets in a hyperactive fashion (see Figure 1.9). The frantic camera movements, combined with particles being thrusted into the view, conveys a more kinetic and personal experience, highlighting that the player is not watching this from the safety of a control room on a screen, but is being placed right in the middle of the action.

FIGURE 1.9  The player becomes an unmanned aerial vehicle. Screenshot from Call of Duty: Advanced Warfare (Activision & Square Enix, 2014).

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Conclusion Video games with photorealistic graphics often draw on conventions from other audiovisual media. This reliance on other media capitalizes on players’ media literacy, as it assumes knowledge of the other medium.43 In particular, the FPS employs spectacle to a great extent, which profoundly impacts the intensity of player engagement in the gamespace.44 The remediation of Hollywood’s impact aesthetics allows recent FPS games to produce an exhilarating and interactive gaming experience. Even though Hollywood cinema and video games share some audiovisual aesthetics and elements, they are put to different uses because of the difference in how these effects engage their audiences. While both media seek to offer exhilarating, adrenalin-­packed moments, FPS games such as CODAW and BF4 use spectacle to support their gameplay. Accordingly, spectacle plays an important, if not essential, part of the ludic experience. As a result, the separation between the ludic qualities of a game and its audiovisual elements has disappeared in the FPS genre. In games such as CODAW and BF4, the gaming experience is anchored in spectacle to such a degree that one cannot speak of the two as separate entities; one cannot dismiss the graphics and sounds as mere eye candy unrelated to gameplay. Rather, gameplay and audiovisual effects are interwoven, similar to the ways in which recent movies have merged spectacle and narrative. FPS games draw on conventions of cinematic spectacle, but enhance them with a feeling of motion. This affective dimension allows the games to assault players with a barrage of audiovisual effects movies cannot use without alienating viewers. FPS feature more movement, as the virtual camera is constantly shaking and the perspective is constantly manipulated in order to create the feeling of action and assault. The violence, the kinetic action, and the adrenaline-­pumped gameplay are all more enthralling than ever before because of heightened audiovisual spectacular effects inspired by film aesthetics. Video games’ use of cinematic conventions is easily recognizable in the audiovisual spectacle contemporary FPS embrace, but these games do not just reuse these cinematic aesthetics; instead, they build upon and enhance spectacle through medium-­specific traits, creating an audiovisual environment defined by ludic and spectacular elements.

Notes 1 Robert Alan Brookey, Hollywood Gamers: Digital Convergence in the Film and Video Game Industries (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2010), 1–19.

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2 Jamie Russell, Generation Xbox: How Video Games Invaded Hollywood (Lewes: Yellow Ant, 2012), 4. 3 Geoff King, Spectacular Narratives: Hollywood in the Age of the Blockbuster (London: I.B. Tauris, 2000), 91–116. 4 Laura Mulvey, “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema,” Screen 16, no. 3 (1975): 11. 5 Shilo T. McClean, Digital Storytelling: The Narrative Power of Visual Effects in Film (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2008); Kristen Whissel, Spectacular Digital Effects: CGI and Contemporary Cinema (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2014). 6 King, Spectacular Narratives. 7 Chris Crawford, Chris Crawford on Game Design (Indianapolis: New Riders, 2003); Katie Salen and Eric Zimmerman, Rules of Play: Game Design Fundamentals (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2004); Bob Bates, Game Design (Boston: Thomson Course Technology, 2004); Richard Rouse, Game Design: Theory & Practice (Plano, TX: Wordware, 2005). 8 Rouse, Game Design, xx. 9 Ibid., xxi. 10 Jean-Marc Gauthier, Building Interactive Worlds in 3D: Virtual Sets and Pre-Visualization for Games, Film, and the Web (Amsterdam: Elsevier, 2005); Phil Co, Level Design for Games: Creating Compelling Game Experiences (Berkeley, CA: Pearson Education, 2006); Aaron Marks, The Complete Guide to Game Audio: For Composers, Musicians, Sound Designers, and Game Developers (Burlington, MA: Elsevier, 2008). 11 Crawford, Chris Crawford, 107–15; Rouse, Game Design, xx–xxi. 12 Rich Newman, Cinematic Game Secrets for Creative Directors and Producers: Inspired Techniques from Industry Legends (Amsterdam: Elsevier, 2009), 7. 13 Bates, Games Design, 7. 14 Geoff King and Tanya Krzywinska, Tomb Raiders and Space Invaders: Videogame Forms and Contexts (London: I.B. Tauris, 2006), 23. 15 Tristan Donovan, Replay: The History of Video Games (Lewes: Yellow Ant, 2010), 249–63. 16 Newman, Cinematic Game Secrets, 7. 17 Colin Campbell, “Call of Duty: Advanced Warfare is ‘the equivalent of four Hollywood movies’ says Sledgehammer,” Polygon, July 29, 2014, http://www. polygon.com/2014/7/29/5948571/call-­of-duty-­advanced-warfare-­is-the-­ equivalent-of-­four-hollywood; “EA CCO: Battlefield 4 budget was $100 million,” BF4Central, March 2014, http://bf4central.com/2014/03/ea-­ccobattlefield-4-budget-100-million/. 18 Miguel Concepcion, “Exo-Men: Days of Future Soldiers,” Gamespot, November 3, 2014, http://www.gamespot.com/reviews/call-­of-duty-­advancedwarfare-­review/1900-6415933/; Mitch Dyer, “Battlefield 4 PC Review,” IGN, October 29, 2013, http://www.ign.com/articles/2013/10/29/battlefield-4-pc-­ review; Arthur Gies, “Battlefield 4 Review: Bullet Drop,” Polygon, October 29,

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2013, http://www.polygon.com/2013/10/29/5040656/battlefield-4-review; Ludwig Kietzmann, “Call of Duty: Advanced Warfare Review: House of CoDs,” Engadget, November 3, 2014, http://www.engadget.com/2014/11/03/ call-­of-duty-­advanced-warfare-­review- house-­of-cods/. 19 David Crookes, “Battlefield 4 Review: ‘One of the best multiplayer experiences out there’,” The Independent, November 6, 2013, http://www. independent.co.uk/life- style/gadgets-­and-tech/gaming/battlefield-4-review-­ one-of-­the-best-­multiplayer-experiences-­out-there-8924088.html. 20 Geoff King, “Spectacle and Narrative in the Contemporary Blockbuster,” in Contemporary American Cinema, ed. Michael Hammond and Linda Ruth Williams (London: Open University Press, 2006), 334–5, 342; McClean, Digital Storytelling; Stephen Prince, Digital Visual Effects in Cinema: The Seduction of Reality (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2011). 21 King, Spectacular Narratives, 1–3; José Arroyo, “Introduction,” in Action/ Spectacle Cinema: A Sight and Sound Reader, ed. José Arroyo (London: BFI, 2000), x–xi. 22 Andrew Darley, Visual Digital Culture: Surface Play and Spectacle in New Media Genres (London: Routledge, 2000). 23 King, Spectacular Narratives, 91–116. 24 King, “Spectacle and Narrative,” 335, 340. 25 Geoff King and Tanya Krzywinska, “Film Studies and Digital Games,” in Understanding Digital Games, ed. Jason Rutter and Jo Bryce (London: Sage, 2006), 124. 26 King, Spectacular Narratives, 31. 27 King and Krzywinska, Tomb Raiders, 125–6; Andrew Rollings and Dave Morris, Game Architecture and Design: A New Edition (Berkeley, CA: New Riders, 2004), 36; Mark J. P. Wolf, “Abstraction in the Video Game,” in The Video Game Theory Reader, ed. Bernard Perron and Mark J. P. Wolf (New York: Routledge, 2003), 53. 28 Rollings and Morris, Game Architecture, 36. 29 King and Krzywinska, Tomb Raiders, 124–5. 30 Jesse Schell, The Art of Game Design: A Book of Lenses (Amsterdam: Elsevier, 2008). 31 Bob Rehak, “Of Eye Candy and Id: The Terror and Pleasures of Doom 3,” in Videogame, Player, Text, ed. Barry Atkins and Tanya Krzywinska (New York: Manchester University Press, 2007), 150. 32 King and Krzywinska, Tomb Raiders, 108. 33 Alexander R. Galloway, Gaming: Essays on Algorithmic Culture (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2006), 40–6. 34 Co, Level Design, 31. 35 Crawford, Chris Crawford, 62, 66. 36 Scott Rigby and Richard Ryan, Glued to Games: How Video Games Draw Us In and Hold Us Spellbound (Oxford: Praeger, 2011).

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37 Galloway, Gaming, 42. 38 King, “Spectacle and Narrative,” 96. 39 King and Krzywinska, “Film Studies,” 125. 40 Co, Level Design, 293–4. 41 King, “Spectacle and Narrative.” 42 Newman, Cinematic Game Secrets, 92. 43 Wolf, “Abstraction,” 52. 44 King and Krzywinska, Tomb Raiders, 125.

References Arroyo, José. “Introduction.” In Action/Spectacle Cinema: A Sight and Sound Reader, edited by José Arroyo, vii–xiv. London: BFI, 2000. Bates, Bob. Game Design. Boston: Thomson Course Technology, 2004. Battlefield 4. EA DICE. Electronic Arts, 2013. Windows. Brookey, Robert Alan. Hollywood Gamers: Digital Convergence in the Film and Video Game Industries. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2010. Call of Duty: Advanced Warfare. Sledgehammer Games. Activision, 2014. Windows. Campbell, Colin 2014. “Call of Duty: Advanced Warfare is ‘the equivalent of four Hollywood movies’ says Sledgehammer.” Polygon, July 29, 2014. Accessed December 2, 2016. http://www.polygon.com/2014/7/29/5948571/call-­of-duty-­ advanced-warfare-­is-the-­equivalent-of-­four-hollywood. Co, Phil. 2006. Level Design for Games: Creating Compelling Game Experiences. Berkeley, CA: Pearson Education/New Riders, 2006. Concepcion, Miguel. “Exo-Men: Days of Future Soldiers.” Gamespot, November 3, 2014. Accessed December 2, 2016. http://www.gamespot.com/reviews/ call-­of-duty-­advanced-warfare-­review/1900-6415933/. Crawford, Chris. Chris Crawford on Game Design. Indianapolis: New Riders, 2003. Crookes, David “Battlefield 4 Review: ‘One of the best multiplayer experiences out there’.” The Independent, November 6, 2013. Accessed December 2, 2016. http://www.independent.co.uk/life-­style/gadgets-­and-tech/gaming/ battlefield-4-review-­one-of-the-best-­multiplayer-experiences-­outthere-8924088.html. Darley, Andrew. Visual Digital Culture: Surface Play and Spectacle in New Media Genres. London: Routledge, 2000. Donovan, Tristan. Replay: The History of Video Games. Lewes: Yellow Ant, 2010. Dyer, Mitch. “Battlefield 4 PC Review.” IGN, October 29, 2013. Accessed December 2, 2016. http://www.ign.com/articles/2013/10/29/battlefield-4-pc-­ review. “EA CCO: Battlefield 4 budget was $100 million.” BF4Central, March 2014. Accessed December 13, 2016. http://bf4central.com/2014/03/ea-­ccobattlefield-4-budget-100-million/. Galloway, Alexander R. Gaming: Essays on Algorithmic Culture. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2006.

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Gauthier, Jean-Marc. Building Interactive Worlds in 3D: Virtual Sets and PreVisualization for Games, Film, and the Web. Amsterdam: Elsevier, 2005. Gies, Arthur. “Battlefield 4 Review: Bullet Drop.” Polygon, October 29, 2013. Accessed December 2, 2016, http://www.polygon.com/2013/10/29/5040656/ battlefield-4-review. Kietzmann, Ludwig 2014. “Call of Duty: Advanced Warfare Review: House of CoDs.” Engadget, November 3, 2014. Accessed December 2, 2016. http://www. engadget.com/2014/11/03/call-­of-duty-­advanced-warfare-­review-house-­of-cods/. King, Geoff. “Spectacle and Narrative in the Contemporary Blockbuster.” In Contemporary American Cinema, edited by Michael Hammond and Linda Ruth Williams, 334–5. London: Open University Press, 2006. King, Geoff. Spectacular Narratives: Hollywood in the Age of the Blockbuster. London: I.B. Tauris, 2000. King, Geoff, and Tanya Krzywinska. “Film Studies and Digital Games.” In Understanding Digital Games, edited by Jason Rutter and Jo Bryce, 112–29. London: Sage, 2006. King, Geoff, and Tanya Krzywinska. Tomb Raiders and Space Invaders: Videogame Forms and Contexts. London: I.B. Tauris, 2006. Marks, Aaron. The Complete Guide to Game Audio: For Composers, Musicians, Sound Designers, and Game Developers. Burlington, MA: Elsevier, 2008. McClean, Shilo T. Digital Storytelling: The Narrative Power of Visual Effects in Film. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2008. Mulvey, Laura. “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema.” Screen 16, no. 3 (1975): 6–18. Newman, Rich. Cinematic Game Secrets for Creative Directors and Producers: Inspired Techniques from Industry Legends. Amsterdam: Elsevier, 2009. Prince, Stephen. Digital Visual Effects in Cinema: The Seduction of Reality. Piscataway, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2011. Rehak, Bob. “Of Eye Candy and Id: The Terror and Pleasures of Doom 3.” In Videogame, Player, Text, edited by Barry Atkins and Tanya Krzywinska, 139–57. New York: Manchester University Press, 2007. Rigby, Scott, and Richard Ryan. Glued to Games: How Video Games Draw Us In and Hold Us Spellbound. Oxford: Praeger, 2011. Rollings, Andrew, and Dave Morris. Game Architecture and Design: A New Edition. Berkeley, CA: New Riders, 2004. Rouse, Richard. Game Design: Theory & Practice. Plano, TX: Wordware, 2005. Russel, Jamie. Generation Xbox: How Video Games Invaded Hollywood. Lewes: Yellow Ant, 2012. Salen, Katie, and Eric Zimmerman. Rules of Play: Game Design Fundamentals. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2004. Schell, Jesse. The Art of Game Design: A Book of Lenses. Amsterdam: Elsevier, 2008. Whissel, Kristen. Spectacular Digital Effects: CGI and Contemporary Cinema. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2014. Wolf, Mark J.P. “Abstraction in the Video Game.” In The Video Game Theory Reader, edited by Bernard Perron and Mark J.P. Wolf, 47–66. New York: Routledge, 2003.

2 The Discourse Community’s Cut: Video Games and the Notion of Montage Bernard Perron, Hugo Montembeault, Andréane Morin-Simard, and Carl Therrien

T

he remediation of cinema by video games has always been almost self-­ evident for film scholars.1 With both their aesthetics based on sound and moving images, one could only agree with French journalist Daniel Ichbiah: “Of all the disciplines [or, in better terms, of all the artistic fields], cinema remains the one to which the video game is the nearest.”2 From this perspective, one also has to agree with Jay David Bolter and Richard Grusin’s statement that “the fact that the classical cinema predates computer games by a hundred years gives it a repertoire of visual techniques that computer games in fact want to appropriate.”3 However, as Dominic Arsenault and Bernard Perron have argued, it might be time to try to understand how and why video games have been discussed through cinema.4 This fixation on film has often kept commentators from exploring the video game as a medium in its own right. Moreover, although the analogy between movies and games has so often been made (by scholars, developers, designers, journalists, reviewers, and fans), film concepts have not been used as consistently in the study of video games as one would think. This chapter reflects on the ways in which the abovementioned analogy has been employed and discussed. It aims to consider the “in-­between” and

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to concentrate on the prefix “inter” of the intermedial perspective taken by the present volume. Consequently, we will examine in detail the ins and outs of the notions of cut and montage as applied to video games. After all, thinking about the relationship between cinema and video games obviously requires the study of one of the—if not the—most important visual techniques employed in film. Indeed, according to the famous French filmmaker and essayist Jean-Luc Godard, in cinema, “talking of mise en scène automatically implies montage.”5 From the Soviet filmmakers of the 1920s to the modern cinema of the French New Wave, not to mention the classical Hollywood cinema, shot-­assembling has been at the foundation of the filmic language as well as a big part of its immediacy and hypermediacy. Game designers have certainly wanted to appropriate this technique. The underlying hypothesis of our analysis is that the way one conceives of the relationship between video games and films is shaped by the body of knowledge and practices specific to a discourse community. As Bruce Herzberg has explained: [The u]se of the term “discourse community” testifies to the increasingly common assumption that discourse operates within conventions defined by communities, be they academic disciplines or social groups. The pedagogies associated with writing across the curriculum and academic English now use the notion of “discourse communities” to signify a cluster of ideas: that language use in a group is a form of social behavior, that discourse is a means of maintaining and extending the group’s knowledge and of initiating new members into the group, and that discourse is epistemic or constitutive of the group’s knowledge.6 Therefore, the following study compares the references made to montage in two communities: video game scholars and game journalists. We chose a few relevant keywords to conduct this research: “montage,” “editing,” “cinematic,” “transition,” “cut,” “cut-­scene,” and “camera angle.”7 In this chapter, we explore their uses and occurrences in scholarly books and essays as well as in video game magazines and websites. Our examination of the different uses of these terms will show that each one of these communities has, so to speak, its director’s cut on the question. The analysis of what John Swales has termed discursive “moves”—describing, analyzing, interpreting, promoting, enu­ merating, quoting, etc.—will exemplify how each community refers to film montage terminology according to their respective discursive system, com­ municative goals, and pragmatic requirements.8 Although it may seem as if our study would only confirm common assumptions, it will, above all, showcase

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how journalists loosely use film montage terminology to describe games as clearly and fashionably as possible in an attempt to reach as large an audience as possible. In contrast, academics tend to formalize this knowledge through consistent and unambiguous frameworks built through community debates and feedback. Comparing specific rhetorical strategies in these discourse com­ munities will reveal disregarded constraints, whether discursive or social, which determine those two different ways of recalling the same film montage con­ ceptual apparatus. Considering that games are primarily concerned with the continuity and coherence of the action, the end of this chapter will suggest ways in which the academic community can challenge preconceived ideas about the importance given to the cinematographic approach to video game “montage.”

Cutting to the chase The discussion of games-­in-light-­of-films inevitably leads us to cut-­scenes. As Geoff King and Tanya Krzywinska point out in their introduction to ScreenPlay: Cinema/Videogames/Interfaces (2002): “The most obvious links between games and cinema are the ‘cut-­scenes’ found in many games: short, ‘pre-­ rendered’ audio-­visual sequences in which the player usually performs the role of more detached observer than is the case in the more active periods of gameplay.”9 Being at the core of both montage and “cut”-scene, the concept of “cut” remains fundamental to our present inquiry. Rune Klevjer’s leading study on this subject is enlightening. In his “Defense of Cutscenes” (2002), Klevjer wonders: “What can possibly be the reason for cutting up the players’ configurative activities with close-­toparodic, B-movie-­type cinematic sequences?”10 In this formulation, “to cut up” refers to the division of games into pieces, into different segments. Klevjer goes on to assert: A cutscene does not cut off gameplay. It is an integral part of the configurative experience. Even if the player is denied any active input, this does not mean that the ergodic experience and effort is paused. A cutscene is never truly “cinematic,” no matter how poorly implemented it may be. In any case, it cannot avoid affecting the rhythm of the gameplay.11 In this instance, “to cut off” stresses the idea of an interruption of the game during non-­interactive segments. This is formulated more clearly in Klevjer’s historical account where the movement to another scene is accentuated by the use of the expression “to cut away”:

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Pac-Man (Namco, 1980) was the first game to include cut-­scenes in the literal sense of the term: brief non-­playable intermissions that “cut” away from the action to present a kind of staged “scene” depicting PacMan and his monsters chasing each other around. The animated intermissions in Donkey Kong (Nintendo, 1981) were the first to unambiguously convey a story and a plot: Kong steals the princess and Jumpman saves her.12 While Klevjer at first inquired into the “cinematic” nature of the cut-­scene, his recent definition associates these sequences with films: In a cut-­scene, the virtual camera is a movie camera, setting up time-­space according to the conventions of cinematic fiction. The movie camera speaks through a repertoire of expressive movements (tracking, panning, etc.), framings, and focal techniques. Most importantly, it operates through cuts in time and space, which typically follow the conventions of continuity editing.13 With regard to “the conventions of continuity editing,” it is finally here that the word “cut” clearly refers to its filmic designation. Addressing the constant and instantaneous changes from one framing to another, Evan Narcisse has argued that “you have games like this year’s Heavy Rain, whose interactive cinematic ambitions arguably make it one long cutscene.”14 Relying on quick-­ time effects, the action of Quantic Dream’s game is, indeed, constantly shown from different angles, even in the period of the player-­character’s exploration of locations. The player sees Heavy Rain through a movie camera. In contrast to a first-­person game, this is not a game aesthetic similar to a long take in the gameworld. The cut-­scene is supposed to be the quintessence of the relationship between video games and films. Nonetheless, Klevjer’s study illustrates that “cut” can refer to four different yet related dimensions, which are not directly linked to cinema: division, interruption, transition, and continuity. Consequently, it seems essential to ask how the visual code of montage is, in fact, addressed in discourse about games.15 On the one hand, our comparative study of discourses in academic video game studies and game journalism contributes to the debate with an in-­depth literature review and rich examples that come to validate and nuance what may appear as obvious rhetorical differences between scholars and journalists. On the other hand, and more importantly, it brings into discussion overlooked sets of textual and contextual conditions that shape each community’s worldview, discursive “moves,” communicative goals, and social interactions.

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The academic discourse: cross-­fade from film to game studies? Searching for keywords related to “montage” in academic discourse on video games does not lead to many texts. Indeed, scholars who do not engage with video game aesthetics do not speak of montage at all. Those who write about it mostly come from film and media studies, and, although they emphasize the differences between films and games, they often consider the latter to be in a direct lineage with the former. Mark J.P. Wolf’s seminal essay on the articulation of space in video games, “Inventing Space” (1997), exemplifies such a positioning of video game theory as heavily dependent on theoretical developments pertaining to other visual media: At present, film and television theory are best equipped for dealing with the medium of video games, which clearly overlaps them in places and extends many of their ideas, such as the active spectator, suture, first-­ person narrative, and spatial orientation. Video games are certainly deserving of their own branch of theory, and it will likely be one which is in close kinship to film and television theory.16 Notions coming from film theory have appeared more than once in academic discourse about games. Despite its scarcity, the notion of montage has been addressed by scholars who write about games. A close reading of such works reveals a certain tension between the need to rely on film and television studies to theorize the video game image and a desire to emancipate the reflection on the art form from other disciplines.

The consensus on cut-­scenes As game segments often described as “cinematic,” cut-­scenes represent the one area in which there seems to be a general consensus regarding the presence of montage. In addition to Klevjer’s aforementioned identification of continuity editing in cut-­scenes, both supporters and detractors of the relevance of montage to the analysis of games recognize non-­interactive segments as using such cinematic conventions: Cut-­scenes usually follow the framing and editing conventions of mainstream film—sometimes starting with longer, “establishing” shots, for example, to provide initial orientation before moving to close-­ups

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of important detail—and mark a break from moments of more active gameplay.17 The cinematic interludes that appear as cut scenes in many games do indeed incorporate montage, but gameplay itself is mostly edit free.18 [T]he cut-­scene, along with its use of the filmic quality, of editing allows for the relatively quick and easy delivery of lots of information in a short period of time.19 Cut-­scenes also use cinematic editing methods, and . . . even artifacts of the filming process are sometimes simulated to achieve cinematographic effects, such as depth of focus variations or lens glare.20 Replay sequences in driving games have also been described with montage-­ related vocabulary. King and Krzywinska discuss such sequences in the game Need for Speed: Hot Pursuit 2 (Electronic Arts, 2002) in terms of “ ‘cinematic’ cuts away from the immediate action, . . . in which ‘zone’ and ‘jump’ cams provide instant slow-­motion shots of exploits such as slam­­­­­ ming into road blocks or making vehicles fly through the air.”21 Katie Salen and Eric Zimmerman have also noted the “flurry of filmic styles, camera angles, and rapid-­fire editing [which] references Hong Kong action films” in the replays of Wreckless (Bunksha Games/Activision, 2002). However, they stress that such visuals “would be too disconcerting to include in real-­time gameplay.”22 The place of montage in gameplay proper is the subject of much debate.

Montage in 2D and pre-­rendered 3D games In his aforementioned 1997 essay, Mark J.P. Wolf likens advancements in the representation of video game space to the development of montage and editing in film. He associates single-­screen games such as PONG (Atari, 1972) and Space Invaders (Taito, 1978) with the films of Lumière and Méliès and compares the “nonoverlapping static screens which cut directly one to the next without scrolling” in games such as Adventure (Atari, 1979) and Superman (Atari, 1979) to two D.W. Griffith films from 1909, The Lonely Villa and A Corner in Wheat. The parallel with cinema is quite striking in Wolf’s affirmation that such a visualization technique is “not only following the precedent set by film but relying on it to allow the player to make sense of the geography of the game” and that “the screens are seen as being immediately adjacent to one

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another, an assumption that relies on one’s knowledge of continuity editing in film.”23 Wolf still uses montage-­related language in a 2008 book chapter on adventure games when he describes a segment from Myst (Cyan, 1993): “A transitional sound effect and cinematic fade-­out and fade-­in helped to retain the continuity of the experience which could have been ruined by the ‘Loading . . .’ screens sometimes found in other games.”24 Likewise, Perron and Therrien have discussed graphical adventure games with editing terminology when they align “the progressive use of close-­ups” with game designers’ cinematic ambitions and also note “a succession of medium shots and close-­ups which follows the filmic model” in King of Chicago (Cinemaware, 1987).25 Following this observation, they argue: It is with the cutting up of graphical adventure games into various framing distances and the movement of characters along the depth axis (in/out toward the “camera”) that . . . the presence of the camera in video games really began to make itself felt. But this camera is, in fact, virtual. It is a label that allows meaning to be produced.26 Michael Nitsche similarly relies on the virtual camera to identify a contradicting point of reference for the origin of montage in games: Intellivision World Series Major League Baseball (Daglow and Dombrower, 1983) allegedly was the first game to use different perspectives toward a single event. Multiple cameras were integrated, fragmenting the interactive playground into separate images from different viewpoints. This introduced the cinematic element of montage to games. From that moment on, players had to connect those images to form a whole game space in their fictional space—their imagination of the game world.27 Aside from graphic adventure and sports games, survival horror titles with pre-­rendered images have been widely discussed in montage-­related terms: The crucial sense of real-­time continuity demanded by a 3D game prohibits it from employing cinematic techniques of editing (other than those evidenced in cinematic cut-­scenes or in changes in fixed camera positions that occur during interactive gameplay in some in [sic] third-­person shooters, such as Resident Evil (Capcom, 1999)).28 Like a film, Resident Evil 3 structures space and the player’s experience through editing and fixed framing, which is often used to create shock

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effects. The intrusive effect of pre-­rendered camera angles within gameplay reminds the player that control is limited and that the gameplay is highly predetermined.29 Following horror cinema’s example, the survival horror genre has broadly relied on the “classic camera,” on the analytical cutting up of space and on the clever use of camera angles—in high or low angle—to reduce the player’s field of vision and create surprise effects.30 In addition to contributing to the acknowledgment of cinematic editing in the Resident Evil series, Wee Liang Tong and Marcus Cheng Chye Tan’s opposition between pre-­rendered and real-­time 3D suggests the existence of a certain tension between notions of cut and continuity and the past and future of the art form.

Montage in 3D games When writing about the representation of space in 3D games in “Inventing Space,” Wolf uses camera-­related terms even though he implies an absence of montage: Doom, Dark Forces, Descent, and Stonekeep, and various virtual reality games, provide players with an unbroken exploration of space, allowing them to pan, tilt, track, and dolly through the space, which is usually presented in a first-­person perspective view and in real time.31 In his 2001 book The Language of New Media, Lev Manovich also finds that 3D games are prone to discard montage all the while, paradoxically, writing “in cinematic terms”: Many computer games also obey the aesthetics of continuity in that, in cinematic terms, they are single-­takes. They have no cuts. From beginning to end, they present a single continuous trajectory through a 3D space. This is particularly true for first-­person shooters such as Quake (id Software, 1996). The lack of montage in these games fits in with a first person point of view they employ. These games simulate the continuity of a human experience, guaranteed by the laws of physics.32 In addition, Manovich concludes that “where old media relied on montage, new media substitutes the aesthetics of continuity,” thereby implying that

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montage is a thing of the past.33 Scholars such as Tong and Cheng Chye Tan, who describe game narrative as “ ‘filming’ without cutting and editing,” likewise oppose the “cinematic mode” of cut-­scenes and the interactive sequences of 3D games: The immersion of a gamer in an interactive simulated 3D environment, in real-­time, precludes the employment of cinematic framing and editing techniques, the stylistic modus operandi in the construction of filmic narrative. Although games can, and often do, consist of both immersive interactivity and cinematic cutscenes, these are two distinct modes of visualising the game-­environment that cannot be synthesized.34 Alexander Galloway’s Gaming: Essays on Algorithmic Culture (2006) traces the origins of the first-­person point of view in games to the subjective shot in film. Despite this genealogic alignment of the two media, Galloway’s general stance on montage is that it needs to be removed in order to achieve what he calls “gamic vision”: Abandoning montage creates the conditions of possibility for the first-­ person perspective in games. The lack of montage is necessary for the first-­person way of seeing, even if the game itself is a side-­scroller, or a top-­view shooter, or otherwise not rendered in the first person. Where film montage is fractured and discontinuous, gameplay is fluid and continuous. Hence the gamic way of seeing is similar to human vision in ways that film, and television and video, for that matter, never were.35 What these authors seem to suggest is that technological development should allow 3D games to eliminate montage in favor of a more advanced type of video game image, but not all members of the academic community share this position. For some scholars, graphical improvements seem to further convergence, as game designers increasingly attempt to imitate cinematic montage: As its memory and processing speeds grew, and its graphics capabilities improved, more games appeared which licensed franchises from film and television hoped to play on their appeal. Not only content, but cinematic styles of composition and editing, storytelling devices, and other conventions from film and television made their way into video games . . . By the 1990s, video games had title screens, end credits, cutting between different sequences, multiple points of view, multiple locations, and increasingly detailed storylines.36

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Three-­dimensional videogames not only mimic cinema’s aesthetics (lighting, camera angles, cinematography and editing conventions, camera movement, and framing in three-­dimensional space) but also mimic some of the inadequacies of cinematic/photographic indexicality, such as lens flare (light hits the lens and scatters around in the lens) and motion blur (objects appear blurry due to high-­speed motion) . . . the aesthetics of videogames now resemble the cinema more than they do our own perceptual activities.37 Obviously, the academic community is divided when it comes to montage in games, especially as far as more recent installments are concerned. From cut-­scenes to the segmentation of space for dramatic or horrific effects and the borrowing of cinematic conventions, the works surveyed so far have approached video game montage as something that is somewhat imposed on the player. But what of the player’s input in the fragmentation of represented space?

From the imitation of cinema’s visual codes to “interactive montage” Michael Nitsche is perhaps the most ardent defender of video game montage. In his 2005 essay “Games, Montage, and the First Person Point of View,” Nitsche articulates a theory of video game montage around the player’s triggering of cuts between the first-­person point of view and three other camera positions: the following camera, the overhead view and the predefined third-­person perspective. He considers such transitions as “an integral part of the functional gameplay.” When the player switches to the sniper rifle view in GoldenEye 007 (Rare, 1997), activates the “sight-­jacking” feature in Siren (Project Siren, 2003), navigates the 2D map in Doom (id Software, 1993), or uses the camera obscura as a weapon in Fatal Frame II: Crimson Butterfly (Tecmo, 2003), “none of these editing strategies simply copies cinematic traditions,” but rather work toward “the reinforcement of the player positioning in the game space through the interactive cut.”38 Where Manovich, Galloway, and others view montage as belonging to media of the past, Nitsche understands it as part of the future of video games: “the development of montage is an ongoing process in video games and maybe players and designers need further “education” before we can unlock more expressive forms. One more reason to start the debate on montage in video games.”39 Nitsche reprised his ideas about interactive montage in his 2008 book Video Game Spaces, in which any cut which is somewhat initiated

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by the player’s actions is included in the matrix of point of view changes. In this newly developed model, montage does not only stem from the player’s deliberate change in the virtual camera’s perspective. “Location jumping” between predefined frames in Resident Evil is also considered a form of “interactive montage” because it is triggered by the player’s movement through space.40 Despite his negative stance toward montage in 3D games, Galloway recognizes forms of editing reminiscent of interactive montage in cases of “cutting between various visual modes: opening the map in World of Warcraft (Blizzard Entertainment, 2004); the use of a sniper rifle or night-­ vision goggles; cutting between different camera positions, as with looking in the rear-­view mirror in driving games like True Crime (Luxoflux/Activision, 2003).”41 Elsa Boyer’s edited book Voir les jeux vidéo (which can be roughly translated as “to see” or “to view the video game”—reinforcing the collection’s strong ties with the medium of cinema) likewise acknowledges the presence of montage in the passage between screens or rooms, or between the game level and the menu or map.42 Finally, Perron and Therrien also fore­­­­­ ground the player’s role in video game montage when they equate the possibility of switching points of view at will in Grand Theft Auto 3 (Rockstar Games, 2001) and its following installments with the “live editing of a car chase.”43 On account of the many divergent points of view on the matter, it becomes evident that there is no clear-­cut vision of montage with regard to the representation of gamespace in the academic community. But what about the other functions of montage?

Fast-­forwarding with montage While the works mentioned so far have regarded montage as a way to articulate space, montage also affects the perception of time. In their introductory chapter to ScreenPlay, Geoff King and Tanya Krzywinska discuss game time with regard to ellipses: Games are far less likely than films to use ellipses to eliminate “dead” time. Time in games may be spent exploring (without always getting anywhere) or interacting with objects that do not have any significant bearing on the main tasks. Most films only give screen time to what is deemed to be essential to storyline, spectacle or the building of character or mood. Action-­adventure-type games operate mainly in something closer to real time with ellipses occurring primarily at the end of chapters and

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levels. This creates a significant difference between the pace (and length) of games and that of films.44 Mia Consalvo et  al. make similar observations about massively multiplayer online games. They rely on “montage sequences” such as the condensed training process in Rocky (1976) to define montage as “a linear illustration of the relationship between hard work and the progress of expected rewards . . . [M]ontage provides a unique place to examine ‘hard work is rewarded’ precisely because montage’s illustration of progress and reward relies on redacting hard work to a minimal amount.”45 The montage here becomes a way of fast-­forwarding through hard work, which is contrary to the ideal efforts expected to achieve the game’s objectives. In this context, the burden of work once undertaken by an editor in the form of literal or digital cuts and edits is now shifted onto the player, who must advance his or her avatar through the hard work, denied any condensation of time or effort, or montage of his or her activities. Thus, the unit evolves across media and now takes on a new form, created by and reinforced by the medium of digital games.46 Similar to how Nitsche highlights the segmentation of gamespace, Consalvo et al. foreground the importance of the player’s input in the unfolding of game time. However, whereas player control reinforces the relevance of game montage for the former, the latters’ point seems to be that player interactivity and montage are, in fact, not compatible. The passage quoted above makes clear that the ambivalence toward montage which Galloway and Boyer, for example, express is nowhere to be found in Consalvo et  al.’s argument. Montage is nevertheless retained as a relevant keyword, which is perhaps symptomatic of the tension which inhabits video game studies: that between the reliance on and the movement away from cinema as a point of reference. As previously outlined, game studies scholars have rarely discussed montage-­related issues and have clearly focused on visual and spatial aspects. Indeed, few critics have answered Michael Nitsche’s call to “start the debate on montage in games.”47 Interestingly, beyond our own search for occurrences of filmic discourse, a search for the keywords “editing,” “edit,” and “editor” often leads to mentions of level-­editing and modding.48 Such a use of the term moves away from its cinematic definition. In this sense, the discourse on video games, which comes from disciplines other than film studies, resembles that of journalists and reviewers in this respect.

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Game journalism: edit your own montage Our main intention for scrutinizing the journalistic discourse community was to refine the understanding of both the remediation of montage in video games and its conceptual re-­theorization through academic discourses. Accordingly, the methodological challenge was to examine how journalists have addressed the same formal elements that led academics to theorize a film-­centric form of “montage” characteristic of video games. These goals were addressed through an in-­depth discourse analysis of two influential magazines of the specialized video game press: Computer Gaming World and Electronic Gaming Monthly.49 Besides their significant popularity, visibility, and notoriety in gaming culture, these two sources were also selected for their distinct editorial lines, which represent an important balance between PC and console news. Moreover, by covering the 1980s and the turn of the 2000s, they grant a privileged access to a historical period where the comparisons between film and video games were not only quite common, but also dramatically changing. To diversify these sources and see if the findings echo elsewhere in the journalistic community, our corpus also includes reviews from the most-­ viewed websites of the video game press: GameSpot, PC Gamer, IGN, Destructoid, and Joystick Division. Our study reveals an important shift in journalists’ rhetorical use of central notions related to film montage theory. As mentioned earlier, the concept of “editing” either designates the modding tools conceived to customize a game (scenario editor, map editor, replay editor, graphics editor, editing tool, etc.) or literally refers to the activity of modifying game content: “editing your program,” “editing commands,” and “entering and editing data.”50 In fact, journalists rarely use the word “editing” in its cinematographic sense. Most of the time, it occurs in reviews or news coverage of games that precisely remediate the film editor’s role as central gameplay mechanic. Video games such as Bugs Bunny Cartoon Workshop (Novotrade International, 1990), Stunt Island (The Assembly Line, 1992), Steven Spielberg’s Director’s Chair (Knowledge Adventure, 1996), and The Movies (Lionhead Studios, 2005) are telltale examples of this type of extreme remediation. These games provide tools for players to create their own movies. Although they all offer different kinds of possibilities, the main idea remains the same: Players pick a location, choose characters, plan their actions, determine camera angles, fix the lighting, etc. Then, as an editor, they work with an in-­game editing interface to cut, move, duplicate, or insert a scene, place props, cue some sound effects, organize the shot segmentation, etc. The following quote from an

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article about Stunt Island aptly exemplifies the film montage rhetoric commonly used to review this type of games: By using footage from the eight different cameras, the player [of Stunt Island] is then able to enter the editing room and splice together a full feature action film . . . Via a split screen, the editor (player) is able to view any one of the eight films, define a film segment and then “paste” it to the actual movie footage. The films can be fast forwarded, stepped through, reversed, frozen and have special effects and sound added.51 Apart from articles dealing with these simulations of film (post-)production, the notion of “editing” in its filmic sense is almost absent from these gaming outlets. The same holds true for the concept of “montage” although the word’s meaning is even more fluid. Sometimes, “montage” acts as a synonym of cut-­scene or vaguely refers to a certain in-­game arrangement of audiovisual elements: Reading objects [in Psychic Detective] is another matter. Eric’s clairvoyance is an extremely visceral experience: touching a charged object will hit him with an incredible montage of images and emotions.52 The stylized cut-­scenes, montages, and voiceovers [of Total Annihilation: Kingdoms] made the story seem like a Ken Burns documentary at times.53 Arthur’s Knights II is a visual treat whose graphics and cut-­scenes are occasionally stunning. From the opening montage to the final frames, the artwork strives to recreate the age of chivalry and mysticism.54 There are also cases where the term “montage” refers to the assemblage of gameplay elements. The review of Family Card Games (Soft Stream International, 1992), for instance, conceived of the game as a “montage of mix-­and-match computerized card games.”55 The Rocketeer (NovaLogic, 1991) is defined as more than a simple “montage of arcade sequences loosely joined together with comic book storyline.”56 The semantic expansion of the term “montage” goes as far as to designate video montage that offers a compilation of attractional elements of a specific game. This could be to mention a “montage” of all the cut-­scenes or death sequences in a game, a “montage” of all the possible endings of a game scenario, a “montage” of gameplay footage, etc.57 These results indicate that both discourse communities use film vocabulary. However, journalists do not mobilize it from a conceptual standpoint. Instead, the lexical field of film montage is employed with flexibility and a more

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generalist perspective. Therefore, it represents a well-­known set of words journalists draw on in order to ensure the clarity and understanding of their commentary. Since theoretical intentions are not at the core of this discourse community, their rhetorical appropriations of film montage serve to describe game elements that have been arranged through game design. It leads to formulations that attest to the informal usefulness of this theoretical apparatus. In fact, journalistic discourse about any game design elements may be argued in montage-­related terms. But does it automatically imply montage?

Switching views on the cuts Journalists and reviewers do not systematically refer to montage when they use film terms. Indeed, when game scholars see evidence of video game “montage,” journalists and reviewers rather see the articulation of the “camera” or a broad idea of a moving viewpoint. Effectively, they mainly attribute the “cut” to the game itself or to the “camera,” and not to a type of “montage” specific to the video game as an expressive form.58 Their repurposing of the conceptual apparatus of film theory primarily serves to describe the dramatic effect produced by the camera: [T]he developers also chose to pump up Attitude’s prematch drama with more elaborate ring entrances, complete with camera cuts and digitized versions of each wrestler’s ring music.59 One thing I’ll say for [Resident Evil:] Outbreak—it is absolutely gorgeous. Its fully 3D environments allow for dramatic camera pans and zooms.60 Resident Evil 2 is no exception, following the familiar formula of suspense achieved through changing perspective and cinematic camera angles.61 Within the survival-­horror genre, cinematic camera angles have become a fixture of sorts that serve to create a genuine mood or feeling.62 Reviews about games featuring a lot of action corroborate this singular rhetorical use. Again, all the film terminology—not only the one exclusively related to montage—seems adequate to illustrate how the “camera” frames and guides the action: [In The Warrior] you leap fences, pick door locks, and jump over obstacles as the camera pans around to follow the action.63

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If combat conditions are just right [in X-Men Origins: Wolverine], cinematic cameras will kick in to show the action from a more satisfying vantage point. Players can control the camera, but it also adjusts itself intelligently as it follows you.64 [In Max Payne 3] killing the last guy in a section treats you to a close-­up of his demise. But with Euphoria in control, when you keep shooting during the death cinematic the body responds to every bullet, performing a morbid, slow-­motion dance on its way to the ground.65 Even in articles about graphic adventure games and survival horror games— two genres known for their thoughtful remediation of film language— journalists tend to reorient film montage rhetoric for other critical interests. For instance, many reviews analyze how certain formal elements remediate the aesthetics of film and create an effect associated with the experience of cinema. However, they do not conceptualize these elements as part of a “montage”: Cinemaware interactive movies feature the look and feel of real film, complete with closeups, zooms, and changes in perspective . . . Cuts, pans and closeups simulate a real movie experience.66 Through use of their new SCI (Sierra Creative Interpreter) [in Police Quest II: The Vengeance], Sierra has doubled the graphic resolution capabilities of their previous release. They are now able to add cinematographic touches such as zoom shots, split screens and film wipes.67 At certain points during [Creature Shock], the viewpoint will shift to a dramatic, exterior viewpoint . . . It’s done with an artistic flair that reflects an attention to detail rivaling commercial cinematography.68 You play [Alone in the Dark] from a third-­person perspective that’s switched constantly, and the multiple “camera angles” give the game a distinct cinematic look and feel.69 As these examples show, journalists reflect on their experience of film remediation in video games through the camera and all formal effects that recall the conventions of film language. It explains why certain montage-­specific notions like “cut” and “transition” are used, without clear distinction, alongside camera-­specific notions: “zoom,” “pan,” “close-­up,” and “camera angle.” This discursive appropriation of film montage terminology is also observable through

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the interchangeability of words such as “switch,” “shift,” or “change” to identify a “cut” or a “transition” between viewpoints: “[Shadowcaster] changes the perspective from which one views the dungeon”; “the player’s perspective shifts”; “the view shifts to a rear, external view of the craft”; “the camera switches from static angles to one that moves around”; “the camera keeps switching angles”; “[t]he camera angle changes abruptly and often cuts off your view.”70 The semantic expansion of the terms “scene” and “sequence” presents a similar adaptation of film concepts. Instead of referring to the organization of shots into a coherent narrative unit, “scene” and “sequence” mostly designate a spatially and/or temporally finite portion of a game that has a distinct type of gameplay or that requires precise interactions. In some cases, they are employed as synonyms of “puzzles,” “rooms,” “levels,” “screens,” “segments,” “turns,” “phases,” etc. Expressions such as the “action sequence,” the “fighting scene,” the “arcade sequence,” the “space combat sequence,” etc. are thus common. Semantic disparities keep on accumulating even in the journalistic remixing of the idea of “transition.” Reviewers call upon this notion to address any back-­and-forth process between a variety of elements (camera angles, loading process, levels, gameplay segments, cut-­scenes, menus, characters, etc.): [In The 7th Guest] the player is forced to endure the long video sequence of motion from one location to another, sometimes very slowly . . . In addition, after witnessing the action several times, I would prefer the option of making the transition pass more quickly to alleviate the frustration that can develop while waiting for the game to transport the player to the next location.71 When one moves from one location to another [in Myst], each scene cross-­ fades to the next. If these fades seem too slow, it is possible to opt for fast transitions that fling one directly into the next scene.72 Max Payne 3 transitions almost seamlessly from cutscenes to gameplay sequences and back . . . The non-­interactive sequences give the impression that they fold in and out organically, but serve another function as cover for the game’s lengthy loading sequences.73 As a matter of fact, journalists occasionally describe a transition with montage-­ related terms such as cuts, fades in/out, dissolves, wipes, iris, etc. Never­ theless, these examples show that their principal concerns are not to apply ideas pertaining to editing or montage to the video game. Instead, their

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interest primarily focuses on the seamlessness of transitions and their rhythmic effect on the gameplay experience. Therefore, the worldview of the journalistic discourse community does not indicate any systematic evidence of a form of video game “montage.”

Different kinds of discourse assemblage Insofar as journalists are not looking for a terminology as precise and con­ sistent as the one needed in the academic discourse community, it was certainly expected that they would have less concerns about what scholars have conceptualized as “montage” in video games. Their body of knowledge becomes even more obvious from their ways of addressing the global assemblage of a video game: The game [The 7th Guest], presented in gothic horror garb, consists primarily of a collection of 23 logic puzzles woven together in the form of a graphic adventure that takes the player through the 22 rooms of Stauf’s eerie mansion.74 As a result, Inca comes across as a loosely strung together series of action sequences, mazes and puzzles, resulting in the appearance of a collection of games rather than a single title. Yes, the story does emerge, but mostly between segments of play.75 [Star Wars: Rebel Assault] is a fresh experience, a melding of arcade action and cinema that showcases the possibilities of a CD-ROM game . . . The game is composed of a series of 15 chapters . . . The chapters consist of “mini games” all threaded together in a linear, cinematic plot . . . Most chapters are “aim and shoot” games, while a few others test your flight and maneuvering skills.76 Examples where the configuration of the game as a whole is not even labeled as “montage” or “editing” are common formulations. In the end, if academics and journalists mobilize the same montage-­related terms, their significations and rhetorical uses are mostly divergent. The notion of “discourse community” explains how these discursive singularities are part of what defines a community, its social interactions, and the way it experiences, interprets, and further discusses/writes about things. Patricia Bizzell has added some critical insights to Herzberg’s definition of a discourse community presented in the introduction, explaining that a

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discourse community is a group of people who share certain language-­ using practices. These practices can be seen as conventionalized in two ways. Stylistic conventions regulate social interactions both within the group and in its dealings with outsiders . . . Also, canonical knowledge regulates the world views of group members, how they interpret experience . . . The key term “discourse” suggests a community bound together primarily by its uses of language, although bound perhaps by other ties as well, geographical, socioeconomic, ethnic, professional, and so on.77 Through this lens, the comparison of two different forms of appropriations of film montage theory for the study of video games is useful for two main reasons. First, it enables us to highlight underestimated textual and contextual constraints that give discourse communities both their uniqueness and blindness. Second, it can serve to reveal the multiple biases of interpretation that have conditioned some of the most common observations, rhetorical strategies, and repurposing of preconceived ideas. The main goal of the journalists and reviewers cited in this chapter was to describe the aesthetics and effects of various “forms of montage” in video games. Their more flexible use of film-­centric and montage-­related concepts illustrate that their motivations are not oriented toward theorizing the medium of video game, but rather toward video games as enjoyable and playable objects. More tied to the topicality of games and game releases, their conditions of expression are molded by the immediacy of their job and by their canonical “communicative genres” such as articles, reviews, news reports, written interviews, etc.78 This situation requires a type of rhetoric that has to be synthetic, in media res, and focused on currentness and factual information. Therefore, cinematographic terms present an efficient body of knowledge which allows journalists and critics to easily identify audiovisual elements, describe the experience, and produce a commentary that can be widely understandable by a large and diversified readership which seeks news about games. This discursive logic exposes another quality of the journalistic discourse community, namely the attractiveness of the rhetoric, whether for critical or marketing interests. Indeed, the need to capture the attention of the reader and to inform them about game products they may have bought (or want to buy) determines the informal use of the conceptual apparatus of film montage. In the context of the present study, especially when looking at the 1990s, where remediating film was one desirable way for the video game to legitimize itself as a medium, the montage-­related language appears as a trending lexicon to describe the appeal or disappointment of a game. If journalists share the vocabulary of cinema, they do not conceptually envision

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video games in terms of “montage” because it does not reflect their communicational intentions, their professional requirements, nor the reading interests of their target audience. On the other hand, although only a small portion of the scholars discussed above have argued in favor of “video game montage” as a unique form of expression, theoretical concerns related to the functionalities, conventions, and aesthetic forms of montage nevertheless permeate their contributions to the discussion of games. Like journalists, textual and contextual restrictions particular to the academic discourse community shapes scholars’ discursive purposes. One of the principal motivations of gaming scholars is to take an analytical distance to understand and analyze video games or use them to study other phenomena. Due to the long-­term scope of research projects and the nearly unpredictable duration of peer review, researching, writing, and publishing are surely much slower in the academic than in the journalistic community. The scholarly approach produces communicative genres which tend to be more expansive in scope and published on a less frequent basis (scholarly articles, theses, books, conference proceedings, etc.). Compared with video game journalism, which addresses multiple communities, scholars’ communicative genres, goals, and moves aim toward a niche audience of specialized readers. On a discursive level, historicizing, problematizing, recognizing lineages and ruptures, asking questions, creating debates, opening up dialogues, and developing analytical tools are key discursive moves in the academic community. On a social level, scholars need to publish. They have to gain peer recognition in order to secure a permanent job in an academic institution. They are struggling for funds, possibly managing important research budgets, etc. All those discursive and pragmatic factors affect how game scholars experience, interpret, and theorize the video game as an art form that remediates cinematographic “montage.” The literature review presented in this chapter thus exposes the often-­discarded epis­ temological background and social context that have framed references to film montage in video game studies. Every discursive system is structured by “common public goals,” “mechanisms of intercommunication,” “[communicative] genres,” “specific lexis,” and a “threshold level of members.”79 These guidelines frame a set of rules (whether discursive, temporal, financial, editorial, ethical, professional, social, etc.), which regulate why each community has its singular voice and worldview. Although these conditions make some discourses possible and others more difficult to express, these discourses may still overcome their apparent limitations without losing their uniqueness. Quite the contrary, the comparative study of discourse communities is a valuable methodology to reflect on notions in a more encompassing way and from a framework

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which considers a multiplicity of viewpoints and various rhetorical strategies. As Bizzell has rightly pointed out, “Attention to the way discourse confers authority on knowledge and its possessors has prompted study of discourse conventions, the ‘rules of the game’ for winning authority.”80 Ultimately, everyone has to be conscious of the influence they have on the modeling of their readership’s comprehension. Through a polyphonic lens, even the discursive regulations of the most marginalized discourse community of gaming culture have the potential to clarify and refine the assumptions and preconceived ideas of the more established one. This approach has the benefits of overcoming the downside of essentialism by insisting on the importance of studying discourses not only in a given discourse community, but also those in-­between them. This implies the effort not only of looking at how other communities have used similar concepts differently, but also of understanding the space where communities collaborate or, more importantly, where they disagree and contradict: “[B]eing well informed does not entail just collecting evidence, but listening to the contradictions that arise from membership in various discourse communities.”81 Since this porosity also qualifies the relationship between major discourse communities of the gaming culture, the present analysis can benefit from case studies of individuals that contribute in more than one discourse community. As a journalist who has adopted a scholarly approach to reflect on “montage” in video games, Steven Poole might be a good example of the positive outcome that may emerge from the communities’ encounters, overlaps, and con­ tradictions. Poole enriched the academic knowledge about video games with his seminal Trigger Happy: Videogames and the Entertainment Revolution (2000) by embracing his journalistic perspective while drawing on a variety of scholars (such as Theodor Adorno, Walter Benjamin, Brian Sutton-Smith, Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, Michel Foucault, Martin Heidegger, Johan Huizinga, and Vladimir Propp) and employing an academic register by including quotations, a bibliography, and an index, among others. For instance, Poole underlined the incompatibility between montage and the visual necessities of gameplay by comparing driving games to car commercials: [M]ontage creates a sense of rhythm and motion, but such an approach would be fatal in a videogame, where the player has to control the car, and thus requires a continuous, unbroken viewpoint—either a cockpit cam or follow cam. This is essential for easy, intuitive navigation; if the camera cuts to a different position so that your vehicle appears to be going the other way, the physical videogame controls will suddenly be reversed in their effects. You’re going to crash nastily.82

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He further argued against a film-­based approach to montage in video games and stated that automatic changes in camera positions “are not performing traditional montage but trying to give the player a better view of the action under his control.” Clearly, for Poole, the “function always takes precedence over such stylish touches,” and “true montage” is simply not used in games.83 Far from closing the debate on montage’s relevance for the video game medium, Poole’s early demonstration of its disagreement with gameplay, along with Lev Manovich’s claims about an aesthetics of continuity, sparked Michael Nitsche’s development of the idea of “interactive montage.” Poole’s contribution to the formation of game studies was not only a major one because academic writing about video games was practically non-­existent at the dawn of the twenty-­first century. Rather, he took the necessary critical distance from his own discourse community to open his mind to the voices of others, such as scholars. His nuanced way of thinking about “montage” in video games was certainly due to the uniqueness of his liminal perspective (partly journalistic and partly academic). His case shows that establishing bridges between discourse communities represents a key initiative from which one can reflect on discourse communities’ epistemological mindsets, discursive rules, and “authority on knowledge.”84 It should now be clear that each discourse community of the gaming culture has something to gain from keeping their gate of knowledge open to other communities, if only for the critical consciousness this fosters.

“Cut!” and “action!” The close inspection of cinema and montage-­related concepts in two discourse communities has exposed the proliferation of these concepts in discourse throughout history, and the inconsistent integration of this language, from clear references to the remediation of movie-­making in games to the expanding significations of notions such as “editing,” “cut,” “transition,” and “scene.” Following these observations, it is only natural to ask if the concept of montage and related notions can aptly refer to some aspects of the video game experience, and whether such notions help us understand the specificities of the medium. A short analysis of one of the most visible productions in recent history will make it easier to summarize the findings about the fuzziness and permeability of cinema-­related language in the gaming community and to highlight some elements of game design that could be related to such notions. Grand Theft Auto V (Rockstar, 2013) integrates viewpoint manipulation in a way typical of many contemporary games: Players can switch the point of view between

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predefined positions, moving progressively further from the protagonist in a continuous camera movement. The PS4 and XBox One releases of the game (2014) also integrate a first-­person option (and, interestingly, here the game engine cuts directly to this view upon request). In an early mission, the Italian American Michael bonds with the younger African American named Franklin; the pair will become partners in crime for the rest of the game. During the introductory cut-­scene, Michael gives Franklin “lessons” about the criminal world: “Today’s lesson is all about humility. Tomorrow we try a training montage.” “A training what?” replies Franklin. “I was just lost in an 80s movie fantasy,” retorts Michael.85 A few moments later, the pair learn that Michael’s yacht has been stolen, and proceed to hunt the thieves on the highway. The plan is so improbable that it does appear to parody 1980s action movies: Michael instructs Franklin to get on the hood of his car during the high-­speed chase, as Michael tries to get close enough so that Franklin can jump on the boat. When players manage to complete this wacky part of the plan, a most interesting indication appears on the top left corner of the screen: “press ‘O’ to toggle cinematic camera.” If players decide to use this option, the scene cuts to show Franklin’s progress on the yacht. Much like the semantic flexibility witnessed in the discourse of game journalism, this specific phrasing seems to avoid the notion of cut; it invites players to seamlessly transition into another point of view in the continuity of the interactive scene, while attributing this reframing to the virtual camera. But as a matter of fact, this mission in GTA V acts as a tutorial for players who would like to perform their very own interactive cross-­editing. While they perform cross-­cutting in this scene, players do not lose control of the vehicle completely, and they can come back at any moment to the common “behind the car” view that suits this type of gameplay. However, the system must provide assistance with the guidance of the vehicle, in order to avoid unfair crashes during the shots that show Franklin’s progress. This manipulation of the interactive situation brings up one last point to consider when discussing montage in video games: player agency is far from being integrated in a methodical, consistent manner in gameworlds. Andreas Gregersen and Torben Grodal have explored the mapping between primitive action (P-action)—the actual manipulations of players on the interface—and the action represented in the virtual world. Of course, many different types of this mapping have been implemented in the history of the medium, leading to a vast repertoire of design strategies.86 The P-action and the virtual action can be more or less isomorphic (similar in execution and effort), and some mappings are downright symbolic in nature. In GTA V, driving a vehicle entails a type of symbiotic mapping, by virtue of a minimal similarity between the actual manipulations on the game controller (turning with a joystick, pushing

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on the triggers to accelerate) and the vehicular interface being manipulated in the virtual world. Granted, the gestures of the player do not necessitate as much effort and could be said to be “metonymic” in nature: the virtual action is performed through a similar but miniature gesture on the interface.87 The game also integrates other types of mapping that are closer to the symbolic end of the spectrum. For instance, getting in the car or interacting with the environment only requires the player to press a button to see the avatar perform the virtual action automatically. Mapping may be said to be punctual, in that it only occurs at the beginning of the action. Furthermore, selecting a weapon during the numerous shoot-­out scenes involves scrolling through iconic representation of what is currently held in inventory, before confirming the selection; grabbing ammunition on the ground also occurs in what should be called a highly synthetic form of virtual action feedback.88 The flow of the action prevails over the sequencing of moving images. GTA V’s “mapping situation” provides a good indicator of the competences needed to perform and progress through the game: much more player effort is dedicated to coordination during driving sequences, and synthetic feedback ensure more attention is dedicated to aiming than managing equipment during shoot-­outs. The complexity and diversity of action mappings that have been presented here is far from being limited to the very specific example of GTA V. Of course, these design choices vary greatly between game genres, which often build on the same common mapping scenarios to integrate player effort. But in many of these genres, synthetic mappings have become an integral part of gameplay expectations; players are not “denied any condensation of time and effort,” for their very ability to perform virtual actions rely heavily on such contractions.89 One could choose to refer to this type of manipulation in the modeling of interactive scenarios as “actional montage”—a term that should trigger a rather clear idea in the minds of fellow scholars working in the field. But other discourse communities, much like the young Franklin quoted above, might reply with a simple query: “Actional what?” Perhaps an expression such as “actional design” would be more appropriate in order to convey the specificity of this practice; more general expressions such as “actional articulation” or even “actional mise en scène” would also fit. After all, many game designers are inspired in their creative activity by their knowledge of other media practices beyond cinema, and by the most audible discourse communities. Studying the plurality of these communities active in the world of gaming is useful in that it provides—now evoking Michael’s position in GTA V—a “lesson in humility”: everyone should be mindful about the language dynamics and their implications when they talk about cultural practices.

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Notes 1 This chapter was written within the framework of GRAFICS (Groupe de Recherche sur l’Avènement et la Formation des Institutions Cinématographique et Scénique—Research Group on the Creation and Formation of Cinematographic and Theatrical Institutions) of the University of Montreal, supported by the Quebec Research Fund—Society and Culture (FRQSC). It is mainly based on results obtained on the occasion of the project “Histoire du montage à l’aune des mutations technologiques du cinéma: pratiques, esthétiques, discours—History of montage in the light of the technological changes of film: practices, aesthetics, discourse,” funded by the Research Council of Social Sciences of Canada (SSHRC 2013–18). 2 Daniel Ichbiah, La saga des jeux vidéo (Paris: Éditions Générales First, 1997), 353; our translation. 3 Jay David Bolter and Richard Grusin, Remediation: Understanding New Media (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1999), 87. 4 Dominic Arsenault and Bernard Perron, “De-Framing Video Games from the Light of Cinema,” G|A|M|E—Games as Art, Media, Entertainment: The Italian Journal of Game Studies 4 (2015), http://www.gamejournal.it/arsenault_ perron_deframing/. 5 Jean-Luc Godard, Godard on Godard, trans. Tom Milne (New York: Da Capo, 1972), 39. 6 Bruce Herzberg in John Swales, Genre Analysis: English in Academic and Research Settings (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 21. 7 Both “cut-­scene” and “cutscene” will be used freely, so as to avoid the need to underline the choice of one term over the other. This will also be the case for “closeup” and “close-­up.” 8 Swales, Genre Analysis. 9 Geoff King and Tanya Krzywinska, “Introduction: Cinema/Videogames/ Interfaces,” in ScreenPlay: Cinema/Videogames/Interfaces, ed. Geoff King and Tanya Krzywinska (London: Wallflower, 2002), 11. 10 Rune Klevjer, “In Defense of Cutscenes,” in Computer Game & Digital Cultures Conference Proceedings, ed. Frans Mäyrä (Tampere: Tampere University Press, 2002), 194; our emphasis. 11 Ibid., 195; our emphases. 12 Rune Klevjer, “Cut-Scenes,” in The Routledge Companion to Video Game Studies, ed. Mark J.P. Wolf and Bernard Perron (London: Routledge, 2014), 306; our emphases. 13 Ibid.; first italics in original; second and third emphases added. 14 Evan Narcisse, “Press ‘B’ to Skip: A Brief History of the Cutscene,” Time, June 25, 2010, http://techland.time.com/2010/06/25/press-“b”-to-­skip-a-­briefhistory-­of-the-­cutscene/.

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15 Like it is commonly—and unfortunately—the case, the audio codes of montage are not being dealt with. It is as much an analysis bias of our visual culture as a finding of our research. 16 Mark J.P. Wolf, “Inventing Space: Toward a Taxonomy of On- and OffScreen Space in Video Games,” Film Quarterly 15, no. 1 (1997): 11. Wolf’s heavy reliance on film theory to describe the video game experience may be explained by the need to appeal to the expectations of a readership interested by cinema, since the article was published in Film Quarterly. 17 Geoff King and Tanya Krzywinska, “Film Studies and Digital Games,” in Understanding Digital Games, ed. Jason Rutter and Jo Bryce (London: Sage, 2006), 115. 18 Alexander Galloway, Gaming: Essays on Algorithmic Culture (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2006), 64. 19 Paul Cheng, “Waiting for Something to Happen: Narratives, Interactivity and Agency and the Video Game Cut-­scene,” in Situated Play: Proceedings of DiGRA 2007 Conference, 20. 20 Grant Tavinor, The Art of Video Games (Malden MA: Wiley-Blackwell, 2009), 112. 21 Geoff King and Tanya Krzywinska, Tomb Raiders and Space Invaders: Videogame Forms and Contexts (London: I.B. Tauris, 2006), 167. Since cut-­scenes are sometimes referred to as “cinematics,” the formulation in this quotation may seem confusing. In this particular instance, however, “cinematic” is used as an adjective to describe the “cuts” in the visual rendering of the action. 22 Katie Salen and Eric Zimmerman, Rules of Play: Game Design Fundamentals (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2004), 414. 23 Wolf, “Inventing Space,” 14–6. Wolf further reinforces Adventure’s connection with cinema in The Video Game Explosion: “Released in 1979, Adventure featured thirty interconnected screens that used the cinematic convention of cutting one to the next rather than scrolling” (82; emphasis added). 24 Mark J.P. Wolf, “Genre Profile: Adventure Games,” in The Video Game Explosion: A History from PONG to PlayStation and Beyond, ed. Mark J.P. Wolf (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 2008), 88. 25 Bernard Perron and Carl Therrien, “Da Spacewar! a Gears of War, o comme l’immagine videoludica è devintata più cinematografica,” bianco e nero, no. 564 (May–August 2009), 45; our translation. 26 Ibid., 48; our translation. 27 Michael Nitsche, Video Game Spaces: Image, Play, and Structure in 3D Worlds (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2008), 116. 28 Wee Liang Tong and Marcus Cheng Chye Tan, “Vision and Virtuality: The Construction of Narrative Space in Film and Computer Games,” in ScreenPlay. Cinema/Videogames/Interfaces, ed. Geoff King and Tanya Krzywinska (London: Wallflower, 2002), 99.

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29 Tanya Krzywinska, “Hands-On Horror,” in ScreenPlay: Cinema/Videogames/ Interfaces, ed. Geoff King and Tanya Krzywinska (London: Wallflower, 2002), 209. 30 Perron and Therrien, “Da Spacewar! a Gears of War,” 47; our translation. 31 Wolf, “Inventing Space,” 20. 32 Lev Manovich, The Language of New Media (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2001), 135. 33 Ibid. 34 Tong and Cheng Chye Tan, “Vision and Virtuality,” 99, 104. 35 Galloway, Gaming, 65. 36 Mark J.P. Wolf, “The Study of Video Games,” in The Video Game Explosion: A History from PONG to PlayStation and Beyond, ed. Mark J.P. Wolf (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 2008), 20. 37 Timothy Crick, “The Game Body: Toward a Phenomenology of Contemporary Video Gaming,” Games and Culture 6, no. 3 (2011): 261. 38 Michael Nitsche, “Games, Montage, and the First Person Point of View,” in Changing Views: Worlds in Play, ed. Suzanne de Castell and Jennifer Jenson (New York: Peter Lang, 2005), 2–3. 39 Ibid., 4. 40 Nitsche, Video Game Spaces, 123. 41 Galloway, Gaming, 65. 42 Elsa Boyer, “Cut-­scenes: L’Image entrecoupée,” in Voir les jeux video: Perception, construction, fiction, ed. Elsa Boyer, Elie During, Emmanuel Siety, and Paul Sztulman (Montrouge: Bayard, 2012), 102. Like Galloway’s, Boyer’s vision is not without ambivalence, as she reduces montage to its strictly functional aspects: “If there is montage, it is in its most minimal sense of chronological and spatial linear juxtaposition, where it is used primarily to smooth the cut, to render it invisible and inconsequential for the player so that, for example, the functions of the directional keys are not changed when switching from one screen to another or when the camera changes position and angle within the same screen” (102; our translation). 43 Perron and Therrien, “Da Spacewar! a Gears of War,” 49; our translation. 44 King and Krzywinska, “Introduction,” 14. 45 Mia Consalvo, Timothy Dodd Alley, Nathan Dutton, Matthew Falk, Howard Fisher, Todd Harper, and Adam Yulish, “Where’s My Montage? The Performance of Hard Work and Its Reward in Film, Television, and MMOGs,” Games and Culture 5, no. 4 (2010): 385. 46 Ibid., 393. 47 Nitsche, “Games,” 4. 48 For example, Salen and Zimmerman, Rules of Play, 548, 550; Hector Postigo, “Of Mods and Modders: Chasing Down the Value of Fan-Based Digital Game Modifications,” Games and Culture 2, no. 4 (2007): 302, 307, 308; Elisabeth R. Hayes and Ivan Alex Games, “Making Computer Games and Design Thinking:

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Intermedia Games—Games Inter Media A Review of Current Multiplayer Games,” Games and Culture 3, no. 3–4 (2008): 319; Anders Tychsen and Michael Hitchens, “Game Time: Modeling and Analyzing Time in Multiplayer and Massively Multiplayer Games,” Games and Culture 4, no. 2 (2009): 178; and Olli Sotamaa, “When the Game Is Not Enough: Motivations and Practices Among Computer Game Modding Culture,” Games and Culture 5, no. 3 (2010): 244.

49 The Video Games Observation and Documentation University Lab (LUDOV) provided scanned and searchable versions of the complete Computer Gaming World magazine collection (268 issues between 1981 and 2006) and a considerable selection of issues for Electronic Gaming Monthly (79 issues between 1989 and 2009). Since we do not mean to pad out the references section, all references to the video game press are included in the notes only. 50 William Edmunds, Computer Gaming World, November–December 1981, 13; Marty Halpern, Computer Gaming World, May–June 1982, 28; James Trunzo, Computer Gaming World, September–October 1986, 32. 51 Tim Trimble, Computer Gaming World, August 1992, 17; emphases added. 52 Arinn Dembo, Computer Gaming World, July 1996, 120. 53 Thierry Nguyen, Computer Gaming World, September 1999, 151. 54 Arcadian Del Sol, Computer Gaming World, December 2002, 119. 55 Computer Gaming World, July 1992, 16. 56 Computer Gaming World, November 1991, 57. 57 Notably, searching for “montage” in the databases of the chosen online sources leads to articles with headlines referring to paratextual videos that offer a montage of game content: “E3 2011: Wii U Third-Party Montage Actually Xbox 360, PS3, PC Footage” (Tor Thorsen, GameSpot, June 8, 2011, http://www.gamespot.com/articles/e3-2011-wii-­u-third-­party-montage-­actuallyxbox-360-ps3-pc-­footage/1100-6318243/); “Dishonored Kill Compilation Shows a Montage of Creative Murder” (Omri Petitte, PCGamer, November 14, 2012, http://www.pcgamer.com/dishonored-­kill-compilation/); or “Mortal Kombat 10 E3 Footage Komes Komplete with Fatality Montage” (Phil Savage, PCGamer, June 9, 2014, http://www.pcgamer.com/mortal-­kombat-10-e3-footage-­komeskomplete-­with-fatality-­montage/). 58 In his study of the ways theoreticians, critics, and spectators talk about the camera, Edward Branigan concludes: “I believe that when a film critic speaks about a camera, he or she is tacitly invoking some theory of one or more human abilities that a camera is said to mimic, explore, refuse, transcend, and so on. The term ‘camera’ becomes a shorthand way to make assertions about the meanings to be found in a film, assuming that a particular bodily process is the most prominent at that moment and operates in the assumed way” (166). 59 Gary Mollohan, Electronic Gaming Monthly, July 1999, 108. 60 Electronic Gaming Monthly, June 2004, 100. 61 Roy Dulin, GameSpot, March 26, 1999, http://www.gamespot.com/reviews/ resident-­evil-2-review/1900-2532786/.

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62 Ivan Sulic, IGN, December 3, 2002, http://ca.ign.com/articles/2002/12/03/ silent-­hill-2-review. 63 Electronic Gaming Monthly, November 2005, 33. 64 Nick Suttner, Electronic Gaming Monthly, January 2009, 58. 65 Tyler Wilde, PCGamer, March 2, 2012, http://www.pcgamer.com/max-­payne3-preview-2/. 66 Computer Gaming World, August 1986, 46. 67 Michael Chaut, Computer Gaming World, February 1989, 42. 68 Jeff James, Computer Gaming World, February 1995, 128. 69 Stephen Poole, GameSpot, May 13, 1997, http://www.gamespot.com/ reviews/alone-­in-the-­dark-trilogy-­review/1900-2537950/. 70 Johnny L. Wilson, Computer Gaming World, October 1993,13; Mike Weksler and Ken Brown, Computer Gaming World, October 1994, 104; Jeff James, Computer Gaming World, June 1994, 42; Ron Dulin, GameSpot, December 3, 2002, http://www.gamespot.com/reviews/silent-­hill-2-review/1900-2899284/; Electronic Gaming Monthly, May 2005, 124; Aaron Matteson, Joystick Division, July 5, 2011, http://www.joystickdivision.com/2011/07/five_things_ we_learned_from_re.php. 71 Chuck Miller, Computer Gaming World, August 1993, 56. 72 Christopher Breen, Computer Gaming World, December 1993, 146. 73 Conrad Zimmerman, Destructoid, May 14, 2012, http://www.destructoid.com/ review-­max-payne-3-227387.phtml. 74 Chuck Miller, Computer Gaming World, August 1993, 54; our emphases. 75 Chuck Miller, Computer Gaming World, September 1993;’ 64; our emphases. 76 Paul C. Schuytema, Computer Gaming World, February 1994, 176; our emphases. 77 Patricia Bizzell, Academic Discourse and Critical Consciousness (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1992), 222. 78 Swales, Genre Analysis. 79 Ibid., 24–7. 80 Bizzell, Academic Discourse, 234. 81 Ibid. 82 Stephen Poole, Trigger Happy: Videogames and the Entertainment Revolution (New York: Arcade, 2000), 83. 83 Ibid. 84 Bizzell, Academic Discourse, 223. 85 Grand Theft Auto V, dev. Rockstar North (Rockstar Games, 2014), PlayStation 4. 86 Andreas Gregersen and Torben Grodal, “Embodiment and Interface,” in The Video Game Theory Reader 2, ed. Bernard Perron and Mark J.P. Wolf (New York, Routledge, 2009). 87 Rune Klevjer, What is the Avatar? Fiction and Embodiment in Avatar-Based Singleplayer Computer Games (PhD diss., University of Bergen, 2006).

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88 Carl Therrien, “Interface,” in The Johns Hopkins Guide to Digital Media and Textuality, eds. Lori Emerson, Marie-Laure Ryan, and Benjamin Robertson (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2014), 305–8. 89 Consalvo et al., “Where’s My Montage?” 393.

References Arsenault, Dominic, and Bernard Perron. “De-Framing Video Games from the Light of Cinema.” G|A|M|E—Games as Art, Media, Entertainment: The Italian Journal of Game Studies, no. 4 (2015). Accessed January 4, 2017. http://www. gamejournal.it/arsenault_perron_deframing. Bizzell, Patricia. Academic Discourse and Critical Consciousness. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1992. Bolter, Jay David, and Richard Grusin. Remediation: Understanding New Media. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1999. Boyer, Elsa. “Cut-­scenes: L’Image entrecoupée.” In Voir les jeux vidéo: Perception, construction, fiction, edited by Elsa Boyer et al., 93–115. Montrouge: Bayard, 2012. Branigan, Edward. Projecting a Camera: Language-Games in Film Theory. New York: Routledge, 2006. Cheng, Paul. “Waiting for Something to Happen: Narratives, Interactivity and Agency and the Video Game Cut-Scene.” Situated Play: Proceedings of DiGRA 2007 Conference, 15–24. Consalvo, Mia, et al. “Where’s My Montage? The Performance of Hard Work and Its Reward in Film, Television, and MMOGs.” Games and Culture 5, no. 4 (2010): 381–402. Crick, Timothy. “The Game Body: Toward a Phenomenology of Contemporary Video Gaming.” Games and Culture 6, no. 3 (2011): 259–69. Galloway, Alexander. Gaming: Essays on Algorithmic Culture. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2006. Godard, Jean-Luc. Godard on Godard. Translated by Tom Milne. New York: Da Capo, 1972. Grand Theft Auto V. Developed by Rockstar North. Rockstar, 2014. PlayStation 4. Gregersen, Andreas, and Torben Grodal. “Embodiment and Interface.” In The Video Game Theory Reader 2, edited by Bernard Perron and Mark J.P. Wolf, 65–83. New York: Routledge, 2009. Hayes, Elisabeth R., and Ivan Alex Games. “Making Computer Games and Design Thinking: A Review of Current Multiplayer Games.” Games and Culture 3, no. 3–4 (2008): 309–32. Ichbiah, Daniel. La saga des jeux vidéo. Paris: Éditions Générales First, 1997. King, Geoff, and Tanya Krzywinska. “Film Studies and Digital Games.” In Understanding Digital Games, edited by Jason Rutter and Jo Bryce, 112–28. London: SAGE, 2006. King, Geoff, and Tanya Krzywinska. “Introduction: Cinema/Videogames/ Interfaces.” In ScreenPlay: Cinema/Videogames/Interfaces, edited by Geoff King and Tanya Krzywinska, 1–32. London: Wallflower, 2002.

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King, Geoff, and Tanya Krzywinska. Tomb Raiders and Space Invaders: Videogame Forms and Contexts. London: I.B. Tauris, 2006. Klevjer, Rune. “In Defense of Cutscenes.” In Computer Game & Digital Cultures Conference Proceedings, edited by Frans Mäyrä, 191–202. Tampere: Tampere University Press, 2002. Klevjer, Rune. What Is the Avatar? Fiction and Embodiment in Avatar-Based Singleplayer Computer Games. PhD diss. University of Bergen, 2006. Klevjer, Rune. “Cut-Scenes.” In The Routledge Companion to Video Game Studies, edited by Mark J.P. Wolf and Bernard Perron, 301–9. London: Routledge, 2014. Krzywinska, Tanya. “Hands-On Horror.” In ScreenPlay: Cinema/Videogames/ Interfaces, edited by Geoff King and Tanya Krzywinska, 206–23. London: Wallflower, 2002. Manovich, Lev. The Language of New Media. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2001. Narcisse, Evan. “Press ‘B’ to Skip: A Brief History of the Cutscene.” Time, June 25, 2010. Accessed January 7, 2017. http://press-“b”-to-­skip-a-­brief-history-­ofthe-­cutscene/. Nitsche, Michael. “Games, Montage, and the First Person Point of View.” In Changing Views: Worlds in Play, edited by Suzanne de Castell and Jennifer Jenson, 29–35. New York: Peter Lang, 2005. Nitsche, Michael. Video Game Spaces: Image, Play, and Structure in 3D Worlds. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2008. Perron, Bernard, and Carl Therrien. “Da Spacewar! a Gears of War, o comme l’immagine videoludica è devintata più cinematografica.” Bianco e nero, no. 564 (May–August 2009): 40–50. Poole, Steven. Trigger Happy: Videogames and the Entertainment Revolution. New York: Arcade, 2000. Postigo, Hector. “Of Mods and Modders: Chasing Down the Value of Fan-Based Digital Game Modifications.” Games and Culture 2, no. 4 (2007): 300–13. Salen, Katie, and Eric Zimmerman (2004). Rules of Play: Game Design Fundamentals. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Sotamaa, Olli. “When the Game Is Not Enough: Motivations and Practices Among Computer Game Modding Culture.” Games and Culture 5, no. 3 (2010): 239–55. Swales, John. Genre Analysis. English in Academic and Research Settings. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990. Tavinor, Grant. The Art of Video Games. Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell, 2009. Therrien, Carl. “Interface.” In The Johns Hopkins Guide to Digital Media and Textuality, edited by Lori Emerson, Marie-Laure Ryan, and Benjamin Robertson, 305–8. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2014. Tong, Wee Liang, and Marcus Cheng Chye Tan. “Vision and Virtuality: The Construction of Narrative Space in Film and Computer Games.” In ScreenPlay. Cinema/Videogames/Interfaces, edited by Geoff King and Tanya Krzywinska, 98–109. London: Wallflower, 2002. Tychsen, Anders, and Michael Hitchens. “Game Time: Modeling and Analyzing Time in Multiplayer and Massively Multiplayer Games.” Games and Culture 4, no. 2 (2009): 170–201.

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Wolf, Mark J.P. “Inventing Space: Toward a Taxonomy of On- and Off-Screen Space in Video Games.” Film Quarterly 15, no. 1 (1997): 11–23. Wolf, Mark J.P. “The Study of Video Games.” In The Video Game Explosion: A History from PONG to PlayStation and Beyond, edited by Mark J.P. Wolf, 21–8, 81–90. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 2008.

3 Camera Ludica: Reflections on Photography in Video Games Sebastian Möring and Marco de Mutiis

D

uncan Harris may be one of the most popular in-­game photographers on the globe. His work is collected and presented on the weblog Deadendthrills, where Harris presents photos of characters and landscapes from many blockbuster games, including The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim (Bethesda, 2011), Grand Theft Auto V (Rockstar North, 2013), and Fallout 4 (Bethesda, 2015). In addition to his artistic endeavors, Harris works as a professional game photographer. As such, he produces dramatic and compelling screenshots which are used in promotional paratexts. This production of advertising material has so far been game photography’s most apparent function. Historically, labeling advertising material for video games as produced purely from in-­game graphics was used to indicate the graphic quality of a given game. In recent years, different agents have grown increasingly interested in photographic practices with and within video games that all participate in the phenomenon of what we include under the umbrella term “in-­game photography”: The video game industry has expanded the space of possibilities by implementing features like so-­called photo-­modes (e.g. The Last of Us Remastered (Naughty Dog, 2014)) and encourages players to take in-­game images and distribute them via platforms such as Flickr. Artists make use of video games to create artworks (e.g. Kent Sheely, Roc Herms, Duncan Harris, and Robert Overweg). Even museums and universities have noticed the phenomenon and have begun to curate and study in-­game photographs

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and their production processes. Indeed, even Time magazine commissioned a war photographer to embed himself in the game The Last of Us Remastered in order to photograph the game’s combat zone just as he would do in real life.1 While in-­game photography is not an entirely new phenomenon, it has barely received any scholarly attention so far. The few essays published on the topic were exclusively written by game scholars.2 However, since in-­game photography is clearly an intermedial phenomenon which combines two traditionally distinct media (the video game and photography), discourses from fields such as media studies, art history, media art, aesthetics, and visual culture studies should be taken into account when studying this phenomenon. In particular, in-­game photography’s implications on existing theories of photography—in particular within the contexts of the characteristics of the photographic image and contemporary discussions surrounding post-­ photography—and video games are far from being understood.3 Indeed, even our object of study remains somewhat elusive—what is in-­game photography? Does the term denote photography simulations? Photography virtualizations? Taking screenshots? Game modifications that add photographic features? The artistic use of computer game photography? All of them? None of them? In this chapter, we aim to establish categories for the most central ways in which video games and photography interrelate. Within the context of intermedial research, we specifically focus on how the medium of the video game affords and limits photographic possibilities and how photography unfolds under the gameplay conditions.

Between remediation and simulation: approaching in-­game photography Jay David Bolter and Richard Grusin have famously argued that all media are part of an environment in which different media influence and reconfigure each other structurally as well as aesthetically.4 In the case of in-­game photography, the younger medium, the video game, remediates photography by means of simulation. Following Bolter and Grusin’s claim, in-­game photography should likewise affect conventional photography in some way. However, in order to assess in-­game photography’s influence on conventional photography, the former must be understood first. Different parties (artists, theorists, critics as well as players and developers) use the term “in-­game photography” to describe a multitude of practices and technologies in which photography and video games interact. These practices

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and technologies do not share a single set of characteristics, but they show family resemblances in the Wittgensteinian sense. Thus, we refrain from offering an ontological definition of in-­game photography. Instead, we describe different types of “in-­game photographies.” The resulting categories proposed in this chapter highlight different approaches and modalities in which photographic and ludic elements interact and overlap. We understand in-­game photography in its various forms, from photographic capture to the materialization or visualization of the image and from notions of the apparatus to the role of the photographer/player. We will not try to argue that screenshots are photographs, or that modifying the game engine to simulate a camera transforms it into the photographic apparatus, but rather that some characteristics of the photographic tradition are present in game forms, thereby connecting video games and photography. Placing a DSLR in front of the unfolding events on the screen, using a video game’s photo mode to take a picture, or playing a game where the use of the camera is simulated as a core game mechanic are equally worthy and meaningful examples (while completely different in the way they remediate photography and how they affect play and games) when mapping the variety of in-­game photography. However, we do distinguish between some photographic media that may be used in-­game and remediations of photography that do not happen in games. Screenshots which are taken during gameplay, for example, are one of the most common forms of in-­game photographs, but would not be considered in-­game photography if used to capture a computer desktop (unlike photo modes that can only exist in games). Screenshots may be taken by game-­external means, like actual photo cameras, as well as by means which are provided by a given computer game platform like the print button on the keyboard of the personal computer or the share-­button of the PlayStation 4 console. In-­game photography may be realized both by means of a photo mode or a simulated photo camera in a game. Cindy Poremba has suggested that remediations of screenshots are, in fact, one of the main types of in-­game photography.5 This kind of remediation includes screenshots of glitches and gameplay trophies, but also “performance photography,” such as when The Sims (Maxis, 2000) screenshots are used to create “photo essays” by using the integrated photo album and storytelling functions of the game.6 Photographs of this kind are produced through ordinary screenshots, but photography is not simulated as a game mechanic. In contrast, in cases of what Poremba labels “photo as play,” photography (or some aspects of it) becomes part of the simulation.7 For example, in the first “Shutter Bug” mission of Pilotwings 64 (Nintendo EAD and Paradigm Simulation, 1996), the player pilots a hang glider past an oil plant and has to

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take a photo of the flame flickering from its smoke stack. The game rates the photo’s quality as part of the mission’s score. The photograph is of no further use after the mission has been completed, but it may be accessed from the game’s photo album together with photos taken by the player outside of specific photo missions. Accordingly, Pilotwings 64 is a simulation of photography, for a simulation is the “model[ling of] a (source) system through a different system which maintains to somebody some of the behaviors of the original system.”8 Within this category of photography simulations, Poremba introduces a further subdivision between “content-­centered” and “practice-­based” approaches to photography. Pilotwings 64 provides an example of a content-­ centered approach to photography, as “players need to capture a certain image or object for maximum points.” Games such as Pokémon Snap (HAL Laboratory and Pax Softnica, 1999) and Wild Earth: Photo Safari (Super X Studios, 2006), on the other hand, are practice-­based, as they “use the rules and practice of photography as a framework for play.”9 In Pokémon Snap, the player tries to visually document all Pokémon on Pokémon Island. Eventually, Professor Oak judges the quality of the images by awarding “points based on size, pose, and technique (simple composition, such as centering) and whether other ‘Pokémon of the same type are in the shot.’ ”10 Poremba’s analysis is certainly very valuable as a pioneering study which identifies many central issues of in-­game photography. However, new forms of in-­game photography have been emerging and need to be taken into account in order to map and understand this intermedial phenomenon. For example, artistic in-­game photography remains a clear research desideratum. Matteo Bittanti has highlighted the “artistic significance of videogame screenshots” (which he also calls “ ‘screenshot-­ing’ or ‘screengrabbing’ ”), while Rainer Sigl has referred to in-­game photography as the “art of the screenshot,” going as far as explicitly calling game photography an “artform.”11 Similar to Poremba, Bittanti and Sigl consider in-­game photography most closely related to the screenshot. Yet as curators and critics of game photography, they are more interested in the artistic process and the aesthetics of the resulting images rather than the ontology of game photography. In fact, it remains to be seen in what ways the practice of photography in game culture and art contexts is different from the way it is simulated in games. Another type of in-­game photography that has eluded scholarship so far is the photo mode, which has become a basic feature of many contemporary video games. In these games, photography is simulated but qualifies for neither of Poremba’s categories. Photography performed by using the photo mode of The Last of Us Remastered is neither content-­centered nor practice-­ based, as it does not relate to any gameplay goal.

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If the ultimate goal of this research trajectory is to evaluate how in-­game photography influences photography at large, it is necessary to understand how photography is refashioned by the medium of the video game, its structure and its aesthetics. For her case of photography simulations, Poremba emphasizes that photography “is an inherently gamelike practice” and stresses the similarity between photography and “the most popular video game dynamic, gunplay.”12 One could add that a difference between gunplay and photography play is that all instances of gunplay—at least in first-­person shooters (FPS)—require the player to point at something, whereas photo play (if simulated well) requires the player to frame something. Accordingly, while in FPS gunplay, players aim the center of the screen at the target, in photoplay, players try to frame a motif which can consist of an arrangement of several characters and objects, none of which needs to be in the center of the frame.13 Finally, the answer to the question of how the medium of the video game refashions photography significantly depends on what one believes to be the central characteristic distinguishing video games from other media. In our view, this element is the gameplay condition, a concept Olli Leino has discussed in detail.14 Our aim in the rest of this chapter is to introduce a typology which accounts for the different ways in which photography and video games interrelate through in-­game photography. This typology offers more distinctions than Poremba’s categories, as it takes into account the types mentioned above that scholarship has so far ignored. We characterize the different types of in-­ game photography by how they relate to the gameplay condition. But before we set out to introduce our typology, we shall offer an understanding of video games from the perspective of their imagery and characterize them as a double image which is contingent upon each game’s gameplay condition.

The medium of the video game and questions of visuality In his video game ontology, Espen Aarseth conceptualizes video games as double-­layered objects consisting of mechanics (code, algorithms, rules, physics, etc.) and semiotics (sound, text, images, etc.), which come into being through the process of gameplay.15 Aarseth considers the mechanical layer as more important than the semiotic layer, since the mechanics distinguish video games from other media. After all, in video games, the fundamental question is not what the player sees and hears while playing but under which conditions these images and sounds are produced. These conditions are embedded in the mechanical layer of video games and become effective during the

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performance of a game. As a result, the appearance of individual images on the screen depends on the player’s performance and the mechanics invisibly operating in the background. Crucially, when thinking about in-­game photography, one intuitively prioritizes the visual dimension of video games. The question is how to combine these performative and visual dimensions. Inspired by Frieder Nake, Stephan Schwingeler has integrated Aarseth’s ontological distinction by conceiving of video games as navigable and manipulable double-­images consisting of a visible surface and an algorithmic underside which the computer interprets.16 Schwingeler’s conceptualization allows for considering video games as a set of potential images of which a particular sequence is realized with each playthrough. Importantly, a playthrough is not as trivial an exercise as turning the pages of a photo book, since the player has to make an effort to progress. Aarseth thus refers to video games as “ergodic texts.”17 “Ergodic” connotes both the navigability which Schwingeler addresses and the “gameplay condition,” which Olli Leino has defined as “a duality of freedom and responsibility: the game gives [the player] a freedom of choice while simultaneously making her responsible for this freedom by resisting her project of playing.”18 For example, in The Last of Us, the “Infected” embody this resistance by threatening to harm or even kill the player character. The player can deal with this resistance by either killing these mutants or avoiding them. Accordingly, the player tries to expand the space between the player character and the foes, whereas the monsters try to contract it. As Leino has explained, “survival when faced with the resistance inscribed in the gameplay condition amounts to an achievement,” continuing that a “[s]uccessful player is someone who is able to make the decision whether to continue playing, whereas a failed player will find that decision was already made on her behalf.”19 In view of Leino’s remarks, the video game becomes a navigable and manipulable image contingent upon the performance of the player and the game’s specific gameplay condition. With this interrelation between the video game, its visual dimension, and the gameplay condition in mind, we will, in the following, define different types of in-­game photography based on their relation to the gameplay condition.

Types of photography in video games We suggest differentiating between four types of in-­game photography: (a) simulated photography central to the gameplay condition, (b) an additional photo mode, (c) artistic screenshotting, and (d) creative photographic interventions made possible by photo modifications.

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A.  Simulated photography central to the gameplay condition This category is akin to Poremba’s category of “photo play” and Seth Giddings’ category of games in which “the production of photograph-­like images is central to the gameplay.”20 It covers all games which simulate photography in one way or another and in which taking photographs is central to the gameplay condition. Examples range from overly simplistic to more complex simulations. For example, in Gekibo: Gekisha Boy (Tomcat System, 1992), the player controls a young photographer solving tricky photography assignments (e.g. photograph a flying car) in a two-­dimensional side-­scrolling world. The player needs to position a framed crosshair right over the motif and pull the trigger. The player earns points for each photo if the motif is in the center of the crosshairs. This simulation of photography is reminiscent of gunplay in rail shooters, as photography is reduced to a simple point-­and-click mechanic. The pictures are also simply evaluated based on timing. If the player manages to take a picture of a man slipping on a banana peel or a snapshot of a Marilyn Monroe-­like character with her skirt lifted by a sudden wind, she will earn a higher score. This focus on capturing the right moment is reminiscent of ideas expressed in Henri Cartier-Bresson’s seminal photography book The Decisive Moment (1952), as the freezing of a fragment of time becomes an idea driving the game mechanic.21 Regardless of the simulation’s simplicity, success in the game depends on the photography mechanic: Only if the player accumulates enough points per level will she see more parts of the game. In other words, the further exploration of the gameworld is contingent upon taking photographs. In this type of game, players often assume the role of a journalist or documentary photographer taking photos in a nature setting. These games may implement more intricate aspects of photography in their gameplay and simulate many standard features of analog and digital SLR photography, such as zooming, framing, and focusing, as well as adjusting ISO, shutter speed, and aperture. These processes are simulated in the gameworld and are often incorporated in a scoring system, as an algorithm analyzes and evaluates the resulting photographs. Depending on the simulation’s complexity, the algorithm evaluates more or fewer parameters. Afrika (Rhino Studios, 2008; see Figure 3.1), a game co-­produced by National Geographic, is an example of a more complex simulation of wildlife photography. Similar to Wild Earth, the player controls a freelance photojournalist in a conservation area in Africa modeled in 3D and populated by animals such as giraffes, elephants, and lions. The player character is equipped with licensed “real-­world” photography equipment and drives around in a jeep to document

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animals and plants for magazines and other clients. The game attempts to simulate the most important aspects of the (digital) photographic process, choosing different lenses and camera bodies, saving files to a hard disk, and emailing them to clients. The gameplay condition of this game is twofold. On the one hand, the player’s freedom depends on the photos she has taken on assignments. In-­game photographs are analyzed and evaluated through an algorithm measuring parameters such as angle, motif, distance, and technique. At the end of this process, the client submits a mission report, assessing the player’s performance. The rating system works in a conventional capitalist fashion: The higher the rating, the more money the player receives, the better equipment she can buy, eventually enabling her to take better—or at least different—photos than before. On the other hand, the gameplay condition restricts the player’s freedom by not allowing her to approach animals too closely. Some of them can become dangerous and even injure the player-­ character. If this happens, the player character wakes up at the base camp and loses all photos from the previous session. While not technically employing a safari or hunting setting, Paparazzi’s (HuneX, 2004) title announces that in this game, the player “hunts” for the best shots of female models. The player can ask the model to look at the camera, to “adopt a charming pose,” “adopt a sexy pose,” and “get a kiss on the fly” in order to improve the chances for a good shot.22 In addition, the player character can dance, jump, and wave hands to establish a relationship with the model and

FIGURE 3.1  Taking a photo in Afrika. Screenshot from Afrika (Rhino Studios, 2008).

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move around the location to take the best shots possible. While the game’s basic premise is objectionable, as it is downright sexist (e.g. much of the game’s 3D physics simulation is spent on rendering the models’ oversized breasts), the camera simulation in manual mode contains many parameters adapted directly from real-­world SLR cameras, including flash, zoom, focus, aperture, and shutter speed. In a way, Paparazzi works (and plays) like a hunting game, as it treats the objectified female model the same way game would be treated on a hunt. However, this sort of sexism permeates not only in-­game, as Paparazzi simulates the exploitative nature of various genres of conventional photography, from the eponymous, borderline-­legal practices to advertising photography. In games such as Afrika and Paparazzi, the photography simulation evokes elements of real-­life photography. Indeed, players may push buttons on a controller instead of a camera, but the function of the in-­game camera remains that of freezing a moment and framing the (game)world in a rectangular image. Video games represent the camera apparatus to varying detail, from the basic framing functions in Gekibo: Gekisha Boy to the sophisticated simulation of ISO, depth of field, and zoom of licensed cameras in Afrika, but the camera always remains recognizable as a camera simulation. However, in the process of “gamifying” the apparatus, other games transform the camera into something else by endowing it with special powers that have nothing to do with photography. For example, in the Fatal Frame horror series (2001–2014), the player finds a “Camera Obscura,” an antiquated-­ looking device reminiscent of early large-­format cameras, which allows the player to “take pictures of impossible things.”23 Of course, this idea plays on Victorian ghost photography, but the video game adds to the function of revealing spirits that of exorcizing them. In fact, the game system awards points depending on how much damage the ghost photograph inflicts. Unlike photography games in which the camera is simplified and simulated in a faithful way, video games such as Fatal Frame take certain elements and turn them into something new, a “camera magica” of sorts. In the games discussed in this section, photography is key to the gameplay condition. We have already noted that this category largely corresponds to Poremba’s practice-­based approaches to in-­game photography. However, our focus on the gameplay condition allows us to distinguish between practice-­ based and content-­centered approaches in a useful manner: the former are usually central to the gameplay condition for the entire game; in the latter, in contrast, simulated photography only plays a vital role in some missions or levels. Whereas Poremba has suggested that the difference between practice-­ based and content-­centered approaches is a matter of quality, we would argue that it is rather a matter of degree. In both cases, photography is simulated and is essential to the gameplay condition. However, in content-­centered

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approaches, photography is central to the gameplay condition only in some levels or missions and not throughout the whole game. Interestingly, most games revolving around photography evaluate photographs according to very technical parameters such as distance, angle, and whether the motif is centered; aesthetic aspects such as the “rule of thirds” and lighting are ignored. Indeed, these aesthetic aspirations only become important when in-­game photography is no longer performed to fulfill the gameplay condition and the player decides to take in-­game photos for a reason other than progressing in the game. To be sure, some games in which simulated photography is central to the gameplay condition do, in fact, allow the player to take photos for aesthetic reasons. For instance, in Wild Earth, the player may take photos which are not required by the game’s gameplay condition and which she may later access on her hard drive for further editing or sharing via social media.

B.  Additional photo mode—suspended gameplay condition Video games such as the post-­apocalyptic survival horror game The Last of Us Remastered feature a rather elaborate photo mode with quite sophisticated simulations of photography, but photography is not an essential component of the gameplay condition. These games include ways for the player to take pictures of the gameworld which are unrelated to the game’s objectives and central game mechanics. In these games, pushing a button permits the user to freeze the flow of the action and to effectively step out of the game in order to focus on the isolated act of photographing landscapes or character portraits. Accordingly, these photo modes allow the player to focus on the aesthetic qualities of the games, free from the worries of approaching enemies. Since taking photos is a supplementary part of these games, no algorithm evaluates the quality of the pictures taken. Contemporary video games increasingly sport stunning landscape designs (e.g. The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim), which, indeed, seem to invite the player to admire the scenery, meditate on it, and memorize spectacular views. Since the gameplay condition tends to demand all of the player’s attention, and thus prevents her from admiring the beautiful vistas she passes on her way, the spectacular view appears like a reward for a cleared level. Apart from enabling snapshots of memorable moments and visually impressive views, Christopher Moore has astutely remarked that game developers implement photo modes since they are useful for a player’s identity management in social media; posting images of specific scenes allows them to show other players that “I

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was here and saw that,” as Poremba has put it.24 In addition to contributing to the sharing culture prevalent in social media, photo modes also make for a well-­functioning crowd-­sourced publicity tool. In contrast to photography which is essential to the gameplay condition, photo mode photography has aesthetic aspirations, as these games permit players to suspend the gameplay condition. Similar to photography simulations, photo modes tend to provide a variety of simulated photo functions, from camera focus and aperture to photo filters and watermarks. However, due to their emphasis on the aesthetic qualities of the images, these games allow for an aesthetic freedom not encountered in games in which photography is essential to gameplay. Originally released for the PlayStation 3, The Last of Us was graphically overhauled for the launch of the PlayStation 4 and was republished as The Last of Us Remastered. In addition to the visual enhancements, the developers added a photo mode to the game: Pushing a button freezes the action in the PS4 version, allowing the player to freely move the camera to find an adequate motif. Suspended in time and freed from spatial constraints, the photographer is free to explore the gameworld as if it was an “augmented decisive moment,” to draw on Cartier-Bresson. In contrast to Pokémon Snap and Afrika, the player of The Last of Us Remastered can not only frame a scene, but also define the field of view and the depth of field; she can use different filters to create specific moods and atmospheres; and she can hide the game interface, make the image look grainy and select a particular frame for the photo. Remarkably, a few months after the release of the remastered edition, the online edition of Time featured a story about real-­life war photographer Ashley Gilbertson who, commissioned by the magazine, documented the combat zone of The Last of Us Remastered (see Figure 3.2). In the article, Gilbertson recounts how he was unable to adapt to his double role of as “camera-­avatar”—a role which was surprisingly different from his role in real-­ life war photography: I initially played the game at home. But after a short time playing it, I noticed I was having very strong reactions in regards to my role as the protagonist: I hated it. When I covered real war, I did so with a camera, not a gun. At home, I’d play for 30 minutes before noticing I had knots in my stomach, that my vision blurred, and then eventually, that I had simply crashed out. I felt like this could well be my last assignment for TIME.25 The anecdote illustrates that although the player can suspend the gameplay condition and switch to the photo mode whenever she wants, the game is still subject to this condition. To be sure, the gameplay condition largely operates

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FIGURE 3.2  The photo mode in The Last of Us Remastered. Screenshot from The Last of Us Remastered (Naughty Dog, 2014). invisibly in the background. However, when attempting to give in to the visual gravitas of a particular view or cherishing the success of reaching a spot which is difficult to get to, the gameplay condition might come to the fore and force the player into engaging with the game as such. Indeed, Gilbertson, who is not a regular video game player, was unable to cope with the surges of enemies in the game, which limit his freedom as a player, but, even more so, his freedom as a photographer. While Gilbertson’s quotation presented above may be read as a general criticism of video game’s naturalization of violence—a critique all the more forceful, as it comes from someone who has experienced real-­life war first hand, it might also simply indicate that Gilbertson failed to understand that killing the Infected is, in fact, not a requirement in order to be successful in the game. One may also simply avoid their attention. In addition, Gilbertson could have simply frozen the action at any time by pressing the L3 button on the PlayStation controller to calmly take a photo. In other words, Gilbertson miscalculated his gaming skills and the impact of the gameplay condition. Once he came to understand that his gaming skills were insufficient, he outsourced playing to a more experienced assistant who eliminated the enemies before Gilbertson assumed control again and started looking for motifs. With this strategy in place, Gilbertson turned the game into an “experience [which] resembled an actual embed, with someone doing the fighting and me taking photographs.”26 In a sense, Gilbertson modified the game for co-­operative gameplay without modifying the game’s code. Josh Raab (the assistant) accordingly

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performed what Katie Salen has called “transformative play” by ignoring the implied goals of the game (i.e., deliver Ellie to the Fireflies) in pursuit of a different goal (i.e., get to places with photo-­worthy motifs).27 Satisfying the gameplay condition is thus no longer the central goal of playing, but rather becomes an unavoidable condition to be worked around or played with in order to reach other goals, such as taking photographs.28 As a result, Gilbertson’s work was not at all subject to the gameplay condition, but merely to his aesthetic judgment and his skills to frame his motifs satisfactorily. While built-­in photo modes encourage transformative play, they do not demand it. In conventional photography, car photography is a popular genre which now expands to the realm of video games almost naturally, since cars are very often simulated in games and play central roles. Unsurprisingly, many racing titles, such as Project CARS (Slightly Mad Studios, 2015), Gran Turismo 4–6 (Polyphony Digital, 2005–2013), and Forza Motorsport 5 (Turn 10 Studios, 2013), include photo modes. In these games, the photo mode is part of extensive replay functions which allow the player to review and analyze their driving skills. For example, Gran Turismo 6 features a sophisticated camera simulation and two photo modes: photo travel and race photos. In the race photo mode, the player can choose spectacular views of her car during a race and take snapshots. These pictures are subject to the gameplay condition insofar as the recorded race depends on the player’s performance in the game. To be sure, the player could engage in transformative play and cause numerous crashes in order to create spectacular images. In the photo travel mode, on the other hand, the gameplay condition is completely suspended, and the player can “take photos of cars in a number of exotic locations,” as the game’s manual suggests. Similar to a film studio, she can choose the location, the camera position, a car of her liking, and even an avatar. In viewfinder mode, she can adjust aspects such as shutter speed and aperture, which have similar effects on the photographic result as in real-­world photography. For instance, a low F-stop (aperture) provides “sharp focus on the car and some nice bokeh fuzziness in the background.”29 The smartphone camera in Grand Theft Auto V (GTA V) presents a borderline case in our typology. This camera may be considered a photo mode, since players can take and save photos and upload them to GTA V’s equivalent to Flickr, called Snapmatic. Rockstar Games’ Social Club members may even access Snapmatic outside the game. The player can take selfies, choose a photo frame, use filters, and so on, but while taking photographs, the gameplay condition is not suspended, as the busy gameworld continues to feel alive even when the player pulls out the smartphone camera. Accordingly, when the player looks through the smartphone camera’s frame, life in the

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virtual world goes on, as it would in real life. As a result, a player who decides to take photos while her character is standing in the middle of a busy road risks that her character will be run over. Need for Speed (Ghost Games, 2015) has implemented a similar photo mode, which suggests that a new type of in-­game photography might be emerging here: a photo mode that neither suspends the gameplay condition nor is part of it. In this context, we would be remiss not to mention the screenshot modes of widely used gaming platforms such as Steam, PlayStation 4, and Xbox One. All of these platforms feature a button which allows players to take screenshots at almost any time. Thus, if players would like to capture images from a game such as FIFA 16 (Electronic Arts Canada, 2015), they may do so by pressing the share-­button on their PlayStation 4 controllers, for example. Depending on the user’s configuration, the screenshot might even be immediately uploaded to the PlayStation Network. Notably, these platform-­dependent screenshot modes reduce the simulation of the process of taking a photograph to pushing the shutter release. Thus, these modes emphasize the technical distinction between a screenshot and the elaborate photo modes included in the games discussed in this section. To conclude, video games with photo modes generally suspend the gameplay condition in order to offer the player the time and space needed to produce artistic images. These games usually showcase a rather sophisticated camera simulation, allowing the player to embrace her aesthetic freedom. To be sure, the gameplay condition still influences the scene (and scenery) which the player may photograph. Compared to games which feature photography as central element of the gameplay condition, the former category is more focused on gameplay, whereas photo modes emphasize the aesthetic quality of the photographs. Gameplay thus becomes a means toward an (aesthetic) end. To draw on Heidegger, games of category (a) are ready-­at-hand while taking photographs, as photography is the game and is its gameplay. Photography in games of category (b) makes games quite literally present-­tohand, as the photos taken in the games may exist independent from the game while being saved on a hard drive, shared via social media, or even printed and put in galleries and other exhibition spaces.30 The game’s still images thus trump the game’s use.

C.  Artistic screenshotting The kinds of in-­game photography described so far may be used for artistic intentions and strategies. However, these modes are mostly used for vernacular and amateur in-­game photography, as described by Eron Rauch.31

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In contrast, most artists practicing game photography develop their own strategies and methods of screenshotting, which may be as simple as taking screenshots by pressing the “print” key on the keyboard or shooting photos with a DSLR camera positioned in front of a screen. Whereas photographs made with the help of photo modes highlight a connection between the image and the game from which it emerged, artistic screenshotting is more autonomous, an artistic creation (largely) independent from the source game. Indeed, the source game becomes the medium to express a particular idea photographically, as it turns into a stage, which may be altered to create art. Crucially, this creation process is still subject to the gameplay condition. Duncan Harris is one of the pioneers among screenshotters/in-­game photographers. A community of amateurs and aspiring game photographers has emerged around his persona and website, sharing images and ideas, all the while discussing techniques as well as styles and critiquing each other’s work. More recently, the SweetFX website (sfx.thelazy.net) has emerged, where discussions mainly revolve around questions such as applying shaders to games in order to obtain specific visual effects before taking a screenshot. The SweetFX Shader Suite is, in fact, a plug-­in that allows players to apply a selection of post-­processing effects to a game. However, the community surrounding Harris and the SweetFX community are merely two examples, as the proliferation of in-­game photography has led to a mushrooming of these groups. Indeed, one can easily find a number of different groups dedicated to in-­game photography on platforms such as Flickr. But even before this popularization of in-­game photography, several artists had already been working at the intersections of photography and video games. Artistic in-­game photography became prominent through books such as Gamescenes: Art in the Age of Videogames (2006), a catalog which presents early works of game art and suggests that video games have changed art altogether.32 On his eponymous blog, the book’s co-­editor Matteo Bittanti has been collecting game art and presents game photography that does not so much document some aspects of a game as it tries to express something through the resulting image. For example, Kent Sheely’s piece “Grand Theft Photo” (2007) consists of street photography in Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas (Rockstar North, 2004), showing motifs such as an empty and seemingly endless road tunnel and the close-­up of a geometric skyscraper façade whose windows form an abstract pattern of squares. Sheely describes his performance as a subversion of the gameplay condition: “I abandoned the violent role in which the game’s narrative initially placed me, choosing instead to go out and take some nice photos of the game’s expansive world.”33 Instead of fulfilling the role of the implied player, Sheely seemingly played against the

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game’s expectations.34 However, one could also argue that Sheely played within the game’s constraints, for the sheer endless virtual space of San Andreas practically produces a free-­roaming player just as much as a player who follows the pre-­designed quest structure.35 While Sheely accordingly did not engage in transformative play, he still played with the game, while still being subjected to the gameplay condition. Similar to an actual walk through a city, Sheely needed to heed the traffic and ensure that his game character would not be run over by cars so that he could take photographs. Not coincidentally, this strategy is reminiscent of war photographer Gilbertson’s approach to The Last of Us Remastered except for the fact that Gilbertson used an integrated photo mode for his project.

D.  Photo mod(ification)s On top of screenshotting as an artistic practice, some artists take more extensive and complex approaches by modifying core game parameters, intervening directly at a level of code manipulation, or even taking the artistic work entirely out of the game. For “DoD” (2009–13; see Figure  3.3), for example, Sheely created photos which remediate the “grainy, blurred aesthetics” of Robert Capa’s Omaha Beach Landing photographs, which “were blurred due to a lab technician’s error but became iconic.”36 The recreation of these classics from the world of analog photography challenges the notions of the realism and the indexicality of the image, and the photograph as a document and witness of history. Sheely, like most artistic in-­game photographers, is interested in the tension between the real world and the gameworld. Reenacting real-­world scenes in gameworlds or vice versa triggers an aesthetic interplay of references between real-­world photography, in-­game photography, and computer games. For “DoD,” Sheely modified Day of Defeat: Source (Valve, 2005). In this game, the player normally controls a soldier who is required to attack enemies and defend himself. However, Sheely played the game as a war photographer—a role not intended by the game. Accordingly, the game cannot measure the war photographer’s level of success or failure. Sheely’s modifications remove the character’s weapons and convert the trigger key into a screenshot key: To become a journalist, I edited the game files to remove all stats, ammo counters, and other indicators from the screen, and made my weapon invisible. I also changed the control scheme so that I could not attack; pressing the “fire” button on the mouse would simply save a screenshot.37

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FIGURE 3.3  Screenshot by Kent Sheely from “DoD” (Sheely 2012). Courtesy of the artist.

This modification required Sheely to play defensively in order to survive: “The gameplay, for me, became a matter of documenting the action without putting my avatar at risk, hiding inside destroyed buildings and ducking behind piles of rubble as I took my photos.”38 The purpose of the game is thus turned upside-­ down: by changing the gameplay condition, the only possible way to play the game is to play as a photographer. The images Sheely produced in this manner show a stunning similarity to Capa’s Normandy photographs. It almost seems as if Sheely short-­circuited our typology by transforming Day of Defeat into a category (a) game, as in-­game photography becomes key to the gameplay condition. However, the game does not evaluate the pictures. Accordingly, while photography is subjected to the game’s gameplay condition, it is not central to it. What is central after Sheely’s modification is the survival of the unarmed character, whose use of the camera does not suspend the gameplay condition. Sheely’s project is also clearly different from the many popular photo scripts and modifications players have created, such as the Minecraft (Mojang, 2009) mod CameraCraft, which allows players to craft different photo devices and gadgets and use them in the gameworld. In the end, Sheely’s

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photographs clearly do not mean to showcase the game in the way that photo modes or user-­created mods do, but instead invite a comparison to iconic real-­ world photographs. Mixing real-­world installations with real-­world photography and in-­game photography, John Paul Bichard’s take on the relation between games and photography is different from Sheely’s. For an invited show at an art gallery in Lisbon, Bichard created the installation “Evidência #001” (2004), which consists of chicken blood, police tape, bits of a dead cow, some fabric and a lot of adrenalin and I came up with a real world equivalent of what would happen if you could see a game level at the end of the level, in real life. It was an installation, it stank after 2 days, so I had to photograph it and clean it up. This was the first time I used photography and art and gaming together.39 It may not be immediately clear how Bichard’s real-­world installation relates to in-­game photography, not least because his work modifies the game on a conceptual level by isolating some specific aspects of game logic rather than intervening directly in the game code. Indeed, the installation follows a strategy contrary to most in-­game photography by molding a real-­world installation out of a possible gameworld event, “explor[ing] the relationship between the forensic (crime) space and the violent videogame space.”40 The photos of “Evidência #001” display a crime scene as if it had been sliced from a larger crime scene. The photos do not explicitly indicate that the installation refers to video game rather than real-­world crime scenes, but the onlooker may begin to ponder the similarities and dissimilarities between violence in games and in the real world as soon as she realizes that the crime scene installation refers to well-­known video game scenes. To be sure, “Evidência #001” does not refer to a specific video game, but rather to the spectral presence of a gameplay condition in all video games and to the human condition, more generally. Of course, the artwork as such is not subjected to a gameplay condition. Indeed, if it was subjected to specific conditions, then to the conditions of the artworld and the human condition we all are always-­ already subjected to. In contrast to photo mode photography, artistic screenshot photography does not depend on in-­game photo modes but rather establishes its own strategies while playing with the gameplay condition. In addition, the resulting photographs do not merely show something which has happened in a particular game, but rather reveal media specifics of video games and their relations to other media and human practices.

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Conclusion As we have demonstrated in this chapter, video games remediate photography in four dominant ways. In category (a), photography is remediated by means of simulation, as a simulation of photography is framed by an achievement structure. Depending on the game in question, the simulated camera may be a faithful rendition and/or simplification of a real-­world camera, sometimes also a magical device endowed with supernatural powers. In category (b), photography is also remediated by means of simulation (photo mode). Here, the accurate simulation of camera technology (e.g. aperture and shutter speed) and aspects of post-­processing (e.g. filters) play vital roles. However, photography may be implemented into games despite the lack of integrated cameras in the respective games. This may be achieved by way of (c) taking screenshots or (d) modding the game. While we have tried to carve out the main differences between these four categories, they do overlap. Accordingly, as with any typology, we should stress that the borderlines between these categories should be understood as semi-­ permeable membranes rather than sealed concrete walls. As the borderline cases of GTA V and Need for Speed have shown, practices in in-­game photography constantly develop and require a further fine-­tuning of descriptive and analytical terms. Likewise, Firewatch (Campo Santo, 2016) has recently forayed further into blending in-­game photography with traditional photography, allowing players to retrieve and use a disposable cardboard camera in-­game whose pictures they can have printed and delivered to their real homes once they have completed the story. In addition, we have not dealt with examples where photography exists as part of the gameworld, but never asks the player to, in fact, perform photography. For example, the protagonist in Life is Strange (Dontnod Entertainment, 2015) is an amateur photographer who frequently takes pictures, but, for the players, taking photographs comes down to a simple yes/no decision that does not even require them to look through a viewfinder. Indeed, although the interplay between video games and photography can be traced back several years, if not decades, in-­game photography remains a rather recent phenomenon. Accordingly, we expect to see new trends in, and approaches to, in-­game photography evolve in the next couple of years.

Notes 1 Josh Raab and Ashley Gilbertson, “A War Photographer Embeds Himself Inside a Video Game,” Time, September 15, 2014, http://time.com/3393418/ a-­war-photographer-­embeds-himself-­inside-a-­video-­game.

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2 Cindy Poremba, “Point and Shoot: Remediating Photography in Gamespace,” Games and Culture 2, no. 1 (2007); Seth Giddings, “Drawing without Light,” in The Photographic Image in Digital Culture, ed. Martin Lister (Abingdon: Routledge, 2013); Christopher Moore, “Screenshots as Virtual Photography: Cybernetics, Remediation, and Affect,” in Advancing Digital Humanities: Research, Methods, Theories, ed. Katherine Bode and Paul Longley Arthur (Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2014); Jason Lajoie, “Playing the Photographer in The Last of Us Remastered: A New Frontier of Digital Photography,” First Person Scholar, June 24, 2015, http://www.firstpersonscholar.com/playing-­thephotographer-­in-the-­last-of-­us-remastered/; Alexandra Orlando and Betsy Brey, “Press A to Shoot,” First Person Scholar, April 15, 2015, http://www. firstpersonscholar.com/press-­a-to-­shoot/. 3 Rosalind Krauss, “A Note on Photography and the Simulacral,” October 31 (1984); W.J.T. Mitchell, The Reconfigured Eye: Visual Truth in the PostPhotographic Era (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1992); Geoffrey Batchen, Each Wild Idea: Writing, Photography, History (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2002); Poremba, “Point and Shoot,” 53. 4 Jay David Bolter and Richard Grusin, Remediation: Understanding New Media (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1999). 5 Poremba, “Point and Shoot.” 6 Ibid., 51. 7 Ibid., 53. 8 Gonzalo Frasca, “Simulation versus Narrative: Introduction to Ludology,” in The Video Game Theory Reader, ed. Mark J.P. Wolf and Bernard Perron (New York: Routledge, 2003), 223. 9 Poremba, “Point and Shoot,” 54. 10 Cindy Poremba, “Discourse Engines for Art Mods,” Eludamos: Journal for Computer Game Culture 4, no. 1 (2010): 54–5. 11 Matteo Bittanti, “The Art of Screenshoot-Ing: Joshua Taylor, Videogame Photographer,” Wired IT—Mister Bit, December 24, 2011, http://blog.wired.it/ misterbit/2011/12/24/the-­art-of-­screenshoot-ing-­joshua-taylor-­videogamephotographer.html; Rainer Sigl, “In-Game-Fotografie: Die Kunst des Screenshots,” Die Zeit, August 2, 2012, http://www.zeit.de/digital/ games/2012-08/in-­game-fotografie. 12 Poremba, “Discourse Engines,” 53–4. 13 Stephan Günzel, Egoshooter: Das Raumbild des Computerspiels (Frankfurt/ Main: Campus, 2012), 52. 14 Olli Tapio Leino, “On the Logic of Emotions in Play,” in Proceedings of ISAGA 2009 Conference (Singapore: Society of Simulation and Gaming of Singapore, 2009). 15 Espen Aarseth, “Define Real, Moron! Some Remarks on Game Ontologies,” in DIGAREC Keynote-Lectures 2009/10, ed. Stephan Günzel, Michael Liebe, and Dieter Mersch (Potsdam: Potsdam University Press, 2011); see also Espen Aarseth, “Playing Research: Methodological Approaches to Game Analysis,” in Game Approaches/Spiel-Veje: Papers from Spilforskning.dk

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Conference, August 28−29, 2003 (Melbourne: 2003), http://hypertext.rmit. edu.au/dac/papers/Aarseth.pdf; Espen Aarseth, “Genre Trouble,” in First Person: New Media as Story, Performance, and Game, ed. Noah WardripFruin and Pat Harrigan (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2004); Christian Elverdam and Espen Aarseth, “Game Classification and Game Design,” Games and Culture 2, no. 1 (2007). 16 Stephan Schwingeler, “Simulation of Arbitrary Perspectives in Video Games,” paper presented at the Ludotopia II workshop, University of Salford, Greater Manchester, UK, February 24, 2011; Frieder Nake, “Das Doppelte Bild,” Bildwelten des Wissens 3, no. 2 (2006). 17 Espen Aarseth, Cybertext: Perspectives on Ergodic Literature (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1997). 18 Olli Tapio Leino, “Death Loop as a Feature,” Game Studies 12, no. 2 (2012), http://gamestudies.org/1202/articles/death_loop_as_a_feature. 19 Ibid. 20 Giddings, “Drawing,” 42. 21 Henri Cartier-Bresson, The Decisive Moment (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1952). 22 Paparazzi, dev. HuneX (D3Publisher, 2004), PlayStation 2. 23 Fatal Frame II: Crimson Butterfly, developed by Tecmo (Tecmo, 2003), PlayStation 2. 24 Poremba, “Point and Shoot”; Moore, “Screenshots”. 25 Raab and Gilbertson, “A War Photographer.” 26 Ashley Gilbertson quoted in Poremba, “Point and Shoot,” 51. 27 Katie Salen, “Quake! Doom! Sims! Transforming Play: Family Albums and Monster Movies,” Walker Art Center, October 19, 2002, http://www. walkerart.org/archive/7/A5736D3C789330FC6164.htm; see also Poremba, “Point and Shoot.” 28 Olli Tapio Leino, Emotions in Play: On the Constitution of Emotion in Solitary Computer Game Play (PhD diss., IT University of Copenhagen, 2010), 129–34. 29 Tony Coles, “Shooting Cars: The Art of Gran Turismo 6’s Photography,” Eurogamer.net, December 12, 2013, http://www.eurogamer.net/articles/ 2013-12-19-shooting-­cars-the-­art-of-­gran-turismo-6s-­photography. 30 Martin Heidegger, Being and Time, trans. Joan Stambaugh (Albany, NY: SUNY Press, 2010). 31 Eron Rauch, “Virtual Light: Exploring In-Game Photography and Photo History,” Videogametourism, August 28, 2012, http://videogametourism.at/ content/virtual-­light-exploring-­game-­photography-­and-photo-­history. 32 Matteo Bittanti and Domenico Quaranta, ed., Gamescenes: Art in the Age of Videogames (Milano: Johan & Levi, 2006). 33 Kent Sheely, “Touring San Andreas,” 2007, http://www.kentsheely.com/ grand-­theft-photo.

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34 Espen Aarseth, “I Fought the Law: Transgressive Play and the Implied Player,” Situated Play: Proceedings of the DiGRA 2007 Conference. 35 Ragnhild Tronstad, “Semiotic and Non-Semiotic MUD Performance,” in COSIGN Conference, Amsterdam, 2001; Susana Pajares Tosca, “The Quest Problem in Computer Games,” paper presented at the Technologies for Interactive Digital Storytelling and Entertainment (TIDSE) conference, Darmstadt, 2003, http://www.itu.dk/people/tosca/quest.htm; Espen Aarseth, “From Hunt the Wumpus to EverQuest: Introduction to Quest Theory,” in Entertainment Computing: ICEC 2005, ed. Fumio Kishino et al. (Berlin: Springer, 2005). 36 Kent Sheely, “DoD,” 2009–2013, http://www.kentsheely.com/dod. 37 Ibid. 38 Ibid. 39 John Paul Bichard, “Game Art: John Paul Bichard, a Pioneer of In-Game Photography,” interview by Mathias Jansson, GameScenes, November 2010, http://www.gamescenes.org/2010/11/interview-­with-john-­paul-bichard-­pioneerof-­in-­game-­photography.html. 40 Ibid. Significantly, in a follow-­up work, “The White Room” (2004), Bichard inverted his strategy by recreating potential real-­world crime scenes in the gameworld of Max Payne 2 (Remedy Entertainment, 2003), digitally removing the bodies of dead opponents in post-­processing.

References Aarseth, Espen. Cybertext: Perspectives on Ergodic Literature. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1997. Aarseth, Espen. “Define Real, Moron! Some Remarks on Game Ontologies.” In DIGAREC Keynote-Lectures 2009/10, edited by Stephan Günzel, Michael Liebe, and Dieter Mersch, 50–69. Potsdam: Potsdam University Press, 2011. Aarseth, Espen. “From Hunt the Wumpus to EverQuest: Introduction to Quest Theory.” In Entertainment Computing: ICEC 2005, edited by Fumio Kishin, Yoshifumi Kitamura, Hirokazu Kato, and Noriko Nagata, 496–506. Berlin: Springer, 2005. Aarseth, Espen. “Genre Trouble.” In First Person: New Media as Story, Performance, and Game, edited by Noah Wardrip-Fruin and Pat Harrigan, 45–55. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2004. Aarseth, Espen. “I Fought the Law: Transgressive Play and the Implied Player.” Situated Play: Proceedings of the DiGRA 2007 Conference, 24–8. Aarseth, Espen. “Playing Research: Methodological Approaches to Game Analysis.” In Game Approaches/Spiel-Veje: Papers from Spilforskning.dk Conference, August 28−29, 2003. Melbourne: 2003. Accessed March 17, 2016. http://hypertext.rmit.edu.au/dac/papers/Aarseth.pdf. Afrika. Developed by Rhino Studios. Sony Computer Entertainment, 2008. PlayStation 3.

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Batchen, Geoffrey. Each Wild Idea: Writing, Photography, History. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2002. Bichard, John Paul. “Game Art: John Paul Bichard, a Pioneer of In-Game Photography.” Interview by Mathias Jansson. GameScenes, November 2010. Accessed March 17, 2016. http://www.gamescenes.org/2010/11/interview-­ with-john-­paul-bichard-­pioneer-of-­in-­game-photography.html. Bittanti, Matteo. “The Art of Screenshoot-Ing: Joshua Taylor, Videogame Photographer.” Wired IT—Mister Bit, December 24, 2011. Accessed March 17, 2016. http://blog.wired.it/misterbit/2011/12/24/the-­art-of-­screenshoot-ing-­ joshua-taylor-­videogame-photographer.html. Bittanti, Matteo, and Domenico Quaranta, eds. Gamescenes: Art in the Age of Videogames. Milano: Johan & Levi, 2006. Bolter, Jay David, and Richard Grusin. Remediation: Understanding New Media. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1999. Cartier-Bresson, Henri. The Decisive Moment. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1952. Coles, Tony. “Shooting Cars: The Art of Gran Turismo 6’s Photography.” Eurogamer.net, December 12, 2013. Accessed March 17, 2016. http://www. eurogamer.net/articles/2013-12-19-shooting-­cars-the-­art-of-­gran-turismo-6s-­ photography. Day of Defeat: Source. Developed by Valve. Valve, 2005. Windows. Elverdam, Christian, and Espen Aarseth. “Game Classification and Game Design.” Games and Culture 2, no. 1 (2007): 3–22. Fatal Frame II: Crimson Butterfly. Developed by Tecmo. Tecmo, 2003. PlayStation 2. FIFA 16. Developed by EA Canada. EA Sports, 2015. PlayStation 4. Firewatch. Developed by Campo Santo. Panic and Campo Santo, 2016. Windows. Forza Motorsport 5. Developed by Turn 10 Studios. Microsoft Studios, 2013. Xbox One. Frasca, Gonzalo. “Simulation versus Narrative: Introduction to Ludology.” In The Video Game Theory Reader, edited by Mark J.P. Wolf and Bernard Perron, 221–35. New York: Routledge, 2003. Gekibo: Gekisha Boy. Developed by Tomcat System. Irem, 1992. TurboGrafx-16. Giddings, Seth. “Drawing without Light.” In The Photographic Image in Digital Culture, edited by Martin Lister, 41–55. Abingdon: Routledge, 2013. Gran Turismo 4. Developed by Polyphony Digital. Sony Computer Entertainment, 2004. PlayStation 2. Gran Turismo 5. Developed by Polyphony Digital. Sony Computer Entertainment, 2010. PlayStation 3. Gran Turismo 6. Developed by Polyphony Digital. Sony Computer Entertainment, 2013. PlayStation 3. Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas. Developed by Rockstar North. Rockstar Games, 2004. PlayStation 2. Grand Theft Auto V. Developed by Rockstar North. Rockstar Games, 2013. PlayStation 3. Günzel, Stephan. Egoshooter: Das Raumbild des Computerspiels. Frankfurt am Main: Campus, 2012. Heidegger, Martin. Being and Time. Translated by Joan Stambaugh. Albany, NY: SUNY Press, 2010.

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Krauss, Rosalind. “A Note on Photography and the Simulacral,” October 31 (1984): 49–68. Lajoie, Jason. “Playing the Photographer in The Last of Us Remastered: A New Frontier of Digital Photography.” First Person Scholar, June 24, 2015. Accessed March 17, 2016. http://www.firstpersonscholar.com/playing-­the-photographer-­ in-the-­last-of-­us-remastered/. The Last of Us Remastered. Developed by Naughty Dog. Sony Computer Entertainment, 2014. PlayStation 4. Leino, Olli Tapio. “Death Loop as a Feature.” Game Studies 12, no. 2 (2012). Accessed March 17, 2016. http://gamestudies.org/1202/articles/death_loop_ as_a_feature. Leino, Olli Tapio. Emotions in Play: On the Constitution of Emotion in Solitary Computer Game Play. PhD diss. Copenhagen: IT University of Copenhagen, 2010. Leino, Olli Tapio. “On the Logic of Emotions in Play.” In Proceedings of ISAGA 2009 Conference. Singapore: Society of Simulation and Gaming of Singapore, 2009. Life Is Strange. Developed by Dontnot Entertainment. Square Enix, 2015. PlayStation 4. Mitchell, W.J.T. The Reconfigured Eye: Visual Truth in the Post-Photographic Era. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1992. Moore, Christopher. “Screenshots as Virtual Photography: Cybernetics, Remediation, and Affect.” In Advancing Digital Humanities: Research, Methods, Theories, edited by Katherine Bode and Paul Longley Arthur, 141–60. Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2014. Nake, Frieder. “Das Doppelte Bild.” In Bildwelten des Wissens 3, no. 2 (2006): 40–50. Orlando, Alexandra, and Betsy Brey. “Press A to Shoot.” First Person Scholar, April 15, 2015. Accessed March 17, 2016. http://www.firstpersonscholar.com/ press-­a-to-­shoot/. Paparazzi. Developed by HuneX. D3Publisher, 2004. PlayStation 2. Pilotwings 64. Developed by Nintendo EAD and Paradigm Simulation. Nintendo, 1996. Nintendo 64. Pokémon Snap. Developed by HAL Laboratory and Pax Softnica. Nintendo, 1999. Nintendo 64. Poremba, Cindy. “Discourse Engines for Art Mods.” Eludamos: Journal for Computer Game Culture 4, no. 1 (2010): 41–56. Poremba, Cindy. “Point and Shoot: Remediating Photography in Gamespace.” Games and Culture 2, no. 1 (2007): 49–58. Project CARS. Developed by Slightly Mad Studios. Bandai Namco, 2015. PlayStation 4. Raab, Josh, and Ashley Gilbertson. “A War Photographer Embeds Himself Inside a Video Game.” Time, September 15, 2014. Accessed March 17, 2016. http://time.com/3393418/a-­war-photographer-­embeds-himself-­inside-a-­video-­ game/. Rauch, Eron. “Virtual Light: Exploring In-Game Photography and Photo History.” Videogametourism. August 28, 2012. Accessed March 17, 2016. http://

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videogametourism.at/content/virtual-­light-exploring-­game-photography-­andphoto-­history. Salen, Katie. “Quake! Doom! Sims! Transforming Play: Family Albums and Monster movies.” Walker Art Center, October 19, 2002. Accessed May 15, 2016. http://www.walkerart.org/archive/7/A5736D3C789330FC6164.htm. Schwingeler, Stephan. “Simulation of Arbitrary Perspectives in Video Games.” Paper presented at the Ludotopia II workshop, University of Salford, Greater Manchester, UK, February 24, 2011. Sheely, Kent. “DoD.” 2009–2012. Accessed March 17, 2016 http://www. kentsheely.com/dod. Sheely, Kent. “Grand Theft Photo.” 2007. Accessed March 17, 2016. http://www. kentsheely.com/grand-­theft-photo. Sigl, Rainer. “In-Game-Fotografie: Die Kunst Des Screenshots.” Die Zeit, August 2, 2012. Accessed March 17, 2016. http://www.zeit.de/digital/games/2012-08/ in-­game-fotografie. The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim. Developed by Bethesda Game Studios. Bethesda Softworks, 2011. Windows. The Sims. Developed by Maxis. Electronic Arts, 2000. Windows. Tosca, Susana Pajares. “The Quest Problem in Computer Games.” Paper presented at the Technologies for Interactive Digital Storytelling and Entertainment (TIDSE) conference, Darmstadt, 2003. Accessed March 17, 2016. http://www.itu.dk/people/tosca/quest.htm. Tronstad, Ragnhild. “Semiotic and Non-Semiotic MUD Performance.” In COSIGN Conference. Amsterdam, 2001. Wild Earth: Photo Safari. Developed by Super X Studios. Ubisoft, 2006. Windows.

4 Inscribing the Lone and Level Sands: Technoromanticism at Play in Elegy for a Dead World Jason I. Kolkey

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he light of a setting sun glints off the empty towers and abandoned monuments of depopulated cities, a low mechanical buzz audible over the wind. A figure clad in a spacesuit hovers above the ground. Breathing heavily through apparatus, the explorer pauses frequently to take in the eerie scenery. The post-­apocalyptic, alien setting with its science fiction trappings and genocidal implications is hardly unique in video-gaming. But unlike in the dystopian hellscapes of the Bioshock (Irrational, 2007–13) or Dead Space (Visceral, 2008–13) series, the quiet of this gameworld will never be broken by hostile alien parasites or super-­powered junkies. Nor will the player solve puzzles at a leisurely pace and piece together a fantastic storyline as in a point-­and-click adventure game or one of Myst’s (Cyan, 1993) many sequels and imitators. Instead, Elegy for a Dead World (Dejobaan, 2014) regularly presents the player with a quill pen icon that summons a series of dialog boxes, fill-­in-the-­blank prompts more reminiscent of Mad Libs than the side-­ scrolling video games from which it otherwise takes its design cues. Alternatively, the player may dispense with the prompts and choose to conjure up the icon with a keystroke, entering text at any point as the avatar traverses the planet surface.

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Indie developers Dejobaan Games and Popcannibal Games released Elegy for a Dead World in December 2014, backed in part by a Kickstarter crowdfunding campaign. Tagged a “Game About Writing Fiction,” Elegy wears its literary inspirations on its sleeve with three levels, each named for one of the younger British Romantic poets and clearly indicating the specific poem on which the makers drew for inspiration. Shelley’s World references “Ozymandias” (1817) for its tableau of crumbling monuments to an extraterrestrial empire fallen due to its own hubris. The remains of “that colossal wreck” stand in the background as the player moves past floating shields bearing the mark of a long-­dead dynasty.1 The abandoned machinery occasionally stirs, including eerily humming spheres that orbit a hovering structure reminiscent of the monolith in 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968). The one building the avatar is allowed to enter houses cracked, egg-­like objects and a crude painting of a monstrous face. Moving out of the desolate metropolis, the player discovers huts indicating a return to tribalism and smaller monuments to lost lives, headstones set against a mountainous background. Byron’s World draws its scenery from the apocalyptic vision of “Darkness” (1816) and sends the player through the subterranean layers of what was once an advanced colony, now rendered “Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless— / A lump of death.”2 Shelves of books, devices seemingly meant for energy production, and cryogenic freezing apparatus all imply the society’s former accomplishments in learning and technology. Emerging to the surface, however, reveals that the deserted structures are buried beneath a frozen wasteland, the sun blotted out. A solitary snowman, romantic irony manifest, stands vanguard over the tundra under a solar eclipse. Keats’s World, building off the meditation on premature mortality in “When I Have Fears that I May Cease to Be” (1818), offers an attractive, melancholy scene of nature’s eternal cycles overtaking a lost civilization. A light rain drizzles upon the explorer while silhouetted animals graze in the background. The player travels beneath the shadows of three titanic figures sharing the burden of a globe and past seemingly weightless stone fragments until she comes to an abandoned command center interior. Finally, the explorer approaches a sculpture of a faceless, robed woman, accompanied by a much smaller skeletal figure carved into a tablet. Death looms over the artist, giving physical form to Keats’s lament at facing life’s transience “[b]efore my pen has glean’d my teeming brain.”3 The considerably more ephemeral act of inscription in which the player/author is engaged reflects the poet’s sentiment. Elegy for a Dead World embodies the romantic conceptions of creativity prevalent in the culture surrounding networked technology, even as it raises questions about those same ideological formations. The developers characterize their work as an experiment in offering a video game as aid to

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invention, encouraging players/authors to compose works of fiction or poetry through beautifully desolate backgrounds paired with prompts and then share the results with an online community. Co-­creators Ziba Scott and Ichiro Lambe explain in a promotional video for their Kickstarter campaign that they stumbled upon using the younger British Romantics as a source of themes and aesthetics. They began with Keats and moved on to Shelley based on their own literary preferences and the seeming appropriateness of the poems for the kind of work they imagined, not considering any historical or personal connections between the poets themselves. Even though the theme of British Romanticism only solidified with the choice of a third poem, their selections are far from coincidental. By drawing on Romantic trappings to make a game of literary creativity, Elegy demonstrates the continuing influence of Romanticism inherent in our present moment of constant connection, social media, and online gaming. It also reveals that the Romantic imaginary is itself a kind of collaborative social game with all the pleasures and limitations that entails.

I Though its interface and aesthetic trappings bear obvious similarities to other sidescrolling indie video games, Elegy immediately raises ontological questions. The semantics of that very “indie” classification alone are complex and can include highly experimental works. Indeed, Elegy is caught somewhere between quirky side-­scroller, extremely limited word processor, and interactive art project. It troubles narrow, conservative expectations by lacking any clear conditions for winning and relying on an unusual degree of player input into developing a narrative justification for the diegetic visuals. By asking players to enter text and share the results online, Elegy can be said to function as a highly interactive form of what Astrid Ensslin categorizes as “literary video games,” a sub-group of art games that focuses on linguistic expression rather than audiovisual elements more commonly foregrounded in such works. In these games, “literary and poetic technologies are employed in order to explore the affordances and limitations of rules.”4 This is an apt description of Elegy, but any such taxonomy is certain to prove inadequate in the face of ongoing innovation. While Elegy may not fit easily into any of the sub-­groups Ensslin offers, it might be usefully understood as a hybrid of “interactive generative literature” that asks readers to contribute to the production of a poetic text and “literary-­fictional ‘auteur’ computer games.”5 In any case, given how difficult Elegy is to classify even through a theoretical lens, it is unsurprising that marketers and critics have had a difficult time characterizing and evaluating the game.

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Indeed, the question of whether this piece of software can even be properly categorized as a game recurs throughout its promotional campaign and in critical reviews. In both interviews and promotional materials, the makers show their consciousness of Elegy’s equivocal status, citing game poems such as Ian Bogost’s A Slow Year (2010) as inspiration. They considered this odd hybrid a palate cleanser from their usual ventures. Games like Dejobaan’s distinctively titled AaaaaAAaaaAAAaaAAAAaAAAAA!!!—A Reckless Disregard for Gravity (2009) are customarily more labor-­intensive on the designer side and challenging for players to complete. Lambe described the departure from his other work at Dejobaan in an interview with Indie Games: “There’s no game to play—you go through the world, observe, and make notes—or stories—or poems— or songs—in your journal. You then close your journal and send it back to Homeworld (Steam Workshop).”6 Scott further explained to Eurogamer: What we’re trying to do is motivate people so they get into a mindset where they have something they want to put out and write. We found just dropping them into a blank slate is too much. It’s intimidating. The roles are about giving them something to play as; to set the stage for their writing.7 According to the rhetoric that repeatedly surfaces in the creators’ characterizations, Elegy may take the form of a game, but playing is not its purpose. The ludic structure is a means to an end, serving to ease the task of producing expressive text. Really, textual composition is simply the form of gameplay particular to a unique game. Yet perceptions of the work are inevitably colored by the long, often unproductively acrimonious and circular, debate over whether video games are in themselves art. In departing from the expectations set by past games and the industry that creates them, Elegy represents an uneasy give and take between romantic ideals about the inherently edifying pleasures of art and what are perceived as the vague, short-­lived rewards possible through most gameplay. Attitudes that treat video-gaming as culturally suspect have proven resilient despite the massive reach of the gaming industry. According to a 2015 Pew Research Poll, even though 49 percent of adults now play video games, only 10 percent are willing to identify as gamers, and 26 percent consider most video games a waste of time.8 The creators themselves seem to fall reflexively into the very binary between the intrinsic rewards of artistic expression and the empty absorption in play that their work so provocatively challenges. Their statements exhibit reluctance to classify what they have produced, and consequently their descriptions of Elegy for marketing purposes are at best ambiguous and often contradictory.

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These contradictions stand out in the promotional campaign through the contrast between the experiences suggested in the creator interviews and in the marketing materials they authorized. The press kit, for instance, summarizes: Each of the game’s 27 writing challenges inspire you to create narratives about the worlds from different perspectives. In one challenge, you play an archaeologist uncovering clues and writing about a city’s final days; in another, you’re a thief, composing a song about searching the wreckage for valuables; and in another, you pen a lament in rhyming couplets.9 The press kit description indeed summarizes a few of the prompts available, but by downplaying the possibilities for emergent creativity and variations on the game dynamics it situates Elegy as a less experimental piece. Based on this copy, the writing acts would seem to be far more constrained by an ethos of imitation, keeping the author’s imagination strictly on the rails. Moreover, the game described seems not so different from other indie productions with aesthetic ambition. It fits in among the low-budget side-­scrollers available through the Steam digital distribution platform or seeking production capital through Kickstarter from retro-­gaming devotees. Emphasizing a perspective on the game that appears more conventional may evade accusations of unseemly pretension and render the work palatable to potential players and funders trained to expect straightforward rules and rewards. Along with portraying a somewhat misleading take on the gameplay, the synopsis suggests a narrowly prescriptive approach to lending the avatar, known as the Traveler, a background and motivation. According to the description, you choose to play as an “archaeologist” or “thief” with a clearly established relationship to the science fiction-­based environments. These character descriptions, more appropriate to a role-­playing game, run counter to the game’s refusal to provide any such details of the avatar’s background or appearance. Unlike highly linear games with immutable avatars and missions or even an RPG that allows limited customization and dialogue options, like the Mass Effect (BioWare, 2007–12) or Elder Scrolls (Bethesda, 1994–2016) series, there is no pressing storyline to force the character into an archetypal heroic mold. There are no binary choices between good and evil, paragon and renegade. With the caveat that the players’ interpolations are limited to text entries, they may invent any background they choose for the Traveler, who in turn may be imagined to say or do anything one likes or just remain a passive observer to the stories of the planets. The indeterminate features of the player character, once standard in video games due to limited graphics capabilities, now also represent a conscious choice to avoid imposing any particular gender, race, or ethnicity. The

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ambiguous figure of the Traveler nonetheless brings to mind Samus Aran, the heavily armored video game heroine who revealed her identity as a woman at the conclusion of Metroid (Nintendo R&D1, 1986) in a gender-­bias based twist ending. The concept art, by Elegy art lead Luigi Guatieri, indeed reveals a young Caucasian woman with close-­cropped hair behind the helmet, but any such characteristics are impossible to make out in the game itself. The featureless avatar hence serves as an invitation to the player to impose a unique background and set of motivations upon the character. Scott McCloud contends in regard to the human figure in cartooning: “The cartoon is a vacuum into which our identity and awareness are pulled . . . an empty shell that we inhabit which enables us to travel in another realm. We don’t just observe the cartoon, we become it.”10 This description of the subject’s aesthetic experience is unquestionably itself a romanticized overstatement, but it is one that holds credence with game designers. For instance, SimCity (Maxis, 1989) and The Sims (Maxis, 2000) creator Will Wright cites McCloud when explaining: “By purposely making the Sims fairly low-­detail and keeping a certain distance from them we forced the players to fill in the representational blanks with their imagination.”11 Elegy’s throwback to an earlier generation of gaming, with the helmeted figure traveling on a two-­dimensional plane among magnificent sights, similarly allows the projection of personality in a way not possible with a detailed image. The gender and racial neutrality is thus a design element rhetorically laden in its very lack of information. The player considers her own subjectivity in the course of turning the avatar’s aimless wandering into a form of play, much less a coherent story. By taking on the appearance of a game, Elegy supposedly replaces the intimidating void of a new document in a word processor with vibrant imagery and repeated calls to create, to lend meaning to the otherwise amorphous semiotics of the eponymous dead worlds. Interacting with this particular piece of software is romantically elevated to the level of crafting artistic works, while the production of creative writing is stripped of some of its rarefied air by being democratized as a game. But the problem of classifying the software in question points to larger conflicts between romanticized constructions of imaginative creation and the material realities of the physically bounded media through which we play, absorb text and images, and compose and communicate poetry and fiction.

II In Elegy, the gameworlds set conditions for the supposedly liberated creativity of the player’s narrative. Though the backgrounds are static, romantic mutability

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is treated as a game mechanic: each player recontextualizes the images of majesty and decay through her own perceptions, imagination, and textual contributions. While Elegy’s stated purpose as a spur to creative expression relies on this freedom to develop one’s own story, the limitations imposed by level design and prompts are revealing for our broader understanding of both video games and romanticized models of creativity. In many ways, the seemingly radical choices made by the game’s designers only foreground the materiality and cultural baggage inherent to both video games and literary expression. Ian Bogost has described the procedural rhetoric of video games whereby the ludic design demands certain actions of the player in order to convey to her that this is the way things are done within the game: “arguments are made not through the construction of words or images, but through the authorship of rules of behavior.”12 Elegy teaches its players a means of composing narrative, offering varying degrees of control over where that narrative can go and how explicitly it applies to the diegetic worlds their avatars tread upon. Players invent under the technical limitations of composing within the dialog boxes and, if they so choose, are directed by the placement and the syntactic and generic cues imposed by the prompts. Byron’s World, for instance, offers the seeds of an earnest science fiction story about the cycles of death and rebirth of civilizations in “The Four Ages of Byron’s World” or “This Was My World.” The player may instead insert new lines into “Darkness,” the poem the level is loosely based upon, or attempt to reconcile the visuals with portions of the opening to H.G. Wells’s The War of the Worlds (1897). The menu also includes opportunities for humorous takes on the exercise with “This Vacation is Terrible” and “Plundering Byron: The Musical”; “10 Choices We Made” and a “Grammar Workshop” impose strict formal constraints appropriate for an educational setting. In these variations, the writing suggestions aim at English-­language learners and make other gestures toward educating players about the poems and authors who provide the game’s thematic basis. Thus, the procedural rhetoric can be explicitly pedagogical, fitting the utilitarian perspective Dejobaan’s website suggests when it claims that “over 200 academic institutions” use the game in classrooms: For creative writing classes, Elegy inspires students to write stories, poems, and songs by combining a loose narrative framework with hand-­ painted art and rich soundscapes. In English as a second language (ESL) classes, students practice their grammar skills by entering short phrases into fill-­in-the-­blank sections that serve as the narrative framework.13 In this context, Elegy is again a means to an end, but slotted into the tradition of educational computer games rather than elevated creative ideals. It serves

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to push uninspired students into fulfilling the requirements of a creative writing course or provides a more visually interesting alternative to sentence completion worksheets. Regardless of the specific prompts, each player’s in-game compositions are likely to be influenced by others’ since she has the opportunity to participate in the associated online community. The development of such a community preceded the game’s completion as the creators raised $72,339 from 3,666 backers through a Kickstarter campaign. Many players were thus literally invested in making this exchange of stories a success before the makers issued a beta, immediately going to work on constructing a diverse corpus. Being active in this exchange involves a curatorial function of rating contributions, which in turn makes the highest-­rated stories the most visible. Some of the more popular texts available through the online community range from the terse, angst-­ridden free-­verse lament with which user Galatea meets Shelley’s World, to mocking jabs at the game’s very conceits, as in user craig. kate’s “Please feed my dog,” composed on Keats’ World. In one case, a reviewer chose to share her thoughts on the game within the game itself and post a series of screenshots to The Verge. Adi Robertson opens by appropriately invoking Nietzsche’s reflections upon the changes imposed on his writing practice by acquiring a typewriter and referring to Elegy as “the world’s first and only immersive space exploration word processor.”14 Entrance into the playing community of Elegy entails a willingness to craft texts within the game’s strictures and potentially exhibit them to others. Those who have sufficient pride in their output and cling to the fetish of the book as a physical object might even choose to have their writing printed and bound as an illustrated volume. Winning the game, then, is not a matter of progressing through a series of levels or missions. One can pass over the worlds writing nothing or contributing only incomprehensible nonsense without consequence. A kind of victory may, however, be socially determined if one participates in the online exchange of texts and commentary. As with posts to blogs, streaming video sites, or social media, success proves to be based on approbation from strangers, dependent upon how many readers take an interest in a particular take on the planets’ stories and how warmly they respond. Ziba Scott enthused in his interview with Eurogamer about the system of “Commendation” devised for the game: One of the things I’m excited about is the idea of an achievement, which is a very gamey concept, for having writing that other people appreciate . . . In some ways it’s not even a game. We’re actually rewarding an achievement that has real merit and value, that actually has some significance that you should be proud of.15

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Although its preoccupation with collaboration is especially explicit, Elegy is far from unusual in bringing this social dimension to an ostensibly “single-­player” game. Rather, it is revealing of the material and social realities common to video games, but often forgotten in favor of a popular image of gaming as a lonely, sedentary activity. As Steven E. Jones notes, in video games “the playing is always in the social world, always a complicated, highly mediated experience, never purely formal, any more than a text is purely a verbal construct.”16 Video games are lent extrinsic meaning by the ways players engage with each other and spectators, commonly through multiplayer games, discussion, and creating their own play-­through videos or modifications. In Elegy, however, the very process of meaning-­making becomes the game as the player’s interaction and opportunities for enjoyment are limited to observing the backgrounds and attempting to respond to them through the text. They impose their own experiences and perceptions upon the worlds, whether those environments inspire direct reference to the Romantic poets, the literary tropes of space exploration gathered from classic science fiction by the likes of Ray Bradbury and Arthur C. Clarke, or internalized reflection seemingly disconnected from the setting. Elegy calls for and models emergent creativity, giving direction through prompts but also the imagined environments themselves. The game thus fulfills the function Henry Jenkins lays out when he describes gaming platforms as “machines for generating compelling spaces”: Environmental storytelling creates the preconditions for an immersive narrative experience in at least one of four ways: spatial stories can evoke pre-­existing narrative associations; they can provide a staging ground where narrative events are enacted; they may embed narrative information within their mise-­en-scene; or they provide resources for emergent narratives.17 Elegy tends toward the last of these environmental storytelling techniques but, of course, also calls upon older narratives from the Romantic poems the levels are based on. The prompts, even if dismissed for a particular play session, nudge the player toward the plots, generic features, and tropes the creators consider appropriate to the sights on display. The three worlds the game offers as sites for inscription are positively tiny by the current standards of video-gaming, particularly as found in the “open worlds” and “sandboxes” popularized by Rockstar Games’ Grand Theft Auto series (Rockstar, 1997–2013). Although Elegy is similarly liberated from the impetus toward constant, linear progression, the restrictive movement of the player character and the few objects presented for contemplation

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otherwise seem to exist in polar opposition. Sandbox games gradually unfold expansive environments with a constant threat of sensory overload from cut scenes, mini-­games, side quests, opportunities to “level up,” and customization options. McKenzie Wark detects a failure of romantic escapism in the massively busy, violent gameworlds offered by Grand Theft Auto: “In gamespace . . . [n]o space is sacred; no space is separate. Not even the space of the page. The gamelike extends its lines everywhere and nowhere.”18 Elegy, by contrast, accepts the inevitable technical limitations of the gaming platform and reacts by relocating the focal point for the player’s retreat from the mundane. The Traveler’s range of horizontal and vertical movement gradually metes out encounters with the game’s environments and sharply focuses the attention in each moment. The player’s only interactions with the evocative scenery come in the occasions for writing at each encounter with the quill pen icon. She observes the gameworld that her avatar passes through, but it is a sensory experience that constantly and forcefully emphasizes its own mediation. Consequently, any sense of immersion or liberation the game may provide is of a decidedly low-­tech variety. The player builds her own version of that lost world’s marvelous achievements or idyllic beauty in text, reshaping her own understanding of the gameworld through the narrative she chooses to assign to it. The only escape available is a preoccupation with observing the backgrounds or composing text. Jones argues that the dominance of side-­ scrollers in indie games is not just about keeping costs down and “employing a knowing, lo-­fi, retro aesthetic,” but “also often a way to return to foundational questions about gameworlds, starting with what happens when you add a dimension (literally) or are aware of multiple dimensions as possibilities for gameplay.”19 The Traveler sets out across a shattered utopia, each variation lending renewed emphasis to the problem that the gameworld only extends beyond its highly constricted technical and design limitations through remediation. Each player must invent her own variation upon the gamespace by embracing the software’s claustrophobic boundaries. The procedural rhetoric at play in the post-­apocalyptic topography demands engagement through the very lack of the in-game distractions that give gamers a sense of choice in the sandbox. Rather than a complex of rules and options that portray a funhouse reflection of the outside world, Elegy redirects the willing participant back into her own creative mind. Any hope for freedom to depart the intended path garnered by taking off into the atmosphere is quickly snuffed out by the realization of just how few pixels are available for vertical movement: the jetpack’s range ends at the edge of the immediately visible screen. In fact, the more interesting character animation is a pronounced immobility. Rather than crouching in the manner common to action-­oriented games, the

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character sprawls out in a posture suggesting pensive reflection upon the landscape and the lost civilization said to have carved it out. Combined with the iconic cipher of the avatar’s features, the prone figure conjures associations with the game’s stated inspiration from Randall Munroe’s popular web comic, xkcd (2006–).20 For the experimental installment “Time,” Munroe posted the first frame on March 25, 2013, featuring a pair of the stick figures by which he customarily represents the human form seated on a beach. He gradually updated the strip over 123 days for a total of 3,099 images. The early installments focus on the characters constructing an increasingly elaborate castle out of sand and wood, occasionally pausing to wonder when the river would rise to the level necessary to prove their labor’s ephemerality. Eventually, they set out to explore the river for themselves while continuing their conversation, attempting to understand the geographical features of the starkly depicted world around them and occasionally seating themselves to relax and reflect upon their journey. In one such pause, the male character suggests: “Well, we may as well continue. Either we’ll figure out the sea, or we’ll keep finding beautiful places.”21 They seek the natural sublime and the incidental pleasures of exploring their world, seemingly already unpeopled for an extended stretch, until they find their way to a real castle and learn to communicate with its inhabitants. More urgently, they find out their entire world is doomed to drown in the kind of cataclysm the designers of Elegy find so stimulating for fresh composition. The team thus borrow aesthetic cues and themes from Munroe’s expansive though starkly simplified cartooning, applying them to game environments that are more elaborate and also more definitively barren of inhabitants. Elegy points the way for players with romantic signifiers and invites them to impose upon each screen their own musings on mutability and loss or, if they prefer, goofy non-­sequiturs and self-­ conscious irony.

III In the preface to the 1800 edition of Lyrical Ballads, Wordsworth set forth the British Romantic Period’s most celebrated model for creativity, claiming, [p]oetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquillity: the emotion is contemplated till by a species of reaction the tranquillity gradually disappears, and an emotion, similar to that which was before the subject of contemplation, is gradually produced, and does itself actually exist in the mind. In this mood successful composition generally begins, and in a mood similar to this it is carried on;

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but the emotion, of whatever kind and in whatever degree, from various causes is qualified by various pleasures, so that in describing any passions whatsoever, which are voluntarily described, the mind will upon the whole be in a state of enjoyment.22 Elegy may be unlikely to inspire an emotional overflow, but it does confront the player with evocative images and sounds. Then, as Wordsworth’s model demands, the game allows the leisure to respond, reconsider, and at the end of the session, revise. Moreover, the playful, amorphous vision of authorship and collaboration that fuels the game has further precedents in the canon of British Romanticism that offers its thematic cues. It draws heavily on the ideals of creativity and imaginative engagement developed by Wordsworth, Coleridge, Shelley, Byron, and Keats, among others. Those ideas have proven remarkably durable even as the poets’ fascination with country vistas and mountainsides has been largely supplanted by the human achievement of globally connected, wired ecosystems. As a game centered on developing and sharing narratives, Elegy has significant associations with perhaps the most famous of story games: the June 1816 exchange of ghost stories involving Byron and Percy and Mary Shelley. Inspired by a collection of German gothic tales, the storytelling game at Villa Diodati was shaped by generic conventions, spurred and colored by influence from existing texts. Mary’s initial version of Frankenstein (1818), the most enduring product of that game, synthesized a Gothic plot with ideas drawn from discussion between Byron and Shelley about galvanism as a potential means of reviving the dead. According to the account of Byron’s personal physician John Polidori, the June 18 night of storytelling culminated in a demonstration of the affective power of recontextualizing a piece of literature. Shelley violently reacted to Byron reciting from Coleridge’s Christabel (1816), “suddenly shrieking and putting his hands to his head, [and] ran out of the room.”23 Such a game can be open-­ended and infinitely prolific. Long after story exchange concluded, the narratives by Mary Shelley and Byron continued to be embellished, expanded, and transformed by themselves, the other parties present at the villa (Percy adding his revisions to Mary’s manuscript for Frankenstein; Polidori publishing The Vampyre (1819), which was inspired by Byron’s fragmentary tale and included a scene based on Shelley’s fit), and later by an endless stream of editors, authors, filmmakers, visual artists, musicians, and video game designers. In 2015 alone, we saw a film from the perspective of the iconic hunchbacked assistant (rehabilitated to resemble Daniel Radcliffe) who originated as Fritz in James Whale’s adaptation, a British TV series following the exploits of a detective investigating the titular mad scientist, an American cop show very loosely based on the novels’

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concepts, the second season of Penny Dreadful (Showtime, 2014–16), which features Dr. Frankenstein and his creations prominently among its gallery of Gothic Victorian horrors, and a comic book set in the Hellboy universe by creator Mike Mignola that finds the creature in 1950s Mexico. The composition, reception, and reworking of Frankenstein as founding myth for British Romanticism, science fiction, and actual scientific endeavors, demonstrates how technological speculation and the valorizing of imagination can come together as both a form of play and means of producing unexpectedly compelling and resilient narratives. Literary and textual criticism have a place in this conversation as well, offering ways of understanding this playful, collaborative form of authorship in Romantic poetry and online exchanges alike. In the wake of poststructuralist theory’s “death of the author,” Jack Stillinger argued that indirect and usually unacknowledged collaboration is the norm in literary production. Drawing on the textual histories of Romantic works, he developed a theory that takes into account “the collaborative authorship of writings that we routinely consider the work of a single author.”24 The author function is always performed by multiple individuals, even if the credited writer is unaware of or even hostile to outside interference. In this light, Elegy proves an exercise in the concept of the social text. Players engage in a distant collaboration with the credited creators, Lambe and Scott, lead artist Guatieri, their respective teams of programmers, artists, and designers, and finally with each other. Even if one chooses to work without the prompts, the level design suggests where to pause, reflect upon the surroundings, and continue writing. The player may also engage with other direct collaborators in their own social circles or the online community, responding to or imitating the works produced by others. At the same time, Romantic ideology is at work in Elegy’s exploration of the extraterrestrial and sublime for the sake of facilitating an otherwise straightforward interaction between user and computer. In poetry, this means the focus upon the ideal and transcendent turns the subject’s attention away from the economic, historical, and physical contexts of the work.25 Graphic user interfaces and computer programs similarly follow a romanticizing impulse that conceals their material substrate in favor of what Matthew Kirschenbaum calls “screen essentialism.” Kirschenbaum draws this connection by arguing, [w]hile often precisely Romantic in their celebration of the fragile half-­life of the digital, the “ideology” . . . is perhaps better thought of as medial—that is, one that substitutes popular representations of a medium, socially constructed and culturally activated to perform specific kinds of work, for

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a more comprehensive treatment of the material particulars of a given technology.26 Computers and networked technology are readily romanticized because like Romantic literature they attempt to hide the ineluctable material realities of influence, invention, and reception from the perceptions of the user. Elegy makes its own critical contribution by further confusing the boundaries between reader and author, play and collaboration. Its graphics and gameworlds are intended at least in part to hide the labor of writing and the tedium of working with a traditional word processor. Science fiction and video games fans who always meant to get around to writing an opus have an immediate call to creativity, with flexible demands upon their own powers of imagination and seriousness. The literary productions in this manner half-­created and half-­perceived, to borrow a phrase from Wordsworth, by each player entering into Elegy’s networked exchange of stories are almost necessarily variations on a theme. The game repeatedly confronts players with scenic perspectives upon civilizations that have already fallen and allows no visible interactions with other characters or the environment to drive a narrative forward. The conditions thus call for works that are preoccupied with ruin and failure and in themselves fragmentary, if only insofar as an individual player sets out to subvert those very expectations. Consequently, Elegy becomes, like the Romantic poems that inspired it, a heavily mediated account of an encounter with sublimity and the attendant frustrations of any attempts at mimetic representation. Thomas McFarland explains the Romantic fixation on the fragmentary and ruined as a way of textually representing experiences that are in fact irreducible to human language: “The sublime . . . is the perception of very large fragments, such as mountains, with the accompanying awareness that this largeness implies still larger conceptions that can have no such objectivization and therefore cannot be compared. The sublime is, so to speak, an implied comparison in which the diasparactive object exists.”27 The necessary failures of the utopic gameworld lead back to the romantic concerns with the unfinished work of genius and the impossibility of fully capturing the aesthetic experiences available through direct observation of nature or reflection upon the individual human mind. Like Coleridge’s “Kubla Khan” (1816), in which the dream vision is cut off by the quotidian interruption of the “visitor from Porlock,” a sense of incompleteness is built into the aesthetic experience of the game. These very limitations act as signifiers for the transcendent potential the work inevitably fails to capture in lines of verse or code. We can only catch a glimpse of the worlds the designers have imagined, and the decisions we make about how to respond to them in text necessarily foreclose other possibilities. The same preoccupations

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that dominate Romantic aesthetics become the impetus for play within the gamespace. By extension, the experience of play/authorship also proves demonstrative of the romanticized discourses that characterize electronic media and communications. Richard Coyne coined the term “technoromanticism” to denote the continuity between Romantic narratives and those of networked information technology; the schools of thought share a preoccupation with striving after utopian unity and the lionizing of individual genius.28 Thomas Streeter traces a line of progression between romantic ideology and the “rebel-­hero identity” that became synonymous with innovations in personal computing in the late twentieth century and remains pervasive in figures like Bill Gates, Mark Zuckerberg, and especially the late Steve Jobs.29 The uniquely sensitive artist gives way to the heroic innovators who build corporate behemoths out of their garages or dorm rooms. The romantic streak of technological adventure is inculcated partly through corporate branding, as in the iconic 1984-inspired Apple Super Bowl commercial. Science fiction is also an important influence as it contributes archetypal figures like the hacker heroes, most obviously the character actually named Hiro Protagonist in Neal Stephenson’s Snow Crash (1992). In Elegy the heroic galactic pioneer of countless science fiction stories is also the author who must find the words to represent alien vistas. In a somewhat befuddled preview piece that reported the game’s upcoming release without a thorough grasp of its features, Alec Meer of the video game blog Rock Paper Shotgun quotes the line from Carl Sagan’s Contact (1985) which proliferated as an online meme: “They should have sent a poet.”30 Indeed, Elegy follows through on that suggestion for confronting the majesty of the universe and in the process shows how close the discourses of romantic creation and technological progress have always been. Networked technology, rather than existing in opposition to Romanticism’s immersion in nature, similarly emerges out of the human imagination and in turn can guide us back to imaginative gameplay. Elegy engages in criticism relevant to how we think about creativity and collaboration in both new media and literature. Precisely because it is referred to as a “game” in scare quotes, it reveals the playful, social interactions involved in the creation and dissemination of works. In effect this is not so different from the games of creation and reception that occur with any literary publication. The developers of the Ivanhoe (2015) game at the University of Virginia influentially modeled the discursive field around a literary work by treating each intervention in its transmission and reception history as a “move.” They set out “to make explicit the assumptions about critical practice and textual interpretation that often lie unacknowledged, or at least irregularly

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explored, in a conventional approach to interpretational practice.”31 Centering on another major canonical text of the British Romantic Period, Sir Walter Scott’s novel Ivanhoe (1820), the game highlighted the social play that determines a particular text’s critical reading and cultural currency. Elegy takes this experiment a step further by making composition, publication, and reception all part of the game, tying each phase to online social interactions. Though Elegy’s players may not be as critically or theoretically informed as participants in the Ivanhoe game, questions of authorship nonetheless impinge upon the experience of play when the texts they write explicitly pass through several layers of mediation and influence. In calling upon the canon of British Romanticism, Elegy for a Dead World illustrates the limited utility of a model of creativity based too heavily in an exalted individual genius for nineteenth-­century poets and twenty-­first century technology workers alike. As this video game raises questions about its own medium’s definition and purpose, it also distances the player/author from their past experiences and perceptions of the act of writing. Its constrained graphical representations of alien planets, character animations, and reliance upon dialog boxes combine to create an additional remove from the material realities of interacting with the computer. According to its makers, players are more comfortable making their marks upon the game’s worlds than in a traditional word processor precisely because of the added layers of mediation and sense of impermanence. At the same time, however, Elegy draws attention to the mediation and indirect collaboration at work in any act of composition. The game foregrounds the contingent, interactive processes of the creative mind at work by imposing ludic rules upon the user’s textual production. And the shallow illusion of etching words in an imaginary planet’s soil directs writing that will be disseminated and preserved indefinitely on a Steam server.

Notes 1 Percy Shelley, Shelley’s Poetry and Prose (New York: Norton, 2002), 13. 2 Lord Byron, The Major Works (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 71–2. 3 John Keats, The Major Works (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 2. 4 Astrid Ensslin, Literary Gaming (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2014), 5, 36. 5 Ibid., 46, 49. For further discussion of the relationships between video games, narratives, and literature, see: N. Katherine Hayles, Electronic Literature: New Horizons for the Literary (Notre Dame, NC: University of Notre Dame Press, 2008); Lori Emerson, Reading Writing Interfaces: From the Digital to the Bookbound (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2014); and Esther MacCallum-Stewart, Online Games, Social Narratives (New York: Routledge, 2014). Also worth considering here are the electronic texts

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Espen Aarseth describes as “metamorphic literature”; that is, works in which “indeterminate cybertexts transform themselves endlessly with no final (and repeatable) state to be reached” (181). 6 John Polson, “Elegy for a Dead World—Why so Serious, Dejobaan?” Indie Games, October 21, 2013, http://indiegames.com/2013/10/elegy_for_a_dead_ world_-_why_s.html. 7 Jeffrey Matulef, “The Write Stuff: Elegy for a Dead World Preview,” Eurogamer, December 20, 2013, http://www.eurogamer.net/articles/2013-1214-the-­write-stuff-­elegy-­for-­a-­dead-­world-preview. 8 Pew Research Center, “Gaming and Gamers,” December 15, 2015, http:// www.pewinternet.org/pi_2015-12-15_gaming-­and-gamers_homepage/. 9 Dejooban Games, “Elegy Press Kit,” accessed March 30, 2015, http:// www.dejobaan.com/elegy-­press-kit/. 10 Scott McCloud, Understanding Comics: The Invisible Art (New York: HarperPerennial, 1994), 36. 11 Will Wright quoted in Ken Perlin, “Can There Be a Form between a Game and a Story?” in First Person: New Media as Story, Performance, and Game, eds. Noah Wardrip-Fruin and Pat Harrigan (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2004), 13. 12 Ian Bogost, Persuasive Games: The Expressive Power of Videogames (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2007), 29. 13 Dejobaan Games, “Elegy Educators,” accessed March 30, 2015, http:// www.dejobaan.com/elegy-­educators/. 14 Adi Robertson, “Elegy for a Dead World: I Wrote this Video Game Review Inside a Video Game,” The Verge, December 10, 2014, https://www.theverge. com/2014/12/10/7362517/elegy-­for-­a-­dead-­world-­i-wrote-­this-video-gamereview-­inside-a-­video-game. 15 Qtd. in Matulef, “The Write Stuff.” 16 Steven E. Jones, The Meaning of Video Games: Gaming and Textual Strategies (New York: Routledge, 2008), 10. 17 Henry Jenkins, “Game Design as Narrative Architecture,” in First Person: New Media as Story, Performance, and Game, ed. Noah Wardrip-Fruin and Pat Harrigan (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2004), 122–3. 18 McKenzie Wark, Gamer Theory (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2007), 102. 19 Steven E. Jones, The Emergence of Digital Humanities (New York: Routledge, 2014), 49. Jesper Juul has pointed to the resurgence of two-­dimensional “screen space” in game design as a marker of “casual games,” which he argues “have a wide appeal because the move away from 3-D spaces, blending more easily with not only the time, but also the space in which we play a game” (18). 20 Polson, “Elegy.” 21 Randall Munroe, “Time,” Frame 1419, Xkcd, March 25, 2013, https://xkcd. com/1190/.

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22 William Wordsworth and Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Lyrical Ballads, 2nd edn. (London: Longman, 1800), xxxiii–xxxiv. 23 John Polidori, The Diary of Dr. John William Polidori, ed. William Michael Rossetti (London: Elkin Matthews, 1911), 128. 24 Jack Stillinger, Multiple Authorship and the Myth of Solitary Genius (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991), 22. 25 Jerome McGann, The Romantic Ideology: A Critical Investigation (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1983), 1. 26 Matthew Kirschenbaum, Mechanisms: New Media and the Forensic Imagination (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2012), 36. 27 Thomas McFarland, Romanticism and the Forms of Ruin: Wordsworth, Coleridge, and the Modalities of Fragmentation (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1981), 29–30. 28 Richard Coyne, Technoromanticism: Digital Narrative, Holism, and the Romance of the Real (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1999). 29 Thomas Streeter, The Net Effect: Romanticism, Capitalism, and the Internet (New York: New York University Press, 2010), 68. Streeter cites Robert Darnton’s argument that romantic sensitivity was a product, in part, of the way Rousseau’s prose encouraged readers to imagine a break in the mediation between themselves and the author. According to Darnton, in Rousseauistic reading “[a]uthor and reader triumphed together over the artifice of literary communication,” thereby “revolutioniz[ing] the relation between reader and text, and open[ing] the way to romanticism” (234, 232). 30 Alec Meer, “Shelley They Can’t Be Serious: Elegy for a Dead World,” Rock Paper Shotgun, October 23, 2013, https://www.rockpapershotgun. com/2013/10/23/shelley-­they-cant-­be-serious-­elegy-for-­a-dead-­world/. 31 Jerome McGann, Radiant Textuality: Literature After the World Wide Web (New York: Palgrave, 2001), 217–8.

References Aarseth, Espen J. Cybertext: Perspectives on Ergodic Literature. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1997. Bogost, Ian. Persuasive Games: The Expressive Power of Videogames. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2007. Lord Byron. The Major Works. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000. Coyne, Richard. Technoromanticism: Digital Narrative, Holism, and the Romance of the Real. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1999. Darnton, Robert. The Great Cat Massacre and Other Episodes in French Cultural History. New York: Vintage, 1985. Dejobaan Games. “Elegy Educators.” Accessed March 30, 2015. http://www. dejobaan.com/elegy-­educators/. Dejobaan Games. “Elegy Press Kit.” Accessed March 30, 2015. http://www. dejobaan.com/elegy-­press-kit/.

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Elegy for a Dead World. Developed by Dejobaan Games. Dejobaan Games, 2014. Windows. Emerson, Lori. Reading Writing Interfaces: From the Digital to the Bookbound. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2014. Ensslin, Astrid. Literary Gaming. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2014. Hayles, N. Katherine. Electronic Literature: New Horizons for the Literary. Notre Dame, NC: University of Notre Dame Press, 2008. Jenkins, Henry. “Game Design as Narrative Architecture.” In First Person: New Media as Story, Performance, and Game, edited by Noah Wardrip-Fruin and Pat Harrigan, 118–30. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2004. Jones, Steven E. The Meaning of Video Games: Gaming and Textual Strategies. New York: Routledge, 2008. Jones, Steven E. The Emergence of Digital Humanities. New York: Routledge, 2014. Juul, Jesper. A Casual Revolution: Reinventing Video Games and Their Players. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2010. Keats, John. The Major Works. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001. Kirschenbaum, Matthew. Mechanisms: New Media and the Forensic Imagination. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2012. MacCallum-Stewart, Esther. Online Games, Social Narratives. New York: Routledge, 2014. Matulef, Jeffrey. “The Write Stuff: Elegy for a Dead World Preview.” Eurogamer, December 20, 2013. Accessed March 30, 2015. http://www.eurogamer.net/ articles/2013-12-14-the-­write-stuff-­elegy-for-­a-dead-­world-preview. McCloud, Scott. Understanding Comics: The Invisible Art. New York: HarperPerennial, 1994. McFarland, Thomas. Romanticism and the Forms of Ruin: Wordsworth, Coleridge, and the Modalities of Fragmentation. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1981. McGann, Jerome. The Romantic Ideology: A Critical Investigation. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1983. McGann, Jerome. Radiant Textuality: Literature after the World Wide Web. New York: Palgrave, 2001. Meer, Alec. “Shelley They Can’t Be Serious: Elegy for a Dead World.” Rock Paper Shotgun, October 23, 2013. Accessed March 30, 2015. https://www. rockpapershotgun.com/2013/10/23/shelley-­they-cant-­be-serious-­elegy-for-adead-world/. Munroe, Randall. “Time,” Frame 1419. Xkcd, March 25, 2013. Accessed March 30, 2015. https://xkcd.com/1190/. Perlin, Ken. “Can There Be a Form between a Game and a Story?” In First Person: New Media as Story, Performance, and Game, edited by Noah Wardrip-Fruin and Pat Harrigan, 12–8. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2004. Pew Research Center, “Gaming and Gamers.” December 15, 2015. Accessed December 20, 2015. http://www.pewinternet.org/pi_2015-12-15_gaming-­andgamers_homepage/. Polidori, John. The Diary of Dr. John William Polidori. Edited by William Michael Rossetti. London: Elkin Matthews, 1911.

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Polson, John. “Elegy for a Dead World—Why so Serious, Dejobaan?” Indie Games, October 21, 2013. Accessed March 30, 2015. http://indiegames. com/2013/10/elegy_for_a_dead_world_-_why_s.html Robertson, Adi. “Elegy for a Dead World: I Wrote this Video Game Review Inside a Video Game.” The Verge, December 10, 2014. Accessed March 31, 2015, https://www.theverge.com/2014/12/10/7362517/elegy-for-a-dead-world-­iwrote-­this-video-game-review-­inside-a-­video-game. Shelley, Percy. Shelley’s Poetry and Prose. New York: Norton, 2002. Stillinger, Jack. Multiple Authorship and the Myth of Solitary Genius. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991. Streeter, Thomas. The Net Effect: Romanticism, Capitalism, and the Internet. New York: New York University Press, 2010. Wark, McKenzie. Gamer Theory. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2007. Wordsworth, William, and Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Lyrical Ballads. Second ed. London: Longman, 1800.

5 Lost in the Static? Comics in Video Games Armin Lippitz

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omics have attracted more and more attention in mainstream culture. As a result, the estimated market size of the medium in North America has doubled since 1997.1 One reason for this growing interest in the medium is, without a doubt, the success of cinematic adaptations of comic books. However, video games have experienced an even bigger boom in popularity in recent years. Indeed, global games revenues have been growing and have effectively caught up with the movie industry. A cause for, as much as a result of, the increased success of these two media is their integration into transmedia storyworlds. These networks of texts, which collectively tell a continuous story distributed over various media outlets, have become routine for most mainstream, blockbuster titles, regardless of the initial core text’s medium. Comics and video games seem to be particularly well suited for transmedia explorations because they have always tapped into the potentials of expanding their storyworlds and extending their experiences across media, as Hans-Joachim Backe has argued.2 In addition, the comics/graphic novel-­ esque style employed by video games such as Max Payne (Remedy Entertainment, 2001) has been frequently highlighted in reviews etc. Even though reviewers and popular critics have understood the interrelations between these two media, scholars have been slow to embrace the potentials opened up by the intersections between comics and video games. This chapter will provide an overview of the ways in which comics have been incorporated into video games. I will focus on games using visual and other elements of comics and how these features are integrated into the

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games’ aesthetics as well as gameplay mechanics, thereby explaining the translation of comics elements into video games. The examples I will discuss testify to a gradual progression in terms of the interrelatedness between the two media in question, from aesthetic similarities in cut-­scenes and animations to the integration of comics elements into gameplay. In this context, Backe has developed a typology which differentiates between nine types of intermedial relationships between comics and video games.3 While his model primarily highlights aesthetic and narrative correlations, my chapter will focus on operational links between the two media. Accordingly, Backe’s final type, “appropriation” is particularly relevant for my chapter, as it explores one medium’s systemic influences on the other. As I will demonstrate by primarily focusing on comics’ influence on video games, the interconnectedness between the two media is characterized by constant intermedial exchange. To be sure, there are numerous examples of video games incorporating aesthetics and/or other elements of comics. Some video games, such as Max Payne, present the majority of their cut-­scenes in comics strip form. Between each chapter, the third-­person shooter gameplay is interrupted by narrative expositions displayed in an aesthetic style reminiscent of comics. Visually, static pictures arranged as comic strips, including captions and speech bubbles, replace the regular, animated in-­game graphics. Voice actors, accompanied by sound effects and music which accentuate the verbal dimension, present the panels’ textual content to the players on the sonic level. Comics, in the traditional sense, is a medium presented on paper and therefore restricted by its material dimension. A change in platform, such as the remediation of a comic strip onto a computer screen, transforms the verbo-­visual, paper-­bound text into something new.4 Accordingly, to echo Marshall McLuhan’s famous dictum that “the medium is the message,” the platform the imagetext is presented on impacts reader-­viewers’ encounter with, and experience of, a given comic.5 Max Payne’s merging of comic strips’ visual features with the cinematic elements of sound and music on a computer screen hence creates a distinct experience, which is radically different from simply seeing these panels printed on paper. Players do not see a comic in the conventional sense during the cut-­scenes, but a digital interpretation of a comic that includes music and sound for dramatic effect, thus “embedding . . . comics into the game-­internal multimedia system.”6 The elements this new form takes over from traditional printed comics (i.e., primarily the visuals) are adapted to the computer screen without interfering with the mechanics of the source medium, as the visual information in the digital comic strip operates in the same way as in a printed version (aside from specific changes to the reading experience in the new graphic display, such as the fixed duration of time the strips are displayed and the inability to return to

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previous pages). The added sounds constitute the most drastic changes to the experience and intensify the story’s impact by enhancing the text’s meaning with an additional layer. No new reading conventions have to be learned or established to follow the fiction. One could use a printed remediation of the cut-­scenes in Max Payne without the voiceover, music, and sound effects and would still be able to understand the narrative progression. This effect would be more difficult to achieve with the cut-­scenes in inFAMOUS (Sucker Punch Productions, 2009), as they include moving images. The creators of this third-­person action adventure incorporate a style that has come to be known as “motion comics.” This technique uses three-­ dimensional backgrounds and two-­dimensional drawings which create a pseudo-3D effect that allows for the manipulation of perspectives in a way that the 2D images appear to be moving. The starting point for the creative process of producing a motion comic, however, is still an ordinary, static comic. Similar to a storyboard for film, which outlines the most important moments in the plot arranged in a sequence of still images, this regular comic serves as a template for the final work of art. Computer software isolates certain details in the images and creates separate layers for them. These layers are added and subtracted from the panels and the 3D environment at appropriate times and the camera dynamically shows them from various angles, which makes the overall picture seem to be in motion (see Figure 5.1a and b). Of course, this is a dramatically simplified description of the process. Nonetheless, the added movement creates an effect that is different from a regular, static comic. However, the influence of the comics medium remains palpable in these motion comics. In contrast to Max Payne, the cut-­scenes in inFAMOUS rely on audible narration and dialog without the textual input provided by captions and/or speech bubbles. A printed remediation would therefore be silent and make it hard or even impossible for reader-­viewers to understand what is going on in the story. Transcribing the voiceovers and including them in the text as captions would potentially take away important visual information from the images and thus alter the work significantly. Since many video game designers work from a storyboard to sketch their stories, and the production of motion comics is comparatively cheap, they are a popular alternative to full-­ scale 3D animation. Nonetheless, some video games incorporate comics aesthetics in their animated cut-­scenes as well. For example, the interactive drama/action-­ adventure Heavy Rain (Quantic Dream, 2010) starts with a black screen which gradually fills up with animated images of a bedroom from different angles until they form a grid of six panels. The content of these panels is moving and changing before they depict one final image of the protagonist sleeping in his

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FIGURE 5.1a and b  Screenshots from inFAMOUS showing a motion comics sequence (Sucker Punch, 2009).

bed, divided by the grid-­like, black border. Admittedly, in cinematographic terms, this style is called “split screen” or “multi-­dynamic image technique,” but the grid-­like composition of the images is strongly reminiscent of comic strips and one could call this sequence an “animated comic” (see Figure 5.2). Later cut-­scenes in the game also make use of the same style, and certain passages even include it during gameplay, most memorably the episode in which one of the player characters (PC for short), Scott Shelby, has to foil a

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FIGURE 5.2  The grid-­like arrangement of the moving images is reminiscent of a comic strip. Screenshot from Heavy Rain (Quantic Dream, 2010).

robbery. In this part of the game, the action is shown from three different angles. Two smaller frames on the left side of the screen show the shop’s counter from the store’s security cameras in a grainy, black and white aesthetic. The biggest panel on the right side of the screen displays regular in-­game graphics. The players have to navigate their avatar through the store in order to prevent the robbery. The action is shown simultaneously in all three panels and the various perspectives make orientation within the gamespace easier. In addition, the music, along with the robber’s vocal requests, adds a sense of urgency and drama to the episode. While the cinematic aesthetic of the entire game suggests that the creators of Heavy Rain rather drew on split-­ screen techniques than animated comics, the similarities to the static medium, especially the grid-­like introduction sequence, cannot be denied. Indeed, Heavy Rain presents a textbook example of a “simulation of aesthetic qualities” without “reference to the system of comics” Backe considers characteristic of pastiche.7 The 2003 first-­person shooter XIII by Ubisoft Paris more explicitly seeks to emulate comics. The game’s visual dimension echoes the comic book aesthetic, not least because the game is based on a comic book series of the same name, created by the Belgian writer-­artist duo Jean Van Hamme and William Vance. Numerous aesthetic and other design choices reinforce the connection to the comics series: The chapter selection and other menus in the video game are presented as comics pages, as each of the available options

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is represented by a panel with dark borders over a white background. The images are drawn in a style called “cel shading,” which emphasizes their contours with thick, black borders, and makes the three-­dimensional pictures appear flat. This technique calls to mind comic book-­style drawings and, in the case of XIII, exemplifies an amalgamation of photorealism (restricted by the technological limitations at the time) and “caricaturism.”8 Importantly, the designers of XIII did not fall into a common trap described by Andrew Rollings and Ernest Adams: “In general, far too much time is spent on getting the look of a game right at the expense of tuning its gameplay.”9 Whereas graphics are often little more than “lures with which the industry sells new titles,” in the case of XIII, the visual style emphasizes the connection to its source text.10 Moreover, sound effects are not only audible but also visualized through textual references, while some of the dialogs are repre­ sented in the form of speech bubbles. In addition, during the first-­personperspective gameplay, smaller pop-­up panels sometimes appear on screen to provide additional information (see Figure  5.3). The cut-­scenes show an animation of a comic book, in which the camera zooms in on certain panels and then shows the action as an animated clip before freezing in the final still image again and continuing with the comic book story. Unlike motion comics, where static 2D drawings are rendered in a 3D environment and presented from dynamic perspectives to make them appear moving, some of the panels in XIII are fully animated and show the immediate action leading up to a static image encapsulating the performance. This

FIGURE 5.3  Pop-­up panels are a recurrent design element in XIII. Screenshot from XIII (Ubisoft Paris, 2003).

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technique influences the players’ experience, especially in terms of their perception of the narrative. Because of their physical manifestation on paper, traditional comics display motionless, fixed images next to one another. The empty space between these pictures or panels is called “the gutter” and the reason why Scott McCloud dubbed the medium “The Invisible Art.”11 For him, the gutter represents the most unique and important aspect of comics because it does not simply indicate a sequence of images, but rather asks the reader-­viewer to become “an equal partner in crime,” as the reader-­viewer (co-)creates meaning by deciphering the panel sequence and the implicit narrative sequence (including the gaps, visually represented by the gutter).12 As a result, the conclusions drawn from two pictures presented side-­by-side are different for each reader-­viewer. In other words, every reader-­viewer chooses what happens between the panels. McCloud poetically says that “to kill a man between panels is to condemn him to a thousand deaths.”13 An animated comic, like the cut-­scenes in XIII, takes away some of that interpretative power, because the animations provide additional information that in a static comic would not be available to reader-­viewers. In other words, the gutter effectively disappears, because the narrative gaps traditionally hidden in the gutter are revealed during the animation. On the other hand, the story might become less ambiguous than in a regular comic. Accordingly, one of the most essential mechanics in comics, the gutter and the power to mentally fill the gaps it leaves in the narrative, is diminished because the information is provided, at least partially, by the animations. Closure is, in some measure, established by the moving images and thus forced onto the reader-­viewers (players). The transitions between the cut-­scenes are seamless to create the impression that players are moving through the space of the comic. This illusion is accomplished by focusing on one panel, which represents the first-­ person view of the players, while the other panels and panel borders disappear. During gameplay, captions, speech bubbles, visible sound effects, and pop-­up panels showing the details of an action, usually a violent confrontation with a non-­player character (NPC), reinforce the theme and the notion that the entire action is taking place inside a comic book. Indeed, the whole game is an interactive, animated comic, thereby blurring the lines between Backe’s single-­text transcreation and imitation categories.14 The same is true for Comix Zone, a 1995 arcade-­style action platformer produced by Sega. In contrast to XIII, Comix Zone does not adapt a particular source text; instead, the video game draws on iconic brawler (super/anti) heroes such as Luke Cage, Midnighter, Colossus, and Iron Fist. In the short introductory animation, a comics artist named Sketch Turner is pulled into his illustration by one of his creations. Sketch then has to fight his way through

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the pages of his own text. From a narrative point of view, there are two distinct worlds to be observed here: (a) the protagonist’s plane of existence (i.e., his apartment and the drawing desk he works at) and (b) the fictional comic book he is transported into. In narratology, this transgression of diegetic levels is referred to as “metalepsis,” a term introduced by Gérard Genette (see Figure 5.4).15 The concept has undergone a renaissance in recent years, with numerous scholars providing their definitions and elaborating on their conceptualizations of the phenomenon. Approaching the topic from a transmedial perspective, Jeff Thoss has arguably provided one of the most inclusive definitions, suggesting that metalepsis “always involves and affects a storyworld,” as “the line that separates what is inside and outside of it . . . is violated by metalepsis in a paradoxical way.”16 Unlike XIII, which shows a first-­person view without panel borders during gameplay, Comix Zone provides a level 2D view—familiar from many arcade-­ style fighter or brawler games such as Bad Dudes Vs DragonNinja (Data East, 1988)—of parts of a comics page, which always includes panel borders, the gutter, and parts of neighboring panels. Thus, players are always aware that their avatar is trapped in a comic book, which helps immersion into the game and its, admittedly trite, storyline. Each panel the PC reaches either offers a puzzle for players to solve or needs to be cleared of enemies in order for the protagonist to progress to the next section of the level. Once the conditions to advance are fulfilled, yellow arrows indicate the way (or ways) the avatar can take to advance. In regular comic books, such pointers traditionally show

FIGURE 5.4  Comix Zone frequently breaches the boundaries between two traditionally separate diegetic levels. Screenshot from Comix Zone (Sega, 1995).

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the order the panels are supposed to be read and viewed in. Here, they reveal the possible paths the PC can take to traverse the page. Certain panels offer multiple options to progress. These choices are mutually exclusive and therefore constitute a non-­linear level structure. Accordingly, the embedded narrative changes depending on the route players take.17 In contrast to a printed comics page, which can be looked at in its entirety, in Comix Zone only the current passage is visible and, depending on the route the players choose to take, only those panels the avatar visits are on display (including partial glimpses of neighboring panels). In other words, players never get an overview of the whole level as reader-­viewers of a regular comic would. Because certain places of the level can never be reached in one playthrough, from a narrative point of view, some of the story of the in-­game comic is withheld from the players. In XIII the gameplay screen constitutes an interactive, animated panel as part of a comic book. The story of the comic progresses through the enacted narrative which takes place in said comic book. Together with the cut-­scenes, which are non-­interactive representations of the same story, the entire narrative is pre-­fabricated and shown to the players. In Comix Zone, on the other hand, only those parts of the in-­game comic book the PC traverses are integrated in the overall narrative, because alternative paths through the level or the page remain hidden from view. Since the players always get partial glimpses of neighboring panels, they are aware of potential other routes they could have taken, and, after choosing a path, they are conscious about missing (embedded) narrative information. In other words, the story, at least of the fictional comic book the PC is running, jumping, and fighting through, is incomplete. While traversing the level/page, the avatar has to overcome the panel borders of the in-­game comic book he is trapped in. The white strips separating each panel, representing the gutter, are depicted as if they were superimposed over the background of the pictures. Every time players progress to the next panel, the avatar jumps out of the page and over the panel border. Even if the pictures would support a way from one panel to the next, like a door or a sewer pipe, the PC grabs hold of the panel border and vaults himself over into the next image. Additionally, sometimes a large black-­and-white hand holding a pencil appears from somewhere outside of the comic and draws an enemy into the panel. Significantly, all of the metaleptic transgressions take place between the hypodiegesis of the in-­game comic book and the diegesis of the protagonist’s apartment. The players are only spectators to them on a meta-­level. Another important element in comics are sound effects. Of course, for a print medium, this is an arbitrary term. In comics, it refers to the synesthesia

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of visual and auditory experience.18 Synesthesia, the union of senses, means that the experience of one sense (in comics: visual input via language) is also experienced by a second sense (in comics: sound). McCloud uses the term “synaesthetics” to highlight the difference between “reading” a sound (and other sensual responses, like touch, smell, or even emotions, such as anger, or joy) and actually hearing it (experiencing them).19 “Soundwords” and other sound effects in comics may only evoke certain sensory reactions, but cannot produce the actual experience. In other words, comics use written language to stand in for sounds. Written language accordingly imitates sound. In video games, on the other hand, sound effects are auditory. Thus, they do not rely on synchronized visual input and, depending on the quality of the sounds, they are usually unambiguous. Interestingly, both Comix Zone and XIII use visual language to either stand in for or complement sound effects in order to reinforce the intermedial connections to comic books. Sometimes enclosed in jagged speech bubbles and written in a soft, rounded font traditionally associated with comics, the additional information helps players immerse themselves in the game and increases the feeling of being in and interacting with a comic book. The amalgamation of components and aesthetic elements from both comics and video games is especially powerful in XIII, even if the mechanics and functions of some comic-­specific features are reduced, or even entirely absent. For example, the gutter’s power to draw readers into the comic becomes at least partially undermined when animations substitute some of the missing information (as in XIII) or when the panels cannot be viewed side by side (as in Comix Zone). While the integration of the gutter into a video game is thus not easy, the puzzle adventure Valiant Hearts: The Great War (Ubisoft Montpellier, 2014) showcases how video games may remediate in innovative ways. Valiant Hearts presents colorful and stylized versions of various French theaters of war in the First World War. The character design is rather abstract, as the characters mostly feature straight lines and iconic faces. Although all playable characters have distinct voices, which can be heard during the cut-­scenes, during gameplay, the player character’s communication with NPCs is visualized via icons and drawings which appear in speech bubbles, which even feature tails. In addition, the beginning of each chapter introduces the spatial and temporal setting in black writing located in rectangular, white boxes, clearly drawing on the visual grammar of comics captions. By tapping into well-­ established comics conventions, Valiant Hearts deemphasizes its serious subject matter, and thus makes it more accessible to a younger audience. Indeed, as the menu combines snippets of historical exposition (i.e., historical facts) with photographs and video footage from Mission Centenaire 14–18

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(2012), a commemorative project, and the documentary Apocalypse: World War I (2014), the game suggests that it is even intended to be used for educational purposes. Comics aesthetics do not only operate on Valiant Hearts’ visual level, however. Indeed, the comics aesthetics are cleverly integrated into gameplay. For example, whenever the players confront off-­screen enemies, a frame depicting the remote action covers part of the screen. The visual configuration evokes a comics panel (or at least parts of one), as a superimposed (moving) image with a white border hides parts of the immediate surroundings of the PC to show action taking place elsewhere, which has an impact on the current location (see Figure 5.5). The players encounter this visual setup for the first time during the storm of French troops in Crusnes. After the French leader has ordered his troops to charge, a white border suddenly cuts the screen in half, separating the two sides. The left-­hand “panel” shows the French pressing forward (to the right of the screen), while the right-­hand “panel” displays a German captain issuing orders. The right panel soon disappears again, as the main image again expands to the extent of the screen. As the French advance, another panel appears at one point, showing German howitzers blasting toward the attacking Frenchmen. The smaller panel vanishes after the animation has ended, but the players then face the falling shells and try to avoid them. The action displayed in the overlaid panel thus influences the main section of the screen. Similar to deciphering the connections between two

FIGURE 5.5  Valiant Hearts asks players to mentally connect two images (or, in this case, animations) separated by a visual gap (gutter). Screenshot from Valiant Hearts (Ubisoft Montpellier, 2014).

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static images in a traditional comic book, the players are tasked to establish a connection between the overlay and the gamespace the PC inhabits, effectively bridging the gap of the gutter. If players fail to establish this connection, they will not be able to advance in the game. Here, a comics convention is thus appropriated as a game mechanic. The frequent use of this technique during the action sequences enhances the game’s comic book feel. Framed (Loveshack, 2014) takes the integration of comics elements in a digital game even further. Framed is a mobile game for tablets and combines various elements of the comics medium with video game mechanics and narrative. The story follows a typical film noir template and revolves around two PCs that alternately carry a mysterious briefcase and try to avoid policemen. The game’s visual design is reminiscent of noir comics such as the Sin City series (1991–2000), the Blacksad series (2000–13), and Batman: Year One (1987). Each level is presented as a page from a comic book with a varying number of panels and arrangements. The protagonist always starts in the upper left corner and has to traverse the entire page in order to reach the next level (see Figure 5.6). The images in the panels are static until the PC reaches them, then they become fully animated. When the avatar moves into

FIGURE 5.6  The gutter, a functional comics element which makes reader-­viewers interpret pictures in sequence, is the central gameplay element in Framed. Screenshot from Framed (Loveshack, 2014).

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the next picture, the previous panel depicts the altered state of the diegesis after the action in static fashion. Evidently, “the formal framework of the comic only allows for restricted and rudimentary potential for interactions,” which the video game has to work around, or play with.20 To be sure, Framed’s gameplay is limited to changing the order and arrangement of the panels. Accordingly, most levels allow the players only to alter the sequence in which the PC passes through the images, while some also require players to rotate the pictures that the character can successfully traverse the screen. At the start of the game, the panels the avatar has already visited cannot be changed anymore, while later levels require players to alter the arrangement simultaneous to the action. The moving image the PC is located in can never be switched with later pictures in the series, though. Naturally, there are panels featuring obstacles or enemies the avatar cannot overcome in the original arrangement of each level. This is the puzzle element of the game, as players are asked to make assumptions about what will happen when their character enters a panel. Players have to account for the possible relations between the sequential images. Indeed, various scenarios may unfold inside a panel once the player character enters it, depending on what happened in previous panels. Most levels feature square panels arranged in a straightforward grid. The reading pattern follows the Western comics tradition, from left to right and top to bottom (see Figure  5.7). However, some of the levels feature longer rectangular frames that may be aligned horizontally or vertically. Accordingly, these panels disrupt the grid, as they simply take up more space than the square images. In particular, their vertical arrangement challenges the traditional reading order and thus adds complexity to the puzzles (see Figure 5.8). Overall, the game thus relies on the players’ mental and analytical powers to interpret the connections between two, or even more, pictures in a sequence. In this way, Framed uses the gutter as the core gameplay mechanic—the gutter is gamified. In addition, the movement of the PC does not always follow the reading patterns, which adds even more complexity to the potential connections between the panels. The different reading patterns, fused with changing panel arrangements and the gutter, merges comics mechanics with gameplay. As a result, Framed is a wonderful example of how video games may adapt elements other than aesthetics from comics. In this examination of the intermedial exchange between comics and video games, I have shown how much influence the former has on the latter. While video games can settle for remediating aesthetic or narrative qualities of comics, as described in Backe’s typology, I have put emphasis on examples which integrate operational elements from the source medium and appropriate them

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FIGURE 5.7  Standard reading pattern in Western comics.

FIGURE 5.8  Potential “reading” pattern in Framed.

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for the target medium. Appropriating operational aspects of the static medium of comics into the interactive medium of video games bears the danger of petrifying the target medium. However, the examples above show that the dynamic visuals in cut-­scenes and gameplay of video games subvert the static nature of images in sequence employed by the source medium, while still accommodating operative elements. In other words, video games, especially more recent ones, have found innovative ways to integrate comics functionalities into their gameplay as well as cut-­scenes, shedding the shackles of static images, while retaining operational and aesthetic qualities. Video games are thus not lost in the static nature of comics, despite their strong influence. To be sure, today’s media landscape is characterized by constant intermedial exchange, and thus requires a high level of media literacy on both the production/creation and the consumption/reception end. As a result of this increased proficiency, it is easier, on the one hand, to integrate and, on the other, to decipher different functional elements from various media. As I have demonstrated, video games use the referential field offered by the contemporary mediascape in extremely creative ways.

Notes 1 “Comic Book Sales by Year,” Comichron, accessed September 16, 2016, http://www.comichron.com/yearlycomicssales.html. 2 Hans-Joachim Backe, “Narrative Feedback: Computer Games, Comics, and the James Bond Franchise,” in The Cultures of James Bond, ed. Joachim Frenk and Christian Krug (Trier: Wissenschaftlicher Verlag Trier, 2011). 3 Hans-Joachim Backe, “Vom Yellow Kid zu Super Mario: Zum Verhältnis von Comics und Computerspielen,” in Comics intermedial: Beiträge zu einem interdisziplinären Forschungsfeld, ed. Christian A. Bachmann, Véronique Sina, and Lars Banhold (Essen: Bachmann-Verlag, 2012). 4 Jay David Bolter and Richard Grusin, Remediation: Understanding New Media (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1999). 5 Marshall McLuhan, Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man (Berkeley, CA: Gingko Press, 2013), 25. 6 Backe, “Yellow Kid,” 148; my translation. 7 Ibid., 151; my translation. 8 For a discussion of these two styles, see Simon Egenfeldt-Nielsen, Jonas Heide Smith, and Susana Pajares Tosca, Understanding Video Games: The Essential Introduction (New York: Routledge, 2013), 142–4. 9 Andrew Rollings and Ernest Adams, Andrew Rollings and Ernest Adams on Game Design (Berkeley, CA: New Riders, 2003), 12–3.

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10 Geoff King and Tanya Krzywinska, “Film Studies and Digital Games,” in Understanding Digital Games, ed. Jason Rutter and Jo Bryce (London: Sage, 2006), 124. 11 Scott McCloud, Understanding Comics: The Invisible Art (New York: Harper Perennial, 1994). 12 Ibid., 68. 13 Ibid., 69. 14 Backe, “Yellow Kid,” 149; my translation. 15 Gérard Genette, Narrative Discourse: An Essay in Method (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1980), 234–5. 16 Jeff Thoss, When Storyworlds Collide: Metalepsis in Popular Fiction, Film and Comics (Leiden: Brill | Rodopi, 2015), 18. 17 Henry Jenkins, “Game Design as Narrative Architecture,” in First Person: New Media as Story, Performance, and Game, ed. Noah Wardrip-Fruin and Pat Harrigan (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2004). 18 McCloud, Understanding Comics, 123. 19 Ibid. 20 Backe, “Yellow Kid,” 149; my translation.

References Backe, Hans-Joachim. “Narrative Feedback: Computer Games, Comics, and the James Bond Franchise.” In The Cultures of James Bond, edited by Joachim Frenk and Christian Krug, 221–33. Trier: Wissenschaftlicher Verlag Trier, 2011. Backe, Hans-Joachim. “Vom Yellow Kid zu Super Mario: Zum Verhältnis von Comics und Computerspielen.” In Comics Intermedial: Beiträge zu einem Interdisziplinären Forschungsfeld, edited by Christian A. Bachmann, Véronique Sina, and Lars Banhold, 143–57. Bochum: Bachmann, 2012. Bolter, Jay David and Richard Crusin. Remediation: Understanding New Media. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1999. “Comic Book Sales by Year.” Comichron. Accessed September 16, 2016. http://www.comichron.com/yearlycomicssales.html. Comix Zone. Developed by Sega Technical Institute. Sega, 2007. Xbox 360. Egenfeldt-Nielsen, Simon, Jonas Heide Smith, and Susana Pajares Tosca. Understanding Video Games: The Essential Introduction. New York: Routledge, 2013. Framed. Developed by Loveshack. Noodlecake Studios, 2014. Android. Genette, Gérard. Narrative Discourse: An Essay in Method. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1980. Heavy Rain. Developed by Quantic Dream. Sony Computer Entertainment, 2010. PlayStation 3. inFAMOUS. Developed by Sucker Punch Productions. Sony Computer Entertainment, 2009. PlayStation 3.

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Jenkins, Henry. “Game Design as Narrative Architecture.” In First Person: New Media as Story, Performance, and Game, edited by Noah Wardrip-Fruin and Pat Harrigan, 118–30. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2004. King, Geoff, and Tanya Krzywinska. “Film Studies and Digital Games.” In Understanding Digital Games, edited by Jason Rutter and Jo Bryce, 112–28. London: Sage, 2006. Max Payne. Developed by Remedy Entertainment. Gathering of Developers, 2001. Windows. McCloud, Scott. Understanding Comics: The Invisible Art. New York, NY: Harper Perennial, 1994. Rollings, Andrew, and Ernest Adams. Andrew Rollings and Ernest Adams on Game Design. Berkeley, CA: New Riders, 2003. Thoss, Jeff. When Storyworlds Collide: Metalepsis in Popular Fiction, Film and Comics. Leiden: Brill | Rodopi, 2015. Valiant Hearts: The Great War. Developed by Ubisoft Montpellier. Ubisoft, 2014. Windows. XIII. Developed by Ubi Soft Paris. Ubi Soft, 2003. Windows.

PART TWO

Intermedial Exchanges between Video Games and Other Media

6 Game and Watch: Machinimas, Let’s Plays, Streams, and the Linearization of Digital Play Riccardo Fassone

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e all play occasionally, and we all know what playing feels like.” Thus Brian Sutton-Smith opens his book The Ambiguity of Play (1991).1 This opening sentence suggests that play is an inherently embodied activity, something that should be done in order to be understood. Playing is doing or, following Sutton-Smith’s intuition, playing is the only way of understanding what play is. While the author of The Ambiguity of Play was certainly preoccupied with the implications and characteristics of analog play, scholarship on digital games has rarely challenged this stance. Video games are said to be “ergodic,” a term that defines them as textual machines in need of activation or, if we settle for a much maligned term, “interactive” objects that require a user for their actualization.2 This is certainly a convincing rhetoric, if not a product of a player’s common sense. There is no play without activity. Nevertheless, occasionally, we all watch someone else play. Whether it is a sports game on television or in an arena, the unruly play of children in a park, or a speedrunner streaming a record attempt at Super Meat Boy (Team Meat, 2010), play has a magnetic quality: it constitutes a specific type of performance in which spectacle and athleticism seem to converge, and, at the same time, it invites a specific type of spectatorship.3 According to Johan Huizinga, game studies’ undisputed forefather, play and spectacle are “

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inextricably connected, and their relation changes according to specific historical, social, and technological conditions. The public games of the Romans, for example, invited a vicarious form of play, in which “the competitive impulse shifted, at an early period, from the protagonist to the spectator, who merely watches the struggles of others appointed for that purpose.”4 This chapter seeks to understand what I will define as the linearization of digital play; that is, its reduction to a linear audiovisual object, stripped of its ergodicity and thus ready for spectatorial consumption. My chapter will unfold following three paths: a historical reconstruction of the phenomenon, a description of three forms of linearization (machinima, let’s play, and live streams), and three theses concerning their larger meaning. Along the way, I argue for the relevance of analyzing the conditions and meanings of spectatorship in the context of video game studies, as in many cases this practice constitutes an integral part of the playing experience and of game culture in general.

A short history of video game spectatorship In his article “Slots of Fun, Slots of Trouble: An Archaeology of Arcade Gaming” (2005), Erkki Huhtamo traces a connection between arcade video games and other forms of popular entertainment, dating back to the end of the nineteenth century. Huhtamo’s thesis is that instead of being born out of technological innovation in the early 1970s, arcade video games actually fit within a tradition of other practices such as electro-­mechanical play (e.g., pinball machines) and, more interestingly, non-­interactive forms of spectacular entertainment, such as the use of automata to attract customers in department stores.5 If we are to adopt Huhtamo’s media-­archaeological perspective, we may think of video games as spectacular—and thus potentially spectated—devices since their inception as commercial products. The wealth of photos from the so-­called golden age of arcade gaming readily available on the web testify to this legacy. These images almost invariably depict a player with a variable number of onlookers looking over his shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of the game being played while waiting in line or, in other cases, simply acting as spectators.6 The complex interweaving of play and spectatorship and the resulting social interactions and tensions found in arcade rooms have been described in a number of ethnographic studies,7 but are condensed with remarkable precision by Carly Kocurek, who writes: The most popular games are surrounded by clusters of onlookers, some of whom may have added a quarter to the top of the cabinet to hold their

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place in line . . . The fluorescent lighting is low in much of the space to maximize the visibility of the machines’ cathode displays . . . The unoccupied games play in the attract mode, displaying top scores and titles and short bursts of simulated play. The screens tease.8 Both in their design and suggested social interactions, arcade rooms encourage the act of looking, spectating other players’ activities. Arcade games, with their neon colors and elaborated cabinet decorations are more than playthings, they are spectacular devices. The domestication of video games in the wake of the appearance of early game consoles such as the Magnavox Odyssey and the Atari 2600 seemed to put a halt to these communal play practices, making video game play a much more secluded affair. According to Mirjam Vosmeer, Gabriele Ferri, Ben Schouten, and Stefan Rank, “with consoles, however, videogame culture moved from arcades to attics and bedrooms, to re-­appear later in the living room. For a long time, audiences remained fairly private.”9 While the private nature of console gaming prevented the formation of “clusters of onlookers,” it might be safe to say that the coupling of the console with the TV set, which by the late 1970s was a fairly common appliance in most living rooms in the West, helped frame video game play as a shared experience. As noted by Sheila Murphy, advertisements for these early systems often depicted entire families gathered around the TV set, either with children playing and parents spectating or vice versa.10 In this sense, early console gaming, by relying on earlier audiovisual technology, inherited television’s familial, communal vocation. Even with the advent of PC gaming, a notably more intimate experience, as it “normally takes place close to the screen and in a private space, such as ones [sic] room (or office),” video games did not stop being spectacles.11 During the early 1990s, following the release of Doom (id Software, 1993), a competitive scene grew around the first-­person shooter genre. Players gathered at LAN parties, more or less formal gatherings where several PCs were connected via LAN cables in order to allow for multiplayer sessions and, most notably, social interaction, file sharing, and spectatorship.12 Moreover, some PC games allowed players to export and share their games via BBSs and other methods. The possibility to distribute audiovisual content gave rise to new forms of remote spectatorship; players no longer needed to gather in one place to watch others compete, but could download relatively small files that could be reproduced via the game’s engine. At the same time, with the rise of eSports, in particular in South Korea, video games started being broadcast on more traditional platforms, such as dedicated TV networks and, more recently in the West, sports television channels. The diffusion and success of eSports amplified the aspirational

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quality of video game spectatorship; that is, a vicarious enjoyment of a performance that could, in theory, be replicated by the viewer. With the success of video sharing platforms such as YouTube and streaming services such as Twitch, forms of remote spectatorship became prevalent, and the number and diversity of producers of video game-­related content grew dramatically. It was no longer only the e-­athletes that had some degree of visibility, thanks to their skills, but a plethora of other performers with different communicative styles, narrative techniques, and performing personas. Watching someone play a video game is, now more than ever, an accepted way of participating in game culture, an integral part of the experience of playing digital games, and a consistent revenue stream for a number of actors. The next sections will detail some of the types of audiovisual content that derive from video game play and their intended modes of viewing, while the last section of this chapter will propose a reading of video game spectatorship along three axes: aspiration, nostalgia, and meta-­play.

Cinema through video games: the machinima After the success of Doom, id Software published Quake (1996), a largely similar game which requires players to navigate narrow corridors looking for enemies to annihilate. Despite the apparent similarities with its predecessor, Quake was provided with at least two profoundly innovative features: The first was the possibility for players to compete in local multiplayer games via LAN or through an internet connection. The second, which will prove more relevant to this analysis, was a recording function (which was present in Doom in a rudimentary form), which allowed players to capture and store their best matches. This unique function would be pivotal for the birth and diffusion of a largely unique form of audiovisual production: the machinima. In an article on this particular media genre, Henry Lowood defines machinima as follows: “The word ‘machinima’ was derived from ‘machine cinema.’ A more apt derivation might be ‘machine animation.’ Whether we think of machinima as cinema or animation, it means making animated movies in real-­time with the software that is used to develop and play computer games.”13 Machinimas are usually short films rendered in a video game engine, realized by using non-­conventional playing techniques with the intent of producing short narratives. Quake’s recording function allowed a part of its player community to create and distribute their own machinimas. In the year following the release of Quake, players produced a number of short features, now considered to be the foundational texts of this new hybrid media format.

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Diary of a Camper (1996) is a short machinima in which a group of players is ambushed by a camper (the vernacular term used by players of first-­person shooters to define someone who “camps” somewhere, waiting for other players to walk by), who, at the end of the short film, reveals himself as John Romero, one of Quake’s lead designers. This one-­minute thirty-­eight-second video was produced using the game’s graphics engine and derives from the players’ orchestrated performance, which was later edited with the intent of creating a narrative product. A few months after Diary of a Camper, another team produced Quake Done Quick, a freely distributed machinima detailing the extraordinarily “athletic” performance of a player. In this case, the creators’ intent was not narrative, but rather documentary, aiming at preserving a particularly remarkable speedrun (i.e., the completion of the game in the shortest time possible). Whereas Diary of a Camper uses editing to create a consistent narrative, the absence of editing in Quake Done Quick testifies to the authenticity of the performance. These two ur-­machinimas, tellingly produced in the span of less than a year, defined the medium in the following years. On the one hand, more or less complex narratives were produced using video games’ graphics engines, such as Quad God (2000), a forty-­five-minute feature created using Quake III Arena (id Software, 1999). On the other hand, the documentary use certified a player’s technical prowess and skills. In the early twenty-­first century, both practices would find different forms of stabilization and institutionalization. Video games such as The Movies (Lionhead Studios, 2005) crystallize the form of the narrative machinima, while festivals and events such as Games Done Quick gather communities of fans, turning the practice of speedrunning into a spectacle. For film and game scholars and, more generally, for scholars of digital audiovisual media, machinimas constitute an interesting testing ground. On the one hand, they seem to pertain to the form of cultural production which Nicolas Bourriaud describes as “practices of postproduction”; that is, the tendency to create new content through the re-­signification of existing objects.14 On the other hand, the characteristic convergence of audiovisual production and playing practices, with players being both the producers and the intended audience of these products, encourages a reflection on the communal forms of production within video game culture. Finally, and most evidently, machinima represents one of the most significant areas where video games and cinema intertwine, through a process in which the procedurality of digital play is led back to the linearity of cinema. I would like to propose three different trajectories for the interpretation of these peculiar media objects. The first is political in nature. The “artistic” machinima—conceived as an art object, bound to spread beyond the gaming

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community, and following the practices and habits of contemporary art—may be framed as a specific form of guerrilla-­film which “enables individuals without the means to become purveyors of official histories/memories to be . . . storytellers who can challenge dominant myths.”15 Machinima thus becomes political, innately low-­budget, and anti-­hegemonic cinema. Nevertheless, as noted by Matteo Bittanti, artistic or political machinima constitute only a small fraction of a much larger phenomenon.16 The second perspective is sociological. Machinimas may be framed as catalysts of creative communities of producers, distributors, and critics of a series of shared texts. From this perspective, machinimas constitute a specific form of self-­narrative in which players reflect critically on their practices, shared mythologies, and canonical texts. In this context, Red vs. Blue (2003–), a serial machinima created in the Halo: Combat Evolved (Bungie, 2001) engine which tells a story about the vicissitudes of two military factions bound to fight each other without any apparent reason, provides a relevant example. While Red vs. Blue uses a series of narrative and stylistic strategies derived from traditional TV sitcoms, this specific product is evidently targeted at an audience of players. Jokes and skits repeatedly self-­referentially draw on gamer stereotypes, while the characters often question their own identities, ironically pointing at the possibility of being inside a video game. Finally, machinimas raise an ontological question regarding their relation to film. Whereas this media form apparently reworks film stereotypes, forms, and styles, at the same time, it questions a number of possible definitions of cinema. Films produced through video games; set in virtual environments; shots of ludic performances, edited and turned into narratives via postproduction; documentaries of athletic endeavors in synthetic worlds—all of these aspects point at what Gianni Canova describes as the “identity trauma” (my translation) that cinema underwent when going digital.17 The analog film image has been reconfigured, modified, and even falsified through digital technologies; indeed, arguably even rendered superfluous by the possibility of telling stories through video game engines. In this sense, instead of “playing at cinema,” the producers of machinima play with the notion of cinema itself.18

Let’s plays, longplays, and playthroughs: play as document and spectacle Whereas the practice of machinima oscillates between artistic production and communal self-­narrative, other forms of the linearization of the play experience satisfy documentary or even archival purposes. This diverse set of practices—

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let’s plays, playthroughs, and longplays—has its common denominator in the process of recording a play session, often with the player’s voice-­over commentary, and publishing it on platforms such as YouTube. These videos are usually devoid of significant postproduction (i.e., without editing or added effects), as they are presented as holding some form of documentary value. According to the Let’s Play Archive, LPs [let’s plays] show a video game being played while the player talks about what they’re doing in commentary with video, screenshots or both. Rarely some sections are done “off screen” or sped up, but in most cases the playthrough is a complete run of the game done in informative or humourous style so as to keep your attention.19 In most cases, the producers of this sort of media objects complete the games in several sessions and publish them on YouTube serially; in other cases, the whole of the game is presented through a single video lasting several hours. As in the case of machinima, these media products linearize the experience of play, as gameplay is presented to the spectators as a document or a hybrid between a document and spectacle. Indeed, the personality of the producers of these clips, who usually comment more or less ironically on their skills, is an integral part of the spectacular appeal of these texts. In other words, one watches the game and the player. It might be useful to divide, albeit in an inevitably arbitrary fashion, these para-­ludic products in two general categories. On the one hand, there are let’s plays, whose characteristics are synchronicity and currentness. Let’s play videos usually depict play sessions of recent video games and often include a critical commentary—a sort of ludic review—that may function as a buyer’s guide or as a critical piece on the game. These audiovisual products entertain a symbiotic relationship with YouTube as a platform, and, as noted by Hector Postigo, are inscribed within “a complex set of social practices, some of which have little to do with the actual videos being shared.”20 In other words, these videos exist within a complex media ecology that includes YouTube’s advertising, viewer’s comments, YouTubers’ monetization strategies, etc. Posting a let’s play video of a popular game a few hours after its release implies leveraging YouTube’s immediateness to attract a potentially vast audience seeking early information on the game. From this perspective, it is not surprising that let’s play videos have started rivalling more established critical outlets, such as websites and magazines, due to their more immediate nature, and that those same outlets have responded by starting to produce video reviews. The second category—that of longplays or playthroughs—is not concerned with currentness, but rather with thoroughness. These videos usually depict a

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complete playthrough of a video game, with the player analyzing its characteristics and/or unique traits. Moreover, these videos often contain tips or suggestions on how to overcome certain sections of the game, or, more generally, on how to achieve optimal play. In many cases, these videos are devoted to older games and respond to a need for preservation or even a nostalgic attachment to a specific game. Media historian James Newman claims that recording play sessions and preserving this linearized version of the play experience is the only tenable form of video game preservation.21 While this assumption is certainly not unchallenged, and several scholars have proposed different strategies for the preservation of otherwise obsolescent video games,22 YouTubers releasing longplays of rare or forgotten games help construct a vernacular and unruly archive of a medium that seems to be condemned to an eternal contemporaneity. Videos chronologically detailing entire segments of video game production constitute a more institutionalized preservation practice. For example, Jeremy Parish’s Game Boy Works (2014–) is a series of short videos that aims at covering the whole library of the Nintendo Game Boy in chronological order. Every video features footage of actual gameplay and, at times, other materials that help contextualize the respective game. Parish’s commentary situates the games both within the history of video games and the author’s own experience, thus bridging the gap between vernacular historiography and self-­narrative. While less visible and successful on YouTube compared with other forms of production, historiographical projects such as Game Boy Works reinforce the idea that video game play footage can act as a historical document and a preservation tool for the larger video game community.

E-athleticism and spectacle: live-­streaming On February 21, 1983, the ABC television show That’s Incredible broadcast the North American Video Game Challenge, a video game competition filmed at Twin Galaxies, Iowa. The broadcast was probably the first time competitive video game play was framed as spectator sport, worthy of being divulged beyond the four walls of an arcade room. While framing this event as the birth of eSports might be a bit of a stretch, it was the first time that an audience sitting in a remote location could witness a video game competition, in a fashion similar to a regular sports broadcast. However, it took another two decades before eSports turned into a global phenomenon, starting with Starcraft (Blizzard, 1998) tournaments in South Korea in the early 2000s. The cultural practice later moved westward, with major competitions being broadcast by sports networks such as ESPN.23

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While the economic implications of the eSports scene are not the focus of this article, their relevance in spectatorial practices and the ways in which they assume and engender certain types of performance and spectatorship are worthy of some considerations. In contrast to the practices discussed so far, eSports often relies on live-­ streaming. This seemingly minor difference implies a form of consumption fundamentally different from non-­live media, as audience engagement depends on contingent, often unpredictable events and actions. In this sense, the practices of performance and spectatorship involving video game play live-­ streaming may be placed on a continuum connecting athleticism and spectacle. At the far end of this continuum, eSports represents the performance of athleticism within video game culture. The skills of players are gauged through highly digitized measures, such as APMs (actions per minute; the number of actions performed by a player in a given time frame), which contribute to building highly complex statistical evaluations of players and teams. This way of assessing players’ and teams’ performances engenders what Simon Ferrari has described as “the problem of legibility.”24 In other words, most eSports practices are rather inaccessible to non-­expert viewers. For a casual spectator, oblivious to the complexities and implications of a game such as DOTA 2 (Valve, 2013), watching a game played by highly trained e-­athletes may be a bewildering experience. In this sense, athleticism in video games is linked with a degree of expected viewer competence, and the fact that matches are most often streamed live implies the spectators’—and often commentator’s, as well—ability to correctly process the ramifications of very fast actions. Especially within the context of dedicated events such as Games Done Quick, speedrunning is often performed live and streamed via platforms such as Twitch. In contrast to eSports, in which the context, the setup, and the general modes of signification and framing derive from traditional sports broadcasting, speedrunning conflates athleticism and spectacularization. On the one hand, speedrunners are dedicated players who obsessively perfect their skills in order to shave off precious seconds from their previous records; on the other hand, for the most part, these peculiar kinds of players do not subscribe to the rhetoric of professionalization implied by eSports. Rather, they seem to operate as a “technical community,” a community organized around a common technical or technological interest.25 In this sense, speedrunners are both athletes, in that they train in order to achieve a specific result, and performers of a specific spectacle, aimed at their technical community, as their performances are framed in a non-­professional, often goofy or humorous way. Whereas eSports draws from the legacy of traditional sports broadcasting and spectatorship, live speedrunning implies a different

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type of community, gathered around a common technical knowledge and a more informal atmosphere. A similar approach to competitive video game play occurs in the fighting game scene and relies on a lighter infrastructure than that of more popular eSports. To a degree, this community has managed to preserve some of the informal and vernacular qualities that preceded the professionalization of digital play. Finally, a practice I would like to refer to as “spectacular streams” occupies the other end of this spectrum. These streams are play sessions in which the focus is both on the game being played and on the player playing it, whose commentary is often comedic or ironic, and whose interaction with the spectators aims at forming a strong sense of community. These streams represent a form of communal performance, in which the player/streamer elicits and responds to the comments and questions posed by her audience via a chat system integrated into platforms such as Twitch. This type of play implies an oscillation between two states for the player: she is both the player of a game and the performer performing for a community of spectators. VeliMatti Karhulahti defines these two modes of interaction as “interview frames and play frames,” and claims that, in contrast to eSports and speedrun spectators, who are rather passive, the spectators of these spectacular streams “enjoy the possibility of affecting live-­streams. They want to feel that their actions have an effect, and they enjoy the feeling of their actions having an effect in front of an audience. In other words, spectators pursue the role of a vicarious performer themselves.”26 Live interaction with a player thus frames this form of streaming as a co-­created performance, in which the elitism of athleticism is superseded by the effort to build a community of spectators and players. It should be noted that live streams are commonly broken down into episodes and uploaded on YouTube for both archival and economic purposes. On the one hand, YouTube effectively functions as a repository for these otherwise ephemeral performances; on the other, segmenting a stream into episodes and uploading it for on-­demand consumption allows the streamer to re-­monetize her content.

Play spectatorship: three theses Since the 1978 Brighton Conference, film studies has rekindled its interest in spectatorship, with the textual approach of the previous decades being replaced by an analysis of film viewing as a complex experience involving several actors, among which the spectator plays a key role. Seminal works such as Miriam Hansen’s Babel and Babylon: Spectatorship in American Silent Film (1991) and Francesco Casetti’s Inside the Gaze: The Fiction Film and its

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Spectator (1998), along with more recent contributions, such as Janet Staiger’s Media Reception Studies (2005), call into question the spectator’s gaze as one of the forces involved in the production of meaning within the medium of cinema.27 While often relying on adapted versions of theories developed in the context of film studies, game studies has rarely attempted to develop an organic theory of video game spectatorship.28 This final section of my chapter will propose three theses for understanding digital play spectatorship. While these three theses do not (yet) constitute a theory, they may hopefully serve as a starting point for scholarship in the years to come. The first thesis is based on the aspirational quality of video game spectatorship. According to Theodor Adorno, “mass culture is not interested in turning its consumer into sportsmen as such but only into howling devotees of the stadium.”29 As Miriam Hansen has pointed out, Adorno frames play within mass culture as completely subsumed by professional sports, and thus describes the spectator of play as a fan rather than as an aspiring athlete.30 While Adorno’s theory of play is debatable in its entirety, video games retain an aspirational aspect in terms of spectatorship (despite being a flagship product of “mass culture”). Whereas “analog” sports tend to require a degree of physical prowess and exercise usually inaccessible to the spectator, when it comes to video games, all potential players use a specific interface (joypad, keyboard, mouse, etc.), which somewhat lowers the barrier of access to the practice. Indeed, video games arguably have to have an aspirational quality in order to be appreciated by spectators. Since the translation of inputs into screen events often remains rather obscure (e.g. it is hard to infer how to perform a bicycle kick in FIFA 2017 (Electronic Arts, 2016) by only seeing it on screen), spectators must have, or aspire to have, a degree of experience with the game in order to enjoy the spectacle. For example, in the case of eSports spectatorship, Emma Witkowski has argued that a player learns to appreciate the work of more skilled players through first-­hand experience: “If you want to convince someone that the sport in eSports is not a faux pas, your best bet is to get them to play the game and internalize the sensations for themselves— the sport of eSports is a lived experience calling on bodily engagement from the player.”31 Watching video games thus becomes an aspirational activity, as spectators watch in order to gain a better insight into their own play, devise or acquire new techniques, and marvel at the spectacle of a well-­played game they know how to play. The second thesis frames video game spectatorship as part of the wealth of nostalgic practices ubiquitous in contemporary media cultures. The prevalence of nostalgia as a mode of engagement with video games is a well-­documented phenomenon and operates in different ways and contexts.32 From remakes and de-­makes of older games to collecting, and from nostalgia-­focused game

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criticism to practices of nostalgic game design, video games have a complex relation with their past, and players often use video games as proxies for a more general nostalgia for their own youth or adolescence.33 If recording play sessions of older games can act as a form of vernacular preservation, in some cases, these videos are also activators of nostalgia. YouTube channels such as Classic Game Room often produce content that actively evokes the viewer’s nostalgia for a certain time in game culture. On the other hand, online shows such as The Game Chasers (2011–), very much in the vein of other fetishist shows such as Storage Wars (A&E Network, 2010–), depict the practice of “chasing down” old games as part of a nostalgic attitude towards the medium and, tellingly, interpolate footage of the “chase” with gameplay clips. Accordingly, if we look at preservation and archival practices performed through play recording from the side of the viewer, video game spectatorship converges with other nostalgic practices common across game cultures. Re-­watching thus acts as a vicarious form of re-­playing. Finally, video game spectatorship is part of a co-­constructed performance, which involves the player/streamer and the audience. While this is true in a literal sense in those rare games designed for streaming and incorporating interaction with the audience as a mechanic (e.g. Choice Chamber (Studio Bean, 2014)), spectating a live stream on Twitch generally implies some form of interaction with the streamer, the game, and the other viewers. As William A. Hamilton, Oliver Garretson, and Andruid Kerne have argued, live streaming implies the formation of a “community of play,” in which the performer/player’s effort is aided and even augmented by the multifarious performances of the performer/viewer, who interacts via chat, allowing “informal communities [to] emerge, socialize, and participate.”34 In this context, Clara Fernández-Vara’s theory of play as performance suggests that certain forms of play spectatorship (especially of live gameplay) constitute performances of meta-­play in themselves, thus making the spectator a player of a larger meta-­game. In this sense, while the practices discussed thus far linearize gameplay, at least mechanically, by removing its immediate ergodic functioning, they also produce a set of rules and habits that, in turn, inform the fuzzier meta-­game of watching someone else play.

Conclusion Ben Egliston has claimed that “[t]he growing pervasiveness of spectator platforms and observatory practice across the contemporary gaming landscape has been impactful in forcing a reformulation of what games as a medium fundamentally involve and demand.”35 While observatory practices

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and forms of spectatorships have historically been present as less-­visible companions of video game play, Egliston certainly has a point. This chapter has offered a historical overview of such phenomena, a snapshot of their current configurations, and a speculation on what watching someone playing a video game may imply. More generally, this chapter has aimed at encouraging video game scholars to take spectatorship into consideration as an essential part of a great number of play practices, which often happen inside the screen and, as importantly, all around it, in the eyes, minds, and hands of onlookers, passers-­by, spectators, and fans.

Notes 1 Brian Sutton-Smith, The Ambiguity of Play (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1997), 1. 2 Espen Aarseth, Cybertext: Perspectives on Ergodic Literature (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1997). 3 Clara Fernández-Vara, “Play’s the Thing: a Framework to Study Videogames as Performance,” in Proceedings of DiGRA 2009: Breaking New Ground— Innovation in Games, Play, Practice and Theory. 4 Johan Huizinga, Homo Ludens: A Study of the Play-Element in Culture (Boston, MA: Beacon, 1980), 74. 5 Erkki Huhtamo, “Slots of Fun, Slots of Trouble: An Archaeology of Arcade Gaming,” in Handbook of Computer Game Studies, ed. Joost Raessens and Jeffrey H. Goldstein (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2005). 6 I deliberately use the male pronoun, as the player depicted in these photos is almost always a boy. 7 Most notably Lin Holin and Sun Chuen-Tsai, “The Role of Onlookers in Arcade Gaming: Frame Analysis of Public Behaviours,” Convergence 17, no. 2 (2011). 8 Carly Kocurek, Coin-Operated Americans: Rebooting Boyhood at the Video Game Arcade (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2015), 6–8. 9 Mirjam Vosmer et al., “Changing Roles in Gaming: Twitch and New Gaming Audiences,” in Proceedings of 1st International Joint Conference of DiGRA and FDG (2016), 1. 10 Sheila C. Murphy, “ ‘This Is Intelligent Television’: Early Video Games and Television in the Emergence of the Personal Computer,” in The Video Game Theory Reader 2, ed. Mark J.P. Wolf and Bernard Perron (New York: Routledge, 2009). 11 Lisbeth Klastrup, “ ‘You Can’t Help Shouting and Yelling’: Fun and Social Interaction in Super Monkey Ball,” in Proceedings of Level Up: Digital Games Research Conference (2003), 382. 12 Marc Fetscherin, Charis Kaskiris, and Fredrik Wallenberg, “Gaming or Sharing at LAN-Parties: What Is Going On?” in Proceedings of the First International

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13 Henry Lowood, “High-Performance Play: The Making of Machinima,” Journal of Media Practice 7 (2006): 26. 14 Nicolas Bourriaud, Postproduction: Culture as Screenplay (New York: Lukas & Sternberg, 2002), 24. 15 William Brown and Matthew Holtmeier, “Machinima: Cinema in a Minor or Multitudinous Key?” in Understanding Machinima: Essays of Filmmaking in Virtual Worlds, ed. Jenna Ng (New York: Bloomsbury Academic, 2013), 3. 16 Matteo Bittanti, “Don’t Mess with the Warriors: The Politics of Machinima,” in The Machinima Reader, ed. Henry Lowood and Michael Nitsche (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2011), 315. 17 Gianni Canova, “Sguardi ibridi e immagini meticce: un’occhiata alla galassia del cybermovie,” La carne e il metallo: Visioni, storie e pensiero del cybermondo, ed. Enrico Livraghi (Milano: Il castor, 1999), 20. 18 Guglielmo Pescatore and Valerio Sillari, “Machinima: giocare a fare cinema,” Bianco e nero 564 (2009): 51; my translation. 19 “FAQ,” Let’s Play Archive, https://lparchive.org/faq. 20 Hector Postigo, “The Socio-Technical Architecture of Digital Labor: Converting Play into YouTube Money,” New Media & Society 18, no. 2 (2016): 336. 21 James Newman, Best Before: Videogames, Supersession and Obsolescence (London: Routledge, 2012). 22 Riccardo Fassone, “Archiver les jeux d’arcade: Rhétorique et idéologie de l’emulation vidéo-­ludique,” Tracés 28 (2015); Federico Giordano, “Almost the Same Game: Video Game Documentality and Archivality,” in The Archives: Post-Cinema and Video Game between Memory and the Image of the Present, ed. Federico Giordano and Bernard Perron (Milano: Mimesis International, 2014). 23 T.L. Taylor, Raising the Stakes: eSports and the Professionalization of Computer Gaming (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2012). 24 Simon Ferrari, “eSport and the Human Body: Foundations for a Popular Aesthetics,” in Proceedings of DiGRA 2013: De-Fragging Game Studies (2013), 10. 25 Gabriel Menotti, “Videorec as Gameplay: Recording of Playthroughs and Video Game Engagement,” G|A|M|E: The Italian Journal of Game Studies 3 (2014): 85. 26 Veli-Matti Karhulahti, “Prank, Troll, Gross and Gore: Performance Issues in Esport Live-Streaming,” Proceedings of 1st International Joint Conference of DiGRA and FDG (2016), 2, 10. 27 Miriam Hansen, Babel and Babylon: Spectatorship in American Silent Film (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1991); Francesco Casetti, Inside the Gaze: The Fiction Film and its Spectator (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1998); Janet Staiger, Media Reception Studies (New York: New York University Press, 2005).

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28 See, for example, Bernard Perron and Dominic Arsenault, “De-Framing Video Games from the Light of Cinema,” G|A|M|E: The Italian Journal of Game Studies 4 (2015), https://www.gamejournal.it/arsenault_perron_ deframing/. 29 Theodor W. Adorno, The Culture Industry: Selected Essays on Mass Culture (London: Routledge, 1991), 90. 30 Miriam Bratu Hansen, Cinema and Experience: Siegfried Kracauer, Walter Benjamin, and Theodor W. Adorno (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2012), 197–9. 31 Emma Witkowski, “Probing the Sportiness of eSports,” in eSports Yearbook 2009, ed. Julia Christophers and Tobias Scholz (Norderstedt: Books on Demand, 2010), 55. 32 Saara Toivonen and Olli Sotamaa, “Of Discs, Boxes and Cartridges: The Material Life of Digital Games,” in Proceedings of DiGRA 2011: Think, Design, Play (2011). 33 Maria Garda, “Neo-Rogue and the Essence of Roguelikeness,” Homo Ludens 5 (2013). 34 William A. Hamilton, Oliver Garretson, and Andruid Kerne, “Streaming on Twitch: Fostering Participatory Communities of Play within Live Mixed Media,” in Proceedings of CHI 2014 (2014). 35 Ben Egliston, “Playing Across Media: Exploring Transtextuality in Competitive Games and eSports,” in Proceedings of DiGRA 2015: Diversity of Play— Games | Cultures | Identities (2015).

References Aarseth, Espen. Cybertext: Perspectives on Ergodic Literature. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1997. Adorno, Theodor W. The Culture Industry: Selected Essays on Mass Culture. London: Routledge, 1991. Bittanti, Matteo. “Don’t Mess with the Warriors: The Politcs of Machinima.” In The Machinima Reader, edited by Henry Lowood and Michael Nitsche, 315–38. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2011. Bourriaud, Nicolas. Postproduction: Culture as Screenplay. How Art Reprograms the World. New York: Lukas & Sternberg, 2002. Brown, William, and Matthew Holtmeier. “Machinima: Cinema in a Minor or Multitudinous Key?” In Understanding Machinima: Essays of Filmmaking in Virtual Worlds, edited by Jenna Ng, 1–22. New York: Bloomsbury Academic, 2013. Canova, Gianni. “Sguardi ibridi e immagini meticce: un’occhiata alla galassia del cybermovie.” In La carne e il metallo: Visioni, storie e pensiero del cybermondo, edited by Enrico Livraghi, 18–21. Milano: Il castor, 1999. Casetti, Francesco. Inside the Gaze: The Fiction Film and its Spectator. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1998.

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“Diary of a Camper (1996) by United Ranger Films.” YouTube video, 1:38. Posted by “donkee,” March 14, 2013. Accessed October 4, 2017. https://www. youtube.com/watch?v=mq4Ks4Z_NGY. Egliston, Ben. “Playing Across Media: Exploring Transtextuality in Competitive Games and eSports.” In Proceedings of DiGRA 2015: Diversity of Play— Games | Cultures | Identities, 2015. Fassone, Riccardo, “Archiver les jeux d’arcade: rhétorique et idéologie de l’emulation vidéo-­ludique.” Tracés 28 (2015): 61–79. Fernández-Vara, Clara. “Play’s the Thing: A Framework to Study Videogames as Performance.” In Proceedings of DiGRA 2009: Breaking New Ground: Innovation in Games, Play, Practice and Theory, 2009. Ferrari, Simon. “eSport and the Human Body: Foundations for a Popular Aesthetics.” In Proceedings of DiGRA 2013: De-Fragging Game Studies (2013). Fetscherin, Marc, Charis Kaskiris, and Fredrik Wallenberg. “Gaming or Sharing at LAN-Parties: What Is Going On?” In First International Conference on Automated Production of Cross Media Content for Multi-Channel Distribution (AXMEDIS’05), 2005. The Game Chasers. Produced by The Game Chasers. YouTube channel, 2011–. Accessed October 4, 2017. https://www.youtube.com/channel/ UC78PzEVn5zWK4No0dPQHVQw. Garda, Maria. “Neo-Rogue and the Essence of Roguelikeness.” Homo Ludens 5 (2013): 59–72. Giordano, Federico. “Almost the Same Game: Video Game Documentality and Archivality.” In The Archives: Post-Cinema and Video Game between Memory and the Image of the Present, edited by Federico Giordano and Bernard Perron, 201–30. Milano: Mimesis International, 2014. Hamilton, William A., Oliver Garretson, and Andruid Kerne. “Streaming on Twitch: Fostering Participatory Communities of Play within Live Mixed Media.” In Proceedings of CHI 2014, April 26–May 1, 2014, Toronto, Canada. Hansen, Miriam. Babel and Babylon: Spectatorship in American Silent Film. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1991. Hansen, Miriam Bratu. Cinema and Experience: Siegfried Kracauer, Walter Benjamin, and Theodor W. Adorno. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2012. Holin, Lin, and Sun Chuen-Tsai. “The Role of Onlookers in Arcade Gaming: Frame Analysis of Public Behaviours.” Convergence 17, no. 2 (2011): 125–37. Huhtamo, Erkki. “Slots of Fun, Slots of Trouble. An Archaeology of Arcade Gaming.” In Handbook of Computer Game Studies, edited by Joost Raessens and Jeffrey H. Goldstein, 3–22. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2005. Huizinga, Johan. Homo Ludens: A Study of the Play-Element in Culture. Boston: Beacon, 1980. Karhulahti, Veli-Matti. “Prank, Troll, Gross and Gore: Performance Issues in Esport Live-Streaming.” In Proceedings of 1st International Joint Conference of DiGRA and FDG, 2016. Klastrup, Lisbeth. “ ‘You Can’t Help Shouting and Yelling’: Fun and Social Interaction in Super Monkey Ball.” In Proceedings of Level Up: Digital Games Research Conference (2003), 381–90. Kocurek, Carly. Coin-Operated Americans: Rebooting Boyhood at the Video Game Arcade. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2015.

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Lowood, Henry. “High-Performance Play: The Making of Machinima.” Journal of Media Practice 7 (2006): 25–42. Menotti, Gabriel. “Videorec as Gameplay: Recording of Playthroughs and Video Game Engagement.” G|A|M|E: The Italian Journal of Game Studies 3 (2014): 81–94. The Movies. Developed by Lionhead Studios. Activision, 2005. Windows. Murphy, Sheila C. “ ‘This is Intelligent Television’: Early Video Games and Television in the Emergence of the Personal Computer.” In The Video Game Theory Reader 2, edited by Mark J.P. Wolf and Bernard Perron, 197–212. New York: Routledge, 2009. Newman, James. Best Before: Videogames, Supersession and Obsolescence. London: Routledge, 2012. Parish, Jeremy. “Game Boy Works: 1989.” YouTube playlist. June 30, 2014. Accessed October 4, 2017. https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLd3vJYde nHKEYL6sCw8jgYMAj0K7BAfhY. Parish, Jeremy. “Game Boy Works: 1990.” YouTube playlist. April 21, 2015. Accessed October 4, 2017. https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLd3vJYde nHKEyPqPiftoCz8F7IucYK B7o. Perron, Bernard, and Dominic Arsenault. “De-Framing Video Games from the Light of Cinema.” G|A|M|E: The Italian Journal of Game Studies 4 (2015). Accessed October 4, 2017. https://www.gamejournal.it/arsenault_perron_ deframing/. Pescatore, Guglielmo and Valerio Sillari. “Machinima: Giocare a fare cinema.” Bianco e nero 564 (2009): 51–7. Postigo, Hector. “The Socio-Technical Architecture of Digital Labor: Converting Play into YouTube Money.” New Media & Society 18, no. 2 (2016): 332–49. “Quake done Quick – Quake Speedrun in 19:49 (June 1997).” YouTube video, 26:37. Posted by “dada78641,” May 20, 2011. Accessed October 4, 2017. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H7HWk1QIWyA. Red vs. Blue. Created by Burnie Burns. Web series. Rooster Teeth, 2003–. Staiger, Janet. Media Reception Studies. New York: New York University Press, 2005. Sutton-Smith, Brian. The Ambiguity of Play. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1997. Taylor, T.L. Raising the Stakes: eSports and the Professionalization of Computer Gaming. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2012. Toivonen, Saara, and Olli Sotamaa. “Of Discs, Boxes and Cartridges: The Material Life of Digital Games.” In Proceedings of DiGRA 2011: Think, Design, Play, 2011. “Tritin Classic – Quad God – Part 1.” YouTube video, 8:42. Posted by “Doom Arenas,” January 7, 2010. Accessed October 4, 2017. https://www.youtube. com/watch?v=kLfgPHrepj4. “Tritin Classic – Quad God – Part 2.” YouTube video, 9:14. Posted by “Doom Arenas,” January 7, 2010. Accessed October 4, 2017. https://www.youtube. com/watch?v=bQhOsIwwSTo. “Tritin Classic – Quad God – Part 3.” YouTube video, 9:59. Posted by “Doom Arenas,” January 7, 2010. Accessed October 4, 2017. https://www.youtube. com/watch?v=QXEV_EtOvlA.

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“Tritin Classic – Quad God – Part 4.” YouTube video, 5:07. Posted by “Doom Arenas,” January 7, 2010. Accessed October 4, 2017. https://www.youtube. com/watch?v=myKFKs7KxZM. Vosmer, Mirjam, Gabriele Ferri, Ben Schouten, and Stefan Rank. “Changing Roles in Gaming: Twitch and New Gaming Audiences.” In Proceedings of 1st International Joint Conference of DiGRA and FDG, 2016. Witkowski, Emma. “Probing the Sportiness of eSports.” In eSports Yearbook 2009, edited by Julia Christophers and Tobias Scholz, 53–6. Norderstedt: Books on Demand, 2010.

7 Video-­Gaming in(to) Literature: Virtual CorpoReality in Chloé Delaume’s Corpus Simsi Laurent Milesi

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“

y name is Chloé Delaume. I am a fictional character.” Thus begins Chloé Delaume’s La règle du Je (2010), a title which literally translates as The Rule of the I while punning on the French homonym for “game” (jeu).1 This opening is the nth iteration of a formula first introduced in La Vanité des Somnambules (2003) and whose best-­known variant opens Delaume’s playful packaging of her body and self as a sim in Corpus Simsi (2003): “My name is still Chloé Delaume. I am interminably a fictional character.”2 In addition, this mantra evokes iconic lines and variations on the “I am my character” trope in literary history and popular culture, such as Gustave Flaubert’s provocative assertion “Madame Bovary, c’est moi” and the more tongue-­in-cheek “Groucho is not my real name. I’m just breaking it in for a friend” attributed to Julius Marx.3 Like these authorial bon mots, Delaume’s self-­identification in fiction raises the question of who Chloé Delaume, in fact, is. More to the point, echoing Groucho’s implicit acknowledgement of the constructedness of “Groucho Marx,” Delaume’s declaration makes her artificiality explicit and therefore opens up the referentiality of the real to the metareferentiality of literary discourse. Indeed, the name “Chloé Delaume” is closely associated with the literary practice of autofiction, whose diverse, sometimes mutually incompatible,

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conceptions in French criticism she reviews in La règle du Je, a reflective “essay” on her attempt to square her own hybrid prose form and interrogation of aesthetic experience with this established, albeit definitionally divisive, genre.4 More specifically, Delaume is known for the idiosyncratic inflection which her fictional constructions have attempted to impart to this typically French literary problematic. Her trademark work on the interface between the virtual and the real draws on other media, such as games (including the popular detective parlor RPG Cluedo in Certainement pas (2004)5) and TV series. In the teenage-Goth-­inspired fan fiction La Nuit je suis Buffy Summers (2007), dedicated to the eponymous heroine of Buffy the Vampire Slayer (The WB, 1997–2003), the reader “no longer plays at living out a fiction but an autofiction. He plays at being Chloé Delaume” (RJ 93). La nuit is a gamebook (livre-­jeu), a form popularized in English by the CYOA (Choose Your Own Adventure) series. It is a second-­person participatory (or “ergodic”) narrative whose unfolding depends on the interactive choices made by its reader-­ hero(ine), whose earlier avatars are Raymond Queneau’s reader-­controlled scenario of Un conte à votre façon (1967) and, more famously, Julio Cortázar’s Rayuela (1963).6 In video game parlance, La Nuit could be seen as a compendium of alternative walkthroughs, a textual variant on the many possible scenarios in The Stanley Parable (Galactic Cafe, 2011), or a text adventure whose modern descendant is the browser-­driven interactive game or IF (interactive fiction), its dice-­throwing trickery being an equivalent of the card-­playing mechanics of Fallen London (Failbetter, 2009) and other such games born of the StoryNexus creative tools.7 In a similar vein, J’habite dans la télévision (2006), which remixes several episodes of David Cronenberg’s Videodrome (1983), is a self-­study of how the TV conditions modifications in body and thought: “To write oneself in(to) this real which fictionalizes us” (RJ 90).8 Like most of her autofictional experiments, the self-­proclaimed essay La règle du Je proposes variations on the initial formula “My name is Chloé Delaume. I am a fictional character” (5), a formula that is first introduced in the opening chapter (titled “If you have missed the beginning”) and echoed in the fourth one (“If you have missed the sequel”): “My name is still Chloé Delaume. I am inexorably a fictional character. I think everyone got it” (21). Thus, the line between the expected critical (self-)reflection and the more creative writing is blurred, in keeping with the soon-­to-come proclamation of a similarly porous synapse between life, the real, and fiction. Delaume’s autofiction is not the “autobiographical” restyling of a “real” self but, on the contrary, the willful repossession by a nominal avatar of “herself” instead of being passively “configured” by “real” others:

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[T]he fiction always intermingles with life, . . . the real bends itself to the contours of my fable. The one I write each day, whose heroine I am. My old I (Je) saw itself scripted by others, a secondary character in a family romance and a passive walk-­on part of collective fiction. Re-­appropriating my flesh, my every move as well as my identity could only be achieved through literature. RJ 6 The “I” who used to be called Natalie-Anne Abdallah until she was seven, when her Lebanese father’s name was “naturalized” to a more tamely French-­ sounding Dalain, experienced a traumatic event when, aged ten, her “father”— who was not even her “real,” biological father—murdered her mother in front of her before committing suicide. After a miserable early adult life, one day in 1999, she decided to do a Ctrl+Alt+Del and (re)invent herself, choosing as her new identity a cross between the given name of the heroine of Boris Vian’s L’Écume des jours (1947) and Antonin Artaud’s play L’Arve et l’aume (1947), itself a restyling of Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking-Glass (1872).9 Instead of constructing an escapist fiction for her “real” self, she set about “suiciding her I,” “housing” in her body the avatar she was devising for herself as a future sim citizen: “[Chloé Delaume] has taken over [from Natalie Dalain] in the body, and she has then been writing herself ever since” (RJ 9; 7; 43). Fictional or, in the words of fictionalized, real-­life interlocutor Igor, “utopian” as this reinvention may sound, Delaume insists that she is building “a work of art without any distinction between life and paper” (RJ 61; 56). Not unlike fiction’s disturbing encroachment upon life’s scenarios in Alan Wake (Remedy, 2010), she is fleshing out her life from writing (RJ 7), rather than the traditional, other way round. Thus, in “S’écrire mode d’emploi,” a talk Delaume gave at a conference on autofiction in 2007 and whose wording contained much of the material of La règle du Je, she states: My name is Chloé Delaume. I am a fictional character. I say so again and again and declare it everywhere. I write myself in books, in texts, in sound plays. I decided to become a fictional character when I realized I was one already. With this difference that I was not writing myself. Others were busy doing that for me. “SMD” 1 Accordingly, “I” is not merely “another,” as in Rimbaud’s celebrated formula— reworked into “jeu est un autre” in Corpus Simsi (8)—but becomes another: “I suicided my I in order to get there. I became another”; “I must write myself

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ceaselessly in order to make myself become [advenir]” (RJ 13, 80). Delaume’s ludic autofiction was therefore first a means of empowering the new identity to integrate her body. In 2012, the (by now former) “bio” on her website began “Chloé Delaume’s body was born on 10th March 1973 . . .” and centered on it (il) as subject until “I” intervened and took over, proclaiming: “My name is Chloé Delaume, author, narrator, heroine. My body is thirty-­eight years old and I have written twenty books.” Mixing some of her textual compositions with different forms of performance, Delaume emphasizes that she performatively inscribes herself into life through transformation, the practice of autofiction allowing “an aesthetics of existence” (RJ 79; 56). To say is to do, as the Word is made Fleshless Body (RJ 69; 74). Indeed, her “je m’appelle Chloé Delaume” can also be interpreted as a performative call into being and existing: “I call myself today because I have imposed a second beginning,” soon after recalling her chosen double patrilineage and “I knocked myself up” (RJ 6; 79: “Autofiction contains performative genes”). Across the iterated formulas and the several life-­books housing unsuccessful, hence ceaselessly renewed attempts to “suicide the I,” Chloé Delaume “has become a fictional character without a fixed abode” (RJ 88; 86), tensed between different messed-­up saves of “herself” in a “virtuareal” space: I make a pact with life, since I know only how to mess up my death. I have written myself in books, but very little in life for a year and a half, huddled up behind the computer . . . I no longer know how to write myself in the real at all, I no longer know how to write myself, just about to put up with myself. My texts prophesy the psychotic episode which is soon going to happen, I initiate myself in a syndrome of derealization. RJ 88 The pact is what binds indissolubly life and writing: life-­writing as a pact of survival in the real.10 In this fragile, ludo-­performative interface, to play no longer means to pretend to be someone else, but rather to program (the life events of) another self into being through the interactive game rules of a conveniently homophonic “I-play” or je(u) (RJ 80), to “annihilate the borders” between fiction and life, art, and the real, in a kind of writing which re-­transcribes as much as it inoculates (“SMD” 1). In this ludic (re)building of the self, the limitations of the real are overcome, while the daily dramas of soteriology are confronted in a relatively “protected environment”: “In the real I have few abilities, no sense of orientation. In the virtual I have ‘cheat codes’ but I mess up my saves with each disconnection” (RJ 82).

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In this immersive, hybrid perspective reminiscent of a gamer’s involvement in a video game’s ludic universe, there is no more secure boundary between playing (at writing) one’s life and simulating it in a “virtuareality” convincing enough for the self to believe that it is the real, whether such a simulated reality is either a Baudrillardian hyperreality (“a real without origin or reality,” “sheltered . . . from any distinction between the real and the imaginary”) or a Matrix-like computer simulation.11 In this respect, Delaume’s enactment of virtual embodiment through The Sims in Corpus Simsi was a logical, if transitional step forward, marking the most accomplished form of such an overwriting of the self through the staged blurring of reality and simulation.

“Realoaded”:12 corpus simsi Inspired by Will Wright’s online RPG The Sims, EA’s cult game franchise about the “simulation of life” (CS 26; “SMD” 10), Delaume’s Corpus Simsi: Incarnation virtuellement temporaire is the main book output—with chapters numbered sequentially from v.1.0 to v.1.9 to simulate “builds”—of a “cross-­ platform” project started in June 2002 (CS 124–5), which, like a video game or computer software, spawned several “expansions” or “versions” over the next two years (from a beta to v.1.7, to non-­sequential events like the Matrix’ed “Corpus Simsi Reloaded”).13 Some three years after her decision to adopt a new name for a “Second Life,” the Corpus Simsi project took Delaume’s autofiction to a higher level of self-­reformatting: a refusal to be incarnated merely in a book, ditching the housing body of the real in order to enter a virtual program and universe, in which her “I” could teleport across the bodies of its various users in the gameworld via her pixelated avatar—which was freely downloadable as part of a wholly customized “skin” (created by fashion designer Christian Lacroix) by other sim citizens to play (as) Chloé Delaume. Conceived as a multimedia performance, complete with digital music and playlets (saynètes) acted out live while gaming sequences of The Sims were projected onscreen, Delaume’s major game-­based endeavor to redraw the borderline between reality and simulation, actuality and virtuality, corps (bodies) and corpus, was terminated with the advent of a new Sims generation (The Sims 2) in September 2004.14 Within its 2D paper confines, Corpus Simsi flaunts itself as a visual, almost tactile artifact which replicates the gamer’s access to the parent video game by first presenting the reader with the “configuration of the character” (v.1.0), the RPG’s attribution of various qualities corresponding to the protagonist’s initial characterization in more traditional fiction. While strictly speaking not affording the interactivity of a gamebook, Delaume’s creation is yet a “gamesy”

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recreation, complete with a part retranscription of its attendant blog during development, lavish screen grabs and countless avatar mock-­ups of The Sims’ universe which explore the parameters of virtual existence (investing space, time, needs, language, learning abilities, work, pets, death) and acts as a portal to the multimedia project framing Corpus Simsi. Often signaled by its self-­consciously cutesy pink font, the augmented hyperreality of “Chloé Delaume” is matched by the work’s intrinsic hypertextual dimension as the text unfolds from build (chapter) to build, in sync with the analysis of the sim citizen’s growth and its universe’s many specific facets. A keen Sims gamer herself during the project’s gestation, Delaume not only “classically” pens herself into an existing ludic environment but also merges with the game program, mutating into a sim citizen (simstoyen), the ciel [sky] conveniently becoming part of a logiciel or didacticiel ([educational] software) in French. The following montage, excerpted from its subsequent presentation in La règle du Je, will give an idea of this novel transformation: Another median than the body, another media than the real . . . In the guise of an avatar, the “I” becomes a formatted videogame character, subjected to other rules than those of the physical world . . .To become a virtual avatar, to dissolve oneself pixel flesh in a videogame . . . RJ 86 Staging [Mise en scène] of my pixelated double in diverse, concrete or symbolic situations. Projection of the virtual I, interaction with the real I. A mise en abyme made possible by technology. Implementation [Mise en place] of the Simsology rubric on my website, where it is possible to download my avatar. The Sims players can integrate me into their game session, play me, taking their turn at embodying me. More than two hundred people acquire my character, some send me screen grabs, as traces of my integration into their own fictions. Others than me write to me, a facet of my I wanders about in other computers than mine, living out adventures of which I have no idea. To enable the I to become a collective datum, a fictional prop where everyone can identify in their own way, was part of the process. RJ 87 This complex ludo-­existential process also involved the creation of an online blog, partly merged as v.1.8 in Corpus Simsi (CS 100–3), where the avatar would recount its everyday life and consign its thoughts about its status as a video game character (RJ 87)—an interesting feature if one recalls that Delaume tried to demarcate her autofictional practice from the “cyber ego” in

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new digital forms of fictionalized autobiography such as blogging (RJ 62). What follows is a representative, dramatized sample which shows how the Je speaks as a Sims heroine of a game program. It is taken from the final entry, left undated but clearly composed after the original Sims character had been superseded by the new Sims 2 prototype: I won’t speak to you any longer. I have nothing left to say to you, I don’t have to give evidence any longer. Since The Sims 2 I’ve been very afraid of dying. Since The Sims 2 I’ve become more fluid, my nose is in 3D, I’ve become red-­haired and my irises are green . . . I don’t have the same life any longer and I’m afraid it might stop. I’m no longer infinite, I’m just a Phoenix.15 According to Joyce Goggin, Corpus Simsi privileges the virtual body over the corporeal.16 The last-­but-one quotation, as well as the repeated claims to have exited a constrictive physical frame, would at first seem to substantiate her claim.17 So would perhaps Delaume’s own summary toward the beginning of Corpus Simsi (4–5), where she explains what led her autofiction experiments to be rerouted to a mere search for a fleshless “housing space” (CS 5; reprised 124): it was the character’s dogged refusal to be reincarnated on paper and its desire to pirate “her own” deserted body, a body from which this character was then evicted through the housing body’s implosion at the end of the previous novel, La vanité des Somnambules (CS 14; see also RJ 85–6). This emphasis on virtualization also accounts for observations like: “The game that my former body preferred was called The Sims” (CS 7; also 60: “ex-­body”), “The quartering of the self into a heap of files provokes no suffering whatsoever . . . Only the hard disk knows about an integrity problem” (CS 11). It also accounts, more generally, for the numerous processes of recoding and reformatting the self and body, broken down into computerized parts or game components (e.g., CS 12, 15, 20). While this approach, comfortably backed up by bio-­literary factum and fatum, would find some confirmation in the generally prevailing view that, to quote Martti Lahti, “[games] crystallize a new and complex relationship between corporeal experience (the body) and our subjectivity,” it flattens the evolutive trajectory which I have just reconstructed and sidesteps two crucial aspects of Delaume’s undertaking (registered in the binary subtitle: virtual incarnation):18 First, there is the author’s remediation of herself and her body, already conceived as median and medium (see the above extract about the avatar), via a ludic recreation spanning several “versions” and aesthetic media through which Delaume stages the (re)incarnation of her virtual new self as distributed into enacting gamers.19 I am emphasizing this aspect since Goggin rightly identifies Delaume’s ergodic reclamation of some of the game

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experience on which it is based, yet seemingly links this remediation to virtualization only, without the extension into other corporealities.20 Second, there is the more radical, political view of individual life as always already a fiction scripted by others in family and society in quasi-Baudrillardian fashion, which writing needs to re-­incarnate otherwise. The following entry on Delaume’s former Sims blog merged in v.1.8, dated “27 simsial 03, 15h41” as if it were in a revolutionary calendar, is representative of this ludo-­existential takeover by a new order, straddling the border between Corpus Simsi and the “real” out there, for whom playing and being are interchangeable: “we suspect that Simsians . . . have organized themselves like us. We are the Sims, we play the Sims” (CS 103).21 “This is my virtuareal body” could therefore be the motto of Corpus Simsi, whose protagonist infiltrates the bodies and lives of gamers and physically implants herself in the video game book’s virtual world. At stake here is not merely the usual “willing suspension of disbelief” inevitably presupposed by the imaginary or imagined scenarios of something called “fiction”—in whatever aesthetic medium—but also the necessity to understand how the liberating potential of the virtual over the real (as well as a critique of power in the latter) can extend, reshape and redefine corporeality itself. A sense of this is given in the final blog entry about the difference between unamenable fictional characters and humans: “we are in potentiality [dans la puissance] and you in power [dans le pouvoir].” Or, as “S’écrire mode d’emploi” puts it: demarcating itself from the fashionable “neo-­realist” novel, autofiction intervenes in the “field of possibles” (“SMD” 2). This emphasis on possibilization also helps account for the token reversibility of Corpus Simsi executed by the back cover, as if to mime a gamer’s decision to start all over again (or, as it were, to turn over a new leaf),22 and the following statement (the first part an unattributed quotation from Guy Debord) in the book’s “flip side”: “In the world that is really upside down, the true is a moment of the false. You had been forewarned but you never listen.”23 This reversibility of verisimilitude and simulation (since we are/play the Sims) uncovers a deeper sense of the virtual as the manifold of possibilities of (and often sacrificed by) the real rather than the former being conventionally reduced to a modern technological extension of the latter. It is not only to be located in the reversibility of art and life (“To make a work of art of one’s life, and one’s life out of a work of art” (“SMD” 3)) or of being an actor versus a spectator in the world (“the subject does not only observe what s/he lives out, the subject lives out what s/he observes” (“SMD” 3), paralleling quantum physics, where the fact of observing changes the state of what is being observed). It also cuts through to the core of Delaume’s indirect “translation” of that key dimension of any gamer’s experience: immersion, or what Delaume called on her website “the fictionalization of possibilities . . . of being immersed in the power of web-­fiction.”24

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In this respect, performance and performativity play a crucial role. By involving and ceaselessly reconfiguring the relation between corps and corpus, the supporting stagings of herself over and over again, or the remediating experiments, lend a degree of corporealization and affect to what could otherwise remain mere textual effect and make-­believe. But in this immersive merger with the game program (see RJ 46), and bearing in mind the emancipatory potential of autofiction, who thinks and programs whom in the folds between the ludic-­literary and the real? And in the book Corpus Simsi—which it should be emphasized again is not strictly speaking a gamebook—what place and role is ascribed to the reader-­gamer in the je/u of a new interactive fictional contract? What happens when one virtualizes oneself in(to) an autofictional series whose often-­iterated claims to be a fictional character are played out against live virtualizations of the gaming self, once the “real” self has become the withered avatar of the je that has been reinvented/reconstructed through the autofiction of a “second life”? Through its programming of the reader-­gamer’s interactive role, Corpus Simsi invites us both to read the video game and “play at literature” in a double (narrative and corporeal) projection, an ergodic participation that commits the reader-­ gamer to a more intense mental and physical manipulation within the book-­asportal or in the interface between the Sims’ gameworld and our own “real” world complete with imaginary expansions.

S’écrire: politics of the virtuareal Even though, as Delaume’s “Corpus Simsi project” section on her website used to state, in the Sims’ parallel game universe “the greatest freedom of action cohabits with the strictest codification,” not unlike in Oulipian creation, the constraints paradoxically allow inventiveness and creativity to be maximized and make self-projection possible. The very dialectic of freedom and constraint begs the question of the ultimate motivation of such a “project” for those “unamenable characters” to whom “Delaume” belongs. The exchange with Igor in La règle du Je provides an answer. “Moi” argues that the fictionalization of the self at work in autofiction is an act of resistance against collective fictions (RJ 58; cf. “SMD” 8), a politics of resistance in order to save the individual in an increasingly dehumanizing, capital-­driven society (“SMD” 2). The recurrent metaphors of housing, building (as well as “builds”), construction, etc. even suggest a new deal or “eco-­nomics” (from oikos and nomos: the law of the house), poignantly relevant in these days of protracted credit crisis, in which the autofictionalized individual hopes to “repossess” their divested, alienated self and subjective capital.25

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Thus, s’écrire in autofiction is to empower oneself through fluid virtual reincarnations; it is not reducible to “consigning one’s life” (“SMD” 3), but rather it is always “writing oneself in the living” (RJ 60), such that autofiction can even promnesically prophesy the real to come (see RJ 85–6, which discusses the psychotic episode predicted by the previous novel), unlike the retrospective anamnesis of autobiography. To write oneself autofictionally is “to construct another memory for [one]self” (“SMD” 7), which goes beyond the psychoanalytic goal summed up by Freud in the famous Wo Es war, soll Ich werden: Where Id was, there Ego shall be.26 More (ludic) formatting than (literary) form, more configuration than figure, “Chloé Delaume” of Corpus Simsi, the simulation that is the gamer’s incarnated virtuality, encodes a new form of ludo-­textual embodiment to be taken at physical face value: “virtual corporeality”: “My name will always be Chloé Delaume. Here much more than elsewhere, doubtless. I’ve found forever an ample mediator capable of housing me. Of housing me without clashes, without screechings, without pain” (CS 114). Delaume’s engagement with alterity, intermediality and “serious play” did not stop when her autofictional cycle came to a close, with the “transitional” novel Une femme avec personne dedans (2012).27 Instead, it took a new direction with Alienare (2015), a transmedia survival sci-­fi, Kholat-style, co-­produced with Franck Dion as an iOS app.28 Set in a post-­apocalyptic universe and made up of a series of independent classified files (journaux internes) from four of the seven characters over the forty-­eight hours of their mission (codename: Alienare) into the heart of an uncharted “white zone,” Delaume’s interactive fiction mixes codes from sound drama, animation cinema and video games with levels, integrated audio-­visual cutscenes or “transmissions,” an optimized superhero and a final boss, as well as allusions to the Lovecraftian RPG horror game series Call of Cthulhu (including the famous sentence “Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn” from H.P. Lovecraft’s original short story “The Call of Cthulhu” (1928)). Freed from the two-­dimensional constraints of the paper format, the interactive fiction is ported to a haptic screen which operates as the reader-­gamer’s control center and access point. This is Delaume’s most borderline experiment since the “augmented literature” of Corpus Simsi, adding to multimedia fiction an increased level of immersivity which edges literature ever more closely to the digital realm of videogaming.29

Notes 1 Chloé Delaume, La règle du Je: Autofiction, un essai (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 2010), 5. All subsequent references to La règle du

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Je will be indicated parenthetically in the main text. I will use the abbreviation “RJ” in cases in which the text I refer to might not be entirely clear. All translations from Delaume’s texts are mine. 2 Chloé Delaume, Corpus Simsi: Incarnation virtuellement temporaire (Paris: Léo Scheer, 2003), 4. All subsequent references to Corpus Simsi will be indicated parenthetically in the main text, using the abbreviation “CS” in cases in which the text I refer to might not be entirely clear. 3 Ironically, this most celebrated quotation is apocryphal as it cannot be found in any of Flaubert’s writings. A variant of Groucho’s line appears in A Night in Casablanca (1946). 4 See also Shirley Jordan, “État présent: Autofiction in the Feminine,” French Studies 67, no. 1 (2013). 5 The title of Certainement pas (Certainly Not) echoes Lacan’s notorious quip when answering a telephone call to his name (see http://www.chloedelaume. net/?page_id=291, accessed March 17, 2017). The story takes place in a psychiatric hospital which mirrors Delaume’s own internment the year before, and each of its characters embodies a “real” person, including the author. One of the characters in the French version of Cluedo, Mademoiselle Rose (Miss Scarlett), is mentioned in CS (7). 6 “Ergodic” as defined by Espen J. Aarseth in Cybertext: Perspectives on Ergodic Literature (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1997). 7 See examples of their various gameworlds at http://www.storynexus.com/sd, accessed March 17, 2017. 8 In an interview for the e-magazine L’Internaute, Delaume recalls that autofiction has often been compared with reality TV; see http://www.linternaute.com/livre/ magazine/chloe-delaume-chloe-delaume-l-interview/l-autofiction-c-est.shtml, accessed March 17, 2017. 9 Variously recalled, for instance in RJ (5–6) and in Chloé Delaume, “S’écrire mode d’emploi,” publie.net, 2008, http://classes.bnf.fr/ecrirelaville/ressources/delaume. pdf, 1. All subsequent references to “S’écrire mode d’emploi” will be indicated parenthetically in the main text, using the abbreviation “SMD” in cases in which the text I refer to might not be entirely clear. The title alludes to Georges Perec’s famous novel La vie, mode d’emploi (1978) about the meticulously interwoven lives of the inhabitants of the building at 11 rue Simon-Crubellier. 10 See “SMD,” 7; quoting from Chloé Delaume, Dans ma maison sous terre (Paris: Seuil, 2009), 3. 11 Jean Baudrillard, Simulacra and Simulation, trans. Sheila Faria Glaser (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1994), 1–3; Nick Bostrom, “Are You Living in a Computer Simulation?” Philosophical Quarterly 53, no. 211 (2003). 12 Chloé Delaume, “My Beautiful Realoaded” [sic], chloedelaume.net, July 2015 (originally published in Spray, 2009), http://www.chloedelaume.net/wp-­ content/uploads/2015/07/Nouvelle-Chloé-Delaume-Spray-2.2.rtf. Delaume’s short story recounts the day in the simulating life of a wife, living at 4 impasse Will Wright, until a “holographic program” activating her double detonates her brains and makes her unload her revolver on the indifferent husband that was seated on her chair where her body was lying, and the third person (“she”) in the narrative “realoads” as\into a first person (“I”).

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13 During the project (2002–04), Delaume’s website featured a separate rubric (“simsologie”) listing additional “expansions” such as “Corpus Simsi 1.5: Idéalisation des icônes en cours,” audio performances, and a SimsBlog, http://www.chloedelaume.net/rubrique.php3?id_rubrique=4, retrieved from https://web.archive.org/web/20040217143537/http://www.chloedelaume.net/ r15, accessed March 17, 2017. A former version of Delaume’s website treated her life not unlike a game or TV series, dividing it into “seasons” and “episodes.” 14 See the 2003 “actOral” event at the Festival international des arts & des écritures contemporaines called “Corpus Simsi 1.6,” at http://www.actoral.org/ archives-­actoral/actoral-2-23/chloe-­delaume-1495, accessed March 31, 2017, and the “Corpus Simsi” section at http://www.chloedelaume.net/?page_ id=294, retrieved from http://web.archive.org/web/20151112020955/http:// www.chloedelaume.net/?page_id=294, accessed March 17, 2017. 15 From Chloé Delaume’s former Sims blog “Il n’y a que des après et pas qu’à saint germain” (whose title was meant to echo Boris Vian’s fake guidebook Le Manuel de Saint-Germain-­des-Prés (1951)), at http://www.chloedelaume.net/ sims/blog/, retrieved from http://web.archive.org/web/20100301000000*/ http://www.chloedelaume.net/sims/blog (last saved on 13 April 2010), accessed March 17, 2017. The narration of this apocalyptic supersession of the first-­generation Sims—their incompatibility with the new model leading “Chloé Delaume” to destroy her own vital files, her avatar’s miraculous resurrection and “somatic” reformatting, and eventually her “own” demise—is humorously dramatized in “Corpus Simsi Reloaded.” Note in particular page 5: “My name is Chloé Delaume. I am a fictional character and I am the one who decides the end of the story” (retrieved from http:// web.archive.org/web/20081113211932/http://www.chloedelaume.net/ ressources/divers/standalone_id2/corpus-­simsi-reloaded.pdf, accessed 17 March 2017). 16 Joyce Goggin, “Corpus Simsi Or, Can a Body Tell a Story?” Public 34 (2006). See also her extended, later essay “A Body Hermeneutic? Corpus Simsi or Reading like a Sim,” in The Hand of the Interpreter: Essays on Meaning after Theory, ed. G.F. Mitrano and Eric Jarosinski (Oxford: Peter Lang, 2009). 17 See, for instance, “Corpus Simsi Reloaded”: “I once was the tenant of far too narrow a human body” (2). 18 Martti Lahti, “As We Become Machines: Corporealized Pleasures in Video Games,” in The Video Game Theory Reader, ed. Mark J.P. Wolf and Bernard Perron (New York: Routledge, 2003), 158. 19 For a definition of “remediation,” see Jay David Bolter and Richard Grusin, Remediation: Understanding New Media (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1999). As a fictional-­cum-virtual experiment, Corpus Simsi goes beyond remediation and offers a unique hybridization between literature and videogame. See Anaïs Guilet, “Lire le jeu vidéo, jouer à la littérature: Corpus Simsi de Chloé Delaume,” in Les Jeux vidéo au croisement du social, de l’art et de la culture, eds. Sylvie Craipeau, Sébastien Genvo, and Brigitte Simonnot (Nancy: Presses universitaires de Nancy/Editions Universitaires de Lorraine, 2010);

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Marika Piva, “Formes kaléidoscopiques: l’hybridité chez Chloé Delaume,” Babel: Littératures plurielles 33 (2016). 20 Goggin, “Corpus Simsi,” 107; “A Body Hermeneutic”, 217–8. 21 Simulating generic “sim seasons” (rather than individualized months) of the third year of the new millennium, Delaume’s “revolutionary” blog improvises on the French Republican calendar (which likewise began in the fall), with names ending in - ère (instead of -aire), -lien (equivalent to -ôse) and -al, corresponding to fall, winter, and spring months, respectively. 22 In a CNN interview, Will Wright declared that while “games are not the right medium to tell stories,” they are about “story possibilities” (qtd. in Mukherjee 2). Surprisingly enough, Corpus Simsi—and, more generally, Delaume’s work on the interface between literature and game as well as related media—is absent from Mukherjee’s study, which revisits the polarization between ludologists and narratologists, even though it quotes Janet Murray’s early statement (from Hamlet on the Holodeck) about urging this new “compositional tool” (the video game) to be placed “as firmly as possible in the hands of the storytellers” (4). 23 Recalled in RJ (86). See Guy Debord, Society of the Spectacle, trans. Ken Knabb (London: Rebel Press, 1983), 9. See also “Corpus Simsi Reloaded”: “In the world that is really upside down, the real is pixels by default” (1). 24 Qtd. in Goggin, “Corpus Simsi,” 106, 108; see also Goggin, “A Body Hermeneutic,” 215, 218. 25 See “SMD”: “life marks the body and the body transmits back. It is the job of language to perform the work of conversion” (3; italics mine). 26 See Sigmund Freud, The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, Vol. XXII (1932–36): New Introductory Lectures on Psycho-Analysis and Other Works, trans. and ed. James Strachey (London: Hogarth Press, 1964), 80. In the light of her own recall of autofiction’s quasi-­psychoanalytic restitution of the real through writing (see http://www. dailymotion.com/video/xo9xad, accessed April 5, 2017), one might want to question Delaume’s glib downsizing of psychoanalysis in Corpus Simsi on account of the Sims’ main attractive features: their lack of unconscious or imaginary (61), their lack of existential depth (35), and their inability to suffer or somatize: “the Sims are unfit for literature because they don’t know suffering” (50). See also “SMD” (3) about autofiction always going farther than psychoanalysis. 27 “Serious play” echoes the name of the publishing house in Nantes, Joca Seria, where Delaume has been in charge of the “Extraction” collection since 2010. On her trajectory as a writer, see Delaume at http://www.dailymotion. com/video/xo9xd0_chloe-­delaume-une-­femme-la-­fin-d-­un-cycle-­de-l-­ autofiction_news, accessed April 5, 2017. 28 Chloé Delaume and Franck Dion, Alienare (Paris: Seuil, 2015). See also http:// www.alienare.fr/, accessed April 6, 2017. 29 See the authors’ interview at http://www.actusf.com/spip/Interview-2015Chloe-Delaume-­et.html, accessed April 7, 2017.

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References Aarseth, Espen J. Cybertext: Perspectives on Ergodic Literature. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1997. Baudrillard, Jean. Simulacra and Simulation. Translated by Sheila Faria Glaser. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1994. Bolter, Jay David, and Richard Grusin. Remediation: Understanding New Media. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1999. Bostrom, Nick. “Are You Living in a Computer Simulation?” Philosophical Quarterly 53, no. 211 (2003): 243–55. Debord, Guy. Society of the Spectacle. Translated by Ken Knabb. London: Rebel, 1983. Delaume, Chloé. Corpus Simsi: Incarnation virtuellement temporaire. Paris: Léo Scheer, 2003. Delaume, Chloé. Certainement pas. Paris: Éditions Verticales, 2004. Delaume, Chloé. J’habite dans la télévision. Paris: Verticales, 2006. Delaume, Chloé. La Nuit je suis Buffy Summers. Montreuil-­sur-Mer: è®e, 2007. Delaume, Chloé. “S’écrire mode d’emploi.” Publie.net, 2008. Accessed March 17, 2017. http://classes.bnf.fr/ecrirelaville/ressources/delaume.pdf. Delaume, Chloé. Dans ma maison sous terre. Paris: Seuil, 2009. Delaume, Chloé. La règle du Je: Autofiction, un essai. Paris: PUF, 2010. Delaume, Chloé, and Franck Dion. Alienare. Paris: Seuil, 2015. Freud, Sigmund. The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, Vol. XXII (1932–36): New Introductory Lectures on PsychoAnalysis and Other Works. Translated and edited by James Strachey. London: Hogarth Press, 1964. Goggin, Joyce. “A Body Hermeneutic? Corpus Simsi or Reading like a Sim.” In The Hand of the Interpreter: Essays on Meaning after Theory, edited by G.F. Mitrano and Eric Jarosinski, 205–21. Oxford: Peter Lang, 2009. Goggin, Joyce. “Corpus Simsi Or, Can a Body Tell a Story?” Public 34 (2006): 100–12. Guilet, Anaïs. “Lire le jeu vidéo, jouer à la littérature: Corpus Simsi de Chloé Delaume.” In Les Jeux vidéo au croisement du social, de l’art et de la culture, edited by Sylvie Craipeau, Sébastien Genvo, and Brigitte Simonnot, 223–36. Nancy: Presses universitaires de Nancy/Editions Universitaires de Lorraine, 2010. Jordan, Shirley. “État présent: Autofiction in the Feminine.” French Studies 67, no. 1 (2013): 76–84. Lahti, Martti. “As We Become Machines: Corporealized Pleasures in Video Games.” In The Video Game Theory Reader, edited by Mark J.P. Wolf and Bernard Perron, 157–70. New York: Routledge, 2003. Mukherjee, Souvik. Video Games and Storytelling: Reading Games and Playing Books. Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2015. Piva, Marika. “Formes kaléidoscopiques: L’Hybridité chez Chloé Delaume.” Babel: Littératures plurielles 33 (2016): 139–59. The Sims. Developed by Maxis. Electronic Arts, 2000. Windows. The Sims 2. Developed by Maxis. Electronic Arts, 2004. Windows.

8 Edgar Allan Poe Simulators: On Dream Logic, Game Narratives, and Poesque Atmospheres Marco Caracciolo

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dgar Allan Poe is one of the few canonical literary authors to have a significant presence in video games. The list of titles inspired by Poe spans three decades of graphic adventure games, from the live-­action-based Phantasmagoria (Sierra On-Line, 1995) to Dark Tales: Edgar Allan Poe’s Murders in the Rue Morgue (ERS G-Studio, 2009), a puzzle game for mobile platforms. This success is a sign of Poe’s enduring popularity within and without the United States; it reflects the capacity of his work to speak to a broad audience. Mark Neimeyer has explained this popularity by highlighting Poe’s “ambiguous position between highbrow and lowbrow culture,” which makes “him especially appealing to the general public.”1 Poe himself famously remarked that “The Raven” (1845) was intended to be a poem which would “suit at once the popular and the critical taste.”2 This chapter will approach Poe’s work from a different, but complementary, angle. Rather than exploring the extent of Poe’s contribution to popular culture, as other scholars have done,3 I will consider one of the reasons for his lasting appeal and suggest that Poe’s short stories, and particularly his classic horror tales, are so effective because they are—to borrow Emily Troscianko’s term— “cognitively realistic.”4 Troscianko introduces this concept in a book-­length study of Kafka’s fiction in which she argues that Kafka’s major works recreate

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the dynamics of perceptual experience on the stylistic level. Like recent contributions to cognitive science, Kafka’s works imply that perception is not about constructing an internal, static representation of the world but rather involves an active, embodied exploration of one’s surroundings.5 Poe can be said to do something similar in the domain of dream consciousness: in their narrative logic, some of his best-­known short stories mirror the structural features of dream experience. These texts give rise to feelings of unease and horror that are all the more powerful because they leverage our familiarity with dream experiences not just in thematic but in structural terms. Of course, this interest in how Poe’s works dramatize psychological phenomena is not completely new. Yet seminal studies of Poe from a psychological perspective have mostly grown out of psychoanalysis,6 a paradigm that receives only sparse references in more recent Poe criticism.7 Largely, this reflects the way in which psychoanalysis itself has been superseded as a theory of mental functioning. Nevertheless, my account shares an underlying assumption with these psychoanalytical approaches to Poe; Robert Shulman puts it as follows: “[I]n his best stories Poe has a genuine understanding of unconscious processes and imaginative powers.”8 In a first step, I will summarize some of the major insights cognitive psychology and the philosophy of mind have offered into dreaming, demonstrating that this body of work departs significantly from the psychoanalytic paradigm. I will then illustrate these ideas through a reading of one of Poe’s most canonical short stories, “The Masque of the Red Death” (1842). I would argue that this reading can be easily applied to many of Poe’s tales (but, of course, I will not be able to conclusively demonstrate this point in the limited space of this chapter). Finally, I will turn to video games and explore two highly successful Poe remediations, which display the same dream-­like logic which is at work in the short story. These video games are separated by almost two decades: I will discuss The Dark Eye (Inscape, 1995), an experimental video game that made early use of 3D graphics and stop-­motion technology, and the first episode of The Last Door (The Game Kitchen, 2013), a serial game that harks back to the visual style and mechanics of point-­and-click adventures from the 1990s. While the former game features episodes based on several of Poe’s short stories, The Last Door has an original storyline whose atmosphere, however, is remarkably Poesque—to the extent that a game critic called it a “point and click Edgar Allan Poe simulator.”9 I will argue that these games become Poesque through their recreation of the distinctive dream-­like atmosphere of Poe’s classic tales. A particularly thorny question my contribution to this volume will, accordingly, tackle is how

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this effect can be achieved in a medium that, unlike Poe’s original stories, allows for player interaction and involves visual as well as auditory cues. By exploring this set of issues, my chapter seeks to highlight that intermediality studies should focus on how narrative practices are able to evoke specific kinds of experiences by borrowing strategies from other media and by tapping into shared features of our psychological make-­up. A “media-­conscious narratology”—which I see as an endeavor closely aligned with intermediality studies—should thus not elude the question of audiences’ experience of media artifacts, but use it as a lens to examine how narrative media work.10 I will build on my own experiences in the following pages, assuming that they are likely to be partly shared by other players; but there are certainly alternative ways of responding to the narratives I will consider. The goal of these case studies is not to be exhaustive about experiential possibilities, but to demonstrate the need for a more nuanced understanding of atmosphere in video games. In this sense, my chapter ties in with Bernard Perron and Felix Schröter’s edited collection Video Games and the Mind (2016), but it also extends their approach in an explicitly intermedial direction: atmosphere is an experiential concept that accounts for the “recognizability” of a style (the Poesque) across media.11

Dreaming research: a thumbnail sketch When it comes to dreaming, Freudian psychoanalysis is the proverbial elephant in the room. Yet the Freudian theory that dreams are symbolic expressions of the unconscious has been largely superseded in modern psychology. From the 1970s onwards, psychologists have favored a neurophysiological explanation of dreaming that sees dream imagery as a by-­product of the biochemical processes accompanying sleep—and particularly, but not exclusively, REM sleep. From this perspective, the phenomenology of dreams (i.e., what dreams feel like) can be directly mapped onto the activation of certain brain areas. For instance, the vividness of dreams reflects the heightened activation of the visual cortex during sleep, while their emotional salience depends on activity in the limbic system.12 One of the upshots of this research program is that, contra Freud, there is nothing inherently meaningful in dreams: they do not contain any hidden meanings to be recovered or symbols to be interpreted, but only a sequence of memories and associations triggered while sleep performs its restorative function on the human (and more generally mammalian) brain. This does not mean that dreams are completely random, however. Typically, a sense of thematic and quasi-­narrative coherence can be detected in

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dreams—and in their verbal reports. In an influential study, Robert Stickgold, Cynthia D. Rittenhouse, and J. Allan Hobson found that people are usually able to distinguish intact dream reports from reports that have been tampered with by the experimenters.13 How can this sense of coherence be accounted for? First, the memories activated during sleep are thematically related at the level of their neural encoding, because human beings tend to remember things in associative clusters rather than individually. As philosopher Owen Flanagan has put it: Our brains do not store memories in single neurons but in networks . . . When a node of a net receives a hit the entire net is activated. Suppose a picture of a beach cottage is activated. In all likelihood, a set of memories and associations are also activated—beach scenes, memories of relatives or acquaintances one has spent time with at the beach, beach balls, fried clams.14 This makes it statistically more likely that the images experienced during REM sleep will have a (more or less loose) common thread. There is a second factor to consider: According to Martin Seligman and Amy Yellen, dreams have three dimensions: perceptual (mostly, but not exclusively, visual), emotional, and cognitive. The perceptual imagery comes in apparently unrelated “bursts” and depends on random patterns of brain activity. The emotional component, by contrast, tends to be more stable: the emotions experienced during sleep are “relatively more enduring states [than perceptual sensations; they] grow and decline in time. At the brief end they can be viewed as ‘emotional storms.’ At the long end they can be thought of as ‘emotional baths.’”15 Through their relative stability, emotions can thus lend thematic coherence to a dream. What Seligman and Yellen call the “cognitive” dimension does the rest. The brain areas responsible for making sense of experience—for most commentators, the prefrontal cortex—may operate less efficiently when we sleep than when we are awake, but these areas are never really “off.” The brain will thus continue to make sense of the perceptual input it receives by ascribing temporal sequentiality and, to some extent, causality. This activity of “cognitive integration” is responsible for the apparent narrative coherence of dreams: the images, in themselves random or only loosely connected, are threaded together to the best of the brain’s ability.16 Arguably, this process continues when we wake up and try to translate the dream experience into a verbal report. The consequence of this neurophysiological account of dreaming is that, while Freud was wrong to think that dreams are inherently meaningful, dreams can still occasionally be “self-­expressive,” to use Flanagan’s term: the

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brain’s cognitive integration reflects aspects of the dreamer’s personality and self-­concept.17 Of course, the randomness of the mental imagery experienced during REM sleep prevents the brain from constructing a fully coherent story. This partial integration of dream experience explains the inherent bizarreness of dreams—perhaps their most salient feature. According to Hobson et  al., dream bizarreness has three dimensions: incongruity, uncertainty, and discontinuity.18 Flanagan exemplifies these concepts as follows: Incongruity (I) refers to mismatches—the blue Caribbean waters viewed from the restaurant in Montreal; Socrates in a business suit. Uncertainty (U) refers to actual persons, things, and events that are not specified in a dream, one’s geographical location, the person herself—maybe Beth or maybe Jane. Discontinuity (D) refers to an abnormal shift in person, place, or action— Clinton becomes Reagan; I am in New Jersey one second and I am with the same people in Paris the next.19 Bizarreness is usually not part of the dream experience itself, though. Bert States has raised this point: when we dream, we do not experience the content of the dream as bizarre; rather, we just accept whatever our brain throws our way as the fact of the matter.20 A sense of bizarreness emerges as soon as we wake up and compare the dream with our beliefs and expectations about “awake” reality. This implies that dreams are a full-­fledged mode of thinking. In this respect, Freud was on the right track: dreams have their own kind of logic, but it has nothing to do with a presumed “unconscious.” This specific dream logic arises from a unique tension between the incongruous perceptual images conjured up by sleep and our frontal lobe’s mostly vain attempts to make sense of those images. In turn, this tension is complicated by the activation of the brain’s limbic system—an area associated with emotions and instinctual drives—during REM sleep: as Hobson has argued, “emotions (feelings) and instincts (primitive behaviours) are both enhanced by [this activation].”21 In the next section, I will demonstrate that emotions play a significant role in Poe’s “The Masque of the Red Death,” a short story that effectively evokes a dream-­like logic by deploying a number of incongruities, uncertainties, and discontinuities. My recourse to cognitive accounts of dream experience in my analysis of Poe’s tale and the video games is not meant to supplant an attention to formal features of narrative media, such as stylistic choices or generic conventions. On the contrary, I think a productive dialogue can be established between the cognitive-­level description of mental functioning, introspective

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intuitions about how reading fiction (or playing video games) works, and the affordances of the artifacts themselves.22 Building on the mind sciences attunes researchers to patterns in their own experiences (and aspects of the texts they are engaging with) that may pass unobserved from other theoretical viewpoints.

Dreaming the masque In “The Masque of the Red Death,” an epidemic of a disease known as the Red Death is sweeping through an unnamed country. A nobleman, Prince Prospero, decides to seclude himself and a company of young men and women in an abbey. Safeguarded from the plague by the abbey’s apparently impenetrable walls, the company revels and dances without respite. The narrator describes the layout of this space, lingering in particular on seven rooms provided with stained glass windows of different colors. Since the only light source is on the other side of the window, each room is filled with the window’s color. In all rooms but one the furniture matches the color of the windows. Only in the last room the fittings are black, whereas the window panes are “scarlet—a deep blood color.”23 During a masked ball, the guests suddenly become aware of a strange character whom they don’t recognize: his costume mocks the appearance of someone who died of the Red Death. Outraged by this provocation, Prince Prospero lunges forward to seize the unknown reveler. He runs through six of the seven rooms, but upon entering the seventh, red-­black room he stumbles, falls on his own dagger, and dies instantly. The guests realize that the stranger’s “grave-­cerements” and “corpse-­like mask” are “untenanted by any tangible form” (676). The Red Death has entered the abbey, and its inhabitants start dying one by one. Eventually, “Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all” (677). Unlike most of Poe’s horror tales, “The Masque of the Red Death” lacks a full-­fledged protagonist: the third-­person narrator makes only occasional references to the characters’ emotions, without privileging any of them—not even the Prince. Still, the story manages to be deeply unsettling despite this narrative distance. To a large extent, this emotional impact is due to Poe’s adoption of stylistic and narrative strategies that are evocative of the main structural features of dream experience. Consider the importance of colors in the tale. From the very first paragraph (and the title itself), the plague is associated with “the redness and the horror of blood” (670). While this association is relatively conventional, Poe’s use of the colors in the rooms is not. Note that this detail plays no role whatsoever in the plot: if one left out the

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description of the windows and their respective colors, the tale would still make perfect sense. What does it add to the story? My hypothesis is that the colors’ function is at the same time affective and imaginative. Thus, the initial comment on the redness of the plague sets the emotional tone for the whole narrative. This effect reflects the way in which dreams are often “bathed”—to use Seligman and Yellen’s metaphor24—in a single emotion that pervades them from beginning to end. In the case of Poe’s story, the emotion staged by the narrative is the fear of our own mortality, as many commentators have noted.25 Importantly, this emotion is never attributed to the characters—not even to the Prince: it underlies—one could say “colors”—the tale without ever being directly referenced in psychological terms. The rooms’ colors, and especially the disturbing red and black of the seventh room, become a symbolic stand-­in for this pervasive mood. The rooms’ colors also serve another function: they are a prop for readers’ imagination, helping them form vivid imagery. Visualizing this space is easy because we don’t have to focus on the details; we can just imagine a progression of colors: blue, purple, green, orange, violet, and red-­black. The vividness of this sequence of rooms goes hand in hand with its apparent arbitrariness (apart from the symbolically motivated red-­black), in the same way as dreams bombard our consciousness with images that are, at the same time, disorderly and visually striking. The colors become all the more important in readers’ imagination of this scene, because the layout and look of the Prince’s abbey are only vaguely described. Consider the following passage: In many palaces . . . such suites form a long and straight vista, while the folding doors slide back nearly to the walls on either hand, so that the view of the whole extent is scarcely impeded. Here the case was very different; as might have been expected from the duke’s love of the bizarre. The apartments were so irregularly disposed that the vision embraced but little more than one at a time. There was a sharp turn at every twenty or thirty yards, and at each turn a novel effect. To the right and left, in the middle of each wall, a tall and narrow Gothic window looked out upon a closed corridor which pursued the windings of the suite. 671; italics in the original The narrator starts by contrasting the Prince’s abbey with a much more standard layout, where the rooms are arranged in a straight line. This “negative” description calls attention to two aspects of this space: first, the unpredictability of the rooms’ arrangement, where each turn is “a novel effect.” Again, this aspect ties in with the apparent randomness of dream imagery: implicitly, the reader is invited to imagine moving through the “windings of the suite” and

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being surprised at every corner (the simulation of motion is, in itself, a typical feature of dream experience26). Yet the actual appearance of the rooms is surrounded by uncertainty, since we’re only told that each of the rooms had a “tall and narrow Gothic window.” Even in the lines that follow this excerpt, the spatial references remain vague and generic (“decorations,” “ornaments and tapestries,” “casements,” etc.). The effect is strongly reminiscent of dreams, for an experience clearly defined in kinesthetic and emotional terms—moving through a winding corridor, being repeatedly surprised—is coupled with the strange, and as if inexplicable, vagueness of the perceived space. The only reference point in our imaginings is a series of Gothic windows that cast a distinctive—and eerie—light on the scene. The narrator’s comment on the bizarreness of the Prince’s taste only confirms this impression, making it explicit for the benefit of distracted readers: we are here in the domain of the bizarre, in the domain of dreams. The same word reoccurs a few pages later, again italicized, in a passage in which the narrator describes the guests’ attire at the masquerade: “There were arabesque figures with unsuited limbs and appointments. There were delirious fancies such as the madman fashions. There was much of the beautiful, much of the wanton, much of the bizarre, something of the terrible, and not a little of that which might have excited disgust” (673). The dream-­like uncertainty that surrounds the space of the abbey is thus extended to the revelers’ physical appearance, which is here dematerialized by being compared with psychological phenomena such as “delirious fancies” and even (in the sentence after the end of the quotation) “a multitude of dreams.” In addition to tapping into dream bizarreness through uncertainty, Poe’s short story features incongruities and discontinuities. These elements are perhaps less evident than the spatial descriptions’ blurriness, but they are still quite significant. Several aspects of Poe’s narrative appear incongruous: for instance, the narrator lingers on the contrast between the devastation brought about by the Red Death outside the abbey and the lavish cheerfulness reigning inside. This tension creates an atmosphere of foreboding that tinges emotionally our reading of the tale from the very beginning: with dream-­like certainty, we develop a nagging sense that something is bound to go wrong. A second incongruity is the figure of the mysterious stranger. His mockery of the Red Death is perceived as scandalous: “The whole company . . . seemed now deeply to feel that in the costume and bearing of the stranger neither wit nor propriety existed” (675). The guests’ reaction is, in itself, incongruous, because given their carefree attitude one might expect that even making fun of the Red Death wouldn’t be going too far. This incongruity is doubled when they eventually approach the character and find him “untenanted by any tangible form” (676). An even more spectacular inconsistency is the narrator’s

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final statement that “now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He had come like a thief in the night” (676). How could the plague have entered the hermetically sealed abbey? This final twist seems to imply a sudden leap to the symbolic level, as if the stranger—an intangible phantom— stood for the moral corruption that no physical barrier could keep outside the abbey. But this outcome is likely to come across as incongruous—not because the guests’ death was unexpected, but because the way in which it comes to pass short-­circuits the inside/outside dichotomy that underlies the whole tale. Finally, the story features a number of discontinuities. A pendulum clock in the red-­black room produces a sound “of so peculiar a note and emphasis that, at each lapse of an hour, the musicians of the orchestra were constrained to pause, momentarily, in their performance, to hearken to the sound; and thus the waltzers perforce ceased their evolutions; and there was a brief disconcert of the whole gay company” (672). Clearly, this sound is a symbolic reminder of time’s passage and therefore points to the tale’s central theme of human mortality; it is no coincidence that “the more aged and sedate [in the company] passed their hands over their brows” (672). At another level, the sound—whose exact qualities are left indeterminate—introduces an element of suspenseful discontinuity into the tale’s temporal fabric. The narrative set-­ up is thus complete: as readers, we have developed a sense of this place’s indeterminate yet vivid spatiality (thanks to the colored room) and of its rhythmic temporality. What is more, the turning point of the tale is also temporally discontinuous. As the reader may remember, the Prince’s death is not caused directly by the corpse-­like figure, but by an accidental fall as he chases this figure through the rooms: [Prince Prospero] rushed hurriedly through the six chambers . . . He bore aloft a drawn dagger, and had approached, in rapid impetuosity, to within three or four feet of the retreating figure, when the latter, having attained the extremity of the velvet apartment, turned suddenly and confronted his pursuer. There was a sharp cry—and the dagger dropped gleaming upon the sable carpet, upon which, instantly afterwards, fell prostrate in death the Prince Prospero. 676 The text limits itself to registering a cry in front of the mysterious character, but what is strongly suggested is a discontinuity in the Prince’s consciousness, as if the sight of the stranger (or the revelation of his true nature) had dazed the Prince and caused him to stumble on his own knife. As noted by Halliburton, the fact that “the principal action of the Prince’s should be a kind of non-­action (a loss of consciousness and a fall) indicates the temporal quality of the

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narrative, which is a rhythm of motion and stasis.”27 Through the Prince’s death, the text thus inscribes a principle of discontinuity into the logic of its plot. Even this brief analysis of one of Poe’s horror tales should show to what extent Poe’s narratives build on structural aspects of dream experience— namely, the persistence of an emotional tone, the vividness and arbitrariness of the imagery, and the strategic use of uncertainties, incongruities, and discontinuities. The imaginative power of Poe’s best short stories depends on a combination of these factors, which map directly onto underlying features of dream consciousness—hence the “cognitive realism” of his works.

Remediating the poesque Poe’s dream-­like atmosphere has been successfully recreated in the medium of the video game, a point I will illustrate by discussing two video games separated by nearly two decades, The Dark Eye and The Last Door. The Dark Eye (1995) presents an early example of an experimental video game that does not shy away from the artistic aspirations of Poe’s writings. Here, Poe’s short stories are not just a source of thematic and narrative inspiration, but are interwoven into the game itself through frequent quotations—in some cases, of entire tales (“The Masque of the Red Death” being one of them). The developers enrolled American writer William Burroughs as a voice actor—a move clearly meant to attract players who would recognize Burroughs’s name and value the cross-­fertilization of gameplay and literary art. For all its artistic ambitions, The Dark Eye is a quirky and uneven game whose parts do not always blend seamlessly, but the game is also extremely effective at capturing the atmosphere of Poe’s tales. The baseline game is a Myst-style adventure where the player navigates the gameworld by moving from one static frame to another. The characters are based on clay figures recorded using stop-­ motion animation. This technique is rarely employed in video games and greatly adds to the game’s uncanny atmosphere. The Dark Eye fully exploits the potential of the so-­called “uncanny valley”—the inherent eeriness of anthropomorphic representations that display one or more features deviating from human likeness:28 in the case of The Dark Eye, grotesquely enlarged head and nose, gray complexion, and (for some characters) darkened eye sockets (see Figure 8.1). The story begins with the avatar arriving at his uncle Edwin’s house. This part of the game features a marriage plot, but it primarily functions as a frame narrative for different “performances” of Poe’s tales, which are triggered by interacting with objects and characters in Edwin’s house. These performances

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FIGURE 8.1  Arrival at Edwin’s house in The Dark Eye. Screenshot from The Dark Eye (Inscape, 1995).

come in two varieties: some are animated cutscenes involving word-­by-word recitals of Poe’s short stories, with little or no player interaction (“The Masque of the Red Death” belongs to this category); others are interactive sequences that take players to another location and ask them to solve a number of puzzles in order to advance the plot. The latter are, of course, much more interesting in the context of this chapter due to their combination of storytelling and gameplay. They are full-­fledged video game adaptations, in which the player is projected into the world of three of Poe’s tales (“The Cask of Amontillado,” “Berenice,” and “The Tell-Tale Heart”) and follows the story through snippets of voiceover narration and visual overlays activated by interacting with the gameworld. The player can thus experience each of these narratives from two viewpoints, corresponding roughly to the victim and the wrongdoer. For example, “The Tell-Tale Heart” has two sections: in the first, the avatar is a young man (the narrator of Poe’s story); in the second, the player takes the role of the old man who is eventually murdered by the narrator. This setup allows the player to experience the tale from a novel perspective—one that is ignored by Poe’s original story, since the text never departs from the consciousness of the young man.

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What binds the game’s individual parts is their intriguing—if unsettling— atmosphere. At one level, this effect is achieved through a visual style inspired by surrealist paintings: the bright blue sky visible from the windows of Edwin’s house, for instance, is reminiscent of Magritte, while many of the objects scattered through the gameworld have the enigmatic vividness of Dalí (see Figure  8.2). But the game’s atmosphere is conveyed mainly through a combination of narrative and gameplay mechanics. Here, the distinction between dimensions of dream bizarreness comes in handy. To begin with, we need to ask how exactly Poe’s tales are grafted onto the frame narrative. This is a two-­step process. First, the player performs a specific action in Edwin’s house that causes the gameworld to change abruptly: the screen takes a bluish hue, the characters in the house disappear, and we can hear constant whispers. I will call this the “nightmarish mode” following an online walkthrough of the game.29 The beginning invites us to interpret this mode psychologically: the first nightmare sequence is triggered by the avatar’s drinking a glass of Edwin’s paint thinner, which he explicitly describes as hallucinogenic. The switch from normal to nightmarish mode introduces a dream-­like discontinuity in both the storyworld and the avatar’s consciousness.

FIGURE 8.2  A surrealistic fish depicted in The Dark Eye. Screenshot from The Dark Eye (Inscape, 1995).

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At the same time, the audiovisual features of the nightmarish mode are emotional cues that function much like the monochromatic rooms in “The Masque of the Red Death” and contribute to the game’s bizarreness. In the nightmares, the player can access Poe’s tales by interacting with certain in-­game objects that are inert in normal mode. The cleaver depicted in Figure 8.2 provides an illustrative example: clicking on the blade has no effect in normal mode, whereas doing so in one of the nightmares transports the player to the world of “The Tell-Tale Heart.” This is an important source of incongruity (and, potentially, player frustration): all of the props that function as portals to Poe’s tales are rather opaque—that is, there is no way of anticipating what object will do what (if anything). This incongruous mechanics is even more evident within the tales’ world, where we can advance the plot only through repetitive chains of actions that follow a symbolic rather than cause-­ effect logic: the player is often forced to click on every visible object in order to unlock the next sequence. At the same time, the device evokes the incongruity of dream experience—where unrelated images are juxtaposed in surprising ways and frustration is an extremely common emotion. To recap, the game constructs what narrative theorist Lubomír Doležel would call a “dyadic world”30—that is, a world built on the opposition between the baseline reality of Edwin’s house and a nightmarish reality. Poe’s three tales are nested like self-­contained worlds in the latter reality, each of them containing two complementary—but narratively distinct—perspectives. The player moves between these three levels of reality: interacting with the characters in normal mode will trigger the nightmarish mode, where in turn certain actions will transport the player to the world of one of Poe’s tales; after solving the puzzles and “completing” each tale, the player is transported back to normal mode—only to begin the sequence anew, for six times in total. Uncertainties abound in this complex narrative structure. The predominantly audiovisual narrative of The Dark Eye cannot evoke imagery in the same way as Poe’s verbal narratives, because the on-­screen world has no significant visual indeterminacies. As a result, the uncertainties are a matter of plot rather than mental imagery. However, this plot is elusive on two levels: On the one hand, the relationship between the events unfolding in Edwin’s house and the world of Poe’s stories remains unclear. On the other hand, the tales’ narrative is fragmentary and difficult to translate into a chronological sequence, so that players are encouraged to re-­read Poe in order to find out what really happened. Within the interactive tales the narrative organization tends to break down in favor of a sense of loose, associative progression marked by the player’s trial-­ and-error interactions with the gameworld. This creates a paradoxical situation: narrative coherence is problematized precisely where we would expect the plot

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to fall into place, given the stringent narrative logic of Poe’s original tales. The bizarre atmosphere of The Dark Eye thus depends on the orchestration of psychological discontinuities, logical incongruities, and narrative uncertainties— structural features of dream consciousness that are used to shape the player’s experience at the intersection of storytelling and gameplay. Some of these dream-­like elements can also be found in my second case study, The Last Door, although the presentation and game mechanics are quite different. Whereas The Dark Eye draws inspiration from the first-­person adventure game Myst (Cyan, 1993), The Last Door belongs to a different subgenre, that of point-­and-click adventures (where the avatar is always seen from a third-­person perspective). Yet The Last Door was released almost twenty years after the heyday of adventure gaming in the 1990s, as part of a wave of independent “retro” games.31 Where The Last Door differs from classic adventure games is in its serial format, in that it was released in seven episodes over two seasons (the second of which was still ongoing at the time of writing). Here, I will focus on the first episode, which illustrates well the Poesque atmosphere of the series. This episode, titled “The Letter,” asks the player to take the role of a nineteenth-­century man, Jeremiah Devitt, who receives a letter from Anthony Beechworth, a childhood acquaintance. Anthony hints that he is in a predicament, asking Jeremiah to visit him in his mansion as soon as possible. The game proper starts with Jeremiah arriving at the mansion and finding it abandoned. After taking control of Jeremiah, the player has to solve a series of puzzles in order to open the house’s many locked doors. Eventually, the player will discover Anthony’s dead body in the attic, where he has committed suicide. This is a striking revelation for the protagonist, but it isn’t for the player, who has already witnessed Anthony’s suicide in the game’s very first scene. In fact, we’ve more than witnessed it, because the game’s prologue puts the player in Anthony’s shoes: the only thing we can do is “help” him commit suicide by tying the rope to a rafter in the attic, climbing on a chair, placing the noose around his head, and hanging himself by kicking the chair (see Figure 8.3). This scene is striking in two ways: first, it asks the player to control a character at a time, the game’s beginning, when we would expect a non-­ interactive introductory sequence; second, the scene directly involves the player in a series of emotionally and ethically charged actions without the possibility of “opting out.” The game offers little interactivity here, since we’re only supposed to click on the rafter, the rope, the chair, and the noose (in this order). And yet, given the kind of action we’re instructing the character to perform, even this small amount of interactivity is likely to prove uncomfortable for the player. Indeed, this uneasy tension between apparent interactivity and lack of options shapes the experience of playing the whole game.

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FIGURE 8.3  The prologue of “The Letter.” Screenshot from The Last Door, Episode 1 (The Game Kitchen, 2013).

The influence of Poe’s works is less explicit in The Last Door than in The Dark Eye, but we do find a moment in “The Letter” that clearly draws inspiration from a Poe short story, “The Black Cat.” About halfway through the game, we retrieve the key to the cellar and discover a bricked-­up wall from where a cat’s meowing can be heard. As soon as we’ve pulled down the wall with the aid of a hammer, a black cat jumps out. Just as in Poe’s tale, the cat has been walled in, and Anthony notices that it has been blinded. While this is the only reference to the American writer, and it remains implicit, the atmosphere evoked by the game is distinctly Poesque. This effect draws on the game’s combination of interactivity and storytelling—and here we find a wide gamut of uncertainties, incongruities, and discontinuities. The game’s pixelated aesthetics is more than a nostalgic tribute to classic adventure games from the 1990s. In those games the visual style depended largely on technical limitations in computer graphics, while in The Last Door (and in similar contemporary games) it is a clear aesthetic choice, since it is key to the creation of a sense of dread and mystery in the audience. Consider Figure 8.4; there are three significant “gaps” in this screenshot, which function analogously to Poe’s vague spatial references in “The Masque of the Red

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Death.” First, we have the darkness that surrounds the avatar: the only light source is the lamp that Jeremiah holds in his hand. Second, we can see a striped patch of red, black, and light blue on the floor, but we can’t quite make out what this object is (it will turn out to be a music record). This short-­lived indeterminacy is part of a larger strategy to make the gameworld unrecognizable, thus fueling the player’s curiosity (and, in some cases, suspense). Third, and this is perhaps the most important uncertainty, the avatar’s face has no eyes or mouth that we can make out. Since a person’s facial expressions are a direct reflection of his or her emotional states, players are thus denied access to the subjectivity of the character they are controlling—even as the character clearly finds himself in a distressing situation. Paradoxically, the uncertainty that surrounds the character’s emotions intensifies the player’s own affective involvement: we are asked to make up for the absence of explicit references to Jeremiah’s emotional states by leveraging our own imagination. In other words: because we don’t know how the character is feeling, we have to make the mental effort of imagining how we would feel in his situation, and this extra work amplifies our empathetic connection with him, intensifying our overall emotional engagement.32

FIGURE 8.4  Visual uncertainties in “The Letter.” Screenshot from The Last Door, Episode 1 (The Game Kitchen, 2013).

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Uncertainties and incongruities are also pervasive in the game’s interactive narrative. The Dark Eye, as we’ve seen, is a challenging (and potentially frustrating) game because the logic behind the plot-­advancing actions is very opaque—that is, it is difficult to predict the next step we are supposed to take. By contrast, “The Letter” pulls off the considerable feat of being very easy and yet quite illogical in its narrative progression. To a large extent, this is due to the limited number of objects we can interact with in the gameworld, which encourages us to try combining things even if we don’t know why exactly we’re doing it, or where it will take us. For example, consider the record shown in Figure 8.5. We can pick it up and place it on the record player in the living room. The music begins, and since nothing happens and there’s nothing else we can do, we leave the room. As soon as we go out, however, the music stops, and this encourages us to go back to check on the record player. We enter the living room to find a disturbing scene: the music has mysteriously attracted a flock of crows, which has taken over the room and also somehow managed to pull the curtains, so that the room is now bathed in red light. The discontinuity between the two versions of the room is striking, and is likely to take the player by surprise. It is not just a visual but a psychological discontinuity, since the red light is a clear emotional cue (like the color of Poe’s rooms in “The Masque of the Red Death” or the bluish hue of the nightmarish mode of The Dark Eye). The crows have now vacated the courtyard, which they were previously occupying, and we can collect an indistinct bloody object they’ve left behind: a dying crow that begins squeaking as soon as we’ve added it to our inventory. (The game’s sound design is particularly effective in creating a sense of unease and foreboding.) The only thing we can do with this bird is place it in a bowl next to an open window, even though we can’t quite predict the consequence

FIGURE 8.5  The living room before and after the crows’ invasion in “The Letter.” Screenshot from The Last Door, Episode 1 (The Game Kitchen, 2013).

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of this action: the cat detects the dying crow’s smell, starting to meow insistently and thus revealing its presence behind the cellar’s bricked-­up wall. The logic behind all this is, needless to say, quite sketchy. Why should classical music attract crows, and how can the cat pick up the bird’s scent through two floors and one thick wall? These are, to a large extent, questions that we are likely to gloss over as we play the game, driven as we are by the plot’s surprisingly smooth (but incongruous) progression. The game manages to convince us—mainly through lack of alternatives—that playing the record and placing a crow in a basin are the right thing to do, and we just go with the flow: we comply even if we don’t know where these actions will take us. The plot of “The Letter” is distinctly dream-­like because of this sense of effortlessness that feels sinister and ominous—an expanded version of Anthony’s suicide at the beginning of the game, which paradoxically elicits the player’s guilt (because of the interactive dimension) despite being the only available option. Once again, discontinuities, incongruities, and uncertainties contribute to this sense of deep discomfort, turning the game—in the words of the critic quoted in the introduction—into a compelling “Poe simulator.”

Conclusion The link between dreaming and artistic (and narrative) representation has a long pedigree in cultural history, but it has become particularly prominent starting with the end of the eighteenth century: from Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s Kubla Khan (1797) to David Lynch’s Mulholland Drive (2001), dream experience has provided both a source of inspiration for a large number of creators and an interpretive framework for coming to terms with strange, illogical, and/or incongruous narratives. This chapter has discussed concrete strategies through which storytelling may tap into features of dream consciousness as they are currently theorized in the mind sciences. Exploring a short story by Poe and two Poe-­inspired video games has allowed me to exemplify this approach, which combines an attention to narrative form with the study of patterns in readers’ (or players’) experience. My argument has thus been twofold: on the one hand, Poe’s work leverages the core features of dream experience—namely, the randomness and vividness of the imagery, the marked emotional tone, and the high frequency of discontinuities, incongruities, and uncertainties. In this respect, Poe’s tales can be construed as cognitively realistic, and owe part of their long-­lasting appeal to this capacity to mirror aspects of the phenomenology of dreams. On the other hand, I have suggested that The Dark Eye and The Last Door evoke a Poesque atmosphere by translating Poe’s narrative strategies into the

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gameplay mechanics of an interactive, multimodal medium like the video games. In the case of The Dark Eye, this process is more literal, since Poe’s tales provide most of the game’s narrative material: yet even here the remediation does not aim at the straightforward adaptation of Poe’s plots, but rather at the evocation of a dream-­like experience through a series of structural contrasts (for instance, between the frame narrative and the world of the tales, or between the normal and the nightmarish mode, or between the victim’s and victimizer’s perspectives on the events of the tales). Likewise, in the first episode of The Last Door the plot is largely stereotypical; where the genuinely Poesque dimension emerges is in the bizarre actions we’re required to take in order to advance the story, and in the visual features of its presentation (e.g., the sense of uncertainty created by the pixel art). We can extrapolate the following idea from these case studies: in the intermedial exchange between Poe’s literary oeuvre and two contemporary video games, the distinctive atmosphere of the Poesque is remediated by shifting the burden from the narrative per se to its actual performance in gameplay. The narrative becomes less central to players’ experience than in Poe’s original tales, while the focus turns to the bizarre logic inherent in our gameplay choices. This creative choice, of course, reflects the different affordances of the game medium, and how the interest of the narrative has to coexist with the attractions of gameplay in video games. As I have argued elsewhere,33 only the exploration of patterns in players’ experience can do justice to this cohabitation of narrative and ludic values: as an inherently experiential notion, atmosphere—the lynchpin of my analysis here—provides an important point of departure for this approach. One of the upshots of this chapter is that the study of intermediality should concern itself more directly with experiential phenomena at this level.

Notes 1 Mark Neimeyer, “Poe and Popular Culture,” in The Cambridge Companion to Edgar Allan Poe, ed. Kevin J. Hayes, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 208. 2 Edgar Allan Poe, “The Philosophy of Composition,” in Edgar Allan Poe: Essays and Reviews, ed. G.R. Thompson (New York: Library of America, 1984), 15. 3 Neimeyer, “Poe”; Christine A. Jackson, The Tell-Tale Art: Poe in Modern Popular Culture (Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2012). 4 Emily Troscianko, Kafka’s Cognitive Realism (New York: Routledge, 2014). 5 See, for example, Alva Noë, Action in Perception (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2004).

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6 Marie Bonaparte, The Life and Works of Edgar Allan Poe: A Psycho-Analytic Interpretation, transl. John Rodker (London: Imago, 1949); David M. Rein, “Poe’s Dreams,” American Quarterly 10, no. 3 (1958). 7 See, for example, Kevin J. Hayes, ed., The Cambridge Companion to Edgar Allan Poe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002). 8 Robert Shulman, “Poe and the Powers of Mind,” ELH 37, no. 2 (1970): 245. 9 Adam Smith, “Ready, Steady, Poe: The Last Door,” Rock, Paper, Shotgun, October 21, 2014, http://www.rockpapershotgun.com/2014/10/21/free-­horrorgame-­the-last-­door/#more-243063. 10 Marie-Laure Ryan and Jan-Noël Thon, ed., Storyworlds across Media: Toward a Media-Conscious Narratology (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2014). 11 Bernard Perron and Felix Schröter, ed., Video Games and the Mind: Essays on Cognition, Affect and Emotion (Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2016). 12 J. Allan Hobson, Dreaming: An Introduction to the Science of Sleep (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 110. 13 Robert Stickgold, Cynthia D. Rittenhouse, and J. Allan Hobson, “Dream Splicing: A New Technique for Assessing Thematic Coherence in Subjective Reports of Mental Activity,” Consciousness and Cognition 3, no. 1 (1994). 14 Owen Flanagan, Dreaming Souls: Sleep, Dreams, and the Evolution of the Conscious Mind (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 159. 15 Martin E.P. Seligman and Amy Yellen, “What Is a Dream?” Behaviour Research and Therapy 25, no. 1 (1987): 4. 16 Ibid., 3–5. 17 Flanagan, Dreaming Souls, ch. 5. 18 J. Allan Hobson et al., “Dream Bizarreness and the Activation-Synthesis Hypothesis,” Human Neurobiology 6, no. 3 (1987). 19 Flanagan, Dreaming Souls, 148. 20 Bert O. States, “Dream Bizarreness and Inner Thought,” Dreaming 10, no. 4 (2000): 189. 21 Hobson, Dreaming, 144. 22 Marco Caracciolo, The Experientiality of Narrative: An Enactivist Approach (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2014), 12–16. 23 Edgar Allan Poe, “The Masque of the Red Death,” in Collected Works of Edgar Allan Poe, Vol. II, Tales and Sketches 1831–1842, ed. Thomas Ollive Mabbott, (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press, 1978), 672. All subsequent references “The Masque of the Red Death” will refer to this edition and will be made parenthetically in the main text. 24 Seligman and Yellen, “What Is a Dream,” 4. 25 See, for example, David Halliburton, Edgar Allan Poe: A Phenomenological View (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1973), 310. 26 See Helene Sophrin Porte and J. Allan Hobson, “Physical Motion in Dreams: One Measure of Three Theories,” Journal of Abnormal Psychology 105, no. 3 (1996).

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27 Halliburton, Edgar Allan Poe, 313. 28 See, for example, Tyler J. Burleigh, Jordan R. Schoenherr, and Guy L. Lacroix, “Does the Uncanny Valley Exist? An Empirical Test of the Relationship between Eeriness and the Human Likeness of Digitally Created Faces,” Computers in Human Behavior 29, no. 3 (2013). 29 Marcus Dracon, “The Dark Eye Walkthrough,” The Computer Show, accessed February 27, 2016. http://www.thecomputershow.com/computershow/ walkthroughs/darkeyewalk.htm. 30 Lubomír Doležel, Heterocosmica: Fiction and Possible Worlds (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1998), 128. 31 See Matt Kamen, “Gaming Trends: The Return of the Adventure Game,” The Guardian, February 9, 2014, http://www.theguardian.com/technology/2014/ feb/09/gaming-­adventure-games-­revival-matt-­kamen. 32 For a similar dynamic, see Marco Caracciolo, “Unknowable Protagonists and Narrative Delirium in American Psycho and Hotline Miami: A Case Study in Character Engagement Across the Media,” Acta Universitatis Sapientiae: Film and Media Studies 9 (2014). 33 Marco Caracciolo, “Playing Home: Video Game Experiences Between Narrative and Ludic Interests,” Narrative 23, no. 3 (2015).

References Bonaparte, Marie. The Life and Works of Edgar Allan Poe: A Psycho-Analytic Interpretation. Translated by John Rodker. London: Imago, 1949. Burleigh, Tyler J., Jordan R. Schoenherr, and Guy L. Lacroix. “Does the Uncanny Valley Exist? An Empirical Test of the Relationship Between Eeriness and the Human Likeness of Digitally Created Faces.” Computers in Human Behavior 29, no. 3 (2013): 759–71. Caracciolo, Marco. The Experientiality of Narrative: An Enactivist Approach. Berlin: de Gruyter, 2014. Caracciolo, Marco. “Unknowable Protagonists and Narrative Delirium in American Psycho and Hotline Miami: A Case Study in Character Engagement across the Media.” Acta Universitatis Sapientiae: Film and Media Studies 9 (2014): 189–207. Caracciolo, Marco. “Playing Home: Video Game Experiences Between Narrative and Ludic Interests.” Narrative 23, no. 3 (2015): 231–51. The Dark Eye. Developed by Inscape. Atari Games and GT Interactive Software, 1995. Windows. Doležel, Lubomír. Heterocosmica: Fiction and Possible Worlds. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1998. Dracon, Marcus. “The Dark Eye Walkthrough.” The Computer Show. Accessed February 27, 2016. http://www.thecomputershow.com/computershow/ walkthroughs/darkeyewalk.htm. Flanagan, Owen. Dreaming Souls: Sleep, Dreams, and the Evolution of the Conscious Mind. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000.

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Halliburton, David. Edgar Allan Poe: A Phenomenological View. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1973. Hayes, Kevin J., ed. The Cambridge Companion to Edgar Allan Poe. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002. Hobson, J. Allan. Dreaming: An Introduction to the Science of Sleep. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002. Hobson, J. Allan, et al. “Dream Bizarreness and the Activation-Synthesis Hypothesis.” Human Neurobiology 6, no. 3 (1987): 157–64. Jackson, Christine A. The Tell-Tale Art: Poe in Modern Popular Culture. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2012. Kamen, Matt. “Gaming Trends: The Return of the Adventure Game.” The Guardian, February 9, 2014. Accessed February 27, 2016. http://www. theguardian.com/technology/2014/feb/09/gaming-­adventure-games-­revivalmatt-­kamen. The Last Door. Developed by The Game Kitchen. The Game Kitchen, 2013. Windows. Neimeyer, Mark. “Poe and Popular Culture.” In The Cambridge Companion to Edgar Allan Poe, edited by Kevin J. Hayes, 205–24. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002. Noë, Alva. Action in Perception. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2004. Perron, Bernard, and Felix Schröter, ed. Video Games and the Mind: Essays on Cognition, Affect and Emotion. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2016. Poe, Edgar Allan. “The Masque of the Red Death.” In Collected Works of Edgar Allan Poe: Vol. II, Tales and Sketches 1831–1842, edited by Thomas Ollive Mabbott, 667–78. Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press, 1978. Poe, Edgar Allan. “The Philosophy of Composition.” In Edgar Allan Poe: Essays and Reviews, edited by G.R. Thompson, 13–25. New York: Library of America, 1984. Porte, Helene Sophrin, and J. Allan Hobson. “Physical Motion in Dreams: One Measure of Three Theories.” Journal of Abnormal Psychology 105, no. 3 (1996): 329–35. Rein, David M. “Poe’s Dreams.” American Quarterly 10, no. 3 (1958): 367–71. Ryan, Marie-Laure, and Jan-Noël Thon, ed. Storyworlds across Media: Toward a Media-Conscious Narratology. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2014. Seligman, Martin E.P., and Amy Yellen. “What Is a Dream?” Behaviour Research and Therapy 25, no. 1 (1987): 1–24. Shulman, Robert. “Poe and the Powers of Mind.” ELH 37, no. 2 (1970): 245–62. Smith, Adam. “Ready, Steady, Poe: The Last Door.” Rock, Paper, Shotgun, October 21, 2014. Accessed February 27, 2016. http://www.rockpapershotgun. com/2014/10/21/free-­horror-game-­the-last-­door/#more-243063. States, Bert O. “Dream Bizarreness and Inner Thought.” Dreaming 10, no. 4 (2000): 179–92. Stickgold, Robert, Cynthia D. Rittenhouse, and J. Allan Hobson. “Dream Splicing: A New Technique for Assessing Thematic Coherence in Subjective Reports of Mental Activity.” Consciousness and Cognition 3, no. 1 (1994): 114–28. Troscianko, Emily. Kafka’s Cognitive Realism. New York: Routledge, 2014.

9 Interference as Artistic Strategy: Video Game Art between Transparency and Opacity Stephan Schwingeler

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cademic discussions of video games have largely failed to consider the relevance of video games in the context of art.1 However, in this contextual space, completely new forms of gamespace and gameplay emerge, which critically challenge the medium. Artists deconstruct, defamiliarize, and disrupt the games, and thus expose their operating principles. In a way, video games are being stripped, as their structures are laid bare and made visible. This constellation may even lead to the creation of paradoxical artifacts—namely unplayable, dysfunctional games. In this chapter, I will first discuss different artistic strategies which historically developed in the context of video games as source material. Second, I will introduce SOD (1999) and Untitled Game: Arena (1998–2001), both created by the Dutch-Belgian artist couple JODI. As I will demonstrate, in terms of their artistic style and the strategies they employ, these artworks draw on earlier artworks. In a third step, I will draw on media theory and discuss these examples in the context of transparency and opacity, which will allow me to reflect on computer game art in general. Opacity and transparency will play key roles in this discussion, as media strive for immediacy (transparency) but constantly refer to themselves and their mediality (opacity).2 Media artifacts constantly oscillate between these two extreme states, which are thus co-­dependent. The medial and material qualities of video games are

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supposed to remain invisible to, and unnoticed by, players. Accordingly, a key artistic strategy is to disrupt the video game’s aspiration for immediacy and to highlight its medial characteristics. Fourth, in closing, I will establish further links to traditions in art history in order to offer projections and a historical positioning of the artistic strategies at work. The concept of disruption will be central to my following elaborations. The term “disruption” perfectly describes the appropriations and modifications of the source material I will discuss below, as these artistic interventions disrupt the successful reception of the artifact.3 The shift from transparency to opacity thus becomes a consciously used artistic strategy, which Bertolt Brecht might have referred to as “alienation.” These strategies allow artists to quite literally make the medium visible. The medium becomes obstinate, as it no longer operates or functions the way it should.4 Whereas media generally “operate beyond the threshold of our perception,” disruption foregrounds the medium in question.5

Artistic strategies Different artistic strategies may be identified in video game art which illustrate in what ways artists treat video games as source material. A first strategy could be termed re-­decoration of the source material. This strategy describes the modding of existent video games and their audio­visual interfaces, as is the case in the total conversion Arsdoom (1995), which was the first video game modification in an art context. In 1995, Peter Weibel, then art director of Ars Electronica, asked architect Orhan Kipcak to produce an artwork for the media art festival. Kipcak, in cooperation with architect and mathematician Reinhard Urban, conceptualized an interactive work. The result was a video game modification based on the first-­person shooter Doom II (id Software, 1994), created by using different level editors and the software AutoCAD. Arsdoom presents a digital model of the Brucknerhaus in Linz, digitally reconstructed on the basis of the original construction plans. Tellingly, the Brucknerhaus served as the venue for Ars Electronica 1995, and in the game, the player encounters the digitized faces of various artists and other personalities connected to the Ars Electronica, including Peter Weibel, Jörg Schlick, and Ecke Bonk. In addition, the weapons players can employ in the FPS point to figures in recent art history, such as Joseph Beuys and Nam June Paik.6 Reduction and abstraction of the source material functions as a second strategy. Artists cultivate voids and imperfections as, for example, in Myfanwy Ashmore’s mario battle no.1 (2000). In Ashmore’s modification, all obstacles and opponents are deleted from Super Mario Bros. (Nintendo, 1985). In

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Cory Arcangel’s Super Mario Clouds (2002), what remains of the original game are the clouds passing by the viewer from right to left in front of the pale-­blue background. The strategy of abstraction, on the one hand, aims at highlighting the games’ interfaces and thus on a staging of the audiovisual, as in the Quake III Arena (id Software, 1999) mod QQQ (2002) by British artist Tom Betts, which is consciously saturated with graphics glitches. On the other hand, it aims at (and partly complements) the process of image and sound development and highlights the representation of the code and the computing process, as in Margarete Jahrmann and Max Moswitzer’s nybble-­ engine-toolZ (2002), an installation which “converts information (text, images, sound) on the hard disk into three-­dimensional abstract movies and projects these onto a 180 degrees circular screen.”7 Modifications of the rules of the game and game-­discordant actions in the source material itself form a third strategy. For example, in Velvet-Strike (Brody Condon, Anne-Marie Schleiner, and Joan Leandre, 2001), pacifist images are attached to the walls of Counter-Strike (Valve, 2000) maps, while in Joseph DeLappe’s online gaming performance dead-­in-iraq (2006), the artist staged an online protest against the War in Iraq during a session of America’s Army (United States Army, 2002) by posting the names of soldiers killed in action in the Iraq War via the game’s chat function. The combination of these strategies may produce paradoxical artifacts: unplayable games. JODI’s Wolfenstein 3D mod SOD, the map Arena from the series Untitled Game, and the game Glitchhiker (2011) provide examples of this most extreme form of obstinacy. Unlike the other two examples, Glitchhiker is not a modification but an original game. As such, it is not based upon a commercial game that it has appropriated; instead, Glitchhiker is an independent video game production. All of these artistic strategies disrupt the operating principles of their source materials by consciously transforming transparency into opacity. These strategies aim at raising awareness of the video game’s technical limits through formal-­aesthetic experiments, the construction of dysfunctionalities, incoherence, and the limitation of interactivity. I will discuss JODI’s SOD and Arena in more detail to illustrate how these cultural artifacts work with their source materials.

From non-­representational to unplayable game: SOD and untitled game: Arena SOD is based on the commercial video game Wolfenstein 3D (id Software, 1992). In the modification SOD, all representational textures have been

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FIGURE 9.1  All representational elements disappear in SOD. Screenshot from SOD (JODI, 1999).

eliminated and substituted with black-­and-white geometric shapes by tampering with the code (see Figure 9.1). The image’s configuration outs the first-­person shooter’s underlying illusion that by entering a room and consequently moving through it, players can own it through abstraction. Graphic abstraction accordingly leads to a loss of control on the player’s part, which may coincide with irritation, disorientation, and frustration. As a result, the game’s playability is restricted and the user’s input effectively transforms the game into a play with the image itself. Thus, the player no longer pursues the objectives of the original game but rather manipulates the image by twisting and turning it. JODI thereby demonstrate the true essence of video games, namely their being image and space machines, “perspective engines,” as Francis Hunger has termed it.8 In addition, the strategy allows JODI to highlight the video game’s underlying mechanics—namely that users manipulate images and then trace the changing visual content back to their own actions. As a result, SOD is not only an abstract, but a concrete video game, which relies on basic geometric and stereo-­geometric shapes to construct its images. Hence JODI reflect on the relationship between video games and realism by drawing attention to the building blocks of video game images and to players’ actions and agencies. Gerrit Gohlke has remarked that the majority of mainstream video games is committed to a “hyperrealist culture of excellence.” Here “all simulation skills of occidental art tradition are employed to create a mass market product.”9 Importantly, video game imagery draws on

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photography and film. As a result, video game simulation implies that video games do not simulate physical reality (as perceived through the human senses), but rather seek to produce photorealism, since the photographic and filmic image still radiates authenticity. As Lev Manovich has appropriately observed, “the reason we may think that computer graphics has succeeded in faking reality is that we, over the course of the last hundred and fifty years, we have come to accept the image of photography and film as reality.”10 In fact video games’ claim to authenticity exceeds the photographic image. Götz Großklaus has suggested that computers can create images disconnected from real-­world sources; video game images are not “just” copies of the real world, but (hyper-)real in their own right.11 In other words, computers allow us to generate images that appear real, but cannot be real. Significantly, the images do not only look real, but the simulated objects also act and behave real. They are subject to simulated laws of nature, which further intensify their reality effect. The end result is a hyperrealism which replaces the laws of nature with random rules of mathematical models, creating a new kind of mimesis.12 Since the simulated object has no referent in the real world, the simulated object needs to be legitimated and authenticated, for example through splatter on the (non-­existent) camera lens and optical refractions (where neither the required light source nor the camera exists). In their oeuvre, JODI have repeatedly varied their type of interference in the source material, turning this variation into their characteristic artistic strategy. The level Arena from the series Untitled Game represents an extreme case (see Figure 9.2). Here, the visual interface of the FPS Quake (id Software, 1996) has been completely erased. However, the video game remains operable and continues to react to the player’s input. When the avatar is hit, the frame turns into a shade of red for the fraction of a second. While I do not mean to compare video games and painting, the artistic strategy applied in Arena establishes links to monochrome paintings such as Robert Rauschenberg’s White Paintings (1951), which show nothing but white canvas. However, the radical act of deletion plays an important role in another one of Rauschenberg’s works as well: the effaced drawing of Willem de Kooning (Erased de Kooning Drawing, 1953). Rauschenberg had asked the abstract expressionist de Kooning for a drawing as a present, then meticulously erased it, and exhibited it as his own artwork. When looking closely, traces of the blotted drawing are still visible. Whereas Rauschenberg’s artwork represents a palimpsest, Arena rather resembles tinted glass behind which the processes of the video game continue running. In JODI’s Arena, information on the game remains visible in the form of extradiegetic traces surrounding the monochrome frame. Paradoxically, the deletion of image information draws the player’s attention to video games’ visuality. The blank screen, which the viewer’s

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FIGURE 9.2  The visual interface is erased in Untitled Game. Screenshot from Untitled Game: Arena (JODI, 1996–2001).

imagination may fill, points to the absence of the image and thus puts the image at the center of the artwork.13 Conceptually, Arena may be likened to Zen for Film (1964) by media artist Nam June Paik. In Zen for Film, Paik has an unexposed, blank film run through a projector.14 He thus screens what Paik himself has called an “anti-­movie,” explaining that the film “only represents itself and its material quality.”15 The medium’s operating principles and immanent characteristics take on a life of their own and eventually become the artwork’s actual content.

Video game art between transparency and opacity The materiality and mediality showcased in the works of JODI, Rauschenberg, and Paik remain invisible in video games, as the following example clearly illustrates: Figure 9.3 shows the end of Pac-Man (1980). If the player succeeds in reaching the 256th level, something unexpected happens: letters and strange signs (which are not part of the image) appear on the right side of the screen. This final screen of the game, the so-­called kill screen, reveals the dual

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FIGURE 9.3  The kill screen in Pac-Man. Screenshot from Pac-Man (Namco, 1980).

nature of the image: the code on which both the image and the game are based is foregrounded, as it becomes visible in what Alexander Galloway has called a “nondiegetic machine act.”16 In this moment, the transparent, ideal condition of the video game becomes opaque. The technical level of the game, which is usually hidden, becomes not only visible, but, in fact, part of the gameworld, as the code blocks Pac-Man, Blinky, and the other ghosts’ paths. In fact, they might even end up trapped in the code. As a result, the game becomes virtually unplayable. It stops functioning in the intended manner and highlights its operating principles. Generally, media strive for a maximum degree of immediacy and transparency, as they seek to disappear behind that which they represent and/or communicate. A live sports broadcast on TV seeks to convey the feeling of being live in the arena. Likewise, video games seek to convince players that they are passing through fantastic spaces and encountering fantastic creatures. However, the

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medium constantly obtrudes and makes the recipient/player aware of its presence. Commercials disrupt the broadcast. A graphical glitch disrupts the players’ immersion in the simulated world. Immediacy and hypermediacy are co-­dependent: “Immediacy depends on hypermediacy,” as Jay David Bolter and Richard Grusin have pointed out.17 After all, perfect immediacy would entail the effacement of the medium. Consequently, the medium’s main function as mediator would disappear, as well. Opacity, on the other hand, draws attention to the medium (as medium). Paradoxically, only the awareness of the presence of the medium makes its disappearance possible. Consider the trompe-­l’œuil: This painting style draws its inspiration from the oscillation between transparency and opacity. The trompe-­l’œuil’s goal is to create the illusion of a reference object through painterly means. However, the beholder defines the quality of the painting by recognizing the material qualities and properties of the painting—how it achieves the effect of appearing real. The same holds true for photo-­ and hyperrealism. For example, the computer-­generated dinosaurs in Jurassic Park (1993) largely disguise their artificial character. However, this (attempt at) masking their mediality simultaneously underlines their mediality. These unreal, impossible, and hyperreal images invite viewers to linger on them and to examine them in detail. Viewers search for medial and material traces. After all, a painting also reveals its material traces to beholders. This oscillation between transparency and opacity becomes evident, for example, when looking at Cornelis Norbertus Gijsbrechts’ The Reverse of a Framed Painting (1650–1675), which depicts the (usually concealed) reverse of a panel (see Figure  9.4). The art historian Victor Stoichita has cited this

FIGURE 9.4  Cornelis Norbertus Gijsbrechts, The Reverse of a Framed Painting (1650–75), oil on canvas, Statens Museum for Kunst, Copenhagen.

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painting as an early example of a self-­reflexive meta-­painting whose subject and content reflect on the art of painting and the production of paintings. It is a painting about a painting as well as a painting of a painting.18 The Reverse of a Framed Painting displays the realistic reproduction of the reverse of a painting including wooden frame and canvas. For a moment, the viewer might fall for the illusion and think that the painting is, in fact, hanging on the wall in reverse. At the same time, the painting’s subject emphasizes the materiality of the painting. Accordingly, the process of mediation—and thus the image as medium—becomes the theme of the painting. The painting becomes self-­ aware. Video games are an immersive medium whose medial and material dimensions should remain as unobtrusive as possible to the user. Crucially, the player is not supposed to become aware of the medium—its “technical arrangement (in terms of media design) [should be] naturalized.”19 Consequently, the user should experience self-­efficacy by being positioned in the ideal state of flow.20 Indeed, “a medium only fulfills its function when it disappears in the medial operation; when it is invisible.”21 The video game thus oscillates between transparency and opacity. Opacity here implies the process by which the material and medial characteristics of the video game, which are ideally transparent and thus invisible, are made visible. The artworks from the field of artistic video game modification and video game art discussed above take this idea as a point of departure. The artists disrupt the game’s aspiration for transparency and make it opaque. Thus, instead of looking through the video game’s framing, players and viewers are, in fact, asked to look at the frame. The artistic strategy of disruption thus spotlights the medium, which becomes obstinate and no longer operates the way it is meant to operate. Glitchhiker (2011; see Figure 9.5) featured an extreme form of subverting the transparency of video games, since it gradually self-­destructed during gameplay. Glitchhiker was a meta-­video game—a video game about video games—which was only playable for one night in January 2011. The fewer mistakes a player made while playing, the longer the video game remained operational. During play, pre-­programmed “glitches” appeared, which made the video game not only increasingly difficult, but effectively led to the self-­destruction of the program. Thus, the video game’s limited availability for play represents the effective destruction of the file, which was pre-­determined and inevitable. To be sure, the executable may still be downloaded from the internet, but the file is useless, as the game cannot be booted any more and has therefore ceased to exist as such. Indeed, the file represents a self-­contradictory, dysfunctional artifact—an unplayable game.

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FIGURE 9.5  Glitchhiker was a video game about video games. Screenshot from Glitchhiker (Vlambeer, 2011).

Art-­historical traditions of interference Video game art appropriates its source material. To this end, artists working with video games employ modification practices such as parasitic repurposing and appropriation to highlight video games’ specific media-­immanent characteristics and structures.22 Thus, errors and glitches are programmed into video games’ codes, disrupting them and limiting their interactivity to the point of unplayability. In this way, artists act as spoilsports, as video games simply stop being games. Artists alienate players and viewers from the expected gaming situation and thus relocate video games into artistic contexts through the practice of détournement, the “overturning of the established order” accomplished through the “unforeseen activity within the institution, utilising its tools and imagery.”23 This practice of appropriation is also key to hacker culture and ethics. After all, an essential element of hacking is making things work differently from the way they were meant to. Indeed, as Corrado Morgana explains:

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Détournement is . . . central to hacker culture; taking “stuff” and making that “stuff” do things it wasn’t meant to do. By modding, hacking, exploiting and other strategies of intervention, artists, game designers and players have responded to preset game limits and other practical and creative boundaries. They have responded by producing artefacts and activity that re-­appropriate dominant culture, where normative tropes and memes are subverted and détourned to produce a counter to expected “normal.”24 As a result, the testing, expansion, and crossing of boundaries as well as the breaking of rules ensures a particular “hack value.”25 Appropriation opens up links to other artistic traditions. The Situationist movement embraced an aggressive-­destructive impetus which drove them to intervene with the structures of (mass) media and apparatuses. This is, for example, evident in Wolf Vostell’s variations of “dé-coll/ages” of TV sets and Nam June Paik’s TV modifications from the 1960s. The modification of games (i.e., their rules, aims, etc.) up to unplayability has a distinct tradition in art history. Indeed, games and the playful became important ideas in the twentieth century, as surrealists, Dadaists, and Fluxus artists dealt with games and used them as material. Variations of the chess game illustrate this utilization of games as artistic resource. Man Ray and Marcel Duchamp, for example, produced and interpreted chessboards and pieces.26 Representatives of the Fluxus movement such as Takako Saito and Yoko Ono followed in their footsteps. Saito has produced modified chess sets since the 1960s, including chess sets that are played with spices or vials. On the other hand, Yoko Ono’s all-­white chess sets lead the game and its objective ad absurdum, while simultaneously acting as anti-­war metaphor and political statement. Like Velvet-Strike, this modification accentuates metaphors of war and combat which are deeply entrenched in many analog and digital games. Video game art often employs a rhetorics of negation: as soon as the video game does not perform as expected anymore, its operating principles are acknowledged ex negativo. As ideas such as Paik’s “anti-­movie” and Brecht’s “alienation effect” suggest, interferences render the immanent characteristics of a medium explicit. Artists thus develop alternative models to commercial video games and break their rules. In this way, their artworks reflect not only on the design of computer games as defined by what Gerrit Gohlke has called a “performance-­oriented, hyperreal culture,” but also on the general relation between man and machine in the circuit of cybernetics and in the magic circle of play.27

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Notes 1 This chapter expands on ideas first expressed in my German-­language article “Störung als künstlerische Strategie: Kunst mit Computerspielen zwischen Transparenz und Opazität” published in the open-­access journal Navigationen 12, no. 2 (2012): 61–78. The chapter was translated by Manuela Neuwirth. The author and editors would like to thank the University of Graz for the generous financial support of the translation. 2 See Jay David Bolter and Richard Grusin, Remediation: Understanding New Media (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1999), 19. Connected to a broader, non-­media-specific discourse in art criticism, Emmanuel Alloa describes the terms “transparency” and “opacity” as follows: “Repeatedly ascribed different names and thus having remained inconspicuous, T. and O.—as terms whose history still remains to be written—form the two poles in between which the discussion of artworks oscillates and in which it concretizes. T. (and its synonyms translucence, permeability, transitivity etc.) generally stands for a view which regards works as open ‘windows’ to meaning lying behind. O. (and its alternative denotations such as impenetrability, intransitivity, presence etc.), in contrast, generally means a perspective that traces the works back to their tangible immanence” (445–6). 3 Communication studies scholar Ludwig Jäger considers opacity as a disruption in the communication process. He calls transparency and disruption “two aggregate states of communication” (68). 4 Martin Heidegger introduced the concept of obstinacy in his theory of equipment, which he develops in Being and Time (1927) and which can be applied to tools. Peter Geimer was the first to point to its implications for media theory, in connection with the disruption of photographic images. The terms “transparency” and “opacity” correspond with the Heideggerian notions “ready-­to-hand” and “present-­at-hand”; “unready-­at-hand” oscillates between the two. Three modes can be distinguished: conspicuousness, obtrusiveness, obstinacy. Geimer explains: “These modes appear when equipment loses its being ready-­at-hand, when it, instead of being ready at the hand of its user, it is not in its place, denies its service or starts to disturb” (324). 5 Markus Rautzenberg, Die Gegenwendigkeit der Störung: Aspekte einer postmetaphysischen Präsenztheorie (Zurich: Diaphanes, 2009), 154; Sybille Krämer, “Erfüllen Medien eine Konstitutionsleistung? Thesen über die Rolle medientheoretischer Erwägungen beim Philosophieren,” in Medienphilosophie: Beiträge zur Klärung eines Begriffs, ed. Stefan Münker (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 2003), 81. 6 Orhan Kipcak, “ARSDOOM—Art Adventure,” in Mythos Information: Welcome to the Wired World, ed. Karl Gerbel (Vienna: Springer, 1995), 262–4; Mathias Jansson, “Interview: Orhan Kipcak (ArsDoom, ArsDoom II) (1995– 2005),” Gamescenes: Art in the Age of Videogames, November 4, 2011, http:// www.gamescenes.org/2009/11/interview-­orphan-kipcak-­arsdoom-arsdoom-­ ii-1995.html.

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7 “Nybble-Engine-Toolz,” V2_, Lab for the Unstable Media, accessed July 18, 2017, http://v2.nl/archive/works/nybble-­engine-toolz/. 8 Francis Hunger, “Perspective Engines: An Interview with JODI,” in Videogames and Art, ed. Andy Clarke and Grethe Mitchell (Bristol: Intellect, 2007). 9 Gerrit Gohlke, “Genre i. Gr. Computerspielkunst als Gegenentwurf zu einer technikentfremdeten Kunst,” in Games: Computerspiele von KünstlerInnen, ed. Tilman Baumgärtel (Frankfurt am Main: Revolver, 2003), 19. 10 Lev Manovich, The Language of New Media (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2001), 181. 11 Götz Großklaus, Medien-Zeit, Medien-Raum: Zum Wandel der raumzeitlichen Wahrnehmung in der Moderne (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1995), 134. 12 Gundolf S. Freyermuth, Digitalisierung. Die transmediale Konversion von Kunst und Unterhaltung in der zweiten Hälfte des 20. Jahrhunderts (PhD diss., Freie Universität Berlin, 2004), 5. 13 For a discussion of the term “blank” in art criticism, see Wolfgang Kemp, “The Work of Art and Its Beholder: The Methodology of the Aesthetic of Reception,” in The Subjects of Art History: Historical Objects in Contemporary Perspectives, ed. Mark A. Cheetham (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998). 14 Ulrike Gehring, “Das weiße Rauschen: Bilder zwischen Selbstauflösung und Neukonstituierung,” in Nichts, ed. Martina Weinhart (Ostfildern: Hatje Cantz, 2006). 15 Qtd. in Heike Helfert, “Nam June Paik: ‘Zen for Film,’” Medien Kunst Netz (Media Art Net), accessed July 18, 2017, http://www.medienkunstnetz.de/ werke/zen-­for-film/. 16 Frieder Nake, “Das Doppelte Bild,” Bildwelten des Wissens 3, no. 2 (2006). According to Alexander Galloway, nondiegetic machine acts are autonomous action of the apparatus outside the diegesis of the game. The computer program can end the game, for example, due to a breach of rule or the player’s failure, leading to game over. Other conceivable nondiegetic machine acts are the appearance of errors and disruptions (e.g., when an online game lags or even terminates due to a poor internet connection). The above-­ mentioned kill screen in Pac-Man (1980) is another example (1–39). 17 Bolter and Grusin, Remediation, 6. 18 Victor I. Stoichita, The Self-Aware Image: An Insight into Early Modern Meta-Painting (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996). 19 Rolf F. Nohr, “Das Verschwinden der Maschinen: Vorüberlegungen zu einer Transparenztheorie des Games,” in ‘See? I’m real . . .’ Multidisziplinäre Zugänge zum Computerspiel am Beispiel von Silent Hill, eds. Britta Neitzel and Matthias Bopp (Münster: LIT, 2004), 97; see also Rolf F. Nohr, Die Natürlichkeit des Spielens: Vom Verschwinden des Gemachten im Spiel (Münster: LIT, 2008). 20 For a discussion of the term “flow,” see Daniela Schlütz, Bildschirmspiele und ihre Faszination (Munich: Fischer, 2002), 69–71; Cristoph Klimmt,

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Intermedia Games—Games Inter Media Computerspielen als Handlung: Dimensionen und Determinanten des Erlebens interaktiver Unterhaltungsangebote (Cologne: Halem, 2006), 76–81. The experience of flow is not an absolute state but oscillates between transparency and opacity: “Even though ‘flow’ actually registers in the moment in which ‘muscle memory’ no longer necessitates conscious control, this specific state of consciousness continually meanders into emptiness . . . This constant interruption of the ‘flow’ is the result of the specific dynamic structure of the video game whose immersion effect is based on a fragile balance between individual motor and cognitive skills of the player and the requirements of the respective gaming situation” (Rautzenberg, Spiegelwelt 73).

21 Markus Rautzenberg, Spiegelwelt: Elemente einer Aisthetik des Bildschirmspiels (Berlin: Logos, 2002), 153. 22 See Anne-Marie Schleiner, “Parasitic Interventions: Game Patches and Hacker Art,” Opensorcery.net: Annie-Marie Schleiner, accessed July 18, 2012, http://opensorcery.net/patchnew.html; Claus Pias, “Appropriation Art & Games: Spiele der Verschwendung und der Langeweile,” in Games: Computerspiele von KünstlerInnen, ed. Tilman Baumgärtel (Frankfurt am Main: Revolver, 2003); Axel Stockburger, “From Appropriation to Approximation,” in Videogames and Art, ed. Andy Clarke and Grethe Mitchell (Bristol: Intellect, 2007). 23 Corrado Morgana, “Introduction,” in Artists Re:Thinking Games, eds. Ruth Catlow, Marc Garrett and Corrado Morgana (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2010), 9; for a discussion of détournement in connection to computer game art, see Anne-Marie Schleiner, “Dissolving the Magic Circle of Play: Lessons from Situationist Gaming,” in From Diversion to Subversion: Games, Play, and Twentieth-Century Art, ed. David J. Getsy (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2011). 24 Morgana, “Introduction,” 10; Roberto Simanowski sees a similar connection between détournement and hacker culture: “The transformation of a commercial product of digital media into a critical-­reflexive artwork is a popular form of détournement in the context of hacktivism (‘hacking’ and ‘activism’) and artivism (‘art’ and ‘activism’) inside and outside digital media” (87). 25 Eric S. Raymond, The Jargon File (Version 4.4.7), accessed July 18, 2017, http://www.catb.org/jargon/html/index.html. 26 See Francis M. Naumann, Bradley Bailey, and Jennifer Shahade, Marcel Duchamp: The Art of Chess (New York: Readymade, 2009). 27 Gohlke, “Genre i. Gr.,” 19.

References Alloa, Emmanuel. “Transparenz/Opazität.” In Metzler Lexikon Kunstwissenschaft: Ideen, Methoden, Begriffe, edited by Ulrich Pfisterer, 445–9. Darmstadt: Metzler, 2003.

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Bolter, Jay David, and Richard Grusin. Remediation: Understanding New Media. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1999. Freyermuth, Gundolf S. Digitalisierung: Die transmediale Konversion von Kunst und Unterhaltung in der zweiten Hälfte des 20. Jahrhunderts. PhD diss., Freie Universität Berlin, 2004. Galloway, Alexander R. Gaming: Essays on Algorithmic Culture. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2006. Gehring, Ulrike. “Das weiße Rauschen: Bilder zwischen Selbstauflösung und Neukonstituierung.” In Nichts, edited by Martina Weinhart, 53–81. Ostfildern: Hatje Cantz, 2006. Geimer, Peter. “Was ist kein Bild? Zur ‘Störung der Verweisung.’” In Ordnungen der Sichtbarkeit: Fotografie in Wissenschaft, Kunst und Technologie, edited by Peter Geimer, 313–42. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 2002. Gohlke, Gerrit. “Genre i. Gr. Computerspielkunst als Gegenentwurf zu einer technikentfremdeten Kunst.” In Games: Computerspiele von KünstlerInnen, edited by Tilman Baumgärtel, 18–26. Frankfurt am Main: Revolver, 2003. Großklaus, Götz. Medien-Zeit, Medien-Raum: Zum Wandel der raumzeitlichen Wahrnehmung in der Moderne. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1995. Heidegger, Martin. Being and Time. Translated by Joan Stambaugh. Albany, NY: SUNY Press, 2010. Helfert, Heike. “Nam June Paik: ‘Zen for Film.’” Medien Kunst Netz (Media Art Net). Accessed July 18, 2017. http://www.medienkunstnetz.de/werke/ zen-­for-film/ Hunger, Francis. “Perspective Engines: An Interview with JODI.” In Videogames and Art, edited by Andy Clarke and Grethe Mitchell, 152–60. Bristol: Intellect, 2007. Jäger, Ludwig. “Störung und Transparenz: Skizze zur performativen Logik des Medialen.” In Performativität und Medialität, edited by Sybille Krämer, 35–74. München: Fink, 2004. Jansson, Mathias. “Interview: Orhan Kipcak (ArsDoom, ArsDoom II) (1995– 2005).” Gamescenes: Art in the Age of Videogames, November 4, 2011. Accessed July 18, 2017. http://www.gamescenes.org/2009/11/interview-­ orphan-kipcak-­arsdoom-arsdoom-­ii-1995.html. Kemp, Wolfgang. “The Work of Art and Its Beholder: The Methodology of the Aesthetic of Reception.” In The Subjects of Art History: Historical Objects in Contemporary Perspectives, edited by Mark A. Cheetham, 180–96. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998. Kipcak, Orhan. “ARSDOOM—Art Adventure.” In Mythos Information: Welcome to the Wired World, edited by Karl Gerbel, 262–4. Vienna: Springer, 1995. Klimmt, Cristoph. Computerspielen als Handlung: Dimensionen und Determinanten des Erlebens interaktiver Unterhaltungsangebote. Cologne: Halem, 2006. Krämer, Sybille. “Erfüllen Medien eine Konstitutionsleistung? Thesen über die Rolle medientheoretischer Erwägungen beim Philosophieren.” In Medienphilosophie: Beiträge zur Klärung eines Begriffs, edited by Stefan Münker, 78–91. Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 2003. Manovich, Lev. The Language of New Media. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2001.

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Morgana, Corrado. “Introduction.” In Artists Re:Thinking Games, edited by Ruth Catlow, Marc Garrett, and Corrado Morgana, 7–14. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2010. Nake, Frieder. “Das Doppelte Bild.” Bildwelten des Wissens 3, no. 2 (2006): 40–50. Naumann, Francis M., Bradley Bailey, and Jennifer Shahade. Marcel Duchamp: The Art of Chess. New York: Readymade, 2009. Nohr, Rolf F. Die Natürlichkeit des Spielens: Vom Verschwinden des Gemachten im Spiel. Münster: LIT, 2008. Nohr, Rolf F. “Das Verschwinden der Maschinen: Vorüberlegungen zu einer Transparenztheorie des Games.” In ‘See? I’m real . . .’ Multidisziplinäre Zugänge zum Computerspiel am Beispiel von Silent Hill, edited by Britta Neitzel and Matthias Bopp, 96–126. Münster: LIT, 2004. “Nybble-Engine-Toolz.” V2_, Lab for the Unstable Media. Accessed July 18, 2017. http://v2.nl/archive/works/nybble-­engine-toolz/. Pias, Claus. “Appropriation Art & Games: Spiele der Verschwendung und der Langeweile.” In Games: Computerspiele von KünstlerInnen, edited by Tilman Baumgärtel, 26–32. Frankfurt am Main: Revolver, 2003. Rautzenberg, Markus. Die Gegenwendigkeit der Störung: Aspekte einer postmetaphysischen Präsenztheorie. Zurich: Diaphanes, 2009. Rautzenberg, Markus. Spiegelwelt: Elemente einer Aisthetik des Bildschirmspiels. Berlin: Logos, 2002. Raymond, Eric S. The Jargon File (Version 4.4.7). Accessed July 18, 2017. http:// www.catb.org/jargon/html/index.html. Schleiner, Anne-Marie. “Dissolving the Magic Circle of Play: Lessons from Situationist Gaming.” In From Diversion to Subversion: Games, Play, and Twentieth-Century Art, edited by David J. Getsy, 149–58. University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2011. Schleiner, Anne-Marie. “Parasitic Interventions: Game Patches and Hacker Art.” Opensorcery.net: Annie-Marie Schleiner. Accessed July 18, 2012. http:// opensorcery.net/patchnew.html. Schlütz, Daniela. Bildschirmspiele und ihre Faszination. Munich: Fischer, 2002. Simanowski, Roberto. Digitale Medien in der Erlebnisgesellschaft: Kultur— Kunst—Utopien. Reinbek bei Hamburg: Rowohlt, 2008. Stockburger, Axel. “From Appropriation to Approximation.” In Videogames and Art, edited by Andy Clarke and Grethe Mitchell, 25–38. Bristol: Intellect, 2007. Stoichita, Victor I. The Self-Aware Image: An Insight into Early Modern Meta-Painting. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996.

PART THREE

Video Games and Their Transmedia Environments

10 Music across the Transmedial Frontier: Star Trek Video Games Tim Summers

I

n the first two decades of the twenty-­first century, popular culture has increasingly emphasized the multimedia franchise. Properties like Star Trek, Star Wars, and the Marvel Comics Universe extend across film, television, video games, novels, comics, toys, and so on. Media consumers are now able to engage with their favorite characters, locations, and other franchise-­distinguishing features in a variety of ways, through several different kinds of media. Viewers/readers/players follow the franchise, enjoying the interrelationships that are created across the textual galaxies. Such stories, characters and settings are transmedial in that they cross borders between different media, and traditional boundaries between media forms do not always hold fast or reflect the audience’s experience of media engagement.1 In this kind of multimedia network, music can illuminate the relationship between constituent texts of a transmedial franchise and may act as an agent for articulating and constructing those textual connections. Equally, the transmedial franchise is an opportunity to examine the differences between musical practices and aesthetics across media formats. This chapter uses the music of select Star Trek games as a gateway to exploring the position of video games within the broader intermedial nexus of a multimedia franchise. By analyzing musical interactions between the games and sibling elements of the franchise, we can better understand how games negotiate relationships with other media. The chapter tentatively

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suggests how video games, both musically and more generally, differ from, and yet are similar to, the media with which they share multimedia franchise networks. Star Trek is a space opera science fiction franchise that consists primarily of seven television series and thirteen feature films (with a fourteenth film planned). Beyond this central body of the franchise, a huge number of Star Trek-themed video games have been produced. The database MobyGames records seventy-­nine Star Trek-licensed titles, published from the late 1970s to the 2010s.2 This impressive tally does not include the substantial number of fan-­made games that also constitute part of the Trek transmedia universe, such as the Star Trek games that proliferated across university computers during the late 1960s and early 1970s.3 Neither official licensed games nor fan-­made games are considered part of the official Star Trek canon, but they nevertheless represent a significant way in which players interact with the worlds, stories, and characters of Star Trek. Textually, Star Trek games may be very close to a particular film or television series, as in games explicitly connected to a series or movie: Star Trek: Generations (MicroProse, 1997) is based on the 1994 film of the same name, while Star Trek: Deep Space Nine—Crossroads of Time (Novotrade International, 1995) uses characters and settings from the Deep Space Nine series (Syndication, 1993–99). A game may instead be more generally set in the Star Trek universe without adhering closely to a specific existing storyline or series conceit (e.g. Star Trek Online (Cryptic Studios, 2010) and Star Trek Bridge Commander (Totally, 2002)). The diversity of Star Trek games illustrates the variety of ways that games may position themselves with respect to another narrative. Even those games that are directly tied to a series or film exhibit a range of textual relationships. Some games cast themselves as an additional episode (or episodes) of a television series, complete with on-­screen episode titles (e.g. Star Trek: The Next Generation—A Final Unity (Spectrum HoloByte, 1995) and Star Trek: Judgement Rites (Interplay, 1993)), while others may anchor themselves to specific episodes or films, either by interpolating game action into the film narrative (Star Trek: Generations (1994)) or by continuing a film’s story from where the movie left off (Star Trek: Hidden Evil (Presto Studios, 1999) picks up after the end of the movie Star Trek: Insurrection (1998)). Given such a large corpus of video games, I will here focus on three dimensions of transmedial musical encounter: first, the transfer of musical material from Star Trek television episodes or films to video games; secondly, the reverse direction of travel, where music moves from a game to television; and finally, the example of composers who have written music specifically for both Star Trek video games and television episodes.

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Musical transmission from television and film to video games Many Star Trek games utilize the musical fanfare figure from Alexander Courage’s main title theme for the original Star Trek television series (NBC, 1966–69). This motif, which underscored the famous words, “Space: The final frontier,” is as close as this franchise comes to a unifying musical theme. Nevertheless, while this motif is the musical material that stretches across the widest span of the franchise (from the titles of the 1960s series to the end credits of the 2016 film), it is not always present—Star Trek: The Motion Picture (1979) does not sound the motif, and neither do the title themes of the series Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, Star Trek: Voyager (UPN, 1995–2001), nor Star Trek: Enterprise (UPN, 2001–2005).4 Star Trek, then, is a far less musically unified universe than, for example, Star Wars, where John Williams’s musical material appears in every film and the overwhelming majority of games. Even beyond the particular themes, Star Trek’s music exhibits greater stylistic variety than Star Wars. Williams’s style, modeled on classic Hollywood scores of the 1930s and 1940s by composers such as Erich Wolfgang von Korngold and Max Steiner, has defined the (literal) tone of Star Wars’s musical world. In Star Trek, the style of, for example, Gerald Fried’s dissonant and abrasive music for the Vulcan ritual fight in “Amok Time” (1967), is very different from Dennis McCarthy’s far less auditorially obtrusive score for Star Trek: Generations (1994) or Cliff Eidelman’s brooding Stravinskian underscore in Star Trek VI (1991). Indeed, Star Trek films and episodes even employ other musical genres, such as swing in the Deep Space Nine episode “Badda-Bing, Badda-Bang” (1999; score by Jay Chattaway) and the Spaghetti Western idiom in the Next Generation (Syndication, 1987–1994) episode “Fistful of Datas” (1992; Chattaway). As a franchise, Star Trek has scope for considerable stylistic and thematic divergence, without such diversity being understood as incompatible with the core franchise identity.5 The Courage fanfare is heard at the start of several games, including Generations, Starfleet Academy (Interplay, 1997), Starfleet Command I (Interplay, 1999) and II (Taldren, 2002), Armada (Activision, 2000), New Worlds (14 Degrees East, 2000), Hidden Evil, and Star Trek Online. By using this theme, the games assert their connection to the Star Trek universe. However, these games then do not continue with the rest of the title theme, nor segue into another pre-­existing piece from the Star Trek world. By invoking the theme but not providing a full statement, the games imply their departure from the established narratives. It at once prompts the audience to remember the

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Courage theme, sounded clearly on horns in the games, almost always without dialogue (maximizing auditory clarity and the chance of identification by the player), and yet, as the player remembers how the theme should go, it makes the divergence all the more obvious as the music defies the conjured expectation of a full thematic statement. Not all games choose to deploy this expectation-­defying strategy, instead preferring to simply use newly composed music from the outset, but the number that deploy this musical process is striking.6 Through musical divergence, these games articulate their textual relationships, “branching” from the film/television universe, telling parallel stories separate from the causal chain of the canonical franchise world. The consequence of at once linking the game to the other films/series, and yet asserting difference, has implications for the players’ understanding of their participation in the Trek universe. Here, the player can assume that the broader fictional franchise universe invoked by the theme is present and correct (whether or not the appropriate characters, worlds, etc. are directly visible at that moment). Yet this is a new story and scenario. We are beyond the limits of the defined franchise canon. When a franchise has a fictional chronology as complicated as Star Trek’s, where the chronological progression of the storyworld is not the same as the order of production, the result may be that narrative possibilities become limited by pre-­defined canonical “facts.” In games, musical divergence helps to illustrate that the future is unknown, even if the game is set at a point in the fictional chronology that has already been bounded by other films/episodes. Sitting at a textual tangent, the game outcome is uncertain, and so player agency is significant. If large amounts of pre-­existing music specific to particular episodes or films were used in a game, there are two particular risks. One is that a kind of narrative dissonance might occur: the music may appear to accompany the “wrong scenes,” where music from one situation is applied to another. Without careful appreciation of the potential signifying resonance of such a strategy, this may be more confusing or mysterious than apt. A second major risk is that by musically referring to canonical storylines, the lack of player agency might be emphasized, as gameplay and player possibility become restricted by the narratives of established franchise texts. Instead, using new music avoids a situation that might imply pre-­determined outcomes. Some games balance using music to help invoke the franchise universe with the open possibility of the player’s agency by recreating music from the title sequences of television series, but otherwise using newly-­written music. Star Trek: Deep Space Nine—Crossroads of Time does precisely this for its menu music, while both Star Trek: The Next Generation—A Final Unity and Star Trek: Deep Space Nine—Harbinger (Stormfront Studios, 1996) both

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do so as part of video recreations of the title sequences of the respective series.7 In the strategy game Star Trek: Armada, when the player controls human Federation forces, the score cites the Courage fanfare and Jerry Goldsmith’s theme for The Motion Picture (later used as the title theme for The Next Generation). This game references the wider world of Star Trek music by also clearly referring to Goldsmith’s distinctive music for the Klingons in The Motion Picture, which sounds, appropriately enough, when the player commands Klingons. These musical references further help to bind the game universe and franchise universe together, by musically invoking familiar depictions of the species involved. The majority of Armada’s music, however, is newly-­ composed for the game. Given that the majority of games do not extensively use music from other films or series, the exceptions are notable and striking. Star Trek: 25th Anniversary (Interplay, 1992) and its sequel game Star Trek: Judgment Rites are two games that are unusual, in that they score the gameplay primarily using pre-­existing music from the franchise.

Star Trek: 25th Anniversary and Star Trek: Judgment Rites In the early 1990s, game developer Interplay Entertainment began its series of Star Trek-licensed games with two point-­and-click adventure games. In this kind of game, characters are directed by the player by clicking on items and locations in the world. These games emphasize story, which is developed through exploration and puzzle-­solving. In contrast to games that focus on fast-­paced action (jumping, shooting, fighting), this game type primarily consists of collecting and using items to solve puzzles, and engaging in conversation with other, non-­controllable characters. Both of these Star Trek games, specifically based upon the original 1960s television series, have two modes—one in which the player pilots the Enterprise spaceship, either in ship-­to-ship combat, or in interplanetary travel, and another mode in which the player directs the Enterprise crew on missions in typical adventure game style. It is this latter mode that makes up the bulk of the game and features the pre-­existing music. Both 25th Anniversary and Judgment Rites are split into segments that follow a particular narrative. Each of these sections is presented like a television episode with the level/episode’s name shown on-­screen. Several composers worked on the original series of Star Trek. While eight composers (Alexander Courage, George Duning, Jerry Fielding, Gerald Fried,

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Sol Kaplan, Samuel Matlovsky, Joseph Mullendore, and Fred Steiner) wrote underscore for the series, not every episode used music written specifically for that installment: out of the eighty filmed episodes of the Original Series, fewer than half featured music specifically composed for that particular episode.8 As was typical for a dramatic television series of the 1960s, episodes of Star Trek were scored in one of three ways; either by using a composed score for the episode (much like a feature film), by using pre-­existing music from earlier episodes or the show’s music library, or by combining these two approaches so that earlier music was supplemented by new music.9 The process of using music from earlier episodes (or the series library) was known as “tracking.” The music library for the series was created by adapting excerpts of earlier episode scores to fit generic situations and structured to facilitate easy editing. The library also included music specifically written to serve as library cues for the series. Musicians’ Union regulations at the time of Star Trek did not permit recordings from one season of a show to be used in another, so fresh recordings of all musical material were created for each season.10 Where musical material written for earlier seasons was re-­recorded as library cues, this allowed the arrangers to revise the cues to ensure maximum malleability for editing. Tracked episodes, then, result in a combination of multiple composers’ music: “The Alternative Factor” (1967), for example, features seventy cues from five composers, while the 54 cues in “Journey to Babel” (1967) include contributions from six composers, and “All Our Yesterdays” (1969) uses fifty-­ two cues from five composers.11 As is typical for tracked scores, all of these episodes use at least one cue multiple times within the episode; Jeff Bond notes that “[o]ne of the reasons the music of the original Star Trek is so deeply embedded in our memories” is likely due to the tracking process where “the musical cues themselves were repeated endlessly not just in ensuing episodes, but often several times within the same episode.”12 Certain cues found especially frequent use in tracking, becoming all the more familiar to viewers. Both 25th Anniversary and Judgment Rites make extensive use of music from the 1960s series. The games’ producers recreated MIDI versions of some of the most frequently-­tracked cues (see Table  10.1). Just like the tracked episodes, cues appear multiple times within each game, and within each story of each game. The music is deployed primarily based on location— so certain areas within the virtual world will loop particular cues. However, frequently, dramatic events and ludic success/failure will prompt a change of cue as a response to the narrative development. Rather than any specific musical transitions to smooth between one piece of music and the next, most often, the musical changes are abrupt, immediate, and obvious (much like the music editing of the series).

Music Across the Transmedial Frontier

TABLE 10.1 

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Cues from Star Trek recreated in 25th Anniversary and/or Judgment Rites Cue

Original Episode

Composer

Main title theme

Similar to second season arrangement

Alexander Courage

Theme from Star Trek 9MA pt 1

First season library cue adapted from Balance of Terror

Alexander Courage, arr. Fred Steiner

Brass Monkeys M10

The Naked Time

Alexander Courage

Joe Berserk M21

The Naked Time

Alexander Courage

Lurch Time M42

The Naked Time

Alexander Courage

Party Time M44

The Naked Time

Alexander Courage

Time Reverse M63

The Naked Time

Alexander Courage

Planet Atmosphere M16

The Cage

Alexander Courage

Bottled M31

The Cage

Alexander Courage

Vina’s Punishment M51 (first and second parts used independently)

The Cage

Alexander Courage

Rabbit Music M10B

Shore Leave

Gerald Fried

2nd Ruth M31A

Shore Leave

Gerald Fried

Old English M33

Shore Leave

Gerald Fried

Knight/Joust M41

Shore Leave

Gerald Fried

Distress Signal M22

Friday’s Child

Gerald Fried

Contrary Order M16

Amok Time

Gerald Fried

Ritual M43

Amok Time

Gerald Fried

2nd Kroyka M52

Amok Time

Gerald Fried

Romulan Centurion M43

Balance of Terror

Fred Steiner

Radiation M23A

The Corbomite Maneuver

Fred Steiner

The Crew That Was M21

The Doomsday Machine

Sol Kaplan

Goodbye M. Decker

The Doomsday Machine

Sol Kaplan

Impension

First season library cue

Joseph Mullendore

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Why, then, do these two games depart from the typical processes found in Star Trek games by using so much in-­game music from the main franchise canon, and what, if anything, might we learn from these examples? One hypothesis might be that the musical practice in these games both relies upon, and reveals, the aesthetic parallelism of 1960s Star Trek scoring and video game music, and this similarity is far greater than between rather more typical film music and game music. As a simple observation, Star Trek episodes of the 1960s typically contain a large amount of music: a high percentage of the runtime of an average episode features underscore, with relatively little musical silence. While there are, of course, exceptions, taken as a general aesthetic pattern, video games also tend to accompany a large proportion of the playing time with music. Music in games is frequently prominent, high in the audio mix, often emphasizing its ludo-­ communicative properties (e.g. signaling “enemies are approaching,” “the game state is changing,” and “your avatar has been detected”).13 In addition, with games featuring a far lower sonic density of spoken dialogue than film, music appears all the more perceptually noticeable. In games that aim for music to be obviously communicative, the signification is not subtle or allusive; it is loud and semiotically unambiguous. I have elsewhere suggested that video games use music, in part, to extend beyond what is seen, to develop beyond the pixelated avatars and blurry backgrounds, which motivates an aesthetically impactful approach to presenting music in the media makeup.14 Star Trek of the 1960s follows a similar agenda, as music helps to bolster the limited visual/special effects of the series by adding to the alien-­ness of worlds, the danger of perilous situations, and the strangeness of the “new life forms and new civilizations” mentioned in Captain Kirk’s opening narration. The approach and destructive acts of the “Planet Killer” alien weapon in the episode “The Doomsday Machine” (1967) is accompanied by music that is so loudly mixed that it becomes distorted, clipping as it strains at the limits of the recorded volume range. One need only witness this, and many other similar examples throughout the series, to know that musical unobtrusiveness is hardly part of the agenda here: “unheard melodies” these are not (contra Gorbman15). Of course, musical obviousness in television is not limited to Star Trek: when Philip Tagg refers to television title themes as serving as a reveille, a “call to watch,” this necessarily seeks to sonically grab an audience’s attention.16 Big music from a small screen is common to both television and video games. Perhaps this is not so surprising when so much gaming takes place on a television set, sharing the physical technology with television. While Robert Alan Brookey has argued that part of the synergy between games and Hollywood comes from the shared medium of DVDs, perhaps the elephant in the (corner of the) room is that television is even closer to games than Hollywood in terms of technological mediation.17

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I earlier suggested that using music from specific episodes in a game might result in significatory dissonance or imply a lack of player agency. With the practice of tracking in Star Trek, the frequently-­used pieces have been heard in so many different contexts that they are dissociated from specific situations, avoiding the potential dangers of confusion or constraint. Even the repeated re-­use of this music throughout the game has precedent in the Star Trek’s tracked episodes that reprise the same cues multiple times within the course of one episode. Here, again, television and game musical practices converge: whereas a composed Hollywood film underscore rarely repeats precisely the same cue multiple times in one film, it is common that a game or tracked episode of Star Trek will make repeated use of the same cue. The most frequently tracked cues in Star Trek come to signify a kind of scene or mood. By using this music in the game, the game scenes are aligned with the analogous “scene type” from episodes with which they share music. For instance, when the comedic figure Harry Mudd appears in 25th Anniversary, he is accompanied by the melody of the jolly “Rabbit Music” cue, originally written by Fried for the episode “Shore Leave” (1966), but tracked throughout the series for subsequent moments of comedy. Mudd’s humorous presence in the game is musically supported by the jolly music and intertextually linked to moments of comedy in the series. This part of the game is identified as equivalent to one of Star Trek’s comic scenes, for which this music was also used in the series. In both the television series and game, players/viewers learn the signification of the repeatedly-­heard cues. The similarity of processes in games and the 1960s television series also breeds a similarity of musical structures. Many of the cues for Star Trek, written with a view for reuse in tracking, are formally episodic, in order to allow extracts to stand in isolation without any sense of incompleteness. The use of sequences, ostinato, and repetition allows editing (extension or contraction) to facilitate synchronization with action in new contexts. This repetitious editing is similar to the ubiquitous “looping” in video game music, so much so that when the MIDI versions of the cues are actually looped in the Star Trek games, there is little aesthetic difference to the series. When video games that implement dynamic music change between musical stems or segments in reaction to the game’s progress, the discrete sectionality of the musical output may also articulate an episodic musical structure.18 Game music continues to be challenged to produce prompt and smooth musical transitions from one musical moment to another. A similar difficulty faced those editing music from stock cues for Star Trek, which often resulted in choppy transitions between music and a degree of musical incoherence as snippets of music from many different source scores were combined. At the

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same time, however, abrupt musical changes are in keeping with a sonic aesthetic that emphasizes music “to be noticed.” By either reasoning, the scoring for games and television come to resemble each other in their looping-­ episodic structures and distinct formal boundaries between cues. If the values and practices of both game music and music from 1960s dramatic television are, to an extent, shared, this might indicate broader affinity between the media. Episodic television programs like Star Trek often deploy similar scenes repeatedly throughout a series: consider the “Captain’s Log” moments in Star Trek, the interview scenes in police dramas, revelation scenes in murder mysteries, diagnostic scenes in medical dramas, speeches in law dramas, and so on. It is accepted, even expected, that a program will reprise familiar scenes in similar ways over the course of a series. By having such scenes with a particular format or pattern reprised across a series, episodes of Star Trek sometimes approach a modular structure with discrete modes and moods, from the aforementioned “Captain’s Log” narration, to encounters with alien spaceships, the fight scenes (normally with Captain Kirk), or the reflective and/or comedic epilogue. This is partly why the library of stock cues was so useful for the series—apt for similar scenes across episodes. In turn, the reprised music emphasizes this similarity. Repetition is fundamental to games, since players expect to encounter the same (or similar) challenges repeatedly.19 The modularity of modes in a game and the repetition of similar sequences resonates with the similar repetition and scene types of series television. Just as the musical intertextuality emphasizes the televisuality of the characteristic scenes in the game, by implication, it also illustrates the game-­like segmentation and discrete modes of the television series. Even though modern television scoring has developed considerably from that of the 1960s model represented by Star Trek, it is still common for television episodes to obviously musically demarcate their formal structure with attention-­grabbing music (title themes, act in/out cues, etc.), to help emphasize spectacle that is straining against a limited television budget. Modern dramatic series still make repeated use of cues—even a high-­profile program with cinematic aspirations like American Horror Story (FX, 2011–) will re-­use pieces across the episodes of a series. The fixation upon, and allure of, cinematic aesthetics as a stated goal for games likely has much to do with the cultural prestige of the silver screen that is not shared by the small screen.20 While the differences between film and games have been noted, perhaps it is series television that is closer to game aesthetics than the cinematic sibling, and thus may even prove a more fruitful opportunity for transmedial exchange than the famously tricky adaptations between film and games.21 The newer series of Star Trek, made post-1987, however, aimed for a distinctly different

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aesthetic, which may be part of the explanation why the musical strategy of 25th Anniversary and Judgment Rites is not found in games linked to these later series.

Musical transmission from video games to television Given that the primary media of Star Trek have been film and television, it is unsurprising that examples of music moving from the games to films/ television is rare compared with the opposite direction of transfer observed above. There is, however, one notable example of music written for a Star Trek video game which has made the leap to the canonical world. Rather than orchestral underscore, the piece in question is music shown to be performed and/or heard by the characters; what media music scholarship refers to as “diegetic music.” The filmic and televisual world of Star Trek does not often showcase music produced by the nonhuman species. The exception to the otherwise scant depiction of alien music is with respect to the Klingons. One of Star Trek’s most famous aliens, Klingon culture has been developed over many episodes and films. The popularity of the Klingons during the airing of the post-1987 Star Trek series prompted a video game, Star Trek: Klingon (Simon & Schuster Interactive, 1996). The game uses filmed video clips with actors from The Next Generation series to tell a murder-­mystery story set in Klingon culture. Filmed from a first-­person perspective, the player adopts the role of a Klingon and, at certain decision points, must correctly choose a course of action that is the most appropriate for a Klingon, thereby demonstrating their successful assimilation of Klingon thinking and values. A culture with great emphasis on ritual and tradition, Klingons are one of the few species shown singing in post-1987 Star Trek episodes. Klingon folk songs function as a cultural memory to immortalize famous adventures and to articulate mythology (e.g. “The Way of the Warrior” (1995)). Klingons also have a thriving tradition of operatic entertainment (e.g. “Looking for par’Mach in All the Wrong Places” (1996)). Klingon music plays a large role in Star Trek: Klingon, even providing the solution to a climactic puzzle, where the disarm code for a bomb matches a Klingon opera melody heard earlier in the game. But it is not this piece that makes the transmedial hop. In Star Trek: Klingon, when the Klingon spaceship upon which the player’s character serves gets underway on its mission, the Klingons begin to sing a song, which begins “Qoy qeylIs puqloD/Q O Y K EYL IS PUKLOD/Hear! Sons of Kahless.”22 The Captain signals the start of the song by beating a pulse

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Intermedia Games—Games Inter Media

on his command chair. The rest of the crew progressively join in until the song is sung in a rowdy, rousing fashion by the entire assembled group. The song’s lyrics were written by Hilary Bader, who wrote the script for the game, and translated by Star Trek’s long-­serving Klingon language expect, Marc Okrand. From reports of the game’s production, the melody appears to have been devised on-­set by the game’s cast, director and executive producer Keith Halper.23 As one might expect from a song composed in this way, the melody is simple, repetitious and memorable. In this way, it is entirely in keeping with the folk songs shown sung by the Klingons in television episodes, which are also based on repeated phrases and sequential melodies, along with some rhythmic irregularity (as evidenced by the Klingon songs featured in “Melora” (1993), “The Way of the Warrior,” “Barge of the Dead” (1999), and others). The song, untitled in Star Trek: Klingon, has become known as the “Klingon Warrior’s Anthem.” The “Anthem” was subsequently featured in the Deep Space Nine episode “Soldiers of the Empire” (1997), written by Ronald D. Moore. The plot involves series regulars Worf and Dax joining a Klingon ship with a crew who are suffering from low morale and motivation. The song is heard twice, both times on the bridge of the ship. Early in the episode, it is heard with lackluster singing, betraying the poor attitude of the crew. At the end of the episode, the adventure having restored the Klingons’ sense of purpose, they illustrate their newfound joie de vivre by singing with energy and passion. In the episode’s script, the game is referred to by name as the source of the song, and the lyrics are written phonetically for the actors (so “Qoy qeylIs puqloD . . .” is written as “Koi Keh Less Pook Load . . .”).24 Scriptwriter Moore, who was a consultant on the game, remembered the song when writing the episode, and decided to induct this moment of Klingon cultural portrayal into the official Star Trek canon.25 Thus, the games and series are not institutionally divorced from one another, but the producers/writing staff of the series engage with the games as significant media products of the franchise. The song has also been included in other Star Trek media, such as novels set in the Star Trek universe.26 Even if a novel cannot present the musical material of the song, knowledgeable readers can fill in the tune from their cross-­media experience with the episode and/or game. The transfer of the song from the game to the series relies on its musical-­ stylistic coherence with the television’s representation of Klingon music. If the “Anthem” were dissimilar to prior “Klingon music” in the series, it would not be easily admitted into the official depiction of the world. This particular song’s transfer is aided by its memorability: as a catchy tune, it provides the impression of a well-­known folk song as part of a shared culture.27 That the “Anthem” is memorable also enhances the song’s function in terms of Star Trek as a cult

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franchise mega-­text. In Henry Jenkins’s description, this is the phenomenon whereby “popular texts [are treated] as if they merited the same degree of attention and appreciation as canonical texts . . . [with r]eading practices (close scrutiny, elaborate exegesis, repeated or prolonged rereading, etc.) . . . [a]pplied to the more ‘disposable’ texts of mass culture.”28 In his volume on games based on films, Robert Alan Brookey writes that “[f]ilm studios realize that they must address fans in order to attract fans, and to do that they must appeal to fans’ specialized knowledge.” He goes on to argue that intertextual references between franchise media are “part of the reward system” of engaging with franchise media.29 Whether first encountering the song in the game, series, or book, knowledgeable players/viewers/readers who subsequently recognize the song are rewarded for their attention to, and engagement with, the franchise across media. A memorable tune enhances the probability of the intermedial reference being recognized by fans, rewarding fan engagement with the peripheral franchise texts (here, games and books) by textually enriching the main franchise canon. In the case of this diegetic song, the viewers/players also share knowledge with the characters in the fiction, since both parties know the song. The song’s mobility has also prompted it to be included in other games (Star Trek Online) and even enter fan discourse, where it serves as part of the transmedial franchise materials that help to fuel the culture of Klingon language enthusiasts. YouTube recordings of the song sung by Klingon connoisseurs at conventions testify to the song’s further transmedial move, this time to real-­world singing activity.30 By its transfer across media, the song is constructed as a persistent artifact in the franchise universe, much like places or characters. Simultaneously, such transfer is part of the very construction of this notion of a virtual storyworld that exists beyond the depiction of any one text or medium. By inducting this song from a game into the official Star Trek lore, games (even as second-­ degree franchise canon) are implied to be significant components of the franchise. Post-1987, Star Trek dispensed with the practice of tracking underscore cues that was so widespread in the original series. Because underscore cues were tied to particular narrative situations in these series, the music is less immediately primed for direct recontextualization in the style of 25th Anniversary/Judgment Rites. However, the song, as an entity within the narrative, the product of narration, rather than part of the narrative “voice,” is well-­placed to transfer between media, as part of a forged shared transmedial world. Star Trek: Klingon’s “Anthem” illustrates how musical transfer from games to film may play a role in encouraging (and/or recognizing) viewers’/gamers’ investment in media franchises, constructing and cohering a shared

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transmedial universe, and contributing to the depiction of entities as elements within that shared universe. The last section of this chapter focuses on a different dimension of musical connection and difference between media. Here, rather than musical transfer between games and television, instead it is the composers that are in common.

Composing for television/composing for games Two composers who wrote extensively for Star Trek on television also wrote music specifically for Star Trek video games—Ron Jones and Dennis McCarthy. Both composers wrote for Star Trek: The Next Generation, while McCarthy also went on to compose for Deep Space Nine, Voyager, and Enterprise. Using testimony from the composers in tandem with analysis of the games in question offers some insight into how the composers treated the two media differently. Dennis McCarthy is the most prolific composer for Star Trek, writing for the television series from the start of Star Trek: The Next Generation to the end of Enterprise. Ron Jones composed music for the first four seasons of The Next Generation, as one of the two main series composers alongside McCarthy. During his time on the series, Jones developed an increasingly tumultuous relationship with the show’s producers, and ultimately departed the series, to be replaced by Jay Chattaway. The source of the conflict concerned the aesthetics of Star Trek’s music. While the series’ music continued to be well-­ funded, each episode using a sizable orchestra, the lead producer, Rick Berman, demanded music unlike that for the original series. He requested unobtrusive music with few identifiable themes using sustained, blended timbres. The music developed a style that prioritized less attention-­grabbing material which downplayed overt musical references to the on-­screen action, obvious synchronization with the image, or very close connections to a diegetic world. Berman disliked percussion and non-Western instrumentation because of its attention-­grabbing qualities.31 Unlike McCarthy, Jones found it difficult to conform to Berman’s requirements. His melodically thematic, motif-­driven, and characterful scores resulted in the manipulation of his music by producers during mixing and ultimately his dismissal.32 Star Trek: Borg (Simon & Schuster, 1996) is very similar in design to Star Trek: Klingon, albeit with a different species as its subject. The music was composed by Dennis McCarthy (whose involvement is touted on the game’s box) and Kevin Kiner. McCarthy, discussing his score for Star Trek: Borg, reported that

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We wanted to create the kind of music we always wanted to do for Star Trek but weren’t allowed to. It was like the strings and French horns of the Star Trek TV scores meet percussion and synthesizers—things that were rarely used in Star Trek at that time. We used a lot of exotic Asian instruments and African instruments, things that we never used in Star Trek.33 McCarthy’s comments beg the question as to why the percussion, nonWestern instruments and synthesizers, which were not permitted in a television context, became apt when applied in a game situation. Ron Jones, who returned to Star Trek by scoring Starfleet Academy (with Brian Luzietti) and Starfleet Command after he left the series, reported similar sentiments— that the game allowed him to explore beyond the musical limitations of the series: For the Romulan [alien species] theme, I got to do what I wanted to do . . . I got to develop ideas that never got developed on the show, so I got to write the Romulan theme I never got to write on the shows . . . it was fun exploring all these different races—it would have been fun to do that on the show.34 Thus, these games seem to permit musical timbres and thematic referentiality beyond the remit of the series. In both cases, the composers’ testimonies concord with the music in the games. Star Trek: Borg features prominent military-­topic percussion associated with the humans and anvil-­like insistent metallic percussion and bass drums for the Borg. The Borg’s characteristic clanging is accompanied by dissonant sustained choir or synthesizer cluster chords and tutti brass-­led orchestral outbursts. These musical elements have been part of the Borg’s musical soundworld in the television series since the first episodes that featured them (“Q Who” (1989) and “The Best of Both Worlds” (1990), both scored by Ron Jones). In the series, however, they were very rarely treated with the same aural prominence and sonic impact. In Star Trek: Borg, the drums are louder and deeper, the industrial clangs continue for longer, the tutti sforzando chords more suddenly contrasting and angular, and so on.35 While the musical features of the Borg are stylistically concordant with the television episodes, the game features music more prominently and, as a result, it acquires even more agency to contribute to the characterization of the aliens. Comparing Jones’s game and television scores reveals a similar trend to McCarthy. In Starfleet Academy and Starfleet Command, Jones’s music has greater bombast and overt expressionism than in the television scores. In the comments cited above, Jones noted the difference between writing for the Romulans in the series and in the game. The game’s Romulan theme is a

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march topic marked by snare drums and led by a memorable rising leaping horn melody. Unlike most marches, which are in two- or four-­time, this is, highly unusually, in three-­time, which gives the theme a noticeable off-­kilter, though propulsive, mood (there is also some metrical displacement adding further aural surprise). Low drums, tuned percussion (xylophone) and a thick orchestral texture further aid the aesthetic weight of the score in the game. Jones’s music for the Romulans in the series is rather different: in the episode “The Neutral Zone” (1988), which re-­introduced the Romulan aliens to the post-1987 series, Jones devised his television Romulan theme. It is a steady, but insistent, two-­measure four-­time chromatic ostinato most often heard in a chiming synthesizer tone. It uses a toccata-­like figuration where a repeated lower note quickly alternates with a higher pitch that sounds a melodic line. The main motif has the limited range of a fifth and a closed gestural shape. This television Romulan theme does not achieve the aural impact or striking rhythmic unconventionality of the game theme.36 To be clear—I do not intend to imply a value judgment between the television and game depictions, merely to note that the approaches have different priorities. The statements and compositions of McCarthy and Jones suggest that these games provided the opportunity for more aesthetically weighty and directly referential music than when scoring for The Next Generation. I earlier identified some of the ways in which the 1960s television scoring was similar to game music. Contrasting with these priorities of attention-­grabbing cues, music to depict fantastic worlds and creatures beyond the limited visual effects, and so on, The Next Generation series producers’ demands were counterintuitive to television composers—so much so that Jones ultimately found the situation unworkable. Now scoring for games, in this format Jones and McCarthy are permitted, and/or are required, to depart from the Next Generation scoring paradigm. These games present music in a more perceptually impactful, distinct, and directly referential way than in the series. I would suggest that this is due to both the removal of restrictions in the transmedial change and to how these priorities align with the musical priorities of the game medium. Of course, video games may include unobtrusive, “ambient” music, similar to the musical style of the latter Star Trek series. In games, these unobtrusive styles are often found during pause menus or low-­action moments.37 Nevertheless, given the importance of auditory communication with players in the interactive context of games, and less emphasis on voice in video games, I would like to suggest that games encourage a tendency toward producing “heard” musical aesthetics: even games that prioritize “ambient” music (such as, to stay with the science fiction genre, FTL: Faster Than Light (Subset, 2012) and Mass Effect (Bioware, 2007)) also typically include moments where music is striking and brought to the foreground. I do not mean to suggest that all

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game music adheres to a perceptually-­obvious approach; merely that the nature of the medium encourages and affords this mode.

Music in a transmedial world By considering music and transmediality in Star Trek, we can begin to understand some aspects of the relationships between these media, and the role of music within them. Music is part of the way that these games construct their storyworlds (to use Marie-Laure Ryan’s term for the projected imagined universe generated by a narrative38), and music articulates how the particular worlds of the games integrate with, and/or depart from, the storyworlds generated in the other Star Trek media. This aspect becomes especially evident in the degree and nature of musical-­thematic borrowing across media, where similarity and difference are carefully balanced to articulate fictive divergence and intersection. While little film music is used in Star Trek games, the site of the most extensive Star Trek transmedial musical exchange is from the 1960s television scoring to the Interplay games. This sharing may imply that it is here that musical priorities are most congruent: where music supports an aesthetic of impact and excess, and is designed to bear repetition and recontextualization. Although the “Klingon Anthem” song easily moves between media, the same is not true of underscore in later series. The composers report different musical demands for the series, illustrated when those same composers write for video games. We are only just starting to theorize musical transmediality in franchises. Nevertheless, beyond the specific conclusions and hypotheses I have outlined with respect to the Star Trek franchise, the broader implicit proposition is that music can be a useful way to investigate the interactions and dynamics of transmedial franchises. As we trace music across a franchise landscape, the musical connections and discontinuities prompt us to ask questions about the media, practices, audiences, and texts we deal with. By focusing on music as a thread of a franchise, we might not only understand the role of music in this domain, but also the wider forces and media parameters at play. When we voyage boldly across the media frontiers, we might do so with music in our ears to help us chart these galaxies of “strange new worlds.”

Notes 1 Chiel Kattenbelt, “Intermediality in Theatre and Performance: Definitions, Perceptions and Medial Relationships,” Culture, Language and Representation

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Intermedia Games—Games Inter Media 6 (2008); Mikko Lehtonen, “On No Man’s Land: Theses on Intermediality,” trans. Aijaleena Ahonen and Kris Clarke, Nordicom Review 22, no. 1 (2001); Irina O. Rajewsky, “Border Talks: The Problematic Status of Media Borders in the Current Debate about Intermediality,” in Media Borders, Multimodality and Intermediality, ed. Lars Elleström (London: Palgrave, 2010).

2 “Star Trek Licensees,” MobyGames, accessed December 6, 2017, http://www. mobygames.com/game-­group/star-­trek-licensees. 3 David H. Ahl, Basic Computer Games: Microcomputer Edition (New York: Workman 1978), 157. 4 Star Trek: The Motion Picture does use other parts of the Courage theme during the “Captain’s Log” sequences. Jerry Goldsmith, who wrote the score for the film, originally took the assignment on the condition that using Courage’s theme was not compulsory (Jeff Bond and Mike Matessino, “The Musical Voyage of Star Trek: The Motion Picture,” liner notes to Star Trek: The Motion Picture Limited Edition, LLLCD 1207 (Burbank, CA: La-La Land Records, 2012), 13). The opening of Goldsmith’s own fanfare-­like theme nevertheless holds some similarity with Courage’s fanfare. 5 There are limits to such musical difference: the reception of the first trailer for Star Trek: Beyond (2016), with its ostentatious use of the Beastie Boys song “Sabotage” was criticized for its apparent generic inconsistency with the franchise identity, despite the song’s brief use as diegetic music in an earlier film. 6 Of course, there are likely to be issues concerning the licensing of the use of the Star Trek theme at play here. While this explains the games that use only new music, given that Courage’s music has already been licensed in order to sound the fanfare, it seems unlikely that the full theme would involve a considerable further financial/legal hurdle. 7 Once again, however, there are examples of games that do not replicate television series themes, even when they are clearly positioned as linked to a series. Star Trek: Voyager—Elite Force (Raven, 2000) and Star Trek: Deep Space Nine—The Fallen (The Collective, 2000) do not sound the themes of the respective series. 8 The accounting of the precise number of episodes with newly composed music depends if one includes pilot episodes and pieces of diegetic source music (Jeff Bond, The Music of Star Trek: Profiles in Style (Los Angeles: Lone Eagle, 1999), 33, 39). 9 Fred Steiner, “Keeping Score of the Scores: Music for Star Trek,” The Quarterly Journal of the Library of Congress 40, no. 1 (1983); Fred Steiner, “Music for Star Trek: Scoring a Television Show in the Sixties,” in Wonderful Inventions: Motion Pictures, Broadcasting, and Recorded Sound at the Library of Congress, ed. Iris Newsom (Washington: Library of Congress, 1985), 287–309. 10 Steiner, “Keeping Score,” 7–8. 11 Cue sheets in Bond, Music, 42–54. 12 Ibid., 34; italics in original.

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13 Simon Wood, “Video Game Music—High Scores: Making Sense of Music and Video Games,” in Sound and Music in Film and Visual Media: An Overview, ed. Graeme Harper, Ruth Doughty, and Jochen Eisentraut (New York: Continuum, 2009). 14 Tim Summers, Understanding Video Game Music (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016), 62, 74, 163–4. 15 Claudia Gorbman, Unheard Melodies: Narrative Film Music (London: BFI, 1987). 16 Philip Tagg, Kojak—Fifty Seconds of Television Music: Toward the Analysis of Affect in Popular Music, rev. edn. (New York: Mass Media Scholar’s Press, 2000), 93. 17 Robert Alan Brookey, Hollywood Gamers: Digital Convergence in the Film and Video Game Industries (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2010), 6–11. 18 Karen Collins, Game Sound: An Introduction to the History, Theory, and Practice of Video Game Music and Sound Design (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2008), 183–7. 19 Torben Grodal, “Video Games and the Pleasures of Control,” in Media Entertainment: The Psychology of Its Appeal, ed. Dorf Zillman and Peter Vorderer (Mahwah, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates, 2000). 20 George A. Sanger, The Fat Man on Game Audio (Indianapolis: New Riders, 2003), 229–37. 21 Ben S. Bunting, Jr., “Game-­to-Film Adaptation and How Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time Negotiates the Difference Between Player and Audience,” in Game On, Hollywood! Essays on the Intersection of Video Games and Cinema, ed. Gretchen Papazian and Joseph M. Sommers (Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2013); Marcus Schulzke, “Translation Between Forms of Interactivity: How to Build the Better Adaptation,” in Game On, Hollywood! Essays on the Intersection of Video Games and Cinema, ed. Gretchen Papazian and Joseph M. Sommers (Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2013). 22 Star Trek: Klingon (Simon & Schuster, 1996). 23 David Mack, “The Making of Star Trek: Klingon!” in Star Trek: Klingon, by Dean W. Smith (New York: Pocket, 1996), 211–2. 24 Ronald D. Moore, “Soldiers of the Empire,” in Star Trek: Deep Space Nine Companion: A Series Guide and Script Library, prod. Kimberly A. Kindya and Elizabeth Braswell, CD-ROM (New York: Simon and Schuster Interactive, 1999). 25 Terry J. Erdmann, with Paula M. Block, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine Companion (New York: Pocket, 2000), 449. 26 In the novel Diplomatic Implausibility, the crew of a Klingon ship sing the song after a victory in battle. The whole song is printed in Klingon in the main text of the book and an English translation provided in the book’s appendix (Keith R.A. DeCandido, Star Trek: The Next Generation—Diplomatic Implausibility (New York: Pocket, 2001), 194–5, 246).

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27 The production staff on “Soldiers of the Empire” report that the song stuck in the memories of the cast and crew who worked on the episode, both during, and after, production (Erdmann, Star Trek, 449). 28 Henry Jenkins, Textual Poachers: Television Fans and Participatory Culture, 2nd edn (New York: Routledge, 2013), 17. 29 Brookey, Hollywood Gamers, 73. 30 Darvatron, “The Klingon Anthem,” YouTube, August 12, 2008, https://www. youtube.com/watch?v=to1Dh6ol-­gc. 31 Bond, Music, 177. 32 Jeff Bond and Lukas Kendall, “Supplemental Liner Notes,” Star Trek: The Next Generation—The Ron Jones Project (FSM BOX 05), Film Score Monthly, 2010, accessed November 11, 2016, www.filmscoremonthly.com/notes/ fsmbox05_notes.pdf; Lukas Kendall, “Ron Jones: Fighting for the Music of the Final Frontier,” Film Score Monthly 1, no. 25 (1992). 33 Qtd. in Randall D. Larson, “Starfleet Symphony: Music from Star Trek Video Games,” liner notes to Star Trek: Music from the Video Games, BSXCD-8927 (Simi Valley, CA: BSX Records, 2015), 7. 34 Bond and Kendall, “Supplemental Liner Notes,” 48. 35 The diversity of timbres that McCarthy mentions is mostly evident in the sporadic use of metallic-­sounding waterphones (a modern instrument related to traditional water drums common across the Americas), bongos and claves used to rhythmically punctuate sustained chords, and the gongs and large bass drums that serve accentuate tutti sections. 36 Jones’s development of the theme in the subsequent Romulan-­themed episode “The Defector” (1990) alters the steady rhythm of the melody into a dotted figure, but it remains less conspicuous or unusual than the equivalent game theme. 37 Winifred Phillips, A Composer’s Guide to Game Music (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2014), 151. 38 Marie-Laure Ryan, “Story/Worlds/Media: Tuning the Instruments of a MediaConscious Narratology,” in Storyworlds Across Media: Towards a MediaConscious Narratology, ed. Marie-Laure Ryan and Jan-Noël Thon (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2014), 31–7.

References Ahl, David H. Basic Computer Games: Microcomputer Edition. New York: Workman 1978. “The Alternative Factor.” Music by Alexander Courage. Written by Don Ingalls. Directed by Gerd Oswald. In Star Trek: The Original Series—The Complete Series Remastered. Paramount, 2016. DVD. “All Our Yesterdays.” Music by Alexander Courage, George Duning, and Richard Lapham. Written by Jean Lisette Aroeste. Directed by Marvin Chomsky. In

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Star Trek: The Original Series—The Complete Series Remastered. Paramount, 2016. DVD. “Amok Time.” Music by Gerald Fried. Written by Theodore Sturgeon. Directed by Joseph Pevney. In Star Trek: The Original Series—The Complete Series Remastered. Paramount, 2016. DVD. “Badda-Bing, Badda-Bang.” Music by Jay Chattaway. Written by Ira Steven Behr and Hans Beimler. Directed by Mike Vejar. In Star Trek: Deep Space Nine—The Full Journey. Paramount, 2014. DVD. “Barge of the Dead.” Music by David Bell. Written by Bryan Fuller and Ronald D. Moore. Star Trek: Voyager—The Complete Collection. Paramount, 2013. DVD. “The Best of Both Worlds.” Music by Ron Jones. Written by Michael Pillar and Ronald D. Moore. Directed by Cliff Bole. Star Trek: The Next Generation—The Full Journey. Paramount, 2014. DVD. Bond, Jeff. The Music of Star Trek: Profiles in Style. Los Angeles: Lone Eagle, 1999. Bond, Jeff, and Lukas Kendall. “Supplemental Liner Notes.” Star Trek: The Next Generation—The Ron Jones Project (FSM BOX 05). Film Score Monthly, 2010. Accessed November 11, 2016, www.filmscoremonthly.com/notes/ fsmbox05_notes.pdf Bond, Jeff, and Mike Matessino. “The Musical Voyage of Star Trek: The Motion Picture.” Liner notes to Star Trek: The Motion Picture Limited Edition. LLLCD 1207. Burbank, CA: La-La Land Records, 2012. Bunting Jr., Ben S. “Game-­to-Film Adaptation and How Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time Negotiates the Difference Between Player and Audience.” In Game On, Hollywood! Essays on the Intersection of Video Games and Cinema, edited by Gretchen Papazian and Joseph M. Sommers, 58–69. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2013. Brookey, Robert Alan. Hollywood Gamers: Digital Convergence in the Film and Video Game Industries. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2010. Collins, Karen. Game Sound: An Introduction to the History, Theory, and Practice of Video Game Music and Sound Design. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2008. Darvatron. “The Klingon Anthem.” YouTube, August 12, 2008. Accessed December 31, 2016. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=to1Dh6ol-­gc. DeCandido, Keith R.A. Star Trek: The Next Generation—Diplomatic Implausibility. New York: Pocket, 2001. “The Doomsday Machine.” Music by Sol Kaplan. Written by Norman Spinrad. Directed by Marc Daniels. In Star Trek: The Original Series—The Complete Series Remastered. Paramount, 2016. DVD. Erdmann, Terry J., with Paula M. Block. Star Trek: Deep Space Nine Companion. New York: Pocket, 2000. “Fistful of Datas.” Music by Jay Chattaway. Written by Robert Hewitt Wolfe and Brannon Braga. Directed by Patrick Stewart. In Star Trek: The Next Generation—The Full Journey. Paramount, 2014. DVD. FTL: Faster Than Light. Developed by Subset Games. Subset Games, 2012. Windows. Gorbman, Claudia. Unheard Melodies: Narrative Film Music London: BFI, 1987.

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Grodal, Torben. “Video Games and the Pleasures of Control.” In Media Entertainment: The Psychology of Its Appeal, edited by Dorf Zillman and Peter Vorderer, 197–212. Mahwah, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates, 2000. Jenkins, Henry. Textual Poachers: Television Fans and Participatory Culture. 2nd edn. New York: Routledge, 2013. “Journey to Babel.” Music by Gerald Fried. Written by D.C. Fontana. Directed by Joseph Pevney. In Star Trek: The Original Series—The Complete Series Remastered. Paramount, 2016. DVD. Kattenbelt, Chiel. “Intermediality in Theatre and Performance: Definitions, Perceptions and Medial Relationships.” Culture, Language and Representation 6 (2008): 19–29. Kendall, Lukas. “Ron Jones: Fighting for the Music of the Final Frontier.” Film Score Monthly 1, no. 25 (1992): 16–8. Larson, Randall D. “Starfleet Symphony: Music from Star Trek Video Games.” Liner notes to Star Trek: Music from the Video Games. BSXCD-8927. Simi Valley, CA: BSX Records, 2015. Lehtonen, Mikko. “On No Man’s Land: Theses on Intermediality.” Translated by Aijaleena Ahonen and Kris Clarke. Nordicom Review 22, no. 1 (2001): 71–83. “Looking for par’Mach in All the Wrong Places.” Music by David Bell. Written by Ronald D. Moore. Directed by Andrew J. Robinson. In Star Trek: Deep Space Nine—The Full Journey. Paramount, 2014. DVD. Mack, David. “The Making of Star Trek: Klingon!” In Star Trek: Klingon, by Dean W. Smith, 197–217. New York: Pocket, 1996. Mass Effect. Developed by BioWare. Microsoft Game Studios, 2007. Xbox 360. “Melora.” Music by Dennis McCarthy. Written by Evan Carlos Somers, Steven Baum, Michael Piller, and James Crocker. In Star Trek: Deep Space Nine—The Full Journey. Paramount, 2014. DVD. Moore, Ronald D. “Soldiers of the Empire.” In Star Trek: Deep Space Nine Companion: A Series Guide and Script Library, produced by Kimberly A. Kindya and Elizabeth Braswell. CD-ROM. New York: Simon and Schuster Interactive, 1999. “The Neutral Zone.” Music by Ron Jones. Written by Deborath McIntyre, Mona Cleee, and Maurice Hurley. In Star Trek: The Next Generation—The Full Journey. Paramount, 2014. DVD. Phillips, Winifred. A Composer’s Guide to Game Music. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2014. “Q Who.” Music by Ron Jones. Written by Maurice Hurley and Melinda M. Snodgrass. Directed by Rob Bowman. In Star Trek: The Next Generation—The Full Journey. Paramount, 2014. DVD. Rajewsky, Irina O. “Border Talks: The Problematic Status of Media Borders in the Current Debate about Intermediality.” In Media Borders, Multimodality and Intermediality, edited by Lars Elleström, 51–68. London: Palgrave, 2010. Ryan, Marie-Laure. “Story/Worlds/Media: Tuning the Instruments of a MediaConscious Narratology.” In Storyworlds Across Media: Towards a MediaConscious Narratology, edited by Marie-Laure Ryan and Jan-Noël Thon, 25–49. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2014.

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Sanger, George A. The Fat Man on Game Audio. Indianapolis: New Riders, 2003. Schulzke, Marcus. “Translation Between Forms of Interactivity: How to Build the Better Adaptation.” In Game On, Hollywood! Essays on the Intersection of Video Games and Cinema, edited by Gretchen Papazian and Joseph M. Sommers, 70–81. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2013. “Shore Leave.” Music by Gerald Fried. Written by Theodore Sturgeon. Directed by Robert Sparr. In Star Trek: The Original Series—The Complete Series Remastered. Paramount, 2016. DVD. “Soldiers of Empire.” Music by David Bell. Written by Ronald D. Moore. Directed by LeVar Burton. In Star Trek: Deep Space Nine—The Full Journey. Paramount, 2014. DVD. Star Trek: 25th Anniversary. Developed by Interplay. Interplay, 1992. MS-DOS. Star Trek: Armada. Developed by Activision. Activision, 2000. Windows. Star Trek: Borg. Developed by Simon & Schuster. Simon & Schuster, 1996. Windows. Star Trek: Bridge Commander. Developed by Totally Games. Activision, 2002. Windows. Star Trek: Deep Space Nine—Crossroads of Time. Developed by Novotrade International. Playmates Interactive Entertainment, 1995. Super NES. Star Trek: Deep Space Nine—Harbinger. Developed by Stormfront Studios. Viacom New Media, 1996. MS-DOS. Star Trek: Generations. Developed by MicroProse. MicroProse, 1997. Windows. Star Trek: Generations. Directed by David Carson. Paramount, 2000. DVD. Star Trek: Hidden Evil. Developed by Presto Studios. Empire Interactive, 1999. Windows. Star Trek: Insurrection. Directed by Jonathan Frakes. Paramount, 2000. DVD. Star Trek: Judgment Rites. Developed by Interplay. Interplay, 1993. MS-DOS. Star Trek: Klingon. Developed by Simon & Schuster. Simon & Schuster, 1996. Windows. “Star Trek Licensees.” MobyGames. Accessed December 6, 2016. http://www. mobygames.com/game-­group/star-­trek-licensees. Star Trek: The Motion Picture. Directed by Robert Wise. Music by Jerry Goldsmith. Paramount Home Entertainment, 2010. Blu-­ray. Star Trek: New Worlds. Developed by 14 Degrees East. Interplay, 2000. Windows. Star Trek: The Next Generation—A Final Unity. Developed by Spectrum HoloByte. MicroPose, 1995. MS-DOS. Star Trek Online. Developed by Cryptic Studios. Atari, 2010. Windows. Star Trek: Starfleet Academy. Developed by Interplay. Interplay, 1997. Windows. Star Trek: Starfleet Command I. Developed by Interplay. Interplay, 1999. Windows. Star Trek: Starfleet Command II—Empires at War. Developed by Taldren. Interplay, 2000. Windows. Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country. Directed by Nicholas Meyer. Music by Cliff Eidelman. Paramount Home Entertainment, 2009. DVD. Steiner, Fred. “Keeping Score of the Scores: Music for Star Trek.” The Quarterly Journal of the Library of Congress 40, no. 1 (1983): 4–15.

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Steiner, Fred. “Music for Star Trek: Scoring a Television Show in the Sixties.” In Wonderful Inventions: Motion Pictures, Broadcasting, and Recorded Sound at the Library of Congress, edited by Iris Newsom, 287–309. Washington: Library of Congress, 1985. Summers, Tim. Understanding Video Game Music. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016. Tagg, Philip. Kojak—Fifty Seconds of Television Music: Toward the Analysis of Affect in Popular Music. Rev. edn. New York: Mass Media Scholar’s Press, 2000. “The Way of the Warrior.” Music by Dennis McCarthy. Written by Ira Steven Behr and Robert Hewitt Wolfe. In Star Trek: Deep Space Nine—The Full Journey. Paramount, 2014. DVD. Wood, Simon. “Video Game Music—High Scores: Making Sense of Music and Video Games.” In Sound and Music in Film and Visual Media: An Overview, edited by Graeme Harper, Ruth Doughty, and Jochen Eisentraut, 129–48. New York: Continuum, 2009.

11 Transmediality and the Brick: Differences and Similarities between Analog and Digital Lego Play Mattia Thibault

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f the study of games is, today, a well-­established academic field of inquiry, the heuristic efforts of game scholars rarely focus on freer playful activities, the so-­called paidia.1 Toys, in particular, are playful objects that are only occasionally taken into consideration, as they do not fit well into the models proposed for the study of video games, which often focus on games as rule-­ based systems or as activities with narrative aspirations. Toys are more often discussed by scholars who emphasize the idea of playfulness (notably SuttonSmith), but who, in turn, tend to exclude games from their theories. Indeed, Gregory Bateson even suggests that games might not be playful at all.2 In this chapter, I will try to bridge the two spheres of games and play through the vehicle of the Lego franchise, which ranges from analog toys to digital games. The Lego franchise includes a particularly diverse and wide ensemble of cultural products that is crossed by two main axes. The first one is transmediality: the Lego franchise encompasses toys, games, videos, motion pictures, and much more. The second axis is the digital/analog divide—if Lego was born as analog toys, today many of its manifestations are digital. These two axes are not separate, of course, but they influence each other in complex ways. In this article, I discuss both, in an attempt at shedding some light on what remains constant despite all the intermedial translations and why.

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The methodological “bridge” needed to begin our path is that between the tools used to analyze toys (which are static texts) and those used to approach games (which are dynamic practices). For this purpose, a sort of “lowest common denominator”—a common, meaningful element—must be defined. No formalist approach will be of help in this project. The development of playing activities would not take the indeterminacy of toy-­play, which has fluctuating structures and broken rhythms resulting from the negotiations between the participants or from the wandering creativity of lone toy players, into account. On the other hand, the purely objectual characteristics of our objects of study would miss the dynamicity of games in which the same toy may change its meaning or role several times during the development of a game session. To overcome this impasse, I have decided to approach my case study from a semiotic perspective, which will allow me to focus on the interpretations guiding the playful practices of players engaged in toy play and in games. This approach will take the figurative features of toys into consideration, while, at the same time, help me analyze how the evolution of a game or of a play session re-­negotiates the meaning and position held by these objects. From the semiotician’s point of view, the most profound mechanism of play is resemantization, a shift of meaning that, although eventually guided by rules, is always performed by the players.3 When engaged in playful activities, subjects re-­interpret the world according to specific semiotic domains: they select a series of objects (from a repertoire of available things) that will be included in the play activity and assign to them new meanings.4 These new meanings may be fairly complex, especially if they are prescribed by the rules of a game (or by a matrix of semiotic constraints). The king piece of a chess game, for example, has several layers of meaning attached to it, for example regarding its modalities (what it has-­to-­do and is-­able-to-do) and its actantial role (an object of value that must be protected/conquered). The same, however, holds true for toys, even when they are plastic representations of their referents. Philosopher Eugen Fink, for example, has claimed that toys are unique among human artefacts, as they convey completely different values depending on the perspective adopted. From a non-­play point of view, toys are commodities, objects which serve to entertain children. However, within a playful context, toys acquire additional values that transform them into something different. In other words, for a father, the teddy bear he gives to his children is simply an object to keep them occupied and entertained, while for the playing children the toy will “come to life,” at least in the fictional worlds of play. Toys acquire new values and meanings that are true only as long as the toys are part of play. Fink defines this feature as “magic,” as it conveys the ontological and semiotic confusion

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characteristic of ancient magic practices.5 In semiotic terms, the toy becomes a functive of a sign function inside the semiotic domain of play or, in other words, becomes the signifier of a new, playful, signified.6 This theoretical framework considers both digital and analog playthings as texts with two meanings, one referring to ordinary life and one that is “activated” only within the semiotic domain of play. These texts, however, are not simply meant to be interpreted; instead, they invite players to use them and to manipulate them within the context of a playful practice. Accordingly, part of the meaning of playthings resides in their possible uses, often inscribed in their own objectual features, their affordances. A semiotic take on playthings, then, explores them both in their static objectual states and in their virtual uses when inscribed in dynamic play practices.

The world of the brick Lego is one of the most famous toy brands in the world. Founded in Denmark in 1934, the company introduced the first version of the world-­famous plastic bricks in 1949. Sixty-­six years later, in 2015, the Lego Group surpassed Mattel and became the world’s largest toy company by revenue. In the sixty-­plus years in-­between, the construction sets became the center of an empire which is no longer restricted to plastic toys, but rather practices an aggressive transmedia strategy that arguably culminated in the critically acclaimed The Lego Movie (2014).7 The motion pictures celebrates the “brick” from every angle—aesthetic, cultural, and ideological. While many of the massive transmedia phenomena typical of convergence culture are based on transmedia storytelling, it is not a narrative that sits at the heart of the Lego empire. Instead, it is structured around the formal characteristics of a toy line. Primarily, Lego are toys and parts of toys. The bricks are sold as part of construction sets including instruction manuals detailing how to build a specific model. Nevertheless, the bricks have great creative potential, as they may be re-­combined in ever-­new ways, limited only by imagination—and by the pieces the player owns. Lego patented the first Lego blocks in 1958. Initially, the Lego toys were designed to create several generic shapes (mainly dealing with architecture); however, different lines of products—or “themes”— were created over the years, such as Lego City, Castle, Pirates, Belleville, Friends (the last two aimed at young girls), and Duplo (for younger children). On the occasion of the release of Star Wars Episode I: A Phantom Menace in 1999, the Lego Group produced construction sets based on licensed themes for the first time. The enormous success of this line led to the rapid increase

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of licensed themes (in combination with the need of brand innovation after the patent had expired). Two years later, the first Harry Potter construction sets appeared. Since then, the number of franchises exploited by Lego have skyrocketed, including Indiana Jones, Pirates of the Caribbean, The Lord of the Rings, Spiderman, Batman, The Avengers, and The Simpsons. These sets feature characters, vehicles, and places inspired by the franchises, gradually shifting Lego’s focus from recombination to transmedia expansion. The success and diffusion of Lego toys had an important consequence: the peculiar aesthetics of the toys—their appearance and, especially, their way of portraying real-­life objects and people—became part of the collective imagination. In semiotic terms, Lego’s aesthetics has reached the center of the semiosphere, which implies that most people immediately recognize Lego toys as well as their (digital) reproductions.8 The Lego plastic bricks are also used for the less famous Lego Games. The Lego Games line, born in 2009, features twenty-­four board games (both well-­ known ones such as chess and original designs) which exploit the Lego aesthetics, but are regulated by rules or, in semiotic terms, by a pre-­made matrix of constraints. Lego blocks, in this case, are not used to build toys, but to create playthings, such as boards, dices, and pieces. The recombinatory nature of Lego, however, allows the players to reshape these playthings: the boards are customizable, the Lego-­built dices have interchangeable faces, and all pieces are compatible with all the Lego toys, which, in turn, players may integrate into the games. The Lego Games thus function as an extension of the traditional Lego toys, but also open up new play experiences, all the while increasing replayability. Additionally, some games such as Ninjago Spinners and The Legend of Chima: Speedorz add new gadgets—spinning tops and small vehicles based on flywheels, respectively—that may be used in any playing activity involving Lego. These gadgets are meant to represent “objective” duels between ninjas or pilots: the outcome of the confrontation is decided by chance, and not by a decision of the players, to allow competitions and tournaments. Even though these games are often based on specific themes (both original, such as the prize-­winning Ramses series, or the Ninjago games, and licensed ones, such as Harry Potter), they do not tell stories. There is also a third way of using Lego blocks in a rather playful way: to use them as puppets for staged spectacles. The word “brickfilm” designates fan-­ made stop-­motion videos realized using Lego toys. If, early on, these films merely circulated on private tapes, the internet has made them more widely available. In fact, Lego players started to make brickfilms in the 1970s, but, due to their homemade nature, the phenomenon became famous only in the following decade. Today, the Lego Group openly encourages this practice, as

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the company probably understands it as free promotion. The first known brickfilm is Journey to the Moon (1973), produced by the then-­twelve-year-­old Lars Hassing and his brother Henrik. Inspired by the Apollo program, Journey to the Moon depicts a moon landing. Curiously enough, another early brickfilm to gain public attention was Fernando Escovar’s Lego Wars (1980). As the title suggests, Lego Wars draws on Star Wars—the same franchise that would become the first licensed Lego set more than twenty years later. Apart from indicating a contiguity (at least demographical) between Lego players and Star Wars fans, this video exemplifies the playful resemantization of Lego. Despite the apparent intention of representing Star Wars, most of the Lego figures featured in the video are equipped with medieval weapons, while a Red Cross helicopter is used as a stand-­in for a spaceship (see Figure 11.1). This way of using toys is not surprising for a play activity, thereby suggesting that some brickfilms are much closer to the recording of a play session than to a proper film. When watching Lego Wars, the audience needs to perform the same kind of resemantizations a play session would require: the Red Cross Lego helicopter is, in fact, a spaceship—otherwise the video would not make sense. Accordingly, the audience of brickfilms consists of co-­players

FIGURE 11.1  Lego Wars was one of the first brick films. Screenshot from Lego Wars (Fernando Escovar, 1978).

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who follow the instructions of the brickfilm’s producers by activating the re-­ interpretative patterns the filmmakers propose.9 Similar to Lego bricks as such, their digital representations have also been used as a means for play. In fact, digital games dedicated to the “brick” predate Lego board games. Since 1997, the Lego Group, in collaboration with several developers, has published more than fifty video games, half of which are based on licensed themes. With the possible exception of Lego Creator (Superscape, 1998), all these games are strictly regulated and do not explicitly leave space for creative play. On the contrary, generally, players cannot use the digital simulations of Lego blocks for building models at all. Granted, the games sometimes imitate the building possibilities of Lego (usually via a video sequence in which digital Lego pieces gathered by the players are automatically re-­arranged in order to build the shape required by the game). However, Lego’s aesthetics have been applied to very different kinds of digital games, from racing games such as Lego Racers (High Voltage, 1999) and simulations such as Legoland (Krisalis, 1999) to real time strategy games such as Lego Battles (Hellbend, 2009) and even an MMORPG, Lego Universe (NetDevil, 2010). Most of Lego’s digital games and, in particular, almost all the themed ones (Ninjago, Bionicle, Legends of Chima, etc.) are story-­driven action-­adventure games, which leave little room for creativity. However, Lego’s recombinatory nature may allow for a certain degree of customization or may be exploited as a game mechanic. For example, in Lego Indiana Jones: The Original Adventure (Traveller’s Tales, 2008), players have to collect Lego pieces to activate the automatic creation of an item they need, such as the engine of a plane. Similarly, in The Lego Movie Videogame (TT Fusion, 2014), “free builder” characters can dismantle designated Lego buildings to retrieve the pieces to build other, pre-­determined objects (notably vehicles). Obviously, the digital nature of these games does not allow for any kind of compatibility with their analog counterparts—except through the use of augmented reality, which Lego has been increasingly employing within the framework of the Fusion project. Since players can only interact with the digital toys and playthings through a digital prosthesis, this generally reduces the recombinatory nature of Lego bricks to mere imitation. Games emulate this key feature of Lego through an effect of meaning without allowing players to build personalized models. In other words, players generally cannot decide what to build, as the outcome of the building process is scripted, and they do not even virtually build it, but merely activate an animation. To compensate for the limited agency of the players, Lego digital games feature full-­fledged narratives. This story-­based character is not limited to action-­adventure games, but also defines racing and

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strategy games, which often feature very well-­constructed backgrounds, interesting plots, and enjoyable campaigns. To be sure, digital representations of Lego are not only used for play. With the advancement of CGI, the Lego Group started to produce its own films, mostly geared toward children and directly released to home video markets. Indeed, between 2003 and 2017, nineteen Lego films were released. Most of these films are relatively simple and are more akin to a sophisticated marketing campaign than an actual attempt toward cinematographic achievement. Lego: The Adventures of Clutch Powers (2010) is worth mentioning, as it not only functioned as a low-­quality prototype of The Lego Movie, but also introduces the idea of a universe—or, rather, multiverse—in which the different Lego themes coexist. The idea of a “Lego World” is very important for the development of the transmedia net that surrounds play, as it implies that toys cease to be representations of W0 (the real world). Instead, they become part of their own W N (a diegetic, fictional world), which is a parallel, Lego-­version of the former.10 This idea is perfected in The Lego Movie. In the film, many features of Lego’s aesthetics are present and are fundamental elements of the plot. In the narrative, the villain threatens the recombinatory nature of Lego by trying to glue the entire Lego galaxy into a fixed form. Such an outcome, in the axiology of the narrative, is certainly dysphoric, as the “Legoness” of the Lego World must be preserved. The toys’ features thus become inherently positive characteristics. Similarly, the motion picture represents the growing use of licensed themes in the creation of Lego sets in an extremely positive manner, as several characters are “borrowed” from other narratives (e.g. Batman, one of the main characters), thereby establishing intertextual relations that mix parody and what Gérard Genette has referred to as “transposition,” all the while aware of the Lego nature of the setting.11 In addition, the film sets up a sort of Lego mythology. Notably, it introduces so-­called relics: non-Lego objects, such as coins, rubber bands, and used band aids— things that typically end up in children’s Lego boxes—which appear in the Lego World. Finally, The Lego Movie has also been conceived as the centerpiece of a new transmedia ecosystem, which includes both narrative and playful texts. Indeed, the Lego Group released several construction sets and a digital game based on the motion picture simultaneous to the movie.

The Lego language Analog and digital Lego feature a common aesthetics, which is today part of the collective imagination. The most important characteristic of Lego is their

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recombinatory nature or, more precisely, their modularity. Lego’s modularity is extremely detailed (it comprehends very small parts), durable (the pieces resist the attempt to separate them), and endemic (human figures and animals can also be dismantled and are compatible with other pieces). Indeed, every Lego piece is meant to be connected to others in order to build something. All kinds of Lego products share this fundamental characteristic, as complex objects may be reduced to smaller pieces and used to build new objects. Everything in the Lego universe is fully recyclable, everything can serve many purposes; even characters can be disassembled and combined with others, sometimes with surreal effects. Modularity is connected with another important feature of all Lego products: their complete compatibility. Not only can the pieces of all construction sets be mixed, but this compatibility has been stable since the beginning. An old Lego block representing a shingle can easily be combined with the latest Star Wars spaceship, even though years have passed and the production process has changed (new plastics, new colors, etc.). This is not only a way of making Lego pieces almost ever-­ lasting, but it can also be considered as part of the morphology of a sort of Lego “language.” According to Roger Said, Johan Roos, and Matt Statler, for example, Lego should be considered a proper, new, and specific language constituted by peculiar signs, the blocks themselves, and characterized by four main features: “connectivity, low barriers [to participation], repeatability and reversibility.”12 The linguistic approach to Lego is particularly relevant because it helps clarify some peculiarities of these toys. First, it explains how Lego translates entire worlds, from the real world to the increasingly intricate narrative worlds the toys represent. Additionally, it makes clear that the transmedia phenomenon that is Lego is not organized around a narrative world, but rather around the ability of Lego to translate any world into its language. This dimension contributes to creating the effect of a stable Lego world parallel to ours that Douglas Coupland has described as a “seamless world of . . . modularity, indestructibility, sound bites, acrylonitrile butadiene styrene.”13 In semiotic terms, Lego represents reality in a very particular way: It is a construction set conceived to represent domestic and every-­day-life situations. Its way of representing reality has not changed—not even when new representational frameworks (science fiction, fantasy, etc.) were added. This ability to depict different kinds of realities, paired with the very typical style of these stylizations, is one of the features that determines Lego’s success. The differences between the objects and people populating Lego World and their real-­world counterparts are organized in a coherent system. Lego figures have their own characteristics: yellow skin, big cylindrical heads, few facial traits, widespread baldness, polygonal bodies, painted clothes, standardized

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accessories, claw hands, and limited possibilities of movement. Likewise, the objects come in standardized sizes and a reduced range of colors, and they are designed to be connected with one another and the Lego people. Despite the differences, all objects and persons of the real world may be re-­created by using Lego blocks. The infinite amount of possible combinations of Lego parts can give birth to the reproduction of in-­scale buildings or full-­ sized vehicles. Their versatility allows builders to reproduce any kind of object, with the only limit of the number of pieces owned. As for the “Lego race,” its peculiarity can be formalized as a system of differences from the human race, a stylization: applying this system to an existing or fictional human being allows moving and translating him or her into Lego World. The sheer limitless possibilities of translation allowed Lego to build the dense net of intertextual relations that have particularly defined the past fifteen years of its products. Every possible world is susceptible to Lego translation, and the characteristics of the Lego aesthetics make this translation not only possible but also pleasurable. If the audience of, for example, The Lord of the Rings (2001–3) is an adult audience—an audience which is quiet and receives a message, as Yuri Lotman has it—when confronted with the Lego version of the film, the audience becomes a folkloric audience, allowed— even invited—to play, question, and re-­imagine the narrative.14 Lego thus becomes a means to exploring a transmedia world and enjoying the freedom offered by creative play or by the interactivity of a game. The evolution of the game from generic construction sets to original themes and subsequently to licensed themes maps well onto the different kinds of toys based on their meaning: actant toys, thematic toys, and actor toys.15 The first Lego sets mostly portrayed generic houses, vehicles, and people. These toys, which represented what players desired, were actant toys, susceptible to play whatever role the players chose. These sets have been discontinued, but many Lego parts of modern sets can still be used in the same way. Thematic toys, which represent a precise thematic role or a figure, on the other hand, are produced in great numbers. These Lego sets reduce human(-like) pieces to specific roles: medieval warriors, football players, clowns, policemen, firemen, and so on. Generally, these stand-­ins for humans are not sufficiently developed to identify them as single characters; however, they serve to define a particular space/time frame and a set of possible skills. In the domain of nonhuman representation, thematic toys also include more specific types of buildings (such as police stations and hairdresser salons). The Lego original themes often feature these kinds of toys, mainly because they create a possible world (provided with all the necessary themes and thematic roles), but they do not feature a narrative (and therefore neither the actantial roles necessary to create actors).

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Lego representing specific characters or objects of Lego and non-Lego fictional worlds (e.g., Gandalf and the Batmobile) are generally more detailed, as they need to clearly identify a unique object among many others. These actor toys are particularly present in the licensed Lego sets, whose reason for existence is, after all, the representation of well-­known characters and props, such as Darth Vader, Jack Sparrow, the Millennium Falcon, and the Black Pearl. Actor toys are thus charged with meaning, as they embody all of the isotopies of the character they represent, such as relationships (e.g. friends, foes, lovers, and family) and scripts (e.g. Robin Hood steals from the rich, while Batman fights criminals). Crucially, however, these toys allow players to recreate and variate these beloved narratives—to play with them. The Lego Movie portrays these three different types of toys. Emmet, the main character of the film, is a thematic toy, a construction builder similar to all others with little to no personality. He is part of a community of thematic and actant toys—toys with only a handful of details which always follow the instructions—until he comes in contact with the “master builders” (who can build something without the need of instructions). These are actor toys representing both licensed characters such as Batman and Dumbledore as well as newly-­introduced and easily recognizable ones such as Vitruvius and Wyldstyle. Among them, however, is Benny, a 1980s vintage Lego figure with very few details apart from an almost erased symbol on his chest and a broken helmet. He is a “blue astronaut,” one of the first thematic toys Lego produced. His presence among the “master builders” indicates the bond of affection players develop with their oldest toys, which thus become exceptional and acquire an identity of their own. In other words, the film suggests that a toy can become an actor toy not only because of the meaning that it carries, but also because of the relationship players establish with the object over years. The toy’s value is thus based on its “backstory” and the player’s emotional attachment.16 Accordingly, the additional meaning necessary to transform these toys in actor toys is not present in the text, but in practice; it is the specific value a specific player attributes to it that makes it more meaningful. Lego’s modular nature complicates the situation, as not only buildings and vehicles may be disassembled, but so may figures, whose parts and accessories may be combined with other figures mixed. This practice creates new, customized toys which can be either useful to represent new themes or actors or end up constituting “schizophrenic” toys with no isotopies that allow the players to make sense of them. In that case, the only way of playing with them is through additional resemantization. Lego’s success in creating a toy-­based transmedia universe is not only a symptom of the ludification our culture has been undergoing, but also provides

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testament to Lego’s efficacy as a language through which entire worlds may be “Legoized.” Throughout its long history, the variety of Lego products has allowed players to engage in different kinds of play—digital vs. analog; creative play vs. games. Lego’s peculiar form of expression, which unites a specific aesthetics and pervasive modularity, makes possible the incredible success of these toys, as it allows players to become creative, while the toys are always sufficiently recognizable to be commodified—and thus commercially exploitable. Recombining Lego pieces is always an act of creativity, but limited by their fixed form, which constrains players’ possibilities. Lego’s modularity, in other words, creates a space of playfulness within the playing activity itself—and playing with the boundaries of play is among the most rewarding playing activities.

Lego’s substance and form of expression The transmedia potential of Lego causes the “brick” to be the object of several intersemiotic translations, notably between different practices (active play and passive entertainment) and between different play activities (toy play and gaming). This transmedia dimension entails an opposition between the analog and digital versions of Lego—the second axis I will explore. This opposition is particularly meaningful, as it challenges several of the fundamental traits of the Lego “language” just outlined: How can a digital object still be considered a Lego object if its materiality, and therefore its possible uses, is radically different? The second half of this chapter, then, will explore the differences and similarities between analog and digital Lego. On the most fundamental level, there is an evident difference in the materiality of analog and digital Lego. Yet when considering both kinds of playthings as texts which are part of a sign function, Louis Hjemslev’s conceptualization of “expression” and “content” sheds some light on their differences. In brief, Hjemslev understands the signifier (i.e., the expression) and the signified (i.e., the content) in relation to their substance (i.e., their material manifestation) and their form (which is abstract). In natural languages, the substance of the expression is articulated voice; the expression is formed by phonemes (units of sound considered as different in a specific language); the content’s form is the lexical articulation of the objects of the world; and the content’s substance is the world itself, which can be perceived and organized by humans only according to the form that they give to it.17 Despite the different substances that make up Lego sets (industrially shaped ABS) and games (light emitted from a screen according to the game’s code), they both share the same form of expression—in other words, they

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look (almost) the same to the player. This illusion of similarity is the cardinal point upon which the continuity between the toys and the digital games is built. While the content is not necessarily similar, and the substance of expression is by definition very different, the form of the expression is what makes a digitally constructed virtual image perceived and treated as a Lego object or not.18 The purpose of Lego’s form of expression is different for its analog and digital variants. The shape of Lego toys is directly related to their modularity; it is a competence that allows the different pieces to connect, the mini-­figures to hold objects, and so on. Maintaining the same form of expression through time and across products allows compatibility between different Lego sets. On the other hand, the form of expression of digital Lego is an exclusively aesthetic matter: the virtual objects do not require specific forms for them to interlock. The form of expression of virtual Lego, then, aims at an identificatory effect of meaning, as it mimics the form and substance of the expression of their analog counterparts in a virtual environment. The relationship between the material aspect of Lego and what it represents involves a degree of iconicity, as the two forms are connected by a toposensitive similarity. According to Umberto Eco’s modes of sign production, Lego are a stylization born from a radical invention.19 The first term indicates that, today, Lego can represent every object of the world (and of imaginary worlds), since Lego is based on a stable, culturalized system of similarities with and differences from reality. This basic system of similarities and differences also provides the point of origin for the Lego “language.” Of course, Lego has a very specific way of representing reality, which is often very far from physical reality, but based on a balance between the fundamental characteristics of being a construction set (hence the claw hands) and the necessity of being able to represent, in some measure, anthropic reality, not without adding some specific and purely aesthetic elements (as yellow skins). The creation of Lego has brought forth a whole new set of signs which may, today more than ever, be employed for various types of representations.

Interacting with the brick: manipulation and prosthesis Different substances of expression require different forms of interaction and, therefore, determine different play practices. The fact that digital playthings only exist in a virtual world has several consequences for the way players can interact with them. The most important one is the fact that the players need an interface that mediates between their bodies and the digital world. The first level of this instance is the interface of the platform (i.e., the device which

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allows the play activity). These interfaces transform the movement of the players’ bodies into data which affects the virtual world and its objects. The nature of the movement and the ways of tracking it can change greatly, as becomes evident from the difference between clicking with a mouse and using a Wiimote.20 The player’s movements are projected onto a digital prosthesis.21 This virtual stand-­in allows the players to act in a world that is materially inaccessible to them and creates a meaning effect of direct agency. In fact, games use different kinds of prostheses. Building on Eco’s typology, Agata Meneghelli has distinguished between extensive prosthesis (which extend the natural actions of the players’ bodies) and magnifying prosthesis (which perform actions that would be impossible for the players’ bodies), both of which may be intrusive (if they allow the players to access spaces normally inaccessible).22 In addition, digital prostheses are either unactorialized and therefore “transparent” (e.g. in god games) or actorialized through the use of an avatar. According to Bruno Fraschini, actorialized prostheses may be articulated in three ways: vehicles (when the players drive a car, a spaceship or similar), characters (when the players control an avatar representing an actor—e.g. Super Mario), and mask (when the players “see” through the avatar’s eyes). The different kinds of prostheses entail distinct relationships between the player and the character and, accordingly, different compositions of the subject. While the “vehicle” does not directly alter the player’s identity, the “character” involves the deepest characterization of the prosthesis, while the “mask” involves the highest degree of identification with it.23 In analog play, “character” and “vehicle” may be understood as the use of toys as puppets and toy cars, while “mask” is akin to live-­action play and “god” to playing with an entire set of toys. Digital prostheses, therefore, are virtual equivalents to analog play, allowing the players to interact with virtual playthings as they normally do with real ones. From this perspective, the “avatar” is simply a puppet invested with the role of actant observer. Lotman, speaking about puppets in theatre, writes that: “[I]f the actor plays the part of a person, the doll/puppet plays the part of the actor, and becomes the image of another image.”24 The same holds true for the avatar. Like a puppet, the avatar can be used for the creation of narrative texts that become part of the game’s repertoire. In this context, in contrast to live performances and analog play, the mediated nature of digital games allows game designers to adapt strategies known from cinema and television (e.g. the choice of cameras, lightning, and the use of music). Accordingly, game designers can use cinematic tools to foster identification with and (con)fusion between the player and the avatar— that is, between the different instances that make up the subject.

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Creative play vs. games: ludic differences and similarities The need of a prosthesis, and therefore of surrendering agency to the code, also influences the types of practices that can be performed. From a semiotic standpoint, “games” are all those playful activities in which a large part of the system of constraints has been invented prior of the process of playing, while the other forms of play can be designated with the expression “creative play,” as they involve a higher degree of creativity and authorship on the players’ end. Of course, this simple definition does not account for the amount or complexity of the rules involved in a particular game/play and is parallel to Roger Caillois’s distinction between ludus and paidia—where paidia means that the players create their own rules while they are playing, and ludus means that they accept the rules of a specific game and play it. However, whereas Caillois focuses on the “rules,” I differentiate between resemantizations and the matrix of constraints. The difference may seem subtle, but it means that I would consider playing “Cowboys and Indians” as being, at least in part, a game (as the resemantization of the two players has become culturalized), while Caillois probably would not. For a long time, analog Lego emphasized creative play, while its digital counterpart was exploited for the creation of games. As early as the 1990s, however, the line began to become blurry. Digital sandbox games such as Legoland and Lego Creator feature digital playgrounds that leave room for the players’ creativity, while, ten years later, the Lego Games introduced matrices of constraints into analog play. This development reflects broader technological trends. Since Lego was born as a construction set, any attempt to transpose it into digital form was bound to face technical restrictions. Creating digital games is much easier than crafting a virtual space with its own physics to host creative play. Coding is based on the creation of constraints that are used to shape players’ potential courses of action. Free play, on the other hand, requires much more possibilities than most games allow for. In this respect, digital and analog play are opposites. The tendency toward “gaminess” in digital play, then, is an intrinsic characteristic of the medium (at least, it has been so far). Despite these differences, Lego has persisted in its recognizable shape in a wide range of cultural products. The transmedia translations which Lego has gone through have only highlighted that there is something that makes both analog and digital Lego easily recognizable. “Legoness” is not tied to a specific materiality or in the medium Lego was designed for, but in a combination of two semiotic characteristics. The first is related to their

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appearance, which makes them a “representation set” which allows for a systematic representation of reality. The second is their syntax, which pertains to the way the different signs (i.e., the Lego pieces)—can be combined, assembled, disassembled—the way they interact with each other. These two features, then, are at the same time Lego’s essence and the key to the Brick’s transmedia success.

Notes 1 Roger Caillois, Les Jeux et les hommes (Paris: Gallimard, 1967). 2 Gregory Bateson, “The Message ‘This is Play,’ ” in Group Processes: Transactions of the Second Conference, ed. Bertram Schaffner (New York: Macy Foundation, 1956). 3 Yuri M. Lotman, “The Place of Art among Other Modelling Systems,” Sign Systems Studies 39, no. 2–4 (2011). 4 Mattia Thibault, “Realities of Play: A Semiotic Analysis of the Province of Meaning of Play,” in Is It Real? Structuring Reality by Means of Signs, ed. Zeynep Onur, Eero Tarasti, I˙lhami Sıg˘  ırcı, and Papatya Nur Dökmeci Yörükog˘  lu (Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars, 2016). 5 Eugen Fink, “Oasis of Happiness: Thoughts toward an Ontology of Play,” Purlieu 1, no. 4 (2012). The same intuition probably led Johan Huizinga to the idea of the “magic circle.” 6 In semiotics and glossematics, “functive” indicates the two terms of a function. On sign functions, see Umberto Eco, Trattato di semiotica generale (Milano: Bompiani, 1975). 7 According to the review aggregator Rotten Tomatoes, the film received 95 percent positive reviews (https://www.rottentomatoes.com/m/the_lego_ movie/, accessed February 9, 2017). 8 See Yuri M. Lotman, Universe of the Mind: A Semiotic Theory of Culture (London: I.B. Tauris, 1990). 9 Of course, a brickfilm that proposes a perfect representation of narrative wouldn’t share this playful dimension, being instead a full-­fledged film, even if of a particular kind. 10 The notation follows Eco, Trattato. 11 Gérard Genette, Palimpsestes: La Littérature au second degré (Paris: Seuil, 1982). 12 Roger Said, Johan Roos, and Matt Statler, “Lego Speaks (Working Paper 20),” Imagination Lab, November 2011, http://www.imagilab.org/pdf/wp02/ WP20.pdf. 13 Douglas Coupland, “Toys that Bind,” New Republic (June 6, 1994): 10. 14 Yuri M. Lotman, Testo e contesto: Semiotica dell’arte e della cultura, ed. Simonetta Salvestroni (Rome: Laterza, 1980), 145–50.

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15 Mattia Thibault, “Towards a Semiotic Analysis of Toys,” in New Semiotics: Between Tradition and Innovation, ed. Kristian Bankov (Sofia: NBU/IASS, 2016). 16 Katriina Heljakka, Principle of Adult Play(fulness) in Contemporary Toy Cultures: From Wow, to Flow, to Glow (PhD diss., Aalto University, 2013). 17 Louis Hjelmslev, Prolegomena to a Theory of Language (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1969). 18 Lego’s content is common when the same “themes” are used (e.g., a Ninjago construction set and digital game share the same form and substance of content), but this is not necessary to create the effect of continuity. 19 Eco, Trattato. 20 For an in-­depth semiotic analysis of this aspect of the interface, see Agata Meneghelli, Il risveglio dei sensi: Verso un’esperienza di gioco corporeo (Milano: Unicopli, 2011) and Enzo D’Armenio, Mondi paralleli: Ripensare l’interattività nei videogiochi (Milano: Unicopli, 2014). 21 Bruno Fraschini, Metal Gear Solid: L’evoluzione del serpente (Milano: Unicopli, 2003); Martti Lahti, “As We Become Machines: Corporealized Pleasures in Video Games,” in The Video Game Theory Reader, ed. Mark J.P. Wolf and Bernard Perron (New York: Routledge, 2003). 22 Meneghelli, Risveglio, 54; Umberto Eco, Kant e l’Ornitorinco (Milano: Bompiani, 1997). 23 Fraschini, Metal Gear Solid. 24 Lotman, Testo e contesto, 149; my translation.

References Bateson, Gregory. “The Message ‘This Is Play.’ ” In Group Processes: Transactions of the Second Conference, edited by Bertram Schaffner, 145– 242. New York: Macy Foundation, 1956. Caillois, Roger. Les Jeux et les hommes. Paris: Gallimard, 1967. Coupland, Douglas. “Toys that Bind.” New Republic (June 6, 1994): 9–10. D’Armenio, Enzo. Mondi paralleli: Ripensare l’interattività nei videogiochi. Milano: Unicopli, 2014. Eco, Umberto. Trattato di semiotica generale. Milano: Bompiani, 1975. Eco, Umberto. Kant e l’Ornitorinco. Milano: Bompiani, 1997. Fink, Eugen. “Oasis of Happiness: Thoughts Toward an Ontology of Play.” Purlieu 1, no. 4 (2012): 20–42. Fraschini, Bruno. Metal Gear Solid: L’evoluzione del serpent. Milano: Unicopli, 2003. Genette, Gérard. Palimpsestes: La Littérature au second degré. Paris: Seuil, 1982. Heljakka, Katriina. Principle of Adult Play(fulness) in Contemporary Toy Cultures: From Wow, to Flow, to Glow. PhD diss., Aalto University, 2013.

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Hjelmslev, Louis. Prolegomena to a Theory of Language. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1969. Huizinga, Johan. Homo Ludens: A Study of the Play-Element in Culture. London: Routledge, 2003. Jenkins, Henry. Convergence Culture: Where Old and New Media Collide. New York: New York University Press, 2006. Lahti, Martti. “As We Become Machines: Corporealized Pleasures in Video Games.” In The Video Game Theory Reader, edited by Mark J.P. Wolf and Bernard Perron, 157–70. New York: Routledge, 2003. Lego: The Adventures of Clutch Powers. Directed by Howard E. Barker. Universal, 2010. Blu-­ray. Lego Battles. Developed by Hellbend. Warner Bros. Interactive Entertainment, 2009. Nintendo DS. Lego Creator. Developed by Superscape. Lego Media, 1998. Windows. Lego Indiana Jones: The Original Adventure. Developed by Traveller’s Tales. LucasArts, 2008. Windows. The Lego Movie. Directed by Phil Lord and Christopher Miller. Warner Bros., 2014. Blu-­ray. The Lego Movie Videogame. Developed by TT Fusion. Warner Bros. Interactive Entertainment, 2014. Windows. Lego Racers. Developed by High Voltage. Lego Media, 1999. Windows. Lego Universe. Developed by NetDevil. The Lego Group, 2010. Windows. Legoland. Developed by Krisalis. Lego Media, 1999. Windows. Lotman, Yuri M. “The Place of Art among Other Modelling Systems.” Sign Systems Studies 39, no. 2–4 (2011): 251–70. Lotman, Yuri M. Testo e contesto: Semiotica dell’arte e della cultura, edited by Simonetta Salvestroni. Rome: Laterza, 1980. Lotman, Yuri M. Universe of the Mind: A Semiotic Theory of Culture. London: I.B. Tauris, 1990. Meneghelli, Agata. Il risveglio dei sensi: Verso un’esperienza di gioco corporeo. Milano: Unicopli, 2011. Said, Roger, Johan Roos, and Matt Statler. “Lego Speaks (Working Paper 20).” Imagination Lab, November 2011. Accessed February 9, 2017. http://www. imagilab.org/pdf/wp02/WP20.pdf. Thibault, Mattia. “Realities of Play: A Semiotic Analysis of the Province of Meaning of Play.” In Is It Real? Structuring Reality by Means of Signs, edited by Zeynep Onur, Eero Tarasti, I˙lhami Sıg˘  ırcı, and Papatya Nur Dökmeci Yörükog˘  lu, 176–88. Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars, 2016. Thibault, Mattia. “Towards a Semiotic Analysis of Toys.” In New Semiotics: Between Tradition and Innovation, edited by Kristian Bankov, 989–98. Sofia: NBU/IASS, 2016.

12 Transfictionality, Thetic Space, and Doctrinal Transtexts: The Procedural Expansion of Gor in Second Life’s Gorean Role-­playing Games Christophe Duret

I

maginary worlds created through a multitude of works in different media have become a mainstay in contemporary popular culture.1 Those works are linked together by a relation called “transfictionality,” a phenomenon “by which two or more texts, whether from the same author or not, jointly relate to the same fiction, either by repetition of characters, extension of a prior plot or sharing of a fictional universe.”2 The Assassin’s Creed franchise, for example, represents a transfiction based on several media, which, in their combination, make up a transmedia story (a transfictional story told through many texts belonging to many media). In this franchise, twenty-­two games contribute to a shared universe, along with twenty-­eight comics, three animated short films, a movie, eight novels, and an encyclopedia.3 Aside from these canonical texts, a vast body of fan fictions contributes to the transmedia story.4 However, Assassin’s Creed is merely one example of transfictionality with video games at their core. On the other hand, there are numerous cases where video games occupy a more marginal place within transmedia stories: those that complement the universes of Star Wars, Star Trek, The Matrix, Conan the Barbarian, Batman, and so on. If we add the crossovers and fanfictions to

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these universes, the transfictionalization cases involving video games are practically endless. Transmedia works tend to emerge around emblematic characters, from Lara Croft and Conan the Barbarian to the hundreds of superheroes from the DC and Marvel Universes. But in some cases, the fictional world matters more than its heroes. Think, for instance, of Vice City, Liberty City, San Andreas, and Los Santos in the Grand Theft Auto franchise (Rockstar, 1997– 2013), of Silent Hill from the eponymous games (Konami, 1999–2014), and of the Azeroth of World of Warcraft (Blizzard, 2004). Finally, there are fictional worlds where what matters the most is the ethos—the social organization, mores, customs, etc.—which ensures these worlds’ success and motivates their transfictional expansion. This is the case of Gor, the fictive planet depicted in the 34 planetary romance novels from John Norman’s The Chronicles of Gor series (1966–2016).5 In this chapter, I will examine the expansion of Gor’s diegesis through Second Life’s Gorean role-­playing games. I will show that this process mobilizes the procedural qualities of the video game medium in order to translate the ethos of Gor. Next to the mythos and topos, ethos is one of the key ingredients to a convincing transmedia world, Lisbeth Klastrup and Susana Tosca have argued.6 Using the concept of procedural expansion, I will describe how Gorean role-­playing games’ creators proceduralize this world, its customs, and its social organization, but also a more abstract and structuring principle, namely the “law of natural order.” My theoretical propositions are based on ongoing ethnographic research conducted since June 2012. In this project, I have analyzed documents produced by members of the Second Life Gorean community which reflect their gaming practices. I have predominantly worked from a corpus of nearly 5,000 posts taken from seventy topics published on The Gorean Forums (http://www.goreanforums.net/) and the Gor-SL forums (http://www. gor-­sl.com/) in order to reconstruct the formal structure and the Gorean diegesis of the Gorean games. I have also consulted player blogs, screenshots, video captures of game sessions, online encyclopedias, amateur journals devoted to Gorean games, and the first eight novels of the Chronicles of Gor series.

World-­making, spatiality, and procedurality According to Henry Jenkins, numerous contemporary narratives—in fantasy and science fiction in particular—are neither based on an individual character nor a specific plot, but rather on a world.7 These narratives (e.g. The Matrix,

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Harry Potter, Star Wars) constitute an art of world-­making. Indeed, Jenkins points out, the artists create environments that cannot be completely explored in a single work or by a single medium; the world exceeds the work in which it is depicted, calling for a transfictional or transmedial way of telling stories. More generally, numerous fantasy, horror, science fiction, and adventure works fall into the category of “spatial stories” and “world-­making,” as they focus on detailed, autonomous imaginary worlds.8 According to Michael Saler, imaginary worlds of fiction of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries constitute the first virtual worlds as they are “persistently available . . ., collectively inhabited and obsessively elaborated by readers.”9 These past imaginary worlds shared some important characteristics with the worlds of contemporary transmedia narratives. Both imagine realistic and coherent worlds accompanied by scholarly apparatuses such as footnotes, glossaries, appendices, maps, and tables. Already these precursors of contemporary transmedia storytelling had their readers participate in a collective exercise of world-­building. Indeed, readers and viewers still “inhabit” a number of these worlds (e.g. Conan’s Hyborian Age, Middle-Earth in The Lord of the Rings, and Sherlock Holmes’ Victorian London) today. Most game studies scholars agree on the fact that spatiality constitutes the main feature of video games. As Stephan Günzel has pointed out, “space is the one category that has come to be accepted as the central issue of game studies.”10 Likewise, Jenkins has stressed that “[g]ame designers don’t simply tell stories; they design worlds and sculpt spaces.”11 In such a context, video games allow for “environmental storytelling” and appear as “storyworlds.”12 Accordingly, video games constitute a particularly well-­suited medium to serve transmedia projects where world-­making takes a central role. In processes of adaptation, video games recreate the heterocosm—“an ‘other world’ or cosmos, complete, of course, with the stuff of a story— settings, characters, events, and situations”—of the adapted work(s) in question, Linda Hutcheon has argued.13 However, she restricts this adaptation to the physical and material dimensions of the adapted heterocosm. To illustrate that point, Hutcheon borrows the Cartesian opposition between res extensa (the extended thing, or corporeal substance) and res cogitans (the space of the mind, the non-­physical substance of ideas). Thus, according to her, the strength of video games is the simulation of what belongs to the res extensa, unlike the novel, for instance, which is an effective medium in the art of depicting the res cogitans (e.g. the thoughts of the characters). In opposition to Hutcheon, I would like to suggest that many video games allegorically project the space of the mind onto the physical space. For example, in Max Payne 3 (Rockstar, 2012), Hoboken’s (New Jersey) and São

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Paulo’s urban landscapes are composed of decrepit, sinister, miserable, and abandoned places and represented through image-­processing techniques which accentuate these qualities (underexposure, shades). These aesthetic qualities dramatize the mental space of Max Payne, a depressed former cop who is mournful and suffers from alcoholism and a painkiller addiction. Not only are video games competent in the art of expressing mental states, but they are also effective in the exposition of abstract principles, as Gonzalo Frasca and Ian Bogost have demonstrated. According to Bogost, procedurality is a “set of constraints that create possibility spaces, which can be explored through play.”14 The term “procedural rhetoric” therefore refers to the expression of persuasive messages and abstract ideas articulated in a procedural form, the demonstration being made through the use of simulation. If “each medium does what it does best” in the context of transmedia storytelling, the principal contribution of video games resides both in the res extensa and the res cogitans—in the simulation of a concrete world and the expression of immaterial components, such as mental states and ideas.15 Therefore, video games might reach their full potential in the simulation of a world ruled by organizing principles governed by an apparent thesis. Their function would remain to expand transmedia worlds by translating their political, economic, philosophical, social, religious, and/or ethical principles procedurally, like Star Wars does with Ralph Waldo Emerson’s transcendentalism, BioShock (Irrational Games, 2007) with Ayn Rand’s objectivism, and the Left Behind tetralogy (2006–11) with dispensationalist doctrine.16

Transfictionality and procedural expansion To highlight the convergence between world simulation and the proceduralization of those structuring principles that give the world its internal coherence, I will propose the concept of procedural expansion, which is a modality of transfictionality. I will retain the concept of expansion from the typology of transfictions developed by Richard Saint-Gelais (expansion, version, crossover/annexation, and capture).17 Expansion develops the fiction of a work on the diegetic level or, in the words of Marie-Laure Ryan, extends the scope of the original storyworld by adding more existents to it, by turning secondary characters into the heroes of the story they experience, by having characters visit new regions of the storyworld, and by prolonging the time covered by the original story though prequels and sequels.18

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Time, characters, and space in a storyworld (or a diegesis, a heterocosm, etc.) thus constitute the components to which new diegetic elements are added. However, as the Gorean role-­playing games demonstrate, in the videoludic context, there are many examples where the characters and stories of the original storyworld do not constitute relevant objects of the expansion process, or where those characters and stories represent epiphenomena with respect to the new spaces and diegetic events generated by this process. During the processes of transfictionalization, videoludic expansions generally focus on the spatial rather than temporal dimension. Thus, these expansions offer a setting in which new characters will evolve and from where new diegetic events will emerge. The role of the game’s formal structure is to enable and frame these events. The formal structure is a set of procedures (rules and game mechanics) and parameters that govern the actions of the players and simulate the diegesis, giving it consistency and playability. In other words, the diegetic expansion of a fictional world works through the mediation of a formal structure (its procedures and rules), turning it into what I propose to label “procedural expansion.” Procedural expansion involves at least two texts: a chronologically earlier text and a later text, which share a storyworld. There is therefore a hypertextual relationship between these texts, to the extent where one grafted onto the other constitutes the transformation: “hypertextuality refers to any relationship uniting a text B (which I shall call the hypertext) to an earlier text A (I shall, of course, call it the hypotext), upon which it is grafted in a manner that is not that of commentary.”19 For example, the video game Salammbô (Cryo, 2003) is a hypertext of the graphic novel by Philippe Druillet and the novel by Gustave Flaubert, both of which constitute the video game’s hypotext. I adopt the hypotext/hypertext pair in order to identify the position of anteriority the first term maintains with respect to the second as part of the process of procedural expansion. This position implies no dissymmetrical, but rather a reciprocal relationship. Therefore, if the hypertext implicates diegetic data from the hypotext, in a transfictional context, the hypotext implicates, reciprocally (and retrospectively), those from the hypertext. A definition of the procedural expansion concept might thus read: Procedural expansion is the extension of the diegesis of a hypotext by means of its video game hypertext. This extension requires proceduralization, a process by which the laws and characteristics ensuring consistency and originality of the hypotext’s diegesis are transposed into the formal structure of the hypertext in the form of rules, parameters, and technical devices that make this diegesis playable. In this context, the ludic interaction of the players, which is governed by the formal structure, generates events which contribute to the expansion of the diegesis. This expansion belongs neither to the

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hypotext nor the hypertext; it exists in the transfictional relationship that binds one to the other in their common diegesis. In other words, the diegesis represents the sum of the hypertext and hypotext’s diegetic data (to which other hypertexts may add diegetic data). Procedural expansion overcomes the duality put forward by Hutcheon between res extensa and res cogitans, since the proceduralization rules are physical, social, economic, political, ethical, and philosophical phenomena at the same time. The concept of procedural expansion should not be confused with its neighbor—procedural adaptation, defined as “the concept of taking a text from another medium and modeling it as a computer simulation.”20 As defined previously, procedural adaptation intersects with procedural expansion—as long as “adaptation” is taken in a sense close to Hutcheon, which includes both diegetic equivalence and diegetic augmentation. However, the way Matthew Weise uses this concept is a matter of proceduralizing generic conventions. In this narrower definition, procedural adaptation does not account for the relationship of transfictionalization which connects two works, but rather an architextual relationship. In other words, “the entire set of general or transcendental categories—types of discourse, modes of enunciation, literary genres—from which emerges a singular text.”21 Indeed, in this particular case, “archiprocedurality” might be the more appropriate term. Following the concept of procedural rhetoric, the formal structure of video games supports a particular point of view and thus a thesis. In this sense, a game’s formal structure is accompanied by an abstract space that I refer to as “thetic space.” This space maps the field of possibilities opened up by the formal structure of the game (e.g., relations, behaviors, or gratifications allowed by this structure in accordance with a given thesis). However, a thetic space does not exist in a vacuum, because every thesis works along with a doctrinal intertext, as Susan Rubin Suleiman has demonstrated.22 In this context, one may, for instance, think of James Lovelock and Lynn Margulis’s Gaia hypothesis and of Pierre Teilhard de Chardin’s concept of the noosphere as doctrinal intertexts to Isaac Asimov’s Foundation’s Edge (1982) and Foundation and Earth (1986) novels. We may also think of Jean Baudrillard’s Simulacra and Simulation (1981) as an intertext to the Wachowski brothers’ Matrix franchise. Consequently, according to the procedural expansion concept, we should not exclusively focus on the diegetic augmentation generated by the actualization of the rules, but also consider the configuration of the game’s thetic space with the help of the doctrinal intertext to which it refers. Therefore, the thesis and its doctrinal intertext are indirectly inscribed in the diegesis through diegetic events emerging from the encounter between the players and the formal structure.

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Procedural expansion and Gorean role-­playing games To highlight the convergence between world simulation and proceduralization, I will now turn to the case of Second Life’s Gorean role-­playing games. The aim of this section is to examine how the games extend the Gorean diegesis procedurally in the context of transfictionality, using the concept of thetic space. Second Life’s Gorean role-­playing games share a transfictional relationship with John Norman’s Chronicles of Gor. These games are participatory role-­playing games in a virtual environment (PRPG-VEs). These PRPG-VEs are multiplayer games in which players take on roles through avatars in multi-­user virtual environments (MUVEs), such as Second Life. PRPG-VEs are examples of participatory culture insofar as the players contribute to the development of the scripts, the accessories, the formal structure, the virtual architecture, and the diegesis.23 The Gorean PRPG-VEs are made up of a myriad of interconnected sims, each of which simulates a part of the planet Gor—sometimes a city or a village, sometimes a region.24 The setting for the Gorean PRPG-VEs is the planet Gor, which has been summed up by Tjarda Sixma as a “barbaric planet . . . where men are bold masters and women are either frigid mistresses or sexual slaves.”25 The inhabitants of the planet Gor are artificially maintained in a pre-­modern state of civilization through religious prohibition preventing technological development, as decreed by the Priest-Kings, their gods. The result is a pseudo-­medieval society in which the mechanisms of evolution are unrestrained. This society relies on a doctrine called the “law of natural order” inspired by a Darwinian doctrinal intertext. The law of natural order promotes the emergence of a race of warriors and justifies the prevalence of slavery in Gorean society. It also promotes a kind of secular complementarianism where women find fulfillment in being submissive to men. In John Norman’s words, slavery is depicted in his novels as “a celebration of the glory of nature and the reality of dimorphic sexuality . . . Ultimately, of course, the male is the master, and the female is the slave.”26 In the framework of Gorean PRPG-VEs, the law of natural order both structures the gaming experience and divides the community of players and sims into two camps. On the one hand, there are players who want to remain faithful to the novels of Norman in their role-­play. They call themselves “By the Books” or “BtB.” On the other hand, there are players who distance themselves from the content of the novels and introduce additional elements. These are the “Gor Evolved” or “GE.” As outlined in A Brief Guide to Gorean Roleplay in Second Life (2010), the conflict between the two groups mainly concerns the

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role of women in Gorean PRPG-VEs according to the law of natural order.27 The BtB claim that in the context of the planet Gor, women are not equal to men and cannot be permitted to carry weapons. The GE, on the other hand, maintain that the Goreans may have evolved socially to the point where women are considered equal to men and are thus capable of fighting alongside them. Therefore, the BtB defend the law of natural order, whereas GE contest it. The Gorean PRPG-VEs (hypertext) appear as a procedural expansion of the Chronicles (hypotext). Following Christy Dena, this expansion might be considered an intercompositional rather than intracompositional process, since the expansion is not orchestrated by John Norman himself but rather by other authors and outside of a unified project.28 While the Chronicles places great emphasis on the adventures of Tarl Cabot (the novels’ protagonist and narrator), equal attention is also paid to Gor itself, which is described in great detail. Moreover, Gor partially distances itself from its hero when the Chronicles propose stories told by new characters; stories from which he is absent or where he plays only a peripheral role. During the expansion, the autonomy of Gor increases with respect to the stories and characters. I explored the background of thirty Gorean sims published in the “Gorean SIMs in Second Life” section of the Gor-SL forum.29 Of these, only three (The Empire of Ar, Imperial Ar, and Village of Rorus) explicitly tie their chronologies into the plots of the Chronicles. The remaining sims have their own histories and geographies, independent of the events told in the novels. Furthermore, only two of the novels’ protagonists are mentioned (Marlenus and Pa-Kur) in the thirty backgrounds of the sims, both of which are anchored in the diegetic events of the novels. Accordingly, a question emerges: What components do the Gorean PRPGVEs retain from the Chronicles? While the backgrounds are minimal in terms of the temporal information they provide, they are rather detailed when it comes to describing their landscapes and geographical locations. For example, Hochburg is described as “a mountain fortress city nestled in the southern ranges of the Voltai Mountains. Landlocked except for small river tributaries used for trade and transportation,” while Angrfjord is “a village located in the Northern Region of Gor, some 50 or so pasangs [a Gorean unit measurement] from Axe Fjord on the coast.” Interestingly, the geographical locations of the sims refer to places mentioned and described in the Chronicles. The economic, political, demographic, and cultural conditions of Gorean places are also part of the characteristics highlighted in the background. For example, the village of Eteocles has “a strong militaristic culture backed by a strong agricultural base [culture and economy].” The mentality of the people is also taken into consideration. For instance, Hochburg “is characterized by

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fierce, dominant men; cunning, silver-­tongued free women; and slaves, eager to serve in the most pleasing ways.” In addition to the backgrounds, I investigated three websites devoted to the Chronicles which serve as reference points for players during their role-­ play: The Gorean Cave (TGC), Luther’s Gorean Educational Scrolls (LGES), and Gorean Online Dictionary (GOD).30 TGC offers citations retrieved from the Chronicles and arranged by subject (264 entries), LGES features essays on various topics (76 essays), and GOD defines common terms, supported by quotations from the Chronicles (220 entries). Similar to the sims’ backgrounds, these websites and the categories they use provide an insight into the elements of the Chronicles relevant to players during the process of procedural expansion. Using thematic analysis, I classified the various entries of these sites into seven categories: artifacts, culture, geography, history, social organization, characters, and measurement systems (see Table 12.1). I discarded entries that did not relate to the stories of the Chronicles or to the planet Gor. In the artifacts category, I included fauna and flora, everyday objects, and food. The culture category includes Gorean philosophy, etiquette, customs, traditions, entertainment, language, rituals, myths, and legends. The geography category includes the neighborhoods, villages, towns, cities, regions, and peoples of Gor, as well as the planet’s topography. History refers to the chronology of Gor and social organization—the caste system, laws, and the political organization of Gorean society. The characters category includes entries devoted to the characters represented in the novels. Finally, measurement systems includes information about distances, currencies, and units of time.

TABLE 12.1 

websites

Results of the thematic analysis of three Gorean

Category

Number of entries

Percentage (n = 560)

Social organization

221

39.5

Culture

155

27.7

Artifacts

108

19.3

Geography

35

6.3

Measurement systems

11

2

Characters

6

1.1

History

1

0.2

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Again, the history of Gor and Gorean society is barely discussed. The entries devoted to the geography of Gor, on the other hand, are more numerous: 16 entries from 76 on LGES, 17 entries from 220 on GoD and 2 entries from 264 on TGC, totaling 6.3 percent of the entries across all three sites. The two largest categories are social organization and culture. Nine out of 76 entries on LGES relate to social organization category, 31 of 220 on GoD, and 181 of 264 on TGC (where 66 concern Gorean laws), thus making up 39.5 percent of the entries in total. Thirty-­two out of 76 entries are devoted to the culture category on LGES, 52 entries out of 220 on GoD and 71 entries out of 264 on TGC, which means 27.7 percent of all entries belong to this category. The artifacts category adds another 19.3%, while measurement systems account for 2 percent of the entries, and characters just a tad above 1 percent. Apparently, the stories are not the main attraction of the Chronicles. Instead, the Gorean PRPG-VEs focus on the qualities that make Gor a habitable world—its geography, the concrete dimensions of Gorean daily life (i.e., artifacts) and, above all, its culture and social organization. In so doing, Gorean PRPG-VEs practice the art of world-­making. The references on LGES, TGC, and GoD emphasize the planet’s geography (its towns and villages, its regions, its river networks, its topographical details, etc.) and its population, which comes with ethnological, sociological, legal, economic, philosophical, political, and psychological questions. The planet’s fauna and flora are of interest, too (4.8 percent of the entries), as they serve as resources for food, transportation, clothing, and medicine. Accordingly, the concrete methods employed by Goreans to relate to their environment and to each other take center stage on the websites, which serve as kinds of user guides for the role players. The characters in the novels thus do not function as gateways to the narratives of the Chronicles, but rather to the world of Gor. Arguably, an incongruence between the story as a sequence of events which develops in time and the world as a space emerges here.31 As a result, procedural expansion exposes blind spots in Saint-Gelais’s typology of expansions. His typology distinguishes between proleptic, analeptic, elliptic, and paraleptic expansions, depending on whether the diegesis expands the events forward or backwards, in the gaps left between events or parallel to events. In contrast, new diegetic events generated by the Gorean games occur without regard to a clear chronology, as the Gorean diegesis grows exactly in the moment when the Gorean PRPG-VEs’ procedures are actualized. The proceduralization of Gor is consistent with the findings above. The prohibition of technology in combination with the ancient/medieval setting stresses artifacts and devices which make fights between avatars possible. Ranged and mêlée weapons are allowed, for instance, whereas firearms are

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forbidden. Devices such as the Gorean Kraft Meter and G&S Role Play System proceduralize a premodern economy by simulating and regulating barter trade, manual craft (from blacksmithing to weaving through cooking and carpentry), hunting, breeding, and farming. Formal structures simulate the behavior of various Gorean artifacts, materials, fauna, and flora (for example, how a sword is handled, the injuries it inflicts, the materials and manipulations necessary to forge it, etc.). Here, descriptions taken from the novels function as main references. They are supplemented by ancient and medieval history, which also served as inspiration for John Norman. The games also proceduralize Gorean social organization and customs. There are rules which manage dress code, characters’ behaviors according to their caste (e.g. warriors, initiates, scribes, craftsmen, farmers, and merchants), status (free or slave), and sex. For example, a warrior code is described in the Chronicles that gives rise to various kinds of proceduralizations, among which are the five maxims and one hundred aphorisms adopted by the City of Jasmine sim in order to steer its warriors’ behaviors. Devices and accessories also enhance the avatars’ range of actions in view of their respective caste, status, and sex. For example, scripts and accessories allow slaves to adopt different submissive positions and permit their masters to lock them in a cage or to bind, brand, and collar (enslave) them. In sum, the transfictional relationship between the diegesis of the novels and the PRPG-VEs takes the form of a space consisting of procedures (rules, laws, codes, and traditions). These procedures govern the elements of the Gorean world (individuals, non-­human beings, objects, landscape or architectural elements, etc.) and their interactions. In other words, the laws and spatial aspects of Gor players deem relevant are formalized in the transfictionalization of the Chronicles. Integrated into the formal structure and translated into the form of procedures, these laws and spatial characteristics give the Gorean diegesis its consistency and playability. They also frame the players’ ludic interactions and allow them to extend the diegesis beyond the temporal limits of the novels. This is why the Gorean PRPG-VEs are a form of procedural expansion that each sim contributes to.

The law of natural order and the PRPG-VEs’ thetic space A considerable amount of Gor’s proceduralizations are directly influenced by the doctrinal intertext (or, rather, transtext, per Genette) of natural order and draw up a thetic space in agreement (BtB) or in disagreement (GE) with it.32 I will limit my following discussion to the influence of the Chronicles on the

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Gorean PRPG-VEs and their thetic space, in particular. Due to the differences between procedures depending on whether they are created by BtB or GE players, I will, for reasons of space, focus exclusively on the BtB thetic space. As indicated above, the law of natural order is a fundamental aspect of Gor. For instance, in Tarnsman of Gor (1996), Tarl Cabot comments on the Gorean fauna: For whatever reason, the larl [Gorean tiger] will always prefer ruining a hunt, even one involving a quarry of several animals, to allowing a given animal to move past it to freedom. Though I suppose this is purely instinctive on the larl’s part, it does have the effect, over a series of generations, of weeding out animals which, if they survived, might transmit their intelligence, or perhaps their erratic running patterns, to their offspring.33 This passage demonstrates that a Darwinian undercurrent is pervasive throughout the Chronicles. In addition, the law of natural order informs Gorean society. Only the strongest warriors survive, while the prohibition of technology removes the key cultural factor which could undermine the mechanisms of evolution from the equation. Tarl Cabot explains the ban on wearing armor in the following manner: A possible hypothesis to explain this is that the Priest-Kings may have wished war to be a biologically selective process in which the weaker and slower perish and fail to reproduce themselves. This might account for the relatively primitive weapons allowed to the Men Below the Mountains. On Gor it was not the case that a cavern-­chested toothpick could close a switch and devastate an army.34 Moreover, the dominant/submissive relationships linking Gorean men and women are seen as a biological fact. Women who accept this “natural” order will find satisfaction and fulfillment in their life, while those who reject it will experience frustration. Notably, the Chronicles communicate this thesis by proposing a euphoric narrative where proud and rebellious women are enslaved and find happiness in the hands of a beloved master.35 In the context of the games, the law of natural order has ludic dimensions, as well. Indeed, regarding this doctrine, women are deemed too physically weak to handle weapons and occupy the role of warriors. BtB players follow this interpretation, but GE argues that since the Chronicles depict female warrior clans, such as Panthers and Talunas, female characters may be warriors in Gorean PRPG-VEs. John Norman has repeatedly supported the idea of natural order in interviews and open letters, stating:

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There are no “female warriors” on Gor. Gor is on the whole an honest, male-­dominated realistic world . . . There are panther girls, and talunas [tribes consisting of female warriors living in the forest], on Gor. They are unhappy, frustrated, disturbed women, half[-]alienated from their sex. They tend to run in dangerous feline packs. Once captured and subdued[,] it is said they make excellent slaves. “Bring me into the collar if you can!” . . . Ms. Conan the Barbarian does not belong in the Gorean world.36 In short, the natural order assigns clear social positions to women and men: the strongest men enslave or eliminate the weakest men; women, naturally weaker, have a biological drive toward submission, which is compatible with men’s dominance, with the latter acting as their protectors. As slaves, women are men’s properties. As free women, they are placed under men’s tutelage and live under the constant threat of being enslaved during enemies’ raids or as a result of inappropriate behaviors. The BtB part of the Gorean thetic space is structured around three main sets of procedures concerning fighting, bodies, and behaviors, which all have large-­scale effects on female characters. Indeed, the female body is framed by a series of rules and scripts that vary according to the character’s status (free woman or slave). Even free, women cannot freely dispose of their bodies. Thus, warriors of a sim such as City of Treve reserve the right to capture and enslave by force any foreign woman within the boundaries of their territory: “The City of Treve is a Gorean Sim: It is a Force Collar, Kill, and Capture Zone . . . We are raiders, mercenaries and only survive by what we take and steal. THAT includes Free Women not of Treve.” The rules remain the same for free women who venture outdoors without a male escort. Slaves, on the other hand, are explicitly considered commodities, such as in the Ivar’s Landfall sim, where “bondmaids can be purchased, given as prize or traded as private bonds.” A strict dress code distinguishes free women from slaves. In the Ironhall sim, female slaves may only wear simple (and skimpy) kirtles or tunics (see Figure 12.1). In addition, they must wear a collar at all times. Corsets, dancing silks, jewelry other than earrings, shoes, furs, and cloaks are forbidden. Any violation of these rules results in corporal punishment, possibly even death. Free women are not allowed to show cleavage or wear transparent undershirts; they are not allowed to have their arms exposed and their hair down; they may not wear skirts above the ankle and no slinky tight gowns. In BtB sims, it is customary to dress free women with robes of concealment and to cover their faces with veils (see Figure 12.2). In certain sims, this custom is formalized in an explicit rule, as in the Tem-Wood sim, where “Free Woman [sic] have to dress concealed. A woman showing naked legs or belly may be taken into

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FIGURE 12.1  Slave dressed in a tunic. Screenshot from Second Life (Linden Lab, 2003). Source: Elenni Llewellyn, http://www.wishpot.com/item. aspx?wid=13974209.

custody, it’s a punishable offense. If repeated she may be enslaved . . . The veil is a legal requirement in Tem-Wood.” Slaves’ bodies are also ruled by scripts and scripted accessories. The latter define the actions of which they are the subject or object. They allow the slave to adopt a multitude of submissive positions, in accordance with the Chronicles, or to devote themselves to her bonds (e.g. cleaning, cooking, bar tending, table service). Other scripts allow the master to punish his slave or to have sexual intercourse with her. Numerous accessories are dedicated to punishment, coercion, branding, and binding, from whips to chains through medieval stocks, cells, and branding irons. Indeed, various skins (graphical customizations) simulate marks of physical violence on the avatar’s body.

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FIGURE 12.2  Free woman dressed in a robe of concealment. Screenshot from Second Life (Lindon Lab). Source: ViGo Creations, http://www.gor-­sl.com/index. php?topic=1157.msg9769.

Female characters’ behaviors are governed by many sets of rules that limit their range of actions and reinforce the unbalanced power relationship between men and women. Thus, the Landa sim commands any free woman obedience to her father, her free companion (husband), or her protector. The men are responsible for her public behavior. Free women of Landa “are expected to conduct themselves with a level of decorum in public, worthy of their position as free women.” Quite a few inappropriate behaviors may result in collaring, such as public displays of lust, vagrancy, prostitution, dressing or dancing like a slave in public, gestures of submission before a free man, public nudity, and repeated public drunkenness. This code of conduct clearly distinguishes between free women and slaves’ respective statuses. It

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demonstrates the ease with which the former may fall in the latter category, moving from obedience to male authority to a condition of mere object without any rights. The slaves’ code of conduct primarily concerns interactions with free people, as in the Ironhall sim, where “[s]laves are not allowed to strike, or make appearance or threat of striking, a Free.” In the Landa sim, an “[a]bsolute obedience [is required,] without any argument or displeasing attitude.” On the level of language, slaves of the Ironhall sim “are to address all men as ‘Jarl,’ all woman as ‘Mistress,’ or by their other approved title or position . . . [and they] do not have the right to argue, disagree or contradict a Free.” In the Landa sim, a “slave is to speak in third person.” Disobedience to these codes of conduct does not, strictly speaking, contravene the games’ rules. In other words, disobeying these rules is not a matter of cheating, but a matter of diegetic rules.37 However, disobedience may result in ludic consequences, such as a change in status (from free woman to slave) or state (from life to death) of a character, or the application of new procedures (punishment, binding, collaring, etc.). Concerning the procedures governing fights, women are limited to the role of patients, whereas men are assigned to the role of agents. Capturing women from the opposite sim takes place in a system of gratification managed by the formal structure. The disempowerment of women is supported by rules prohibiting or restricting the use of weapons (e.g., daggers, hairpins, as in the Ivar’s Landfall sim). The ban on weapons minimizes women’s agency during fights, making them potential battle prizes instead of opponents. Numerous BtB sims’ rules function in this way. For instance, The Great Tahari sim’s rules stipulate that women cannot carry weapons except for a short dagger, which must remain hidden, and also that raids by the Panthers girls are prohibited, as are female outlaws, mercenaries, and pirates. Actions perpetrated by female warriors are therefore invalidated (as in the Ivar’s Landfall and City of Treve sims) or, in some cases, unruly female characters are simply regarded as slaves and collared (as in the Port Cos sim).

Conclusion In this chapter, I have discussed the diegetic expansion of Gor in the context of fannish videoludic transfictionalization, the Gorean PRPG-VEs. I have demonstrated that the essential characteristics of Gor retained during the process are not only its geographical features, but also laws, customs, and social organization. In the Gorean PRPG-VEs, the structuring principle of thetic space is translated into procedures, which make possible player interactions and diegetic expansion. Accordingly, procedural expansion and thetic space

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allow for transfictionality in terms of procedural rhetoric, highlighting the role the thesis plays in the creation of a transmedial world. These concepts also open the way to the study of doctrinal transtexts as well as to the role they play in the procedural expansion process, namely the influence of non-­fictional texts like the Darwinian intertexts which dot the Chronicles and (through the mediation of the formal structure) the Gorean PRPG-VEs. Whereas the Gorean PRPG-VEs discussed in this chapter largely embrace the ideology perpetuated in the Chronicles, transtexts and cultures enrich the Gorean diegesis and formal structure, as alternative theses (e.g. social constructivism and feminist discourses) and cultures (e.g. gay/lesbian Gor, BDSM, and griefing) infiltrate and possibly even subvert Gor, transforming it into a new world beyond the control of its creator.

Notes 1 The research on which this chapter is based received financial support from the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council (SSHRC) and the Fonds québécois de recherche Société et culture (FQRSC). 2 Richard Saint-Gelais, Fictions transfuges: La Transfictionnalité et ses enjeux (Paris: Seuil, 2011), 7; my translation. 3 The comics include a series in six volumes, a three-­issue mini-­series, a sixteen-­issue ongoing series, a graphic novel, and two one-­shots. 4 The franchise’s Fanfiction website (https://www.fanfiction.net/game/Assassin-­ s-Creed), for instance, features over 5,200 Assassin’s Creed fanfictions. 5 According to John Clute and David Langford, “[a]ny sf tale whose primary venue (excluding contemporary or Near-Future versions of Earth) is a planet, and whose plot turns to a significant degree upon the nature of that venue, can be described as a planetary romance”. 6 Lisbeth Klastrup and Susana Tosca, “Transmedial Worlds: Rethinking Cyberworld Design,” in Proceedings of the 2004 International Conference on Cyberworlds. 7 Henry Jenkins, Convergence Culture: Where Old and New Media Collide (New York: New York University Press, 2006). 8 Henry Jenkins, “Game Design as Narrative Architecture,” in First Person: New Media as Story, Performance, and Game, ed. Noah Wardrip-Fruin and Pat Harrigan (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. 2004). 9 Michael Saler, As If: Modern Enchantment and the Literary Prehistory of Virtual Reality (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 6. 10 Stephan Günzel, “The Spatial Turn in Computer Game Studies,” in Exploring the Edges of Gaming: Proceedings of the Vienna Games Conference 2008– 2009. Future and Reality of Gaming, ed. Konstantin Mitgutsch, Christoph Klimmt, and Herbert Rosenstingl (Vienna: Braumüller, 2010), 171.

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11 Jenkins, “Game Design,” 121. 12 Ibid.; Marie-Laure Ryan, “Transmedial Storytelling and Transfictionality,” Poetics Today 34, no. 3 (2013). 13 Linda Hutcheon, A Theory of Adaptation (New York: Routledge, 2006), 14. 14 Ian Bogost, “The Rhetoric of Video Games,” in The Ecology of Games: Connecting Youth, Games, and Learning, ed. Katie Salen (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2008), 122. 15 Jenkins, Convergence Culture, 96. 16 Anne M. Boyd, “The Over-Soul of the Force: Emersonian Transcendentalism in the Star Wars Saga,” in Sex, Politics, and Religion in Star Wars, ed. Douglas Brode and Leah Deyneka (Lanham: Scarecrow, 2012); Joseph Packer, “The Battle for Galt’s Gulch: Bioshock as Critique of Objectivism,” Journal of Gaming and Virtual Worlds 2, no. 3 (2010); Stephen Jacobs, “Simulating the Apocalypse: Theology and Structure of the Left Behind Games,” Heidelberg Journal of Religions on the Internet 7 (2014). 17 Saint-Gelais, Fictions transfuges. 18 Ryan, “Transmedial Storytelling,” 366. 19 Gérard Genette, Palimpsests: Literature in the Second Degree (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1997), 5; italics in original. 20 Matthew Weise, “The Rules of Horror: Procedural Adaptation in Clock Tower, Resident Evil and Dead Rising,” in Horror Video Games: Essays on the Fusion of Fear and Play, ed. Bernard Perron (Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2009), 238. 21 Genette, Palimpsests, 1. 22 Susan Rubin Suleiman, Authoritarian Fictions: The Ideological Novel as a Literary Genre (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992). 23 In Second Life, scripts are lines of programming that achieve certain effects: changing the appearance of an object, how it moves, its interaction, and exchanges with avatars, etc. 24 A “sim” or “simulator” in Second Life is a three-­dimensional virtual space hosted on a server. The “sims” are leased to users who may develop and manage them. 25 Tjarda Sixma, “The Gorean Community in Second Life: Rules of Sexual Inspired Role-Play,” Journal of Virtual Worlds Research 1, no. 3 (2009). 26 Qtd. in David Alexander Smith, “No More Gor: A Conversation with John Norman,” The New York Review of Science Fiction 8, no. 8 (1996). 27 Targaryen Ghiardie, A Brief Guide to Gorean Roleplay in Second Life, February 3, 2010, http://web.archive.org/web/20100213111038/http:// targaryen.eu/blog/2010/02/a-­brief-guide-­to-gorean-­role-­play-­in-second-­life. 28 Christy Dena, Transmedia Fictions: Theorizing the Practice of Expressing a Fictional World Across Distinct Media and Environments (PhD diss, University of Sydney, 2009).

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29 “Background” refers to the description and history of the universe in which the role play takes place. See http://www.gor-­sl.com/index.php?action=forum (accessed June 3, 2015). The sims in question are: Axe Fjord, Camerius Gorge, City of Thentis, City of Treve, City of Vonda, Fort Laurius, Fortress of Maelstorm, Hochburg, Imperial Ar, Ironhall, Island of Katoteros, Isle of Jasna, Ivar’s Landfall, Oak Haven, Port de Nadira, Port Haifa, Port Kar Market, Port of Nisyros, Port Olni, Sarona Village, Tancred’s Landing, City of Jasmine, The Empire of Ar, Village of Angrfjord, Village of Eteocles, Village of Rorus, Village of Skjern, Village of Troth, Voltai Viktel, and Woodhaven. 30 These websites are available at http://www.thegoreancave.com, http://www. gor- now.net/delphius2002/index.htm, and http://gorean-­online-dictionary. wikia.com/wiki, respectively (accessed June 3, 2015). 31 Ryan, “Transmedial Storytelling.” 32 See Christophe Duret, “Écosystème transtextuel et jeux de rôle participatifs en environnement virtuel: Le Sociogramme de ‘l’ordre naturel’ dans les jeux de rôle goréens,” in Jeu vidéo et livre, ed. Fanny Barnabé and Björn-Olaf Dozo (Liège: Bebooks, 2015). 33 John Norman, Tarnsman of Gor (New York: Ballantine, 1966), 149. 34 Ibid., 48. 35 See Christophe Duret, “ἦθος, éthè intrinsèque et extrinsèque, éthos transformatif: L’Éthogramme de l’ordre naturel dans les jeux de rôle goréens de Second Life,” Itinéraires: Littérature, textes, cultures 3 (2015/2016). 36 John Norman, “The Gorean World Is What It Is,” The Complete John Norman, 2001, http://work.tcjn.info/world.htm. 37 Markus Montola, “The Invisible Rules of Role-Playing: The Social Framework of Role-Playing Process,” International Journal of Role-Playing 1 (2009).

References Bogost, Ian. “The Rhetoric of Video Games.” In The Ecology of Games: Connecting Youth, Games, and Learning, edited by Katie Salen, 117–40. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2008. Boyd, Anne M. “The Over-Soul of the Force: Emersonian Transcendentalism in the Star Wars Saga.” In Sex, Politics, and Religion in Star Wars, edited by Douglas Brode and Leah Deyneka, 89–104. Lanham, MD: Scarecrow Press, 2012. Clute, John, and David Langford. “Planetary Romance.” The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction. December 4, 2013. Accessed June 23, 2015. http://www. sf-­encyclopedia.com/entry/planetary_romance. Dena, Christy. Transmedia Fictions: Theorizing the Practice of Expressing a Fictional World Across Distinct Media and Environments. PhD diss. University of Sydney, 2009. Duret, Christophe. “Écosystème transtextuel et jeux de rôle participatifs en environnement virtuel: Le Sociogramme de “l’ordre naturel” dans les jeux de

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rôle goréens.” In Jeu vidéo et livre, edited by Fanny Barnabé and Björn-Olaf Dozo, n. pag. Liège: Bebooks, 2015. Duret, Christophe. “ἦθος, éthè intrinsèque et extrinsèque, éthos transformatif: L’Éthogramme de l’ordre naturel dans les jeux de rôle goréens de Second Life.” Itinéraires: Littérature, textes, cultures 3 (2015/2016). Accessed June 23, 2016. http://journals.openedition.org/itineraires/2956. Genette, Gérard. Palimpsests: Literature in the Second Degree. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1997. Ghiardie, Targaryen. A Brief Guide to Gorean Roleplay in Second Life. February 3, 2010. Accessed May 7, 2012. http://web.archive.org/web/20100213111038/ http://targaryen.eu/blog/2010/02/a-­brief-guide-­to-gorean-­role-play-­in-second-­life. Gor-SL. Accessed June 23, 2015. http://www.gor-­sl.com/index.php?action=forum. Günzel, Stephan. “The Spatial Turn in Computer Game Studies.” In Exploring the Edges of Gaming: Proceedings of the Vienna Games Conference 2008–2009. Future and Reality of Gaming, edited by Konstantin Mitgutsch, Christoph Klimmt, and Herbert Rosenstingl, 147–56. Vienna: Braumüller, 2010. Hutcheon, Linda. A Theory of Adaptation. New York: Routledge, 2006. Jacobs, Stephen. “Simulating the Apocalypse: Theology and Structure of the Left Behind Games.” Heidelberg Journal of Religions on the Internet 7 (2014): 85–106. Jenkins, Henry. “Game Design as Narrative Architecture.” In First Person: New Media as Story, Performance, and Game, edited by Noah Wardrip-Fruin and Pat Harrigan, 118–30. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. 2004. Jenkins, Henry. Convergence Culture: Where Old and New Media Collide. New York: New York University Press, 2006. Klastrup, Lisbeth, and Susana Tosca. “Transmedial Worlds: Rethinking Cyberworld Design.” In Proceedings of the 2004 International Conference on Cyberworlds, 409–16. Max Payne 3. Developed by Rockstar Studios. Rockstar Games, 2012. Xbox 360. Montola, Markus. “The Invisible Rules of Role-Playing: The Social Framework of Role-Playing Process.” International Journal of Role-Playing 1 (2009): 22–36. Norman, John. “The Gorean World Is What It Is.” The Complete John Norman, 2001. Accessed July 25, 2013. http://work.tcjn.info/world.htm. Norman, John. Tarnsman of Gor. New York: Ballantine, 1966. Packer, Joseph. “The Battle for Galt’s Gulch: Bioshock as Critique of Objectivism.” Journal of Gaming and Virtual Worlds 2, no. 3 (2010): 209–24. Ryan, Marie-Laure. “Transmedial Storytelling and Transfictionality.” Poetics Today 34, no. 3 (2013): 361–88. Saint-Gelais, Richard. Fictions transfuges: La Transfictionnalité et ses enjeux. Paris: Seuil, 2011. Salammbô. Developed by Cryo Interactive. The Adventure Company, 2003. Windows. Saler, Michael. As If: Modern Enchantment and the Literary Prehistory of Virtual Reality. Oxford: Oxford University Press. 2012. Sixma, Tjarda. “The Gorean Community in Second Life: Rules of Sexual Inspired Role-play.” Journal of Virtual Worlds Research 1, no. 3 (2009): 1–18. Smith, David Alexander. “No More Gor: A Conversation with John Norman.” The New York Review of Science Fiction 8, no. 8 (April 1996): n.p.

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Suleiman, Susan Rubin. Authoritarian Fictions: The Ideological Novel as a Literary Genre. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992. Weise, Matthew. “The Rules of Horror: Procedural Adaptation in Clock Tower, Resident Evil and Dead Rising.” In Horror Video Games: Essays on the Fusion of Fear and Play, edited by Bernard Perron, 238–66. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2009.

Contributors Marco Caracciolo is Associate Professor of English and Literary Theory at Ghent University in Belgium, where he leads the ERC Starting Grant project “Narrating the Mesh.” Marco’s work explores the phenomenology of narrative, or the structure of the experiences afforded by literary fiction and other narrative media. He is the author of three books: The Experientiality of Narrative: An Enactivist Approach (De Gruyter, 2014), Strange Narrators in Contemporary Fiction: Explorations in Readers’ Engagement with Characters (University of Nebraska Press, 2016), and A Passion for Specificity: Confronting Inner Experience in Literature and Science (co-­authored with psychologist Russell Hurlburt; Ohio State University Press, 2016). Marco de Mutiis is a curator and researcher focusing on contemporary transformations—mutations and remediations—of photographic practices, including the representation, distribution, and consumption of images. He is currently researching the phenomenon of in-­game photography in the SNF (Swiss National Science Foundation)-funded project “Post-Photography.” At Fotomuseum Winterthur, he directs and co-­curates the SITUATIONS program. Christophe Duret is a PhD candidate in French Studies and Lecturer at the Université de Sherbrooke (Quebec, Canada). His research interests focus on online role-­playing games, video games, and transmedia storytelling, using a mesocritical approach. He is the founder and editor of Éditions de l’Inframince. Riccardo Fassone is an assistant professor at the University of Torino, Italy. His main areas of research are the history of video game production and the relations between cinema and video games. He is the author of two books, Every Game is an Island: Endings and Extremities in Video Games (Bloomsbury, 2017) and Cinema e videogiochi (Carocci, 2017), and several articles and book chapters. Michael Fuchs is a fixed-­term assistant professor in American Studies at the University of Graz in Austria. Including the present volume, he has co-edited six essay collections. In addition, he has (co-)authored over fifty published and

272

contributors

forthcoming journal articles and book chapters on horror films, American television, video games, contemporary American literature, comics, and fan cultures. His first monograph, tentatively titled Horror in U.S. Cities: American Urban Spaces in Horror Cinema, is under contract with the University of Wales Press. For additional information on his research, see his website at http:// www.fuchsmichael.net. Jason I. Kolkey received his doctorate in English from Loyola University Chicago. His research focuses on Romantic-­period literature, textual studies, and book history. He has published on the roles of copyright ideology and literary piracy in the emergence of British Romanticism in European Romantic Review and The Byron Journal. He lives in Chicago, working as a writer, editor, and independent scholar. Armin Lippitz is a PhD candidate at the University of Klagenfurt in Austria. His dissertation discusses the inter- and transmedial exchange between comics and video games. Since 2014, he has been an adjunct lecturer in the Department of English at the University of Klagenfurt, where he teaches North American literatures, comics, and video games. Laurent Milesi is Tenured Professor of English Literature and Critical Theory at Shanghai Jiao Tong University and Honorary Senior Research Fellow at Cardiff University. He has written extensively on Joyce and related aspects of modernism, twentieth-­century (American) poetry, postmodernism, and poststructuralism, with a particular emphasis on both Jacques Derrida and Hélène Cixous, several of whose works he has also translated. His edited collection, James Joyce and the Difference of Language, was published by Cambridge University Press in 2003. He is one of the general editors for the Theory, Culture, and Politics book series at Rowman and Littlefield, for which he co-­edited Credo Credit Crisis: Speculations on Faith and Money (2017), and co-­editor in chief for the international journal Word and Text: A Journal of Literary Studies and Linguistics. Hugo Montembeault is a PhD candidate and a lecturer in video game studies at Université de Montréal. He also works as a research assistant for the “Video Games Observation and Documentation University Lab” (http:// www.ludov.ca). His main research examines how glitches transform gameplay and participate in a co-creative game design processes. His second area of interest reflects on the relationship between the player experience and the semiotic notions of focaliza(c)tion, self-reflexivity, and meta-referentiality. In collaboration with Maxime Deslongchamps-Gagnon, he runs a French

contributors

273

academic podcast called Profil Ludique, which is dedicated to the in-depth analysis of the “walking simulator” genre. For more information, see: https://soundcloud.com/profil-ludique. Andréane Morin-Simard is a PhD candidate and a lecturer in Video Game Studies at Université de Montréal. Her research focuses on the interaction between popular music and audiovisual media and the effects of intertextuality and interference on the cinematic, televisual, and video-­gaming experience. She has been involved in various research projects on video game genres within the research team LUDOV (formerly Ludiciné) from Université de Montréal. She is on the editorial board of the online academic journal Kinephanos. Sebastian Möring is an assistant professor in the European Media Studies program offered at the University of Potsdam and the University of Applied Sciences Potsdam, Germany. His research focuses on the aesthetics of computer games, the philosophy of computer games, and the interplay between computer games and other media. He acts as the coordinator of the DIGAREC (Digital Games Research Center of the University of Potsdam). Sebastian earned his doctoral degree from the Center for Computer Games Research at the IT University of Copenhagen. He is a member of the steering group of the Game Philosophy Network, which organizes annual international conferences. For more information, please visit http://sebastianmoering.com. Bernard Perron is Full Professor of Film and Games Studies at Université de Montréal. He has written The World of Scary Video Games: A Study in Videoludic Horror (Bloomsbury, 2018) and Silent Hill: The Terror Engine (University of Michigan Press, 2012). In addition, he has edited Horror Video Games: Essays on the Fusion of Fear and Play (McFarland, 2009) and, among others, co-­edited The Video Game Theory Reader (Routledge, 2003), The Routledge Companion to Video Games Studies (Routledge, 2014), and Video Games and the Mind: Essays on Cognition, Affect and Emotion (McFarland, 2016). His research and writings concentrate on video games, interactive cinema, the horror genre, and on narration, cognition, and the ludic dimension of narrative cinema. For additional information, please see http://www.ludov.ca. Stephan Schwingeler is Professor for Media Studies at the University of Applied Sciences and Arts Hildesheim/Holzminden/Göttingen in Germany. He is the author of Die Raummaschine: Raum und Perspektive im Computerspiel (The Space Machine: Space and Perspective in Video Games; Verlag Werner Hülsbusch, 2008) and Kunstwerk Computerspiel: Digitale Spiele als

274

contributors

künstlerisches Material (Video Games as Works of Art: Digital Games as Artistic Medium; transcript, 2014). In addition to his scholarly endeavors, Schwingeler has curated numerous international exhibitions, including “Global Games,” “New Gameplay,” “Games and Politics,” and “Digital Games.” Tim Summers is Lecturer in Music at Royal Holloway, University of London. He researches music in popular culture, often focusing on video games. He is the author of Understanding Video Game Music (Cambridge University Press, 2016) and, on the same topic, he has edited an issue of The Soundtrack and a collection of essays, Ludomusicology: Approaches to Video Game Music (Equinox, 2016). He has written for journals including The Journal of the Royal Musical Association, Cambridge Opera Journal, Music and the Moving Image, and The Journal of Film Music. He is currently writing a second monograph and editing the Cambridge Companion to Video Game Music. Carl Therrien is Associate Professor of Game and Film Studies at Université de Montréal. He has co-­founded the first international conference on the history of games and the Game History Annual Symposium in Montreal. He has recently completed a manuscript on the PC Engine for the Platform Studies series published by MIT Press and the first phase of an ongoing research project on the history of video games. His research and writings concentrate on the topic of critical historiography of games. For more information, please see http://www.ludov.ca. Mattia Thibault is a postdoctoral researcher at Tampere University of Technology (Marie Sklodowska Curie IF). He worked as research fellow at the University of Torino, where he earned his PhD in semiotics and media in the SEMKNOW program, the first pan-European doctoral program on semiotics. His research interests revolve around the semiotics of play and the cultural relevance of games. His current research focuses on establishing an interdisciplinary framework for urban gamification. He has presented and organized numerous talks, conferences, and activities dedicated to these topics and has published a number of peer-­reviewed articles and (co-)edited several volumes, including Gamification urbana: letture e riscritture ludiche degli spazi cittadini (Aracne, 2016) and a special issue of Lexia titled Virality, for an Epidemiology of Meaning. Jeff Thoss is an independent scholar based in Berlin, Germany. He earned his PhD in transmedial narratology at the University of Graz, Austria, and has served as fixed-­term assistant professor of English at Freie Universität Berlin. He has published journal articles and book chapters on topics related to

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275

narrative theory, intermediality and comics studies, as well as a monograph, When Storyworlds Collide: Metalepsis in Popular Fiction, Film and Comics (Brill-Rodopi, 2015). Håvard Vibeto is an associate professor at the Inland Norway University of Applied Sciences. He has a background as a film scholar and is currently working in the Department of Game Development, where his research and teaching focuses on video games, game aesthetics, and the player experience.

Index 2001: A Space Odyssey (film) 96 7th Guest, The (video game) 53, 54 Aarseth, Espen 73, 74 action-adventure games 47, 117, 236 Adorno, Theodor W. 145 Adventure (video game) 42 adventure games 43, 52, 54, 95, 154, 167–85, 211–17 Afrika (video game) 75–6, 77 agency 16, 59 Alan Wake (video game) 4, 155 Alienare (mobile app) 162 Alone in the Dark (video game) 52 American Horror Story (TV show) 216 America’s Army (video game) 191 animation 117–21, 138, 162, 176 arcade games 1, 54, 136–7 Arcangel, Cory 2, 191 Arsdoom (mod/artwork) 190 Arsenault, Dominic 37 Artaud, Antonin 155 Arthur’s Knights II (video game) 50 Arve et l’aume, L’ (novel) 155 Ashmore, Myfanwy 190 Asimov, Isaac 254 A Slow Year (game poem) 98 Assassin’s Creed (franchise) 249 Avengers, The (franchise) 234 Backe, Hans-Joachim 3–4, 115, 116, 119, 127 Bader, Hilary 218 Bates, Bob 16 Bateson, Gregory 231 Batman (franchise) 234, 249 Batman: Year One (comic) 126 Battlefield 4 (video game) 15–31 Battlezone (video game) 1

Baudrillard, Jean 254 beat-’em up games, see brawler games Berman, Rick 220 Betts, Tom 191 Bichard, John Paul 86 Bioshock (video game) 252 Bioshock (video game series) 95 Bittanti, Matteo 72, 83, 140 Bizzell, Patricia 54–5, 57 Blacksad (comic) 126 blogs 69, 83, 102, 158–60, 250 board games 199, 234, 236 Bogost, Ian 98, 101, 252 Bolter, Jay David 2, 37, 70, 196 Bond, Jeff 212 Bonk, Ecke 190 Borroughs, William 176 Bourriaud, Nicolas 139 Boyer, Elsa 47, 48 Bradbury, Ray 103 brawler games 121–2 Brecht, Bertolt 190, 199 Brookey, Robert Alan 16, 214, 219 Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV show) 154 Bugs Bunny Cartoon Workshop (video game) 49 Byron, George Gordon 96, 101, 106 Caillois, Roger 244 Call of Cthulu (role-playing game) 162 Call of Duty (video game) 18 Call of Duty: Advanced Warfare (video game) 15–31 Canova, Gianni 140 Carroll, Lewis 155 Cartier-Bresson, Henri 75 Casetti, Francesco 144 Certainement pas (novel) 154

278

index

Chattaway, Jay 209, 220 Choice Chamber (video game) 146 Chronicles of Gor, The (novel series) 250, 255–6 cinema 1–2, 15–31, 37–60, 106, 115–19, 126, 138–40, 144–5, 162, 193–4, 199, 208–11, 214–19, 223, 233–40, 243, 249 Cinemaware (video game) 52 Clarke, Arthur C. 103 Classic Game Room (YouTube channel) 146 Cline, Ernest 2 Cluedo (board game) 154 Co, Phil 17 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor 106, 108, 184 comics 3–4, 50, 105, 107, 115–29, 207, 249, 253 Comix Zone (video game) 121–4 Computer Gaming World (magazine) 49–58 Conan the Barbarian (franchise) 249 Condon, Brody 191 Consalvo, Mia 48 Contact (novel) 109 Corpus Simsi (novel) 153, 156, 157–62 Cortázar, Julio 154 Counter-Strike (video game) 191 Coupland, Douglas 238 Courage, Alexander 209–11 Coyne, Richard 109 Crawford, Chris 16, 17, 22 Creature Shock (video game) 52 Crysis (video game) 4 cut-scene 39–40, 117 Dalí, Salvador 178 Dark Eye, The (video game) 168, 176, 177–80, 184–5 Dark Tales: Edgar Allan Poe’s Murders in the Rue Morgue (video game) 167 dead-in-iraq (mod/artwork) 191 Dead Space (video game series) 95 Debord, Guy 160 de Chardin, Pierre Teilhard 254 De Kooning, Willem 193

DeLappe, Joseph 101 Delaume, Chloé [Delain, Nathalie] 153–62 Dena, Christy 256 Descent (video game) 44 Destructoid (website) 49–58 Diary of a Camper (machinima) 139 Dion, Frank 162 Doležel, Lubomír 179 Donkey Kong (video game) 40 Doom (video game) 17, 44, 46, 137 Doom II (video game) 190 DOTA 2 (video game) 143 Druillet, Philippe 253 Duchamp, Marcel 199 Duning, George 212 Eco, Umberto 242–3 Écume des jours, L’ (novel) 155 Edge of Tomorrow (film) 4 Egliston, Ben 146–7 Eidelman, Cliff 209 Elder Scrolls, The (video game series) 99 Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, The 69, 78 Electronic Gaming Monthly (magazine) 49–58 Elegy for a Dead World (video game) 4, 95–110 Elleström, Lars 3 Emerson, Ralph Waldo 252 environmental storytelling 103 Erased de Kooning Drawing (painting) 193 ergodic 74, 135 Escovar, Fernando 235 ethnicity 99–100 Eurogamer (website) 98, 102 Fallen London (video game) 154 Fallout 4 (video game) 69 Family Card Games (video game) 50 Fatal Frame (video game series) 77 Fatal Frame II: Crimson Butterfly (video game) 46 Ferández-Vara, Clara 146 Ferrari, Simon 143 Ferri, Gabriele 137 Fielding, Jerry 212

index FIFA 16 (video game) 82 FIFA 2017 (video game) 145 fighting games 144 film, see cinema Fink, Eugen 232 Firewatch (video game) 87 first-person shooter (FPS) 15–31, 44, 73, 119, 137, 139, 190, 192–3 Flanagan, Owen 170–1 Flaubert, Gustave 153, 253 Forza Motorsport 5 (video game) 81 Foundation and Earth (novel) 254 Foundation’s Edge (novel) 254 Framed (video game) 126–8 Frankenstein (novel) 106–7 Frasca, Gonzalo 252 Fraschini, Bruno 243 Freud, Sigmund 162, 169–71 Fried, Gerald 209, 212, 215 FTL: Faster than Light (video game) 222 Galloway, Alexander 22, 26, 45, 47, 48, 195 Game Boy Works (YouTube series) 142 Game Chasers, The (YouTube series) 146 GameSpot (website) 49–58 Garretson, Oliver 146 Gates, Bill 109 Gaudreault, André 2 Gauthier, Jean-Marc 17 Gekibo: Gekisha Boy (video game) 75, 77 gender 99–100 Genette, Gérard 237, 260 Giddings, Seth 75 Gijsbrechts, Cornelius Norbertus 196 Gilbertson, Ashley 79–80, 84 Glitchhiker (video game) 191, 197–8 Godard, Jean-Luc 38 Goggin, Joyce 159 GoldenEye 007 (video game) 46 Goldsmith, Jerry 211 Gorbman, Claudia 214 Grand Theft Auto (video game series) 103–4, 250 Grand Theft Auto 3 (video game) 47

279

Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas (video game) 83 Grand Theft Auto V (video game) 2, 58–60, 69, 81–2, 87 Gran Turismo (video game series) 81 Gran Turismo 6 (video game) 81 graphic novel, see comic Gregersen, Andreas 59 Grodal, Torben 59 Großklaus, Götz 193 Grusin, Richard 2, 37, 70, 196 Gunning, Tom 19 Günzel, Stephan 251 Hamilton, William A. 146 Halliburton, David 175 Halo: Combat Evolved (video game) 140 Halo: Reach (video game) 4 Halper, Keith 218 Hansen, Miriam 144–5 Harris, Duncan 69, 83 Harry Potter (franchise) 234, 251 Hassing, Lars 235 Heavy Rain (video game) 30, 117–20 Herms, Roc 69 Herzberg, Bruce 38 Hjelmsev, Louis 241 Hobson, J. Allan 170–1 Huhtamo, Erkki 136 Huizinga, Johan 135–6 Hunger, Francis 192 Hutcheon, Linda 251, 254 IGN (website) 49–58 impact aesthetics 16, 19–31 Inca (video game) 54 Indiana Jones (franchise) 234 inFAMOUS (video game) 117, 118 installation art 2, 86, 191 Intellivision World Series Major League Baseball (video game) 43 Ivanhoe (novel) 110 Ivanhoe (video game) 109–10 Jahrmann, Margarete 191 Jenkins, Henry 103, 219, 251

280

index

Kafka, Franz 167–8 Kaplan, Sol 212 Karhulahti, Veli-Matti 144 Kay, Alan 2 Keats, John 96, 97, 102, 106 Kerne, Andruid 146 Kiner, Kevin 220 King, Geoff 16, 19, 22, 29, 39, 42, 47–8 King of Chicago (video game) 43 Kipcak, Orhan 190 Kirschenbaum, Matthew 107–8 Klastrup, Lisbeth 250 Klevjer, Rune 3, 39, 40, 41 “Klingon Warrior’s Anthem” (song) 217–20 Kocurek, Carly 136–7 Kohlke, Gerrit 192, 199 Krzywinska, Tanya 22, 39, 42, 47–8 “Kubla Khan” (poem) 108, 184

Lego Creator (video game) 236, 244 Lego Games (board game series) 234 Lego Indiana Jones: The Original Traveler (video game) 236 Legoland (video game) 236, 244 Lego Movie, The (film) 233, 237, 240 Lego Movie Videogame, The (video game) 236 Lego Racers (game) 236 Lego Universe (game) 236 Lego Wars (game) 235 Let’s Plays 140–2 Leino, Olli 73, 74 Life is Strange (video game) 87 literature 2, 95–110, 153–62, 167–85, 218, 250–1, 254–9 live-streaming 142–4 longplays 140–2 Lord of the Rings, The (franchise) 234, 251 Lord of the Rings, The (film trilogy) 239 Lotman, Yuri 239 Lovecraft, H.P. 162 Lovelock, James 254 Luzietti, Brian 221 Lynch, David 184 Lyrical Ballads (poetry collection) 105

Lacroix, Christian 157 Lahti, Martti 159 LAN party 138 La Nuit je suis Buffy Summers (novel) 154 Last Door, The (video game) 168, 176, 180–5 Last of Us, The (video game) 4, 69, 70, 72, 74, 78, 79–80, 84 Leandre, Joan 191 Left Behind (video game) 252 Legend of Chima, The (board game) 234 Lego Lego (toy line/franchise) 231–45 Lego: The Adventures of Clutch Powers (film) 237 Lego Battles (video game) 236

McCarthy, Dennis 209, 220, 222 McCloud, Scott 100, 121 McLuhan, Marshall 116 machinima 138–40 Magritte, René 178 Manovich, Lev 2, 44–5, 58, 193 Man Ray [Emmanuel Radnitzky] 199 Margulis, Lynn 254 mario battle no. 1 (mod/artwork) 190 Marks, Aaron 17 Marx, Julius (Groucho) 153 “Masque of the Red Death, The” (short story) 168, 171–6, 179, 181–3 Mass Effect (video game series) 99, 222 Matlovsky, Samuel 212 Matrix, The (franchise) 249, 251, 254

J’habite dans la television (novel) 154 Jobs, Steve 109 JODI (artist duo) 189, 191–4 Jones, Ron 220–2 Jones, Steven E. 3, 103, 104 Journey to the Moon (short film) 235 Joystick Division (website) 49–58 Jurassic Park (film) 196

index Max Payne (video game) 115, 116, 117 Max Payne 3 (video game) 52, 53, 251–2 Meneghelli, Agata 243 metareferentiality 153, 195–8 Metroid (video game) 100 Minecraft (video game) 86 Moore, Christopher 78–9 Moore, Ronald D. 218 Morgana, Corrado 198 Moswitzer, Ma X191 movie, see cinema Movies, The (video game) 49, 139 Mullendore, Joseph 212 Mullholland Drive (film) 184 Mulvey, Laura 16 Murphey, Sheila 137 music 2, 116–17, 119, 157, 183–4, 207–23 Myst (video game) 43, 53, 95, 176, 180 Nake, Frieder 74 Need for Speed (2015 video game) 82, 87 Need for Speed: Hot Pursuit 2 (video game) 42 Neimeyer, Mark 167 Newman, James 142 Ninjago Spinners (board game) 234 Nitsche, Michael 43, 46–7, 48, 58 Norman, John 250, 255–6, 259–60 novel, see literature nybble-engine-toolZ (art installation) 191 Okrand, Marc 218 Ono, Yoko 199 Overweg, Robert 69 “Ozymandias” (poem) 96 Pac-Man (video game) 1, 40, 194–5 Paik, Nam June 194, 199 painting 178, 193, 196–7 Paparazzi (video game) 76–7 Parish, Jeremy 142 PC Gamer (magazine) 49–58

281

Perron, Bernard 37, 43, 47, 169 Phantasmagoria (video game) 167 photography 69–87, 124, 193 photorealism 4, 18, 31, 120, 193 Pilotwings 64 (video game) 71–2 Pirates of the Carribean (franchise) 234 playthroughs 140–2 Poe, Edgar Allan 167–9, 171–85 poetry, see literature Pokémon Snap (video game) 72 Police Quest II: The Vengeance (video game) 52 Polidori, John 106 PONG (video game) 1, 42 Poole, Steven 57–8 Poremba, Cindy 71–3, 75, 77–9 Postigo, Hector 141 Project CARS (video game) 81 Psychic Detective (video game) 50 puzzle games 124, 167 QQQ (mod/artwork) 191 Quad God (machinima) 139 Quake (video game) 18, 44, 138, 193 Quake III Arena (video game) 139, 191 Quake Done Quick (machinima) 139 Queneau, Raymond 154 racing games 81, 236 rail shooter 75 Rajewsky, Irina 3 Rand, Ayn 252 Rank, Stefan 137 Rauch, Eron 83 Rauschenberg, Robert 193 Rayuela (novel) 154 Ready Player One (novel) 2 Red vs. Blue (machinima) 140 Règle du Je, La (novel) 153, 154, 155 Rehab, Bob 21–2 Resident Evil (video game) 43, 47 Resident Evil 2 (video game) 51 Resident Evil 3 (video game) 43–4 Resident Evil: Outbreak (video game) 51

282

index

Reverse of a Framed Painting, The (painting) 196–7 Rimbaud, Arthur 156 Rittenhouse, Cynthia 170 Rocketeer, The (video game) 50 Rock Paper Shotgun (website) 109 role-playing games (RPG) 8, 99, 157, 236, 249–65 Roos, Johan 238 Rouse, Richard 16–17 Ryan, Marie-Laure 223, 252 Sagan, Carl 109 Said, Roger 238 Saint-Gelais, Richard 252, 258 Saito, Takato 199 Salammbô (video game) 253 Saler, Michael 251 Salen, Katie 16, 42, 81 Schleiner, Anne-Marie 191 Schlick, Jörg 190 Schouten, Ben 137 Schröter, Felix 169 Schwingeler, Stephan 74 Scott, Sir Walter 110 Second Life (virtual online world) 250 “S’écrire: Mode d’emploi” (essay) 155, 160–2 Seligman, Martin 170, 173 Shark Night (film) 4 Sheely, Kent 69, 83–6 Shelley, Mary 106 Shelley, Percy Bysshe 96, 97, 102, 106 short story, see literature Shulman, Robert 168 Sigl, Rainer 72 Silent Hill (video game series) 250 SimCity (video game) 100 Simpsons, The (franchise) 234 Sims, The (video game) 71, 100, 157 Sims 2, The (video game) 157 simulation games 50, 70–3, 75–7, 87, 157–61, 236 Sin City (comic) 126 Siren (video game) 46 Snow Crash (novel) 109

SOD (mod/artwork) 189, 191–2 Spaced (TV show) 2 Space Invaders (video game) 42 speedrunning 135 Sperb, Jason 1–2 Spiderman (franchise) 234 sports games 41 Staiger, Janet 145 Stanley Parable, The (video game) 154 StarCraft (video game) 142 Star Wars Star Wars (franchise) 207, 209, 235, 238, 251–2 Star Wars: Dark Forces (video game) 44 Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace (film) 233 Star Wars: Rebel Assault (video game) 54 Star Trek Star Trek (franchise) 207–23 Star Trek: 25th Anniversary (video game) 211–17, 219 Star Trek: Armada (video game) 209, 211 Star Trek: Borg (video game) 220–1 Star Trek Bridge Commander (video game) 208 Star Trek: Deep Space Nine (TV show) 208–9, 218 Star Trek: Deep Space Nine— Crossroads of Time (video game) 208, 210 Star Trek: Deep Space Nine— Harbinger (video game) 210 Star Trek: Enterprise (TV show) 209 Star Trek: Generations (film) 208 Star Trek: Generations (video game) 208 Star Trek: Hidden Evil (video game) 208–9 Star Trek: Insurrection (film) 208 Star Trek: Judgment Rites (video game) 208, 211–17, 219 Star Trek: Klingon (video game) 217–19

index Star Trek: The Motion Picture (film) 209, 211 Star Trek: New Worlds (video game) 209 Star Trek: The Next Generation (TV show) 211, 220–2 Star Trek: The Next Generation—A Final Unity (video game) 208, 210 Star Trek Online (video game) 208–9, 219 Star Trek: The Original Series (TV show) 211–17 Star Trek: Starfleet Academy (video game) 209, 221 Star Trek: Starfleet Command (video game series) 209, 221 Star Trek VI (film) 209 Star Trek: Voyager (TV show) 209 Statler, Matt 238 Steam 110 Steiner, Fred 212 Stephenson, Neal 109 Steven Spielberg’s Director’s Chair (video game) 49 Stickgold, Robert 170 Stoichita, Victor 196 Stonekeep (video game) 44 Storage Wars (TV show) 146 strategy games 211, 236–7 Streeter, Thomas 109 Stunt Island (video game) 49, 50 Suleiman, Susan Rubin 254 Super Mario Bros. (video game) 2, 191 Super Mario Clouds (mod/artwork) 2, 191 Superman (1979 video game) 42 Super Meat Boy (video game) 135 survival horror games 43–4, 51–2, 78 Sutton-Smith, Brian 135, 231 Tagg, Philip 214 Tan, Marcus Cheng Chye 44, 45 Tarnsman of Gor (novel) 260 television (TV) 2, 41, 45, 106, 135, 137, 140, 142, 154, 195, 199, 207–23, 243

283

That’s Incredible (TV show) 142 theatre 243 Therrien, Carl 43, 47 third-person shooter 43, 116 Through the Looking Glass (novel) 155 Tong, Wee Liang 44, 45 Tosca, Susana 250 Total Annihilation: Kingdoms (video game) 50 transmedia storytelling 207–23, 233–7 TRON (franchise) 1–2 Troscianko, Emily 167–8 True Crime (video game) 47 Twitch (streaming service) 138, 143, 144, 146 Une Femme avec personne dedans (novel) 162 Ultima VII (video game) 2 Untitled Game: Arena (mod/artwork) 189, 191, 193–4 Valiant Hearts: The Great War (video game) 124–6 Vampyre, The (novella) 106 Vanité des Somnambules, La (novel) 153 Velvet-Strike (mod/artwork) 191, 199 Vian, Boris 155 Videodrome (film) 154 von Korngold, Erich Wolfgang 209 Vosmeer, Mirjam 137 Vostell, Wolf 199 Wark, McKenzie 104 War of the Worlds, The (novel) 101 Warrior, The (video game) 51 web comic, see comic Weibel, Peter 190 Weise, Matthew 254 Wells, H. G. 101 White Paintings (Rauschenberg painting) 193 Wild Earth: Photo Safari (video game) 72 Williams, John 209 Wittkowski, Emma 145

284

index

Wolfenstein 3D (video game) 17, 191 Wolf, Mark J. P. 41, 42–3, 44 Wordsworth, William 105–6 World of Warcraft (video game) 47, 250 Wreckless (videogame) 42 Wright, Will 100, 157 XIII (video game) 3, 119–24 xkcd (web comic) 105

X-Men Origins: Wolverine (video game) 52 Yellen, Amy 170, 173 YouTube 138, 141, 142, 144,146, 219 Zen for Film (artwork) 194 Zimmerman, Eric 16, 42 Zuckerberg, Mark 109